A Vigil of Spies

Nine

Thursday Afternoon/Evening

A STRAINED SILENCE closed round the four men when Princess Joan left the chamber, as if she had accidentally caught the air necessary for speech in her silken train and swept it from the chamber.

Richard Ravenser stood staring out of the window, his silken robes reflecting the shifting light as the tree outside bent with the wind and rain, suggesting movement though he remained still. He clasped his hands so firmly behind his back that the blood could not wash across his knuckles; it was as if he forbade himself either prayer or labour. Owen imagined he was considering what it might mean to him, that Dame Clarice was his cousin; he seemed to find some significance in it.

Brother Michaelo still knelt at his prayers, now and then beating his breast. This news changed nothing for him, accorded him no grace.

Thoresby sat back against his cushions studying the canopy overhead, his hands behind his head; Owen could not recall ever having seen him in such a casual posture when he was aware that others were present. But then he had surprised Owen in many ways of late, most significantly with his choice of Magda Digby as his physician in his final illness. He thought perhaps Thoresby welcomed the news of another daughter, and one with whom he might share some of his final days.

For his part, Owen was agitated by what he’d heard and was trying to keep his temper and clear his mind by pacing the chamber. He had known of Thoresby’s provision for one daughter in his will, so he was not scandalised by the revelation that the archbishop had another child. What made him restive was trying to connect the theft of the documents and the murders of Lambert and his servant with Clarice’s bungled search. He cursed Wykeham for his gross negligence in choosing such a weak emissary as Dom Lambert. The Bishop of Winchester had created a crisis that was robbing Thoresby of peace in his illness, confirming Owen’s long-held impression that Wykeham was a most self-absorbed man, a stranger to compassion. It seemed a profound lack in a priest. Princess Joan he also blamed, for her arrogant silence that had prolonged the search for Lambert’s murderer, costing valuable time.

Thoresby interrupted Owen’s angry thoughts.

‘I wonder whether I sired only daughters? I think I might have a better chance of gaining the respect of a son, eh?’

Owen turned to find the archbishop smiling.

Ravenser had unclasped his hands, breaking his self-imposed bonds, and settled in one of the chairs by the bed. ‘I agree. It would be easier to provide a good living for a son than to arrange a satisfying life for a woman. Women do not seem to consider it an honour to reside in nunneries. They feel they’ve been tucked away in an unused storeroom so that they might be forgotten. Though your daughter Idonea has expressed contentment in her life at Hampole.’

‘True, Idonea has been a comfort, and for that I thank God, though I chide myself for having been so negligent in communicating with her. Which reminds me of Wykeham’s emissary.’ Thoresby lifted the leather case that Joan had brought. ‘I would have Brother Michaelo read these aloud now.’

At the mention of his name, Michaelo bowed his head and crossed himself, and, without a word, moved to the chair Joan had vacated, taking the pack of documents from His Grace.

‘I would like to stay,’ said Owen.

‘Of course,’ said Thoresby. ‘I want both you and Richard to hear what Wykeham went to so much trouble to tell me.’

‘And failed,’ Owen said beneath his breath, as he settled onto the stool towards the foot of the bed.

Ravenser settled across from him. Thoresby lay back against his cushions, eyes closed, his hands lying at ease on his lap. Brother Michaelo began with the letter in which Wykeham explained what the other documents would reveal. It contained no surprises.

The temper of the remaining documents was clear. Alexander Neville inquired as to the nature of the family’s agreement with the Thoresby family, Euphemia and her family expressed outrage over the implications and the intrusion into their private lives, and the Bishop of Exeter assured the family that their secret was safe with him and that his respect for John Thoresby was undiminished. He advised them to keep their copies of this correspondence secure, should they need to make use of them in future.

Owen mumbled a curse and added more clearly, ‘For this two men have been murdered.’

‘It does seem a great fuss has been made in an attempt at petty accusations,’ said Ravenser. ‘As her Grace pointed out, Neville behaved as if he were dealing with guild members or schoolmasters, not an archbishop.’

‘I would be alone for a while,’ Thoresby said, with a great weariness.

Owen was relieved. He’d heard enough and was anxious to question Dame Clarice. He and Ravenser left the room, but did not go far. Sir Lewis and Geoffrey were pacing in the corridor, the former with an expression at once grim and anxious, the latter plainly concerned for his friend.

‘What has happened?’ Owen asked.

‘Lady Eleanor has been with Dame Clarice for a long while,’ said Lewis. ‘She has avoided me the past few days when it has been obvious that she has been much troubled in her mind. I come to you, Captain, because I suspect she has trespassed in some way with one of your guards. Gilbert. Several times I’ve come upon them in heated conversation and each time they’ve broken off at once and pretended they were not together. And now, this trouble with — I know who Dame Clarice is, Captain, but Lady Eleanor should not.’

‘You need say no more. I would have you find my second, Alfred, and tell him to bring Gilbert to His Grace’s chamber under close guard. I will bring Lady Eleanor there as well.’ It was time to confront them. His conversation with Clarice must wait — indeed, it might prove unnecessary. ‘Sir Richard, I would have you ask Princess Joan to allow Alisoun and the nuns to withdraw to her chamber for a short while, at least until I have escorted Lady Eleanor from there.’

‘Have you a task for me?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘If you would accompany Sir Lewis, my friend, in case Alfred needs advice.’

With a nod, Geoffrey withdrew with Lewis Clifford.

‘My uncle is weary,’ Ravenser reminded Owen.

‘He wants answers,’ said Owen, ‘and, with God’s grace, we may this day deliver some.’

As Jehannes had risen from the table in Bess’s kitchen, he’d wondered aloud where to begin. Bess had suggested that he save time by talking to his summoner, Colin; he’d felt a little foolish for not having thought of that himself. It was a summoner’s duty to keep abreast of the faithful, which involved sifting through the gossip that ran through the city. Colin was an unassuming, quiet, ordinary-looking man around whom people talked with ease, often failing to notice his presence. At this time of the morning he could usually be found kneeling in the minster near the chapter house to catch the gossip as the canons drifted out of the chapter meeting. Jehannes was not disappointed.

Grey-garbed and grey-haired, Colin often seemed a shadow or a reflection, not a flesh-and-blood being, but his conversation was full of the colours and textures of his observations of folk, great or humble, young or old; he had a gift for divining the subtleties of temper and a true affection for his fellow man. His pale eyes lit up at Jehannes’s approach, and he rose at once to join his master in a quiet spot.

His head bowed to give his full attention to Jehannes’s description, Colin nodded several times during the explanation and query.

‘Yes, God be praised, I can help you with this, Dom Jehannes,’ he said at last. ‘The bearer of the brooch has been the topic of much gossip in the liberty and amongst the goldsmiths on Stonegate. A Neville he is, though he did not divulge that to the goldsmiths. He claimed the bauble was no longer of use to him for his sweetheart had turned her gaze elsewhere.’ He chuckled, his dimples showing.

‘A Neville? You are certain of this?’

‘Oh yes. He’s also busied himself entertaining the canons while singing the praises of his cousin, Alexander Neville. Why, this shall be the centre of God’s earthly kingdom when Alexander becomes archbishop.’ Colin’s eyes were merry with his own wit.

‘Did he name his sweetheart?’

‘No, he is quite discreet, even going so far as to vary his manner of dress when on his own business.’

‘Was he able to sell the brooch?’

‘Oh, yes. It was a pretty piece.’ Colin nodded decisively. Then he asked, ‘Is it true that the princess’s party is confined to the palace because a murderer is loose?’ Before Jehannes could think how to respond, Colin added, ‘It must be exciting to be there, in the midst of all that.’

‘Dangerous would be a more appropriate description,’ said Jehannes.

‘So it is true?’

Rather than answering the question, Jehannes asked instead for the name of the goldsmith to whom the man had sold the brooch, and, once he had his answer, rose in haste, thanking Colin and departing before he could ask more.

The goldsmith seemed to corroborate Colin’s opinion of the clever Neville, for the man had apparently been quite convincing in his tale of wishing to gather enough money that he might go into self-imposed exile and heal his broken heart. The brooch was beautiful, and the goldsmith already had a buyer in mind.

Jehannes was grateful that he had plenty to report to Owen, for it was time to return to the barge. He regretted that he could not spare the time to tell Lucie and Bess what he had learned, but he must hurry in case something in his report might help Owen prevent another death.

In the days leading up to Princess Joan’s arrival, Thoresby had focused on regaining some strength, which had left him little time to anticipate how the visit might unfold. Certainly, he had never dreamed that he might meet a daughter of his own. But now, lying in his great bed absorbing the news, he thought it a most appropriate revelation to receive as folk came to pay their last respects. It was, after all, his child’s last chance to speak with him. Though, apparently, she had not come with that purpose, but rather to spy on him.

He tried to recall Euphemia of Lincoln, Clarice’s mother. He’d often travelled to Lincoln, a lovely city. He set his mind the task of remembering his time there, perhaps twenty years ago. Feasts and processions passed before him, the steep pitch of the streets always making the latter a challenge. Twenty years ago that would have been nothing to him. He had kept his strength and energy long into old age. Twenty years.

John Gynwell was bishop there then, a man who had left little impression on Thoresby — on anyone, he suspected. Gradually a voice came to him, a strident voice, an attitude dressed in vibrant colours. Ah yes. A coolly confident, manipulative woman with a fierce sexual appetite who danced with a mischievous grin and teased him with her eyes. After one night of lively lovemaking, she’d apparently had enough of him and had assiduously avoided him. She was the only woman who had so painfully bruised his pride. But, other than that grin, those eyes, the energy and fire, he could remember little else. Perhaps her hair had been red.

Thoresby shifted in the bed. That a child had resulted from that coupling saddened him. A daughter born of lust, not love — not even affection. No wonder the young woman had grown up bitter and cold. He and Marguerite should have had a child. Such a one, from such deep, abiding love, could not help but be an exquisite, compassionate soul.

He grew melancholy. That was not a good thing when he was trapped in bed. He fingered the pack of documents beside him, the worn and creased leather representing the active life he had left behind. His life was now confined to blankets and cushions, physicks and watered wine. He wished he could stir up a healthy rage about Alexander Neville, but he was too weary. Perhaps after a nap.

A strange sort of quiet had settled on the room. Dame Clarice lay with eyes closed, her breath uneven, as if silently weeping; Lady Eleanor stood with a cup of wine in her hands but not drinking, seeming somehow undecided about whether to return to her seat or depart. Alisoun itched to seek out the captain and inform him of what she’d heard, but he had placed Clarice in her care, both to guard and to nurse.

She went to her patient, touching the back of her hand to the nun’s brow.

‘You are feverish.’ She truly was, eliminating Alisoun’s need to lie. ‘Let me fetch Dame Magda’s powder for a fever.’

Clarice’s eyelids fluttered, but she did not open her eyes, merely reaching up with one trembling hand to press Alisoun’s.

‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘She said you were feverish, not dying,’ said Eleanor. ‘You have the benefit of several healers in the palace. Where are the midwife’s powders?’

‘In His Grace’s chamber,’ said Alisoun.

‘Send the guard posted at the doorway for them.’

‘He would not know what to fetch.’

Eleanor set down the cup and bent to Clarice to check Alisoun’s report, nodding as she straightened. ‘She is feverish, poor woman.’ She stepped close to Alisoun, looked straight into her eyes. ‘You will not gossip about what I’ve told Dame Clarice?’

In normal circumstances, Alisoun would be insulted, but she understood why Eleanor did not wish her to repeat what she’d heard. Others would easily read into the recitation the possibility of her being involved in Dom Lambert’s death. ‘I have already assured you that I am not a gossip, my lady.’ To report to the captain was not gossiping.

Eleanor nodded. ‘I shall stay with Dame Clarice until you return.’

Alisoun stepped out of the room and into the arms of Captain Archer. She almost cried out, but smothered her impulse with a hand to her mouth.

‘I would go in,’ he whispered.

‘Dame Clarice is dressed and presentable, Captain.’ She kept her voice as low as possible as well, though it was difficult to judge the volume over the loud pounding of her heart. She’d initially merely been startled, but the grim expression on his scarred face now frightened her. ‘What has happened?’

‘See to the fever powder,’ he said. She realised he must have been listening. ‘I am moving Dame Clarice to Princess Joan’s chamber. Bring the physick there.’ He let her go. She hurried away.

As Alisoun reached the stairway, she realised that the main meal of the day was being served in the hall. She’d not noticed that the morning had already passed. To her dismay, Sir John Holand was standing in a small group at the edge of the hall and straightened with a grin as he noticed her. She’d had a disturbing dream about him the previous night and now, seeing him, she could feel the heat rising in her face. She hurried to Thoresby’s chamber. She was surprised to find Magda there, sitting by the great bed, her hands folded on her lap, watching His Grace with a faint smile as he softly spoke. Alisoun thought she heard the words ‘Clarice’ and ‘daughter’. So he knew. Magda rose when Brother Michaelo ushered Alisoun in, and assisted her in choosing the appropriate powder. She suggested that Alisoun also take some sprigs of rosemary to scent the water for a cool compress for Clarice’s forehead.

When Alisoun stepped out into the corridor once more, she experienced a frisson of fear that it was deserted. She chided herself for making much of nothing, for surely Sir John would not approach her again. But suddenly he was there, and, in a few strides, he was beside her.

‘Shall we walk in the garden, Mistress Alisoun?’ He slid his arm across the small of her back and pulled her close.

‘I cannot, Sir,’ she whispered, finding little air for speech. ‘I must attend Dame Clarice. I’ve just fetched a powder for her fever.’ She glanced around, desperate to catch someone’s eye, but they were alone in the corridor.

He grabbed her free hand and kissed the back of it. He smelled of leather, horses and wine, a not unpleasant medley of scents, and he had his mother’s beautiful blue-grey eyes with thick lashes, but Alisoun could not breathe, for she could not believe that he meant her no harm. As if he’d read her mind, he tightened his grip.

Alisoun gasped. ‘Why do you want to hurt me?’

It was not what she’d intended to say, but it caught him off guard and he eased his grip round her waist just enough for her to spin away and pull out the dagger that Captain Archer had given her. She pointed it at Sir John’s face as she backed towards the hall.

Throwing up his hands, Sir John asked with a laugh, ‘What is this?’

‘It is my protection, Sir.’

He laughed again. ‘Why not just scream?’

‘I did not wish to embarrass you or myself.’

‘Embarrass you? You dim-witted, ungrateful girl. You should be honoured by my attention.’

Alisoun turned and fled up the stairs, sheathing the dagger as she reached the top. When the guard admitted her to Princess Joan’s chamber, she stood for a moment, uncertain which way to turn.

‘Child, what has happened?’ asked Ravenser, who stood near the high-backed chair on which the princess was seated.

Alisoun humiliated herself by bursting into tears.

With the assistance of Dame Katherine, Ravenser had moved Clarice to the princess’s chamber. Now Owen faced Eleanor alone in the small room, which was now so quiet that he noticed how loudly his heart was beating and wondered how Eleanor did not comment on it. She was a study in the beauty of earth tones and woodland sunlight, her deep gold gown, dark green surcoat, and delicate deep gold veil rich against her dark hair and pale, luminescent skin. With a whisper of silk, she stepped so close he could smell the rosewater in her hair.

‘How everyone obeys you here,’ she said with a teasing smile as she reached up and touched his scarred cheek. ‘But is this not too bold, even for you? There will be talk about us, my love. What if your apothecary wife should hear of our being alone together in a bedchamber?’

‘My lady, to my regret, I come to you on official duty, not to make love to you.’

Her lips separated a little as she took a deep breath that sent a shiver through her, and she closed her eyes. ‘I’ve thought of you so often, Owen.’ She looked up at him and again touched his cheek. ‘Why did we not leave Kenilworth together? Why didn’t you save me?’ Her dark eyes searched his face.

He was taken aback by the questions. ‘Eleanor, you were never mine to save. We knew each other but one afternoon.’

‘I meant nothing to you?’

‘So much has happened since then.’

She turned away from him, and, in a cold voice, said, ‘I don’t know why I thought you different from the other men I’ve loved, why I thought you would be true.’

‘Loved? You cannot mean that, Eleanor.’ He began to wonder whether she was a little mad.

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘In truth, you have no choice in the matter, my lady.’

She turned to him, her cheeks flushed. ‘What did that midwife’s apprentice tell you?’

‘Was there something to tell?’

‘You play with me, Owen, like a cat with its prey.’

‘I have no time to play with you, Lady Eleanor.’ He took her by the forearm. ‘You will come with me. We will both be more comfortable in His Grace’s chamber.’

‘His Grace’s? Why?’ She tried to shrug out of his grasp, but he held tight. ‘You are hurting me.’

‘I would not need to if you will accompany me without argument.’

‘Why? What is this about?’

‘You know full well what this is about, Eleanor.’

She stared at him for a moment, then bowed her head and ceased struggling. ‘As you wish.’

As they passed the hall, Owen noticed Richard Ravenser quietly talking to Sir John, whose crossed arms and flushed face threatened an angry outburst. He hurried Eleanor to His Grace’s chamber, not wishing to add the arrogant Holand to the already volatile mix.

Brother Michaelo’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Lady Eleanor. ‘His Grace is resting, Archer.’

‘He will rest much better after seeing us, Michaelo,’ Owen said, loudly enough for His Grace to hear.

But it was Magda Digby who called out to him to enter.

He felt Eleanor begin to step away, and, firmly taking her arm, he guided her into the room.

‘Michaelo, bring some wine,’ he said. ‘Your Grace, I present you with Lady Eleanor. She has been named by several as being likely to know something about the theft of Wykeham’s documents and the death of his emissary.’

Eleanor gasped. ‘Rumours, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘I call on your mercy.’ She bowed her head to him.

‘If deserved, you shall have it, Lady Eleanor,’ said Thoresby. He indicated that she should sit on the far side of him, opposite Magda. ‘I would have you stay, if you will, Dame Magda,’ he said. ‘I prefer having another female present, and, as ever, welcome your counsel.’

‘I would prefer a woman of the princess’s household,’ said Eleanor.

‘No doubt you would,’ said Thoresby, dismissing her.

Michaelo directed a servant to arrange chairs and pour wine, all the while watching Eleanor with curiosity. But he was called away as someone knocked on the door. It was Lewis Clifford, leading Owen’s second lieutenant, Gilbert, whose hands were tied behind his back. Richard Ravenser followed.

‘This is a sickroom,’ Michaelo protested when Owen joined him at the door.

‘I would have you go see to Lady Eleanor’s comfort and arrange three more seats, Brother Michaelo,’ said Owen, in a quiet voice. ‘I believe that you will find some satisfaction in what you are about to witness.’

When Michaelo moved away, Gilbert said, ‘God forgive me, Captain, I never meant to harm anyone in this household.’ He did not meet Owen’s gaze, but kept his eyes on the tiled floor.

‘But it sounds as if you did, Gilbert. What were you offered? Captain of Neville’s guard?’

Gilbert lifted eyes filled with remorse and fear. ‘Yes.’

‘Fool.’ Owen turned to Sir Lewis. ‘Where are Geoffrey and Alfred?’

‘They hope to deliver Lady Eleanor’s accomplice to you,’ said Lewis. ‘Your man has directed them to him.’

That was an unexpected boon.

‘Roger Neville,’ said Gilbert. ‘Lady Eleanor’s cousin and lover.’

‘A Neville.’ Owen nodded. ‘And you, Gilbert? What are you to my lady?’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘Naught but her pawn, Captain.’

‘Come,’ said Owen, to all three. ‘We will see what satisfaction we may have this day. Say nothing unless I address you, Gilbert.’

‘The nun is resting comfortably?’ Owen asked Ravenser.

‘She is.’

‘I saw you with Holand.’

Ravenser’s deep-set eyes seemed to sink farther into his skull and the set of his jaw spoke of a profound anger. ‘He had nothing to do with this, though he be a knave. More of that at another time.’

Owen gladly dropped that line of inquiry.

As Gilbert took his seat, Thoresby looked to Owen. ‘One of my guards? He has something to do with all this?’

Owen had watched Eleanor’s face as he invited the three men to approach the great bed, and he’d felt both sorrow and relief to see her blanch and drop her eyes to her hands. She’d been restlessly twisting the rings on her slender fingers, but now she grew still. Gilbert kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

‘Are we expecting more, Archer?’ Thoresby asked.

His face was drawn and slightly pinched, his voice bordering on breathless, Owen realised. He prayed that this would not prove too much for the ailing man, and yet surely he could not properly rest until the murders were resolved.

‘We may have several more to fit round your bed,’ said Owen. ‘Chaucer and my man Alfred are searching for Lady Eleanor’s cousin, Roger Neville.’

‘Roger?’ Eleanor whispered. All colour fled her beautiful face and she swayed.

In a swirl of confusing colours, Magda was beside her with a small cup of something she ordered the woman to inhale. With a sharp intake of breath, Eleanor began to cough. Magda held her shoulders until she breathed evenly. Then she handed her the cup of wine that Michaelo had set beside her.

‘Drink. Thou wilt not escape by inviting a faint, Lady Eleanor.’ Magda stood over the lady until she took several sips. Then, with a nod of satisfaction — Eleanor’s colour was quite noticeably improved — Magda returned to her seat.

‘Perhaps it would be advisable to begin at the beginning, Lady Eleanor,’ said Thoresby, nodding to Magda in thanks.

Eleanor seemed to collect herself, folding her hands on her lap, straightening. ‘My Lord Archbishop,’ she bowed her head to him. ‘As you have hooded me and hold my jesses, I have little choice.’ Despite her description of herself as a hooded and tied falcon, she used her quite uncovered eyes to include all in the chamber. ‘So be it. You shall hear my sad tale. And to begin, you should know that my husband is retained by Sir John Neville, Alexander’s father. I owe the Neville family my life, much to my husband’s displeasure.’ A tremor in her voice seemed to contradict her air of defiance, though it might be anger rather than fear.

‘His displeasure?’ said Thoresby. ‘And why is that?’

Owen admired Thoresby’s courteous tone and demeanour. Yes, this was how to approach Eleanor.

‘He believes that they have wronged him by supporting me, that they have proved ungrateful for his allegiance.’

‘In what way has their support offended your husband?’

‘Anything that eases my lot offends him,’ Eleanor said sharply, her eyes a little wild. But she caught herself. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ She frowned down at her hands, shaking her head as if reminding herself what she meant to say. ‘To explain how I sold my soul is to ask you to reassure me that I had no choice. But that is a lie. I am finished with lies. I did have choices, and at each step I chose to go forward.’ Now she raised her eyes to his. ‘I stole Dom Lambert’s documents for the Neville family.’

The air seemed sucked away by all present, and the room became unnaturally still, so still that Owen heard the subtle rustle of silk from Eleanor’s now quite pronounced trembling.

‘How did you do this?’ asked Thoresby, in little more than a whisper.

‘I lay with him, God forgive me.’ She blushed and momentarily looked away. ‘Afterwards, as he slept, I studied the parchments so that my cousin who followed our company, a Neville kinsman, as you already know,’ she glanced at Gilbert, who blushed and looked away, ‘so that Roger might supply me with the number and size of replacements.’ She paused for breath, her hands breaking from the controlled grasp and clutching her elbows in an unconscious embrace. ‘Again I lay with Dom Lambert, and again he slept afterwards, helped by the wine I’d prepared for him, and I traded the blank parchments for the documents that the family was so keen to prevent His Grace from reading.’

‘If they had the documents, why did they want Dom Lambert dead?’ Thoresby asked.

Michaelo’s little sob caught Owen’s attention, but the others were focused on Eleanor and paid no heed to the monk who stood at a distance, guarding the door. Michaelo bowed his head and crossed himself.

Eleanor shook her head and, regaining control of her hands, folded them once more on her lap. ‘They did not want him dead. I had assured them that Dom Lambert had no idea of the content of his pack.’

‘Such a naïve man,’ Ravenser murmured.

Eleanor nodded towards him, her tension rendering the movement uneven, almost sharp. ‘Yes, Sir Richard, he was. I had teased him that it was a simple matter to break a seal, but he would not be tempted. So I had completed my mission for the Nevilles.’

‘Does this mean that you do not know who murdered him?’ Thoresby asked, though he looked at Gilbert, who flicked his eyes towards Eleanor and nodded.

‘God help me, I know all too well. I became so afraid.’ Eleanor took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I lay awake at night thinking of Dom Lambert discovering the blank parchments.’ She looked around at her audience with a yearning air, as if hoping to see their eyes light with understanding. ‘I imagined him suffering humiliation before this man, the great John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. How could he bear such shame? I was certain he would think of me, of our time together, and would realise that it must have been I who had tricked him. Who else? He’d guarded that pack day and night. Except after lovemaking.’

‘He said nothing of you when he discovered the documents had been stolen,’ said Thoresby. ‘He never spoke your name.’

‘More worthy than the rest, God grant him peace,’ she murmured.

She bowed her head. That was the moment when Owen knew for certain that she had murdered Dom Lambert, and his heart felt as if some demon had reached up from hell and clutched it in its blazing, inhumanly strong claw and yanked it, trying to wrench it from his body. That such a beautiful creature could so cold-bloodedly hunt a modest man who had approached an important mission with such simplicity of heart.

‘Tell me that you did nothing to him.’ When Eleanor glanced up at him, Owen realised he’d said it aloud.

Now she spoke to Owen. ‘I wanted to leave the company, run away, to a convent if that was what they wished.’ The pitch of her voice rose and she spoke almost too quickly to articulate. ‘But, through Roger, I was instructed to remain where I was, that, as long as I did nothing, I would not call attention to myself, and that was crucial because I must still watch what happened when Dom Lambert presented the blank parchments.’ She looked around at the others, as if hoping for understanding. ‘My fear did not matter. I was never aught but an unwitting tool.’ For a moment she seemed distracted, as if listening to something that the others could not hear. With her hands on her knees, she leaned slightly forward. Taking a breath, she said, ‘I see now that lack of sleep and — I was unwell. I needed a confessor.’ She moaned, then shook her head. ‘In faith, I don’t know what would have saved me. I was convinced he must die before we reached Bishopthorpe. I had hunted him, now I would bring him down.’ She nodded to herself and seemed to calm a little. ‘I devised a way to loosen his saddle and I tucked a flask of drugged wine in it. He did not fall the first day. Nor did he drink from that flask. But the next day — it had not occurred to me that he would switch horses and saddles with his servant when the horse grew restive. But, when he fell, I knew.’ She hugged herself. ‘I was furious! Not sorry, no, I felt only contempt for the man. He’d noticed something was amiss and left it to his servant.’

A loud voice in the corridor turned the attention towards Michaelo, who reluctantly opened the door once more.

‘Eleanor.’ A man in elegant though travel-stained clothing stood in the doorway between Geoffrey and Alfred. His features were sharply handsome, his eyes hot with pain.

‘No,’ Eleanor whispered.

There was a shuffling of chairs as room was made for the latest arrivals. Magda coaxed Thoresby to sip something she had been heating on the brazier. Owen ordered Alfred to keep his murderous look to himself or Gilbert might not speak up when they needed him. Michaelo splashed his face with some scented water. Sir Lewis moved towards the door, then changed his mind and returned to his seat.

All the while Eleanor stared at her cousin Roger, who grew quite plainly uncomfortable beneath her hungry gaze and shifted in his seat so that he might not see her but rather face Thoresby.

When all were settled, Thoresby said, ‘So you designed an accident that took the wrong life, Lady Eleanor, and Dom Lambert’s attempt to rid himself of an uncomfortable mount won your contempt. What, then, did you do?’

Still she stared at Roger as if dumbstruck.

Thoresby glanced at Roger. ‘Why did you not rescue her from herself?’

Roger sputtered some inane excuse that Owen was too impatient to hear.

‘Your Grace,’ Owen interrupted. ‘If it please you, might we hear the full story before picking it apart?’

Ravenser coughed into his hand. Geoffrey wiped his brow; Owen could not recall ever having seen him so ill at ease. Thoresby grunted and nodded to Eleanor. ‘Continue, Lady Eleanor.’

But she was now glaring at Roger. ‘Rescue me? Oh, but he could not do that or his powerful kin might discard him, the penniless cousin.’ Her voice was thick with loathing.

‘Lady Eleanor, thy temper does thee no favours,’ Magda said, with a little frown and shake of her head.

Miraculously, Eleanor dropped her gaze. ‘I beg the pardon of His Grace and this company,’ she said, though there was no remorse in her voice.

Thoresby patted Magda’s hand.

‘Once at Bishopthorpe,’ Eleanor continued in a quieter tone, ‘I convinced Roger that we must finish the task. It was easy to enlist one of your guards to assist me. All I needed was the bait of the Neville affinity.’

Gilbert crossed himself, keeping his eyes averted.

‘So pious now, Gilbert,’ said Eleanor, ‘but you were so helpful then. It was from you that I learned that Brother Michaelo and Dom Lambert had withdrawn to the monk’s small chamber and what that might mean. I’d no knowledge of Brother Michaelo’s past sin.’

With a pained expression, Thoresby glanced towards the door, where Michaelo stood with head bowed.

Now Eleanor also bowed her head.

When the silence dragged on, Owen took over.

‘Lady Eleanor, did you kill Dom Lambert?’

She straightened a little, but her eyes, though turned towards Owen, seemed to be focused far away.

‘You must understand. I can’t bear you to think I had no cause. As your jongleur’s mistress, having no chance to speak my pain.’

Her words momentarily silenced Owen, invoking the woman who had blinded him. But he could not allow himself to be played by her. ‘You are confessing to his murder?’ he asked.

His question seemed to chill her. ‘Once I bore my husband a son, he wished to have no more to do with me. For my part, I was much relieved, for I had no joy of him. He returned to his mistress and I felt free to give myself to-’

‘Eleanor, no!’ Roger said, rising from his chair.

Eleanor grimaced as she turned to him. ‘What a fool I’ve been in my affections. Much joy I’ve had of you.’ She turned to Thoresby, and, with anger strengthening her voice and quieting her tremors, she continued. ‘When my husband learned that Roger was my lover, he beat me and locked me away. Roger was frightened for me and informed his lord, and the family came to my rescue. Indeed, they brought my case to the court of the Bishop of Lincoln, where my husband was ordered to mend his ways. I had been in Princess Joan’s service for a brief time before my marriage, and they arranged for me to rejoin her household to give my husband and me time to think how we might best come together, what it was that caused our disaffection.’ She paused, and, almost too softly to be heard, she said, ‘As if it might be easily mended.’ More loudly, she resumed, ‘From time to time, someone would ask me to find out this or that. Small things. Until this journey. When we learned that the Bishop of Winchester was sending an emissary with our party, I was told that I would be working with Roger, who would be following us at a discreet distance, to steal the documents Dom Lambert carried.’ She turned back to Roger, who had been ordered to resume his seat by Geoffrey. ‘You never loved me. You sold my brooch to cover your expenses.’

‘That is not true! I sold it-’ he caught himself and dropped his eyes.

‘I’ll be well rid of you,’ Eleanor moaned.

‘So it was you and Gilbert who hanged Dom Lambert,’ Owen said to Eleanor.

She gave him a curt nod. She’d separated her hands into angry fists.

‘What of Brother Michaelo?’

‘The fool followed,’ said Eleanor.

‘I take responsibility for that,’ said Gilbert. ‘I hit him and left him there.’

‘But you take no responsibility for the death of Dom Lambert?’ Thoresby asked, in a cold voice. ‘Or for betraying me?’

If Gilbert could have hidden beneath his chair, he would have. He cringed and hugged himself and hung his head so heavily Owen thought his neck might snap.

Yet another knock on the door distracted Owen for a moment — with tragic results. He’d not thought to check Eleanor for a dagger. He was so close to her, but it took a second too long for him to understand her cry of ‘Enough!’, Roger’s shout, Gilbert’s shriek, Ravenser’s ‘No!’

Blood pumped from her stomach onto hands that still clutched the hilt of the dagger and pressed sideways. Agony and terror twisted her face, but no sound came from her open mouth. Owen did not know what to grab — her hands, all of her? It was Roger who knelt before her and quieted her hands, sobbing as he lifted her and took her to the pallet to which Michaelo and Magda guided him.

Jehannes stood just within the doorway. ‘I am come too late,’ he said, staring at the horror of the bloodstained woman.

‘Pray over her, Jehannes. Pray over her,’ Owen whispered. Sinking down onto a bench, he buried his head in his hands and stayed there for a long, long while, at first trying to stop his mind from its futile search for ways he might have saved Eleanor, later merely praying for God’s grace for all of them. He was drawn out of himself by Magda’s warm hands on his shoulders.

‘Thou hast done all in thy power, Bird-eye, and thou hast eased Old Crow’s mind, there should be no more murders here. Speak with Jehannes now. He saw thy wife in York this day. That will comfort thee.’

She handed him a cup of wine.

‘Have you added anything to it?’

She shook her head. ‘Thou hast more to do this day.’

Now he was able to listen to Jehannes’s report that the brooch had been sold in York, and, best of all, that Lucie and all his family were well.

Much later, Owen and Ravenser questioned Roger further. It had been difficult to wrest him from Eleanor’s bedside, and they had to promise him that he could return. It pained Owen to see the noble Sir Lewis kneel in Roger’s place, and, lifting Eleanor’s hand, gently press his lips to the inside of her palm. How many had loved her, he wondered, and she could not trust their love.

They withdrew with Roger to the small chamber that Brother Michaelo had been using. Oblivious to the blood caked on his hands, sleeves, the front of his gown, Roger sat cross-legged on the bed, his eyes staring sightlessly until they convinced him to drink some wine.

‘We will not keep you long, I promise,’ said Owen.

Roger finally focused on Owen and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are the Nevilles responsible for these murders?’ Ravenser asked.

Roger hesitated for only a moment, as if his mind were catching up with the words. ‘No, they had condemned Eleanor for going beyond their orders. They said she had ruined everything by killing Dom Lambert and his servant. They had shifted their sympathy to her husband, saying they now saw he’d had good cause to discipline her. You did not see her with her lip split, her face swollen and discoloured, and so thin. He’d been starving her.’ His voice broke, and he bowed his head for a moment before he continued. ‘I sold the brooch so that we might buy passage across the Channel. But she was so angry and we fought, and I did not have a chance to explain that she was wrong, that I meant to rescue her. I thought I had time. Time.’ He whispered the last word, staring down at his hands. Owen wondered whether he had yet fully realised that it was Eleanor’s blood that stained them.

‘She must have believed that she had time to make amends, to perform penance to save her from eternal damnation,’ said Ravenser. ‘I will ask all in the palace to pray for her, that she has time and grace to make her peace with her Lord before she dies.’

Roger moaned. ‘There are two healers here — what good are they if they cannot save her?’

Owen had seen how certainly Eleanor had ensured injury beyond repair. ‘She does not wish to live, Roger.’ Had he not trapped her into a confession with so many witnesses who could save themselves only by condemning her, would she have managed to escape with Roger, he wondered. Could she have found any joy with two deaths on her conscience?

‘You are certain that the Nevilles had not called for Lambert’s death?’ Ravenser asked.

‘If I could blame them for this tragedy, I would, Sir Richard,’ said Roger. ‘I would. But they had no part in this.’

No part. Owen would not have chosen those words. But he was convinced that the Nevilles had condemned the murders. It was the poison in Eleanor’s heart that had led to this.

‘I should have stopped her. I should have taken her away as soon as she spoke of her fear. I can’t remember now why I did nothing.’ Roger stared at Owen, as if expecting him to say something to comfort him.

‘I have no words of comfort for you,’ Owen said. ‘I feel guilty as well. I should have thought she might have a dagger. I should have seen her reach for it and prevented her from wounding herself.’

‘You will both drive yourselves mad with such self-flagellation,’ said Ravenser. ‘For pity’s sake, accept that a beautiful woman for whom you both cared has been destroyed by her own demons.’ He put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Come. Let this poor man go to his lady.’ To Roger, he said, ‘I am certain that Princess Joan will let you sit with Lady Eleanor.’ They had moved Eleanor to Joan’s chamber where they could keep her warm by the brazier and away from the draughts and the noise of the hall.

After Roger fled the chamber, Owen asked Ravenser about his earlier comment about John Holand.

‘Twice he has grabbed Alisoun and frightened her. This time she pulled a dagger on him.’ Ravenser sighed. ‘Two daggers drawn in the palace this day by women, one so tragically, one so appropriately. But young Alisoun was frightened beyond anything that wretched man could have imagined. I had forgotten that she’d lost her family to the pestilence, that she’d been out on that farm defending herself for days. Apparently a man had threatened her. It was that memory that Sir John’s aggression brought back to the young woman. Princess Joan comforted her. It did my heart good to see.’

‘I am not so delighted by Princess Joan as you are,’ said Owen, needing to vent some of his frustration. ‘Had she warned us of Lambert’s mission when his servant died, or at least when we discovered the theft of the documents, I might have prevented one death.’

‘Alexander Neville. God rot him. You blame the wrong person, Archer. Curse the devil himself, not those whom he has thrown into confusion. I would not have expected Her Grace to tell us of this until she deemed it the proper time. They are different from us, Archer, the nobles, particularly the family of the king. I learned that when I was part of Queen Philippa’s household.’

‘Of course they are different — they wield the power over all.’

‘Can you possibly imagine the responsibility they carry?’ said Ravenser. ‘The fate of the realm is in their hands. Their choices rule the fates of so many, not just themselves, their families, their friends.’

‘Princess Joan’s marriage to Prince Edward did nothing for the realm, Sir Richard.’

Ravenser grunted. ‘I’ll say no more of that. Young Alisoun would speak with you about Lady Eleanor’s visit to my cousin Clarice. She is with the nuns in the small chamber next to Her Grace.’

They parted in the corridor; Ravenser headed for the hall, Owen for the solar.

Alisoun opened the door to Owen, stepping out and closing it behind her to recount to him Eleanor’s tale.

‘I am so sorry for her,’ said Alisoun, ‘and yet not. I understand her, but what she did righted nothing.’

Owen said little, numbed for the moment by all that had happened. But, at least by the time he left Alisoun and headed for the chapel, he felt he had most of the pieces to the puzzle of the murders. He would pray a while with Gilbert. Thoresby had ordered his execution at dawn — another tragedy to survive. Owen knew it was what any judge would decree — Gilbert had strangled Dom Lambert and then strung him up, and attacked Brother Michaelo and left him in the woods, where he might have died. But it was hard to condemn a man who had been loyal so long. Very hard.

Towards evening, Magda returned to Thoresby’s chamber, and he knew by a heaviness in her that Lady Eleanor was dead.

‘How could she go so quickly,’ he wondered, ‘when an old wretch like me lingers so long?’

‘She wished to die,’ Magda said, ‘and, without the will to heal, the flesh succumbs. Her lover held her close. May he find some peace in that.’

‘Would you have saved her if you could?’ Thoresby asked.

‘Thou shouldst know better than to ask that,’ said Magda. ‘There is no place for pride in healing. She did not wish to live. But thou shouldst know, the poor woman was with child. Barely, but Magda thinks that she knew.’

Thoresby crossed himself. ‘Not her husband’s.’

Magda shook her head. ‘There was no joy in her future. No peace.’

Thoresby lay back against his cushions and said a prayer for the lost soul just released from its earthly form. Perhaps Lady Eleanor repented at the end, perhaps she would eventually rise from her penance and dwell in God’s grace.

They sat quietly, saying little, sipping spiced wine from jewelled mazers, until Brother Michaelo announced Dame Clarice.

Magda patted Thoresby’s hand and rose. ‘Time for a walk beneath the sky for Magda. Embrace thy daughter, Old Crow, make thy peace with her.’

Alisoun had been glad when Dame Clarice asked her to walk with her to His Grace’s chamber. Though she and the two nuns had been shifted back to the small chamber, the sounds of grief over Lady Eleanor’s deathbed and the heavy stench of blood permeated the little room, weighing heavily on all three of them. The memories conjured earlier by Sir John had gnawed at Alisoun, and the sounds of mourning had pulled her even farther into that horrible time, as, one by one, her family succumbed to the pestilence. She had been too young to understand how completely unprotected she would be without her parents, how silent the world could be, how suddenly crowded with threats. When Clarice said she wished to speak with her father, Alisoun had jumped at the chance to escape her memories.

She did not know what to expect when she entered Thoresby’s chamber. She had seen poor Lady Eleanor, had seen the man who had been her lover crumple in despair, had heard that the handsome Gilbert was condemned to death. Such tragedy would surely taint a room, echo and haunt any who walked there for a long while. But the room seemed as peaceful and inviting as it had before. It seemed wrong to Alisoun.

Magda left her seat next to the great bed, where Thoresby sat up, holding a jewelled mazer in his beringed hands. Alisoun had wondered whether his condition would deteriorate with the dramas that had played out around his bed earlier in the day, but, from this distance, he seemed undiminished. Dame Clarice would have a chance to speak with him.

To the nun she said, ‘I shall sit here by the door. Go to him.’

As Clarice walked slowly over to the great bed, Alisoun tried not to watch.

‘I would go to the chapel and pray with Gilbert,’ said Michaelo. ‘Would you stay here until I return?’

‘I would be glad to,’ she said, ‘but have you already forgiven him? After all he’s done?’

‘I will not judge him,’ the monk said, his long face drawn with grief but lacking any sign of anger.

Magda came to Alisoun and kissed her forehead. ‘Thou hast come far, Alisoun, and Magda is proud to call thee her apprentice.’

As Alisoun settled in the chair by the door, her heart felt lighter than it had in a long while. She smiled on the tableau before her, Dame Clarice leaning over the great bed to kiss her father’s hand, and being invited to sit.