by Candace Robb
Owen sat outside the barracks with a tankard of ale ready to share with Alfred when he appeared, to refresh them as they reviewed the first day of this ordeal.
From the moment he’d learned of the princess’s visit, Owen had disliked the timing. He understood that Thoresby’s failing health was all to the purpose, that the princess wished to consult with the archbishop, while she still might, about whom she could trust in the north should Prince Edward die and her young son become king – evidently a very real possibility. She was right to hurry, as Geoffrey had noticed – only days before her letter arrived, Thoresby had called in his kinsmen to witness his will. But surely a letter might have sufficed, delivered by someone implicitly trusted?
Thoresby had noted Owen’s disapproval and grimly asked what better time he might propose. The news had seemed to buoy the archbishop’s spirits – some colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes had sparkled when he spoke of Princess Joan.
In an unusually companionable moment, Thoresby had confided to Owen that he had not originally approved of the marriage of Edward and Joan, that he’d believed Prince Edward had shown a lack of the stuff that kings must be made of in secretly marrying his father’s cousin. The heir to the throne was expected to make a strategic alliance with his marriage; he should not marry for love. That had been reason enough to disapprove of the marriage, but it was all the worse for the scandal of Joan’s first marriage, which had also been secret, and she so young she’d not had the courage to admit to it when her guardians had arranged another marriage – the annulment had been the occasion of much gossip.
But Thoresby had said he’d come to admire Joan of Kent, despite her romantically irresponsible marriages, and he was pleased that she would seek him out for advice. Owen prayed it did not prove Thoresby’s undoing, that his end might arrive in a more peaceful moment.
Brother Michaelo sauntered over to where Owen sat. ‘Might I join you for a moment?’ he asked. ‘The air is deliciously cool and abundant.’
Owen slid over to make room for Michaelo. ‘How goes His Grace?’
‘He is abed. Jehannes and I practically carried him he was so exhausted.’
‘Stubborn to the end,’ said Owen.
Michaelo sank down with an air of exhaustion and sorrow, allowing his shoulders to slump for a moment before catching himself and straightening. In that brief collapse was manifest the monk’s sincere grief over his master’s illness. ‘What do you make of the servant’s death?’ he asked, with false briskness.
‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘I want a messenger to take the dead man’s pack and wineskin to my wife.’
‘I’m to send a messenger by barge to Dame Magda in the morning, after Master Walter the physician has conferred with His Grace. I understand the Riverwoman is at your home. You might use the messenger for your purpose as well, if that will suit you.’
‘That would serve me very well.’ Owen rose. ‘Thank you. I’ll bring them to you.’
‘Not tonight. I cannot predict who will assail me when I return to the hall. They’ll be safer with you until morning.’ After a pause, Michaelo asked, ‘So you doubt that the servant simply fell off the horse?’
Owen considered telling Michaelo of the cut strap, but there was no need. ‘Had he been anyone else’s servant, I might believe it was an accident, but the servant of Wykeham’s emissary?’ Owen shook his head. That seemed sufficient information for Michaelo.
‘You never did trust Wykeham.’
‘Can you recommend that I should?’
It was Michaelo’s turn to shake his head. ‘I thought he would never leave that autumn when he retreated to York to lick his wounds after being coerced to step down as Lord Chancellor. His Grace would clench his teeth and forget to breathe when the bishop was in the room. And, in the end, his ingratitude!’ Michaelo took a deep breath and sharply exhaled, as if blowing the memory away. Then he sighed again. ‘The handsome Dom Lambert is without a personal servant now. I’ve asked Jehannes’s man to assist him.’
So he had noticed the emissary. Owen smiled as he settled back down on the bench. ‘You are a most excellent host,’ he said.
‘All must go smoothly while the Princess of Wales is here. Sweet Jesu, is she not a vision of beauty and grace?’
‘She is indeed beautiful,’ said Owen. ‘Prince Edward is a most fortunate man in his marriage. Would that his health were better.’
‘Do you believe the rumours that Lancaster has his eyes on the throne?’
‘Whether or not I believe them is of no importance. It worries me that the clerics all around me believe them. If they did not, why would anyone care whether Alexander Neville is the next Archbishop of York? They dislike him because he is Lancaster’s man.’
Michaelo coughed. ‘There is more beneath their displeasure, Archer. I read the letters when Alexander Neville was fighting for the Archdeaconry of Cornwall. I witnessed the king’s fury over what Neville was doing in Avignon, whispering in the pope’s ear against our king’s choices, presenting petitions listing his complaints without the king’s permission – well, of course, since he knew full well that in all things he was going counter to the king’s interests.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘I intend to be far from York if Alexander Neville is chosen.’ Michaelo softly moaned. ‘God help us, Archer. That he is considered now is a sign of the king’s disinterest in his duty, God forgive me for my disrespect in saying so.’ He crossed himself.
‘I’ll not hand you over to the sheriff,’ Owen teased, ‘though you’ve added to the worry that’s burning my gut.’
‘You are worried about having a murderer among us.’
‘I am, and you’ve just pointed out to me afresh what an unsettled time this is. I did my best to enforce peace by convincing His Grace to send away his kin and the clerics from York Minster.’ Owen trusted the two who remained – Thoresby’s nephew, Richard Ravenser, because he knew Princess Joan; and Thoresby’s former personal secretary, Archdeacon Jehannes, because the archbishop found him a comforting presence in the wee hours, when he would read scripture to distract him from his wakefulness. ‘Most of the guards have served under me in the archbishop’s household for at least a year. And the few I added for this occasion I chose with care.’ He said nothing for a while, looking up at the stars. It had been a tense day, and now, with the spectre of trouble in the crowded palace and the rich food, he needed to move about in the night air before he might sleep with ease. He rose. ‘I need to walk. I’ve waited for Alfred long enough. Would you care to join me?’
Brother Michaelo shook his head as he rose. ‘I must see to the guests. Bring the items to His Grace’s chamber when you wake. And please, Archer, do not blame yourself for any troubles here. You have done all you could to keep the peace, and I have all confidence that you will continue to do so. His Grace could not ask for a more loyal captain and steward. It is the circumstance that is to blame. The death of the second most powerful churchman in the realm must needs be a time of strife, as everyone tries to influence the chapter at York Minster. Wykeham would have done better to send an emissary to the dean at the minster rather than the archbishop.’
‘You believe Wykeham sent Dom Lambert with information to sway the choice of Thoresby’s successor?’ Owen asked.
‘What else could it be?’
‘But quite ineffectual?’
Michaelo shrugged. ‘His Grace has washed his hands of it.’
‘Can he truly be indifferent?’
‘Now that his effort on the behalf of Sir Richard has failed? Yes, he can. He has made his peace with God, each breath requires painful, exhausting effort—’ Michaelo’s voice trembled. ‘His Grace is now beyond caring who succeeds him, though none keen on influencing the choice of his successor believe that. In the past he would have tried again, indignation spurring him to stronger measures, and they know that.’ He turned away from Owen, dabbing his eyes. Then, with forced gaiety, he said, ‘Ah. One of the princess
’s ladies is abroad seeking the fresh night air. Lady Eleanor. Did you know that the other, Lady Sybilla, is a Neville by birth?’
‘No, I did not. Do you think she cares who succeeds John Thoresby?’
‘A cub out of that ambitious den of foxes? I’ve little doubt her family campaigned for her presence on this journey. Lady Eleanor, however, is said to be one of the princess’s favourites.’
‘Geoffrey Chaucer said all in the company find her agreeable.’
‘Your friend Geoffrey. He is retained by both the king and the Duke of Lancaster. Have a care what you share with him,’ said Michaelo.
‘I always do,’ said Owen.
‘I pray you sleep well,’ said Michaelo, and with a little bow, he swept away.
Owen stood for a moment watching Lady Eleanor stroll back and forth beyond the hall door. Something about her was so familiar. He had a fleeting memory of a chase through the gardens at Kenilworth, a bedchamber deserted in the middle of the afternoon, lavender scented sheets, a tinkling laughter that seemed ethereal. He’d yet to hear Lady Eleanor’s laugh. How solemn she was, how beautiful. Now she cocked her head, a sweet, graceful gesture, and he knew for certain it was the woman he had pursued for days, obsessed with her, and finally bedded, oh so long ago. The next day she had been spirited away. With a sigh, he headed away from the palace. He had enough troubles with a murderer loose in the palace.
Two
WHOM TO TRUST?
Tuesday
THE BIRDSONG WOKE Owen at dawn. He lay with his eye still closed thinking that, for the birds to sound so loud, he must have forgotten to close the shutters before coming to bed. He should rise and close them or Lucie and the baby would be chilled. As he fought his way out of the fog of sleep, he became aware of a continuo of snores and sighs closer than the birdsong, and, gradually, he remembered he was not at home in York but in the archbishop’s stables at Bishopthorpe in the company of his men and some of the household servants. He need not worry about a shutter being ajar; he was not responsible for the comfort of all these folk. With that thought, he turned over to settle back into sleep, but a familiar tension in his neck and jaw reminded him that he’d gone to bed worried. In a few heartbeats, he remembered the death of Dom Lambert’s servant, the cut strap, and the items that he wanted Lucie and Magda to examine.
‘Awake at last,’ someone said.
That was sufficient to bring Owen fully awake. He propped himself up on one arm and discovered Geoffrey Chaucer sitting at the foot of his pallet looking quite recovered from his journey and last night’s wine. He wore no hat and his wet hair still held the marks of his comb. His clothing was finely made but drably coloured, as was his custom – a jester and poet in a magistrate’s costume.
‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked, dreading more bad news.
‘I am curious whether you believe Lambert’s servant’s death an accident.’
Remembering how irritating he’d found Geoffrey’s awkward attempts to help his investigations in Wales, Owen had no intention of confiding in him. He groaned. He’d had too little sleep, and it was too soon upon waking to have to work at avoiding a conversation. He felt round on the floor for his boots, which were not where he usually put them.
‘Do you see—’ he glanced up.
Geoffrey was dangling the boots at arm’s length. With an impish grin, he handed them to Owen. ‘I’ll wait here while you empty your bladder.’
‘That’s a comfort to me,’ Owen muttered. The man’s early-morning good humour irritated him.
Outside, Owen found few but the birds and several servants stirring. The sunrise washed the sky in watery blues and pinks but had not yet lit up the ground, which was vague with the mist of the dew rising. In the short time it took to relieve himself, Owen felt the damp seeping into his leggings. His joints creaked in complaint as he walked back to the barracks and his mind churned through insults and slights that might inspire Geoffrey to leave him alone.
Geoffrey still sat on Owen’s pallet with his chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. But he looked up as soon as Owen was a few strides away.
‘So you don’t believe it was an accident?’ Owen asked, as he continued to dress, strapping on his belt, tugging a comb through his hair.
‘Had it been anyone else’s servant, perhaps. But Dom Lambert is the awkward addition to the company, someone who might have unpleasant business with the archbishop.’
He’d expressed Owen’s thoughts precisely. Perhaps Geoffrey could be of help. ‘Has he been treated differently from the others?’
‘On the journey he kept his counsel and removed himself for quiet prayer when we halted.’ Geoffrey screwed up his face. ‘Now that I consider it, he was often out of sight of the group.’
‘Did anyone accompany him?’
‘I wish I’d had the sense to notice.’
‘Did his servant, Will, go with him?’
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘No. He stayed with the other servants.’
‘It was the servant, not Dom Lambert, who fell,’ Owen pointed out. ‘You say you can imagine why the master might have been killed, but what about the servant?’
‘I’m assuming Lambert bears letters from Wykeham, and perhaps someone thought the servant carried them.’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But that would explain a theft, not a servant’s death.’
‘Men do fall off their mounts, Geoffrey.’ Owen picked up his own pack in which he’d stuffed the smaller bag containing the servant’s belongings, having removed the damaged strap from the saddle before he’d gone to sleep. ‘I must attend His Grace. You are welcome to nap on my pallet.’
But, of course, Geoffrey fell in step with him. ‘I know the guests. You don’t.’
‘And what are we going to ask them – why did you push poor Will off his horse?’
Geoffrey laughed. ‘Why not? The question might startle someone to confess.’
Owen laughed as well. He’d forgotten what an agreeable companion Geoffrey could be, and the irresistible laugh the man had, as if mirth bubbled up in him from a deep, deep well.
More servants were moving about now out in the yard, and a heavyset nun, one of the two from the princess’s party, stood outside with the physician, Master Walter. She had her head bowed as she listened to him, nodding now and then. The physician spoke with a frowning earnestness, punctuating his words with grand gestures that took up a great deal more space than his short, slender, almost childish body would in repose. Owen and Geoffrey greeted the pair as they passed. Once in the hall, Owen bid his companion a good morning – whispering, for most still slept on the pallets lining the floor. This time Geoffrey said nothing, merely continuing on down the aisle that led to the fire.
Weak and often slight of breath, Thoresby had arranged to have his bedchamber moved from the solar above to his parlour beyond the great hall. Owen skirted the sleeping guests and found a cluster of servants outside the chamber door listening to instructions from the second nun. Tall, slender, with an authoritative air tempered by a melodious voice, she seemed absolutely in command. Brother Michaelo answered to Owen’s knock and drew him into the room, hastily closing the door.
‘Dame Clarice will be my undoing. She is contradicting all our arrangements, and inspiring me to extreme measures to silence her,’ Michaelo hissed, a tensely held bundle of righteous indignation. ‘If you wish to speak to His Grace, you must be quick; Master Walter will be here in a few moments.’
‘How is His Grace?’
Michaelo lowered his eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘As you see.’ Without the animation of his irritation, the monk’s exhausted state was more obvious, lines extending from inner eye to chin on either side of his mouth, shoulders sagging.
‘I need not bother him,’ said Owen. ‘I have the items we spoke of.’ Owen opened his pack and handed Michaelo the smaller one. ‘If I could have writing material, I’ll write a message for Lucie.’
‘Is that Archer?’ This morning Thoresby’s voice
was hardly more than a frail wheeze.
Owen crossed himself and then tried to shake off any posture of grief, swallowing his emotion as he strode over to the bed. ‘It is, Your Grace.’
Richard Ravenser sat in a chair beside the archbishop, balancing rolls of parchment on his elegantly draped lap.
‘Good morning, Captain.’ Ravenser did not smile. He was a younger version of his uncle and looked this morning as the archbishop had when Owen had first met him – having them side by side emphasised for Owen how frail the old man who lay just beyond Ravenser was. Thoresby’s grizzled head propped on pillows, his watery eyes, the burst blood vessels on his cheeks from his frequent coughing – all this immeasurably saddened Owen.
‘Sir Richard.’ Owen bowed his head to Ravenser, then forced himself to make eye contact with Thoresby. ‘Your Grace.’
‘We know about Dom Lambert’s loss,’ said Ravenser, clearly hoping to cut Owen short.
But Owen had his duty. ‘His servant, yes. His saddle was weakened, Your Grace, the girth cut partway through.’
The emotion that passed across Ravenser’s face made it clear he’d no idea that Will’s death had not been an accident. ‘God help us,’ he said. ‘This is troubling news.’
‘It need not lead to more trouble,’ said Thoresby, speaking softly, ‘now that the company is here, surrounded by my guard.’
‘It was likely someone in the company who fixed the saddle,’ Owen said.
‘Then you have a heavy responsibility, Archer,’ said Thoresby, his voice a little stronger.
Of course he would say that. ‘I am sending his pack and wineskin to Lucie. If there is anything else unusual, my wife will find it.’