by Candace Robb
When Edric announced that Bess had sent for her, Lucie hurried through the beaded curtains with a jar of the powder she’d prepared for Tom.
‘Dame Lucie, my mistress thought you would wish to speak to Archdeacon Jehannes. He’s come to see her from Bishopthorpe.’ Bess’s serving lad nodded as if Lucie had expressed doubt. ‘In truth, mistress, he came by barge this morning.’
Her momentary relief that she was not being summoned to Tom’s sickbed was quickly overridden by anxiety about Jehannes’s mission. Lucie set aside the jar so that she might remove her apron and the cloths covering her sleeves, saying a silent prayer that Owen was safe and well as she shook out her veil and brushed her skirt.
‘Presentable?’ she asked Edric. It was a wicked thing to do to the young apprentice who adored her, to ask him to approve her appearance, but she did not want to waste time searching for a mirror.
Edric blushed and tapped the side of his nose. ‘You have some powder right there. All else is perfect.’
Lucie brushed her nose, thanked him, and told him to be sure to fetch her at the tavern if he needed her. She doubted she would be long. As she stepped out into the now more substantial drizzle, she breathed deeply, welcoming the damp air after working with powders and dried plants. She forced her mind towards the positive, hoping that Jehannes would not feel it was gossiping to talk of the princess and her ladies, for she had a head full of questions, having heard tales of Joan’s beauty and the extravagance of her wardrobe and household. The cobbles in the square were slippery, the gentle rain merely dampening the summery residue of dust and debris. A good downpour was needed to cleanse the stones before they were once more made even more slippery by falling leaves from the trees that shaded St Helen’s churchyard. As Lucie reached the tavern yard, she abandoned her effort at calm, growing more and more anxious about why Jehannes had come to the city, and she was almost running as she reached the tavern door.
There were few customers in the main room. Tom glanced up as he poured ale into a tankard and nodded towards the kitchen.
‘Bess swept the archdeacon out there. He’s on a mission for Owen – he’s assured us that Owen is fine. But Bess thought you’d like to talk to Jehannes yourself.’
‘Bless you, Tom, I was stirring up the litany of fears I’ve collected over the years, all the risks Owen might take and the dangers he might face when on the archbishop’s business.’ She hugged her old friend, his scent of sawdust, hops and yeast comfortingly familiar, then stepped out of the tavern and across to the large tavern kitchen in the yard behind. She heard the voices of Bess and Jehannes coming from behind a screen that separated her friend’s private space from the almost always busy work area. Today was no exception, with the cook and two kitchen servants moving about preparing the midday meal that would be served in a few hours. Slipping behind the screen, Lucie recognised trouble in the grave expressions on her friends’ faces.
Jehannes rose to greet her, giving her a blessing and reassuring her that Owen was well and Thoresby still alive. He explained that he’d come to ask round the city for news of a moonstone brooch that might have been sold, and he’d hoped that Bess and Lucie might have heard something or could advise him where to search. But he also wanted to make sure they knew the truth of events at Bishopthorpe, so they would know to disregard any false rumours.
‘Is my husband sleeping? Taking care of himself?’ Lucie asked.
‘He is well.’
She could tell that he was not telling the entire truth. ‘Has there been another death?’
‘Yes, and Owen feels an urgency. He is working against time. I’m to return to the palace today.’
Lucie thought of how early the light faded these days. ‘That leaves you so little time.’ No time at all to entertain them with descriptions of the fine company and lavish feasting.
‘Do begin at the beginning now that Lucie is here,’ said Bess. ‘Tell us all that Owen has told you. Perhaps something will tease our memories.’
Brother Michaelo’s implication in Dom Lambert’s death saddened Lucie. She had grown fond of him. He had taken loving care of her father on his last pilgrimage, and he had been kind in his efforts to tell her everything he knew of Sir Robert’s experiences on that journey to St David’s. It had helped to ease the emptiness she’d felt in losing her father so far away, buried so far away, a place she’d probably never see.
‘The sisters from Nun Appleton sound like trouble,’ Bess said, ‘and the princess’s two ladies – can she be such a poor judge of her own sex?’
‘I would think her choice of waiting ladies is complicated by family alliances and favours owed,’ said Lucie. She was reminded of a conversation she’d overheard in the minster. ‘One of the ladies travelling with Joan of Kent is related to the late Margaret Neville, who was the wife of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland,’ she told Jehannes. ‘I did not hear her name, but I wondered whether she might be working to further Alexander Neville’s cause. Or for the Percies. Are they for Neville? They will care who is to be Archbishop of York – they rule the north.’
‘Though the Nevilles are doing their best to elbow them aside,’ said Jehannes. ‘I think you must mean Lady Sybilla, who is a Neville.’
‘So you already knew.’ Lucie was disappointed. ‘I’ve heard nothing about such a brooch.’
‘Nor I,’ admitted Bess. ‘But I’ve heard much about Alexander Neville.’
‘I’ve yet to hear of another candidate with strong support,’ said Jehannes. ‘It is strange that he is fighting so hard for something that seems about to be offered to him without a struggle.’
‘Much to hide?’ Bess suggested. ‘They say he was the lesser of twins, and that he has risen so far only because his twin died and his preferments went to Alexander, all undeserved.’
‘Does no one care about the spiritual wellbeing of the See of York, of the care of souls?’ Lucie wondered. ‘Do they all see His Grace’s death merely as an opportunity to seize power? Has everyone forgotten that York is more than a temporal seat?’
They all grew quiet at the thought.
Owen had drawn Geoffrey back out into the softly falling rain, which had everyone crowding into the hall so that it had been impossible to find a quiet place where they might talk without being overheard.
The reports from Duncan and Stephen disturbed Geoffrey – Owen could see it in the tension around his wide eyes and the grim set to his mouth.
‘God help her if they are speaking of Lady Eleanor,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Sir Lewis was candid with me about his concern for her. In truth, he seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk about his fear that she has become involved in something that has gone too far. She has a gentle, acquiescent nature. He has debated with himself whether to ask her outright and, in doing so, risk her anger, for she also has a temper when frightened, but she has precluded any choice in the matter by avoiding him. He is dismayed by his sense that she is frightened and trusts no one. He describes her eyes as wary, like those of her beloved falcons, and her movements as agitated.’
It troubled Owen to think of Eleanor so benighted. ‘So she had not confided in him at all?’
Geoffrey shook his head, shifting on the damp bench. They’d walked out into the gardens, but the rain made it an unpleasant venue.
‘If she was party to murder, and to arranging it to look as if Brother Michaelo committed that murder, I do not think she would confide such heartless and unforgivable deeds to Sir Lewis. Theirs has been a playful wooing, nothing deep and enduring.’ He shifted again. ‘There is a summer-house farther on with benches, though it is likely a fanciful name for something that is doubtless rarely warm and dry so far north and close to that dreary brown river with the ugly name. Still, it might be drier than this. Shall we move on to that?’
‘It is the peat that gives the Ouse the brown colour and the name. It is a Norse word.’
Geoffrey gave a little laugh. ‘I am delighted to know that, but, as I sense that you have much to
discuss yet, I require a more comfortable seat.’
They moved on through a box hedge silvery with raindrops and past a bed of lady’s mantle, its huge late-season leaves heavy with water. Several leaves drifted down from a hazel as Owen brushed it with a shoulder, and mud oozed beneath his boot where gravel had been worn away over time by many unquiet feet in front of a stone bench.
‘I’ll confess to you my urge to protect the Lady Eleanor,’ said Owen, as Geoffrey caught up with him. He’d walked at his long-legged pace forgetting that, though Geoffrey had the torso of a man of average height, he had short legs.
‘What is your secret with women, besides your scarred face and great height?’ Geoffrey asked, chuckling. But, before Owen could come up with a response, Geoffrey sighed. ‘I confess I’m more concerned about Her Grace’s other lady, Sybilla. She seems less experienced than Eleanor, more impulsive.’
It struck Owen as strange how differently the two of them perceived Sybilla. Owen found her the more manipulative of the two ladies, her behaviour carefully gauged to achieve the effect she desired.
‘You do not give Lady Sybilla enough credit,’ he said. ‘She has a cunning wit.’
‘I delight in women of wit and determination. And you are partial to the gentle Lady Eleanor,’ said Geoffrey.
Owen grunted his admission.
They stepped into the summer-house, their boots echoing hollowly on the raised planking as rain whispered on the thin roof. Brushing blown leaves from one of the benches, Owen lowered himself with a moan.
‘The worst of it is not Lady Eleanor,’ he said, ‘though I’m cross with myself for being too slow to suspect her darksome aspects. Even worse is the betrayal by one of my guards, a young man I trusted with my wife when she needed an escort and I could not accompany her. Gilbert. How had I disappointed him that he turned against me? He’d assisted me in questioning my men here – God’s blood, I was so confident in him and his ease with the other men. Now his possible guilt throws doubt over everything I thought I knew.’ Owen could not sit still. Boiling up from within, a surge of anger pushed him to his feet and he punched a post.
‘Just when we found a dry spot,’ Geoffrey muttered, sliding away from that corner. ‘Put your anger to better use than destroying a decorative shed, for pity’s sake.’ Geoffrey leaned his forearms on his thighs and bowed his head, pressing his hands into the back of his neck.
‘Do you never lose your temper?’ Owen asked.
‘Of course I do, but I think of clever insults.’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘What else have you learned?’
‘I sent Archdeacon Jehannes to York for the day, to try to get a description of the man who sold Lady Eleanor’s brooch, if that’s what has happened. I pray that Lady Sybilla has not completely led me astray about its existence and to whom it belonged. For all I know, the conversation the men overheard was about selling a horse.’
‘Nor do you know whether they’d heard the same couple,’ Geoffrey noted. ‘It seems it was a busy night, despite all your men on guard. No! I pray you, calm yourself.’ He lunged for Owen’s arm, laughing as he caught it.
‘You should have been a jester,’ Owen said. ‘You have a way of turning the grimmest mood to laughter.’
‘It is my best defensive strategy,’ Geoffrey said with a chuckle, but his smile faded. ‘I do not mean to make light of all this, Owen. I am well aware that we’re all in danger until we discover who murdered Lambert and who took the letter from Dame Clarice and then returned it. It would help to recover the documents stolen from Lambert. Do you believe that Gilbert is in Alexander Neville’s employ?’
‘I fear that is the case.’ Owen settled again beside Geoffrey. ‘It was John Holand’s man, Douglas, who carried Dame Clarice into the palace last night. Her Grace trusted him to protect Clarice. But why would she also ask Sybilla to watch her?’
Geoffrey frowned. ‘I agree it seems a doubling of effort, or as if one is spying on the other. Have you asked Her Grace if she did set two to follow Clarice?’
Owen shook his head. ‘Not yet. I must tread carefully with Her Grace. She already chides me for questioning her judgement.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘She never forgets her blood and her marriages.’
‘Sybilla seems too eager to assist me. Like Brother Michaelo telling me too much.’
‘You don’t like Lady Sybilla, do you?’
‘You do. That worries me. Do I favour Eleanor so much that I want to distrust her companion instead? To me it seems most likely Sybilla stole the letter from Dame Clarice, then returned it.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘I confess that does seem likely.’
In her dreams, Magda realised how she might help Owen. Princess Joan kept him at the distance she maintained from her household servants, which prevented her from confiding in him about Dame Clarice until she formally presented the information to the archbishop. But she might agree to convening the meeting early this morning rather than at her leisure if Magda could convince her of the importance of sharing all that she knew with Owen. She woke after a brief sleep and freshened herself before going to Joan.
The sounds of activity outside the sisters’ little sleeping area, both around and below it, stirred Dame Clarice. There was only Alisoun to notice, for Dame Katherine was snoring on the pallet beside her companion. Though pale and shaky, Clarice managed to prop herself up and focus well enough on Alisoun to realise she did not know her.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’ve been asked to sit with you. My name is Alisoun Ffulford. I’ve been assisting the healer Magda Digby with His Grace the Archbishop.’
‘Asked to sit with me?’ Clarice tried to rise too quickly and apparently met with a pounding head, for she pressed her fingertips to her temples and lay back down with a moan. ‘What happened to me?’ she asked, her voice much softer than at first, almost a whimper.
‘You fainted out in the fields last night, we know not why. The physician Master Walter gave you something to ease your distress so you might heal with a good night’s sleep.’
The nun glanced at her companion. ‘Dame Katherine was also given something to sleep?’
‘No. She watched over you last night.’ Alisoun left her seat to pour a drink from a pot on the brazier, then crouched down to hand the cup to Clarice. The nun seemed to shrink from it. ‘It is but honey in boiled water, nothing more,’ said Alisoun. ‘It will refresh you.’
Clarice warily sniffed it. ‘I fainted?’ The scent must have met her approval, for she accepted the cup and took a few sips. Then she wrinkled her nose. ‘So sweet.’
‘Honey soothes the throat and cleanses the blood. Most people enjoy its sweetness.’
‘I’ve a tooth that sharply complains whenever something sweet touches it.’
‘I’ll tell Dame Magda. She might know of something that would ease the pain.’
Clarice sipped again. ‘It does feel good on my throat.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I remember rushing from the porch. I remember the fields. My feet were so cold. But then – I can’t remember what happened.’
‘Had you been feeling ill earlier in the day?’
With a wince, the woman put the cup aside and explored the inside of her mouth with her tongue. ‘Yesterday.’ She groaned. ‘It’s difficult to think with my tooth throbbing.’
‘Rest a while. We can talk later.’ Alisoun removed the honey water and sat quietly until Clarice began to fidget.
‘I was not ill before I shared a flagon of wine with that plump little harlot who calls herself a lady,’ she muttered.
Alisoun tried not to sit too far forward, not to sound too eager. ‘You shared wine with one of Her Grace’s ladies?’
‘Sybilla. A spoiled bitch bragging like a child about the archbishop agreeing to her request for one of the puppies in the kennel. Can you imagine? Dressed in silk, jewels winking in her hair and on her fat fingers, delicate slippers that she did not wish to risk on the garden paths and she must have one of his puppies as well?’
&nbs
p; She had certainly regained her voice, Alisoun thought. ‘Were you in the hall?’
Clarice pressed her temples. ‘My head is pounding.’
Alisoun added water to the small pot on the brazier to dilute the honey and poured a cup of the tepid liquid. ‘Thirst can cause your head to hurt after strong wine. Try this.’
‘Is that all it was?’ Clarice asked. ‘Strong wine?’ She tasted the water, then drank it down. ‘Bless you. That did not make my tooth throb.’
‘Are there foods that sicken you? Anything that others can drink that you cannot?’
‘The infirmarian complains that my humours treat many remedies as poisons,’ said Clarice. ‘My mother has also suffered ill effects from the potions of some of the finest midwives and apothecaries.’
So, if Sybilla had put something in the wine, she might not have meant it to have any ill effect at all. ‘Could you taste anything other than wine in the drink?’
Clarice shrugged. ‘I did not pay it much heed. She made me angry and I drank up her wine, then felt as if a fire was simmering beneath my eyes. She saw that something was wrong and tried to help me loosen my wimple, but I did not like her touching me and I hurried away – I thought I was about to get sick.’
‘I don’t recall your wimple looking disturbed.’
‘I pushed her away.’ Clarice frowned. ‘You saw me?’
‘I was sitting in the garden when you rushed past. One of the guards in Her Grace’s company was near. He caught you as you fell in a faint and carried you into the palace. Much fuss was made over you.’ Alisoun tried a smile, but it was not returned and she abandoned it. ‘It would help me know what you need if you could describe to me how you feel this morning.’