A Vigil of Spies

Five

Wednesday

IT WAS ONLY mid-morning, but Lucie found herself oddly clumsy in the workshop, as if she were pushing on past a reasonable time to cease her labours for the day. She found her thoughts straying too often to the farewells in the gloomy dawn. While her neighbours in Davygate had yet slept, or perhaps groggily stoked their fires, she and Jasper had stood in the quiet street helping Alisoun and Magda secure their packs on the horses the messenger had brought for their short journey to the staithe from which the archbishop’s barge would take them to Bishopthorpe.

Her face still creased from sleep and her voice a little hoarse, Magda had said, ‘Be ready for thy summons. Old Crow will not linger once the princess departs.’

‘May God grant His Grace the time to bid farewell to those he loves,’ said Lucie.

‘John Thoresby will not die until he has seen the children,’ said Magda. She had taken Lucie’s hands and held her gaze for a long while, as if passing strength and comfort to her. ‘Nor will thy family fall apart upon the death of Old Crow. Thou knowest that for a false fear.’

Did she? Late last night, when the rest of the household had been long abed, Lucie had confided in Magda, telling her of her dread of the changes to come with Thoresby’s death. After she’d laid bare her heart, she’d waited for Magda to comment, but instead her friend had silently watched the fire.

‘My fear is selfish,’ Lucie had finally said, thinking she had made a fool of herself.

Magda had put an arm around her and smiled into her eyes. ‘Old Crow has given thee much, but thy happy family has a life of its own.’

When looking into Magda’s eyes, Lucie could see the folly in her fear. But now, hours later and without her friend’s inspirational presence, she found the fear creeping back up to hang over her shoulders and weight every gesture with dread.

Owen entered the palace by the door leading from the kitchen into the hall, hoping to reach Michaelo’s small chamber without further encounters with the guests. Sir Lewis and Geoffrey stood just beyond Thoresby’s chamber door with their backs to Owen, but they did not turn around when he quietly lifted the tapestry being used for the door to Michaelo’s makeshift chamber and let it drop behind him. Michaelo sat on his cot, his hands pressed together in prayer, and Jehannes broke from his prayers to nod at Owen.

‘Benedicite, Owen.’

‘Benedicite, Jehannes, Michaelo.’ At his name, the monk lifted his eyes to Owen. A sudden thought, almost discarded, begged to be acknowledged. Michaelo might not have the strength to have lifted Lambert himself, but he might have helped Lambert commit suicide. Owen would be remiss to rule out that unwelcome possibility. ‘You must tell me what you remember, Michaelo.’

The monk took a deep breath, trembling as he exhaled. ‘I don’t deserve your trust.’

‘I do not need your humility, Michaelo. What I need is for you to tell me whatever you can remember.’

Nodding, Michaelo closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment, covering his mouth, as if to force it to pause for thought. After a while, he straightened and faced Owen. ‘Lambert was distraught, desperate for a place to hide. I meant merely to hold him, nothing more. It was compassion that moved me.’

Owen could see from Michaelo’s blush that it had become more. Too much more? He thought it best not to interrupt him to press for a confession. Patience would best serve his purpose. He would hear all in time. For now he had less delicate questions.

‘Think, Michaelo, did anyone see the two of you together? Might someone have waited for him? Followed him from your room?’ Since Thoresby had moved to the ground floor, Michaelo had been sleeping in this screened area beside His Grace’s room on the farthest side, near the corridor to the buttery and pantry. Normally it would be a quiet place at night, but, with so many guests and their servants to accommodate, pallets were set up in the pantry and the corridor after the evening meal. Someone would be noticed if they stood about, but a clever lurker could make it seem as though he had been assigned to sleep there.

Michaelo looked distraught. ‘May God forgive me. I was concerned only for Lambert. I thought we were discreet, but how can I know?’ He glanced at Jehannes and back at Owen, as if seeking reassurance. ‘I can’t bear the thought of his having left my bed, and then, in agony, searching for the rope.’ Tears fell down the monk’s cheeks unheeded. ‘He’d been humiliated by losing the documents, he carried a heavy guilt about trading horse and saddle with Will because the horse was testy, and then he lay with me — a man, a monk …’ Michaelo shook his head slowly and moaned again, his face a mask of remorse.

‘The compassion became passion?’ Owen softly asked.

‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ Michaelo moaned, beating his breast.

Owen caught Michaelo’s hand and waited until he had his attention. ‘You take too much of the burden on your own shoulders. Lambert was a grown man. You have not suggested that you forced him.’

Michaelo opened his eyes wide. ‘Forced? Of course not.’

‘Then he shared the blame with you. He chose, just as you did. You must calm yourself.’

‘Calm myself?’ Michaelo’s voice cracked.

‘Lambert’s servant was murdered, Michaelo, I have no doubt of that. And, now, what I’ve just learned from you is that Lambert and Will switched horse and saddle. It was meant for Lambert to die. I think it much more likely that, far from taking his own life last night, Lambert was murdered — the intended victim was finally dispatched. His murderers want us to believe, as you do, that he took his own life. They made it look that way.’

‘Pretty words, Captain, and, if I had any faith in them, I would thank you. But I’ll never forget that Lambert wept after we lay together. He wept.’

‘He might as well do so about the tenth time as the first. Did you think of that? Perhaps, like you, he had promised himself never to sin again — and then did. What then? Is it then all on your conscience?’

Michaelo finally looked up, his expression one of disdain. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you exonerating me?’

Why, indeed, was he comforting a sinner? For a selfish reason — Thoresby needed Michaelo. But Owen was saying nothing that he did not believe — Lambert could have refused Michaelo.

‘His Grace needs you, Michaelo. You must not desert him now.’

‘He has Dame Magda and that solemn young woman.’

‘You are his ballast and his comfort.’ Owen let that sink in for a moment.

‘You believe Lambert was the intended victim all along, Captain?’

‘Now that I know of the switch, I’ve no doubt he was. Help me, Michaelo. What woke you?’

‘His being gone.’

‘How long? Was the bed warm or cold?’

‘I’d heard him weeping, and I pulled the covers over my head.’ Michaelo spoke slowly, hesitantly, as if horribly weary. ‘I must have slept again, for the bed was cold where he had lain.’

‘I ask you again. What woke you?’

Owen watched as Michaelo tried to think back to his waking, then realised what the question implied.

‘Someone wanted me to wake then,’ he whispered.

Owen nodded. ‘And then what happened?’

Michaelo passed a hand over his eyes, as if to conjure the scene. ‘I hurried from the palace and heard something at the stables. It was quiet, all the company asleep. I don’t recall seeing any guards. And then I saw Lambert and a woman slipping from the stables with a horse.’

‘Just as you stepped into the yard?’

Michaelo slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I see. You think they appeared on my arrival. The woman was dressed in the finery of the princess’s ladies.’

‘You were meant to see Lambert — or someone dressed like him. Are you certain it was Lambert you saw? And what of the lady?’

Michaelo looked down, rubbing his forehead, slowly shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I could swear as to whom I saw. It was too dark.’ He shook his head. ‘Too dark.’ Curling his long-fingered hands into fists, he angrily punched the pallet to either side of him. ‘May they rot in hell, whoever they are,’ he groaned.

‘Yes,’ agreed Owen, ‘but who are they?’

‘I wish I knew. I followed them, but lost my way in a copse, then followed sounds. By then — dear God, Lambert was hanging.’ Michaelo covered his face with his hands.

‘And you were struck from behind?’

Michaelo did not respond, and Owen waited for him to regain his composure.

‘He has been through a difficult night,’ said Jehannes, who had been sitting with head bowed, his lips moving in prayer.

Michaelo raised his head. ‘It is no more than I deserve. As for your question, Captain, yes, I was struck from behind and knew nothing until you found me. Do you think I’m in danger?’

He had certainly been so last night, Owen thought. ‘I think it likely, and the worst of it is that you do not know who your enemy is. Nor do I. I don’t trust Holand. Or the women — I trust Princess Joan, for the most part. She would not need to come all this way to kill Lambert. As for my men, I’m not sure I can trust any of them.’

‘Surely you can trust Alfred,’ said Jehannes. ‘And you’ve come to entrust more to Gilbert.’

Owen almost argued for distrusting even Alfred and Gilbert, but his heart refused. ‘Yes, Alfred and Gilbert I can trust.’ He thanked God for that. ‘Here is how you must behave, Michaelo. Play silent and torn with guilt. Stay away from the company as much as you can. Indeed, you would do best to remain in His Grace’s chamber.’

Michaelo shook his head. ‘I cannot hide, Captain. The household needs me. But I will behave as one shamed — it will be no performance.’

Jehannes spoke up. ‘That will be painful, Brother Michaelo, for surely you will feel their anger. From what I’ve seen of him, John Holand might well express his contempt without discretion.’

Michaelo gave Jehannes a weak smile. ‘It does not matter. Truly. I will offer it up as my penance. And, when His Grace has passed on, I’ll hie to Normandy and spend the rest of my days in penance.’

Owen did not choose to argue, knowing how stubborn Michaelo could be. Instead, he instructed both to be ready to move Michaelo’s pallet into Thoresby’s chamber when he sent word, which would be soon.

The corridor was fairly quiet when Owen crossed the short distance to Thoresby’s chamber and silently opened the door and slipped in. God must have guided him in his stealthy entrance, for he found something he might not otherwise have witnessed.

Thoresby’s breathing was, at first, all he noticed, loud despite the bed curtains being pulled shut. He must be asleep, because, when awake, the archbishop preferred the curtains open — he said he’d have sufficient privacy very soon. Owen was angry that the archbishop was unattended and was about to go fetch Michaelo when a sound farther in the room caught his attention, a rustling of cloth. Holding his breath, Owen moved towards the sound. Just beyond the bed, the lid of a large trunk stood open and one of the nuns, black veil and pale habit identifying her, was sitting on the floor, legs crossed beneath her, leaning against the trunk, a lamp beside her, and was frowning down into a book on her lap. If she was a thief, she was inexperienced, allowing herself to become so absorbed in reading that she did not notice his approach. He could not imagine that she might need any items stored in the trunk, but he would not have thought she would require a book. Moving closer yet, he saw the book was a breviary or prayer book, with annotations scrawled along the margins.

‘Have you His Grace’s permission to read that?’ he asked in a quiet voice, so as not to startle her.

But she did startle, and, in scrambling to her feet, she dropped the book and brought the lid of the chest down on her hand.

‘Who goes there?’ Thoresby cried out from within the bed.

‘Dame Clarice needs my help with one of the trunks, Your Grace,’ Owen said. ‘I pray you, rest easy.’ He picked up the book and noticed that the marginal notes were in Thoresby’s hand. ‘What right have you to read this?’ he demanded of the nun, keeping his voice low.

Standing beside the chest, Dame Clarice was ministering to her hand, rubbing it, flexing it and moving it about. ‘Nothing seems to be broken.’ She glared up at Owen. ‘What right have you to sneak up on me?’ Her words challenged but, when she saw Owen’s anger, she backed up a few steps and dropped her gaze.

‘I’ve every right, as the archbishop’s captain of guard.’ He shut the chest, but placed the book on top, intending to look at it more closely after he’d seen her out of the chamber.

She smoothed her gown and felt about to make sure her veil was secure. Her habit was tidy and tailored for her tall, thin frame. Owen realised she was a handsome woman, but for thin lips and sunken eyes, and to fuss with her appearance in such circumstances suggested vanity — the Brother Michaelo of her convent.

‘It’s a mere prayer book,’ she said, with a sullen, wounded expression.

Thoresby peered through the bed curtains. ‘What has she done?’

‘It is pointless to play the fool with me,’ Owen said to the nun, ‘I cannot believe you would be of such feeble wit as not to realise that the belongings of the Archbishop of York are not yours to explore at your whim.’

‘A spy,’ Thoresby said with disgust.

‘No!’ Clarice cried. ‘I thought to find something inspiring to read …’

‘Get out of my chamber, you pathetic liar.’ Thoresby frowned and then withdrew.

‘I’m no thief. I was merely reading,’ Dame Clarice whined.

Someone knocked once and entered the room. Owen groaned to see Geoffrey Chaucer.

‘I’d hoped to find you here,’ said Geoffrey.

Owen shook his head at him, hoping he would withdraw, but the man merely looked with interest towards the nun.

‘His Grace ordered you to leave,’ Owen said to her.

‘Who is to attend His Grace if I leave?’ she demanded. ‘I was sent here to sit with him.’ She’d assumed a defiant posture and her facial expression and voice were alive with righteous indignation.

‘I ordered you out of here,’ Thoresby said from behind the curtains. The effort caused him to cough.

‘His Grace is my concern,’ said Owen. He took Clarice’s elbow and escorted her to the door, shutting it tight behind her.

He considered doing the same with Geoffrey, but distracted himself from his irritation by busying himself with checking that Thoresby had honey water within reach. Opening the bed curtain, he found the archbishop lying back against his pillows.

Thoresby waved Owen away. ‘I need to catch my breath.’ He held a cup to his lips as he closed the bed curtains.

Owen withdrew, calmer now.

‘That did not seem a friendly exchange with Dame Clarice,’ said Geoffrey, when Owen turned to him.

Patience, he coached himself. ‘I can’t say that I’m feeling any friendlier towards you than I did towards her. What are you doing here?’

‘Forgive me, but, with Archdeacon Jehannes seeing to Brother Michaelo and Sir Richard Ravenser abed with a headache, I thought perhaps you might need someone to sit with His Grace. And, from what I just witnessed, you do.’

Geoffrey’s knowledge of everyone’s whereabouts astounded Owen. ‘Do you know everything that happens in this palace?’ He wondered why Geoffrey paid such particular attention to Thoresby’s close companions.

‘I don’t know what happened to Dom Lambert, or what Brother Michaelo had to do with it.’

Owen was not ready to enlighten him. ‘Dame Clarice had searched through at least one of His Grace’s trunks — wanting something to read, she said. She must not be left alone in here again. Perhaps neither sister should be.’

Geoffrey glanced over at the trunk. ‘One of the nuns in our company so bold as that? What do you think she was searching for?’

‘I doubt it was just the book.’

Following Owen’s gaze, Geoffrey crossed to the trunk and picked up the book. ‘It seems innocent enough — devotional reading. She showed poor judgement in opening a trunk-’ he gave a short laugh. ‘Listen to my foolishness. A stranger trespasses in the room of the Archbishop of York and I make excuses for her because she is a nun.’

Owen had his own suspicions. ‘How did you come to enter just when you did? How do I know you hadn’t arrived to help her?’

‘Help her? Are you mad?’ Suddenly quite serious, Geoffrey glanced round, found a bench well away from Thoresby and motioned Owen to join him.

Reluctantly, Owen settled beside him. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’ve recently become a squire of King Edward’s chamber.’ Geoffrey frowned down at his shoes, his short legs never quite touching the ground when he sat, and seemed to weigh his words.

‘A squire of the king’s chamber? I’d not realised you’d risen so high.’

Geoffrey sniffed. ‘My wife was close to the late queen and her sister is unpleasantly close to Lancaster, so I do not flatter myself that I’ve risen on my own merit. Now, as to why I am here, I’m privy to conversations expressing much concern about Prince Edward’s failing health as well as the king’s. We may be moving into quite difficult times if both fail. I believe Princess Joan has already mentioned her need for a spy here in the north, someone to watch the Percy and the Neville families, eh?’ He arched his eyebrows and nodded at Owen, as if nudging him to the point.

It took but a heartbeat for Owen to guess. ‘You? It was you who suggested I might be that spy?’

‘Lancaster supported my recommendation, for you served him well in Wales. Do I hear irritation in your voice?’ Geoffrey shook his head at Owen. ‘I am disappointed that you are not pleased. Owen! Your lord is dying. I have found you an honourable post that will allow you to stay in Yorkshire with your family.’

‘I need no position.’

‘Oh? You’ll just wander about Freythorpe Hadden and annoy your steward? Or will you play apprentice to your lovely wife in the apothecary?’

‘That is my concern.’

Geoffrey threw up his hands. ‘I thought I had found a way to thank you for saving my career at Cydweli. Without you, I would have failed in my mission for Lancaster.’

‘Thank me?’ All this time Owen had thought their parting had been uneasy, with Geoffrey distrusting him for his Welsh sympathies.

‘Of course.’

‘In faith, that is generous of you.’ Owen searched for a neutral question. ‘You came here to encourage me to work for Princess Joan?’

‘Yes! You are a difficult man, did you know that?’ Geoffrey scratched his head. ‘So, where were we? Oh yes. You asked whether I’d entered this chamber to assist Dame Clarice in her search of the archbishop’s belongings. No, I did not. In fact, I shall report her trespass to Princess Joan — you are right to be disturbed by her activity. And you are wrong to distrust me.’

Perhaps it was time Owen trusted Geoffrey. He could use the assistance of someone in the princess’s party, and he could think of no good reason to doubt the man’s intentions. ‘I am particularly concerned after two members of her travelling party have died, possibly both murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I feared as much. I was almost certain that you thought Will was murdered, but Lambert? They said it looked as if he’d hanged himself, that there was a ladder.’

‘There are bruises on Dom Lambert’s throat that fit a man’s hands, not a rope.’

‘By Saint Foi, someone strangled him and then hanged him?’

‘I think so.’

‘Not Michaelo?’

‘I pray not.’ Owen hesitated, then, with a prayer that Geoffrey proved trustworthy, he continued. ‘Even though I am almost certain of his innocence, I’ve told him that I shall behave as if I’m watching him. He may be in danger. After I’ve spoken with His Grace, Michaelo will move in here, and he’ll stay at least until Magda and Alisoun return.’

By now Thoresby had pulled back part of a bed curtain. Despite the warmth of the room, he clutched a mantle around his shoulders. ‘Michaelo is in danger? Has this to do with the nun you caught in here?’

Owen opened the curtain wide. ‘I don’t think Dame Clarice is involved in Michaelo’s trouble, Your Grace. She had taken one of your books from a trunk she had no cause to open.’

‘What book?’ When Owen handed it to him, Thoresby did not look at it at once, but said, ‘She tried to be pleasant enough, but I disliked how closely she watched me. Had I not succumbed to pride in dining in the hall on the princess’s arrival, I would not be so weary today and would have been sitting with the curtains opened wide, not prey to a little sneak.’ He looked at Owen’s companion. ‘Master Chaucer, is it not?’

‘Your Grace.’ Geoffrey bowed. ‘I came to offer the captain my help.’

‘Help, yes. I’ve little doubt he’ll need some.’

Only now did Thoresby glance down at the book in his hands, squinting at first, though, of course, he did not have so many books that he would need his spectacles to distinguish which this was, and then widening his eyes, his face taking on a most haunted expression.

Alarmed, Owen asked, ‘What is it, Your Grace?’

Thoresby held the book to his heart and bowed his head for a moment. ‘God in heaven, of all the books-’ He checked himself with a shake of his head and took a deep breath. ‘We’ll talk of this later.’ He set aside the book on the small table next to the bed and gave his attention to Owen. ‘Tell me what has happened.’

‘Might we have some time alone?’ Owen asked Geoffrey. ‘I’ll not keep any information from you.’

Though he did it with clear reluctance, Geoffrey withdrew from the chamber without argument.

Owen’s caution was rewarded. As soon as the door closed behind Geoffrey, Thoresby picked up the book he’d set aside, and, with trembling fingers, he plucked at the top edge of the front cover where there was a slit in the leather. Owen felt a cascade of needle pricks across his scarred eye as he guessed the purpose of Thoresby’s effort to spread the slit and slip his fingers inside.

‘Had you hidden something in the binding?’ he asked, hoping for a negative response. The theft of Wykeham’s documents was, as yet, unsolved.

With a curse, Thoresby handed the book to him. He did not look Owen in the eye, but kept his gaze lowered. ‘I’ve too little feeling in my fingertips. Is there a folded parchment slipped inside on either side of the board?’

Owen felt about. ‘Nothing.’

Thoresby sighed and lay back against the pillows. ‘If it was there, she’s taken it, that cursed nun. But I cannot be certain it was there. I’ve moved it so many times.’

‘What, Your Grace?’

‘A letter. A love letter I foolishly kept. From Marguerite.’

Owen knew of whom he spoke. She had been Thoresby’s most-beloved mistress — and King Edward’s mistress as well. Years ago, a memento of that liaison had fallen into the hands of the king’s present mistress, Thoresby’s nemesis at court. ‘Is it the letter that Alice Perrers used-’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘That one was from me to Marguerite.’ He chuckled. ‘That letter would have shocked the little sneak. This one might leave her sighing. There is a great deal of sighing in nunneries.’

Although evidence of past misbehaviour could hardly hurt Thoresby now, Owen was unable to share in his amusement. Anything out of joint was a threat to the safety of His Grace and the princess. ‘Where else might you have hidden it? If we check all the possible hiding places, we’ll know whether she has taken it. We can then search her.’

Thoresby frowned. ‘That is the problem, Archer. I’ve moved it so many times, always back to this book, but I’ve shifted it to scrips, boxes, cushions, clothing, other books, and not all the items are at Bishopthorpe. In truth, I cannot recall when I last looked at it.’

‘That is not helpful,’ Owen accidentally muttered aloud.

‘I’m aware of that, Archer. The nun is a sneak in any case and I’ll not have her in my chamber again.’

‘I agree.’ But Clarice might now be in danger — or dangerous.

‘Tell me what has happened. It must be something sinister indeed for you to have sent Chaucer out of the room. I should have thought you would trust him. Or does he know too much about your activities in Wales?’

Owen ignored the last comment. For several years, Thoresby had been playing an annoying game of cat and mouse with him, hinting at something that he knew about Owen’s trip to Wales but never admitting to how much he knew. The most he could know was that Owen had been aggressively urged to join a Welsh rebellion against English rule. He could not possibly know how close Owen had come to taking part in the rebellion, unless he could read Owen’s mind. It made Owen all the more curious about the significance of the book Clarice had chosen.

‘I’m concerned about Dame Clarice’s transgression, Your Grace,’ said Owen. ‘Not knowing what it might involve, I thought it best to discuss it without Geoffrey, and I am glad that I asked him to leave.’

‘I should think he has more important concerns than my losing a letter from a mistress long dead, Archer. But I’d have put the book aside while he was yet here and would not have discussed this in his presence. Still, I believe him to be worthy of your trust. Do you have good cause to doubt that?’

‘I’d found his presence at this vigil suspicious, Your Grace, but he’s just told me he’s a squire of the king’s chamber.’

‘He is indeed, and has recommended you to Her Grace, Princess Joan.’

‘So he said.’

‘You doubt him? Don’t be a stubborn fool, Archer. Now come, pour me more honeyed water.’

Owen did so, and helped Thoresby sit up more comfortably. It was painful to see how the archbishop’s hands shook. He stank of sweat and had sour breath, this man who would bathe daily had he not considered such luxury sinful. His illness seemed to Owen a terrible indignity.

Once Thoresby was settled in relative comfort, Owen took a chair near the bed.

‘In any case,’ said Thoresby, ‘I doubt that either Princess Joan or Sir Lewis would have agreed to Chaucer’s presence in the party if they did not feel certain of his loyalties. In fact, he and Lewis Clifford are fast friends.’

That was an interesting titbit. ‘And yet someone has murdered a servant and now-’

‘Tell me.’

‘There has been another death,’ said Owen. ‘Dom Lambert.’

‘In God’s name,’ Thoresby whispered. ‘The timid emissary? No wonder you are so ill at ease. How?’

Owen briefly described how they had found Lambert in the woods. He regretted how Thoresby’s eyes seemed to sink deeper into his almost cadaverous skull as he listened.

‘What monster came on the heels of Wykeham’s emissary?’ Thoresby sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, raising a hand to keep Owen at his bedside. ‘The princess is safely back in the palace?’ he asked.

‘She is, Your Grace,’ said Ravenser from the doorway, ‘and her women and the knights.’

‘I am grateful for that,’ said Thoresby.

‘Your head is better?’ Owen asked, as Ravenser entered, bringing up a chair to join them.

‘I could not sleep — but your wife’s powder has eased it enough that I can bear it in here where it is not so bright.’

‘I heard you say that Michaelo might be in danger, Archer. Where is he?’ asked Thoresby. ‘Is he involved in Lambert’s death?’

Owen and Ravenser exchanged a look.

‘Your Grace, I found him lying beneath Lambert, in a faint,’ said Owen.

‘There is talk about Lambert and Michaelo,’ said Ravenser.

‘That old curse come back to destroy our peace? Damn the man. How dare he succumb?’ Thoresby coloured and began to cough.

Ravenser helped him to some more of his drink. As Thoresby settled back on the pillows, his nephew shook his head.

‘How could Lambert and Michaelo move past all the guards? And a murderer?’

‘It would have taken more than one person to hang him, I think,’ said Owen. He told them what Michaelo had seen.

‘One of Her Grace’s women.’ Ravenser rubbed his temple. ‘If it involves her company, that makes it all the worse, all the more dangerous.’

‘I agree,’ said Owen. ‘I have a man questioning all the guards. Perhaps someone did not realise what they were witnessing.’

‘Where do their loyalties lie, my guards, now that I am dying?’ Thoresby paused, taking a shuddering breath. ‘I told Richard, when the princess’s party arrived, that the vigil of spies had begun, but I would imagine some in the guard compromised their honour months ago.’

Owen felt a chill. He’d reassured himself that he had chosen all of his men with care, and those he had not chosen had been hand-picked by Alfred. But, he had not sat down with each one and sounded them out as to how they felt about their service with the archbishop coming to a close. Though Thoresby was the most powerful representative of the Church they would ever encounter, Owen imagined the guardsmen’s devotion to him had far more to do with livelihood and protection than with religious awe. He’d not thought to speak to each individual about that.

‘I pray you are wrong in your suspicion, Your Grace, but I will not depend on that.’ Would talking to each one have made a difference, Owen wondered.

‘What of Michaelo?’ Ravenser asked. ‘If he is not guilty, did he witness a murder? Is he in danger?’

‘I’m worried about that as well,’ said Owen. ‘If it please Your Grace, when we are finished here, I thought to bring him here, to move his cot in here with you.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘I took him as a penance, and I will honour that as long as I may.’

‘I have told Geoffrey and Jehannes that I do not believe Michaelo murdered Lambert, but I think it is to our advantage to behave as if we’re uneasy about him. Michaelo has agreed — though he refuses to quit his duties.’

‘Stubborn man. But how have you already decided his innocence?’ asked Thoresby.

‘By a painful lump on the back of his head. He was meant to be found.’ Owen explained to them the timing, and then rose. ‘I’ve much to do.’ He wanted to find Dame Clarice.

‘I do not envy you your responsibility,’ said Ravenser, searching Owen’s eyes, plainly aware of his discomfort. ‘I imagine you will have John Holand’s temper to deal with — he seems the sort to express his fear with temper tantrums.’

‘I’ve dealt with his sort before,’ said Owen.

‘God go with you, Archer,’ said Thoresby, blessing him. ‘You could not protect me from this vigil. When the ambitious sense the imminent death of someone in power, they cannot stay away. Even had the Princess of Wales not come, we would have had spies all about us. I would trust no one to keep the peace at Bishopthorpe as I trust you.’

‘Your Grace.’ Owen bowed, and felt the weight of the archbishop’s trust on his shoulders. He prayed that he was worthy; he feared that he was not.

Of Ravenser, Owen asked, ‘Would you be willing to stay here until Brother Michaelo comes?’

Ravenser nodded. ‘I will gladly sit with His Grace.’

Owen was grateful for the easy escape. Thoresby’s comments about his guard had brought on a cold sweat. It had been years since he’d felt so unsure of himself, so overwhelmed. Of course his guards might be making arrangements for their lives after Thoresby’s death. The next archbishop would have his own loyal servants. He might not even choose to live so near York as Thoresby had.

Once outside the archbishop’s chamber, Owen paused to tell Jehannes and Michaelo that Thoresby agreed that his secretary should share his chamber, and then he headed for the chapel in the hope that Dame Clarice would be there doing penance and that he might ask her whether she’d removed anything from the book. She would no doubt refuse to answer, but, in her manner, he might glean the truth. As he walked, he managed to calm himself with the thought that Alfred was ever alert to grumblings among the men. But he’d no sooner calmed a little than a very unwelcome question occurred to him — what of Alfred’s loyalty? After Owen, Alfred was the one who would lose the most prestige, the most comfortable wage. He had spoken often of late of a young widow in York. How would he provide for her? Owen had been a fool to not have considered this. Yet surely he was better off with the men who had served with him all these years rather than a new, untried group with even less cause to be loyal. He’d often trusted Alfred or Gilbert to escort Lucie or guard his home and they’d never betrayed his trust. Lucie. Owen wished she were here. He needed her calm head to help him think this through.

As he stepped into the chapel, he felt a chill, a sense of time having collapsed, or of waking to discover the past day had been a dream and he was standing in this door as he had the previous day. Prostrate before the altar lay — no, this was a woman, not the ghost of Lambert. Unfortunately, it was not Dame Clarice, for this penitent wore expensive silks. Her veil covered her head so completely that he could not be certain, but it must be one of Princess Joan’s ladies.

‘Lady Eleanor has lain so for hours.’

Owen had not noticed Geoffrey sitting near the door, cross-legged on the floor, as if taking his ease.

‘I’ve checked on her several times,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Earlier she was on her knees before the altar, folded over as if crumpled in pain, weeping so piteously I did not like to disturb her. I withdrew before she was aware of me, and I spun out some time walking in the garden before returning, and yet, when I did return, she had still not moved. Her sobs were as deep and wrenching as they had been earlier. At least now she is quiet. Perhaps she has exhausted herself.’

‘Why do you suppose she is here?’

‘Perhaps she is frightened by the two deaths in her travelling party?’ Geoffrey rose. ‘But you must come with me to the garden. Dame Clarice is there. With Princess Joan.’

Would she show Joan the stolen letter? Owen rejected that suspicion as soon as he thought it. That she was with the princess alleviated some of his sense of urgency, for she was as safe as he could possibly make her in Joan’s company. But he still needed to question the nun, and then to talk to Alfred, to ask Lady Sybilla about the brooch — the list seemed endless and uppermost in his mind was the need to stop the deaths now. He sensed a great wound in the community here in the palace with blood flowing unhindered. He must staunch that flow.

Yet here was a woman who might be she whom Michaelo had seen last night. He wanted to at least see her face. ‘First let us see whether Lady Eleanor needs assistance,’ he said. He crouched beside her, and, although the crackling of his knees and ankles sounded to him like explosions in this quiet room, she remained motionless, as if unaware of his presence.

Owen softly called her name. When she still did not respond, he placed the flat of his hand on her back to feel for heartbeat and breath. Now she stirred with a strangled sob.

‘Are you unwell?’ Owen asked.

With a shimmering swirl of silks, Eleanor rose to her knees and sat back on her heels, smoothing her veil, then her gown, all with her eyes downcast — but Owen had already glimpsed red-rimmed eyelids, bloodshot eyes. ‘I have been praying for Dom Lambert. And his servant,’ she said, in a tight, slightly quavering voice.

‘You have heard about our discovery in the woods?’ Or had a part in it?

‘God help us, yes, I have heard.’ Lady Eleanor crossed herself. ‘It is not my way to be so weak, so easily frightened. But that two have died, one in such a terrible fashion, in the midst of this sorrowful vigil — I can think of little else.’ She shook her head as she pressed her fingertips to her swollen eyelids. ‘God bless you for your concern.’ She did not glance back at Geoffrey, but said, ‘I don’t like how he watches me.’

‘I will take him away, my lady,’ said Owen. ‘Can I do anything more for you?’

She shook her head.

Something stopped him from questioning her further, a sense that if she were the guilty party it was best she not know how much he already knew. Or thought he knew. He felt as if he were juggling feathers in a windstorm.

‘I’ll leave you to your prayers,’ he said, rising.

Geoffrey glanced back as they stepped out of the chapel. ‘Of the two ladies, I find her the most disturbing.’ And then he suddenly grinned impishly. ‘I hope I am the first to tell you that a villager has come with a horse he found grazing in his field. Dom Lambert’s horse.’ He looked pleased at Owen’s surprise. ‘You see? I am of use to you. But first come to the garden. The villager is already gone, so you’ve no need to rush to the stable.’

But they came upon Alfred, who had been watching the doorway. ‘Captain, I’ve news.’

‘If it’s about the horse, I’ve already told him,’ said Geoffrey.

When Owen and Alfred both glared at him, he backed away. ‘I’ll be just outside in the yard. Don’t be long.’

‘He’s told you? About Dom Lambert’s horse?’

‘He has.’ Owen did not bother to hide his irritation.

‘You’re not relieved? You’re not thinking that there is no murderer, that we need not worry?’

‘I’m thinking we might have a very clever murderer who is playing this like a chess game, moving his pieces with great care.’

Alfred was nodding. ‘My thoughts as well. The man — Sam is his name — said he knew it was too fine a horse to belong in the village fields, and he’d heard of the great company that had arrived the other day, so he brought it here.’

‘What did you think of this Sam?’

‘Something in the way he spoke was too assured, as if he’d practised his lines.’

‘And you let him go?’

‘What could I do? He’d returned the property that was not his and everyone seemed to believe his story. If I’d questioned him too closely-’

Owen patted his shoulder. ‘Good. I’ll go to the village to talk to him.’

‘There’s more. Gilbert brought me a fool who had not thought it of any importance that he’d seen Lambert and Michaelo leave the stable with a horse last night.’

A witness at last. ‘Lambert and Michaelo?’

‘So Matt claims.’ Alfred shrugged and shook his head, a slow, weary gesture.

‘Matt?’ Owen had almost sent Matt off many times for falling asleep on a watch or exaggerating reports. ‘You don’t believe him.’

‘I rarely do, and I don’t believe that, with so many men watching, only Matt saw Lambert and Michaelo.’

And Michaelo had seen Lambert with a woman, a woman dressed in the finery of the princess’s ladies. Owen nodded. ‘So we’ve no witnesses yet.’

Alfred grunted. ‘I’m grateful to see we agree, Captain. I wondered whether I was just looking for trouble, wanting it for some queer reason.’ He ran a hand through phantom hair. ‘But what is happening here, Captain? Who is this clever murderer? Where the bloody hell were our men?’ He spat and returned to the tired shaking of his head.

‘It’s possible that someone has offered them money or positions elsewhere. They know that the archbishop is dying, and that the new one will choose his own men.’

‘I hate to think that they are so easily bought.’

‘I feel the same.’

Alfred cursed. ‘It does makes sense. How could we be so blind?’ Again, Alfred raked his scalp. ‘I thought I knew them, all of them. Now I feel I’ve been a fool to think so. I should have taken care to pair one who has served under us for a long while with one of the newer men. Why did I think a few months was long enough to test loyalty?’

‘It’s not your fault, it’s the change — the death of an archbishop is no small event. Maybe it’s worse than that — our king is old, Prince Edward is very ill, and his own son is but a lad. The prospect of a child king brings out the predators. Everyone is choosing sides, hoping to be in the new regime.’ Owen stopped, realising that he was saying aloud what he had tried not to think about.

Alfred looked defeated, his eyes frightened. ‘What are we to do?’

Owen wished he believed he had an answer to that, but Alfred need not know the depth of his unease. He thought it best to calm his second in command.

‘None of this might have mattered had His Grace refused to extend his hospitality to the princess. We could not have foreseen such a visitation, such temptation for the men. We must have faith that no one wants guards who cannot be trusted. My hope is that the men have agreed to be silent, nothing more.’

Alfred did not look comforted. ‘But they might be concealing murderers.’

‘They may choose not to think about that. A man will accept much in order to provide for his family.’

‘Traitors.’ Alfred spat into the hay.

‘Loyalties are never so simple as we would like them to be, Alfred. What if you were already wed to your pretty widow? What if you had a child to feed?’

Owen could read in the slump of his friend’s shoulders that he understood the point.

‘So what do we do?’ Alfred asked.

‘Round up the men who were on the night watch. Gilbert must have been too gentle. I’ll talk to them.’

‘They’re sleeping.’

‘They don’t deserve to.’

Alfred bobbed his head and departed.

Geoffrey waited without, and hurried Owen along to the garden. Beneath a linden tree sat the princess and the nun in tense, albeit whispered, discussion. Dame Clarice was weeping. She looked pale and pinched — frightened. The princess gave her a little shake, imperiously angry.

Owen and Geoffrey withdrew to a quiet corner beneath the eaves.

‘What do you make of that?’ Geoffrey asked, as if he’d just shown Owen something delicious.

‘I had not realised that Dame Clarice and the Princess of Wales were acquainted,’ said Owen, ‘but that did not look like a conversation between strangers.’ It might explain why Master Walter was simply told she was to assist him.

‘Nor had I. I’d not seen them together.’

Owen sank down onto a bench. ‘I feel as if my mind is under siege.’

Geoffrey sat down beside him. ‘Dame Clarice had helped herself from a chest in the archbishop’s chamber. Is it possible that she was sent there by Princess Joan to look about, and, having been discovered by you, is now being lectured on the fine art of being clever enough not to be caught?’

‘A tidy summation,’ Owen said. ‘It might even be true.’ Though, surely a love letter was of no interest to the princess? He thought about Lady Sybilla and the brooch, Lady Eleanor weeping in the chapel, and Dame Clarice reading Thoresby’s book and possibly stealing the letter. The other sister had yet to misbehave. ‘But would Princess Joan have kept this from you, Geoffrey?’

In his companion’s eyes, Owen saw the absurdity of his question. ‘I cannot expect her to consult with me on everything, Owen. I doubt even her ladies know all. Certainly, my wife did not know all that was on Queen Philippa’s mind.’

Her ladies. ‘I forget that your wife was one of the ladies of Queen Philippa’s chamber,’ said Owen. That might prove helpful, though, at the moment, he could not think how. It might help to know how a woman like Joan chose her ladies. ‘For all her delight in hawking, it is strange that Princess Joan chose two ladies who do not share her passion.’

‘Two?’ Geoffrey looked at him askance. ‘You are misinformed. Lady Eleanor keeps several hawks. She is often teased about her passion for those beautiful creatures and the delicate hoods she has made and decorated for them. But Lady Sybilla, now she cares nothing for the birds. You would enjoy hunting with her — I’ve never seen a woman as skilled with the bow as she.’

Sybilla’s worth rose several notches in Owen’s mind. ‘I would not have guessed that of her. But, now you mention it, she does have an admirable posture.’

Geoffrey cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘I thought you would find that enticing.’

But what he’d said of Eleanor disturbed Owen, begging the question of Lewis’s motive in telling him something so easily revealed to be untrue. ‘This is puzzling — Sir Lewis said that Eleanor does not hunt.’

‘He did?’ Geoffrey snorted. ‘A peculiar deception. He most certainly knows of her hawks. Perhaps he thought one question might lead to another and you would discover he’s bedded her. Though, why he would want to deceive you in that or in anything, I cannot imagine.’ He looked troubled.

‘Lewis and Eleanor?’

That brightened Geoffrey. He chuckled. ‘Oh yes. The heat had built for quite some time. I am almost relieved that they finally coupled and cooled the air about them.’ He glanced in the direction of the chapel. ‘I did wonder whether her tears were over her sin. Or perhaps that the passion is spent.’

‘I suppose that explains some of it.’ Owen rubbed the scar beneath his eye patch. ‘What matters to me is that Lewis lied. I’d hoped I might trust him. I don’t know in whom I can place any trust now.’

Geoffrey had grown solemn. ‘That is the crux of the problem, I agree. I thought Dom Lambert seemed trustworthy. But, of this I can assure you — Lewis Clifford is an honourable man. I can vouch for him. And where the princess’s safety is concerned, I am certain you may still trust her son John as well.’

Owen noticed the qualification regarding John — where his mother was concerned. ‘What of her ladies?’

Geoffrey sagged a little. ‘I am certain she chose them with care, but to what purpose I would not pretend to know. Binding their families to the young heir to the throne? Queen Philippa chose some of her ladies for reasons other than her fondness for them.’

‘I wish I knew more about Dom Lambert. Did he comport himself as a priest?’

‘If you are asking whether he lived chastely, I daresay he did not. Women were drawn to him, and he did not demur.’

‘Women in your travelling party?’

‘That is the only experience I’d had of him. I must tell you, in all honesty, that I saw nothing to suggest that he lay with anyone on the journey, but there was much flirtation, and, again, there are Lady Eleanor’s tears to make me wonder. Perhaps she thought that if only she had bedded Lambert last night … No. I am creating tales without substance.’

Had Michaelo seen Lambert with Eleanor, Owen wondered. ‘What of men? Lambert and other men?’

Geoffrey turned on the bench. ‘Brother Michaelo.’ He nodded. ‘It is unfortunate. I must point out to you that all eyes had been on Dom Lambert, so almost everyone knows that he spent some time in Brother Michaelo’s bed — for there’s little else in that enclosure — last night. If either you or Brother Michaelo think it is a secret, you are mistaken.’

‘Christ have mercy.’ Owen leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘But wait — that is all to the best. With Michaelo now the subject of gossip, they’ll jump to conclusions.’

‘It might be best to keep him out of sight, eh?’

Owen shook his head. ‘He refuses. With the palace filled with important guests, the household staff needed his guidance.’

‘Lewis and John will not like that.’

Owen cursed.

Geoffrey leaned close, asking in an earnest tone, ‘How might I help you, Owen?’

He considered Geoffrey, wondering whether he should tell him of Marguerite’s letter to Thoresby. But it did not seem necessary, for Geoffrey would surely tell Owen if he heard of something so unusual. ‘Listen to the gossip. Watch especially Dame Clarice and the ladies Sybilla and Eleanor. If you hear anything you think I should know of, come to me. Time is our enemy.’ Straightening, Owen felt the tension in his back. ‘I must leave you now. I face the unpleasant task of letting my men know that I suspect some of them of protecting those behind Lambert’s death.’ In the silence after his words, a sorrow welled up in Owen’s heart and he bowed his head. He had faced and accepted that Thoresby’s death would cause a great upheaval for him, but he had not been prepared for this possible betrayal — of him and Thoresby. It was as awful as if the pall bearers had dropped the casket and abandoned the archbishop. As awful and as infuriating.

Geoffrey watched him with concern. ‘I see that it is a bitter thing, to suspect your men of treason. May God be your strength and your guide in this.’

Though grateful for the sentiment, Owen was rendered speechless by the anger that had closed his throat, and he merely nodded to Geoffrey and departed.

A crowd had gathered around the great doors of the stable. Gilbert broke away from the crowd and moved towards Owen scowling, though he smoothed his expression as he caught his captain’s eye. Gilbert was a squarely built, sturdy man.

‘Captain, I’ve already talked to the men. As you commanded.’ There was an angry edge to his voice.

Owen almost growled at him. ‘And the only one to speak to you was Matt. It’s a game with him, and he’s played it too often for me to believe him.’

Gilbert frowned. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t. But now you do. Has Alfred gathered the others who guarded last night?’

‘In the stables.’

‘Good. Take care of this crowd. Send them off to their duties.’

Inside the stable a bleary-eyed, cranky group awaited him, some sitting on the hay, others lounging against the walls. Owen decided to launch right into his purpose in meeting with them and then depart for the villager’s house. They could come to him on their own, with as much stealth as they desired, once he’d returned.

‘I won’t keep you from your rest for long, men. Look round you. There are twenty of you, and more than half of you have much experience in this household. I trusted you to do your duty. Yet, right in front of your eyes, at least two men left the palace and went into the woods last night — one of them came here and saddled a horse-’ He interrupted himself to ask Alfred, ‘It was saddled?’ With Alfred’s nod, Owen resumed. ‘And apparently not one of you witnessed anything of any significance. You don’t look refreshed, but you don’t look as if you’re recovering from stupors caused by strong sleeping potions in your ale. I want to hear of anyone you noticed moving about. Anyone. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s important.’ He held up his hands as Matt and another man would speak. ‘I don’t want you to say anything to me now. Come to me on your own. But let me say this — I thought all of you had wit enough to realise the importance of your mission. Your lord, the second highest churchman in the realm, has entrusted you to guard the wife of Edward, Lord of the Aquitaine and Prince of Wales, and your next king. I expect you to guard his lady with your lives. If someone has promised you a post in their guard as a reward for betraying your duty here, you have been most cruelly used, for they’ve taken you for the fools you must be. They would hardly hire someone they knew could be so easily coaxed to betray them in turn. I’ll leave you with that cold truth.’

Turning to Alfred, Owen ordered his horse saddled and then strode out of the stables before the fire in the pit of his stomach inspired him to beat someone senseless. In the yard, he found Archdeacon Jehannes talking to Gilbert. The crowd had dispersed.

‘How is Brother Michaelo?’ Owen asked.

‘Sleeping. Master Walter gave him something to help him rest, concerned that he’d been weakened by his night in the woods. Sir Richard has remained with His Grace until Michaelo wakes.’

‘Would you care to ride with me to the village?’

Jehannes smiled. ‘I would welcome a ride.’

Owen ordered Gilbert to have a horse saddled for Jehannes. He thought the villager might feel more comfortable with the gentle, sweet-faced archdeacon. From years of experience, Owen knew that some people never relaxed in the presence of his scarred, soldierly appearance — neither were all comfortable with his height or his Welsh accent.

As Jehannes stood with Owen outside the stables, waiting for the grooms to bring out their horses, he expressed his relief to be escaping the tensions of the crowded palace for a little while.

Owen laughed. ‘I expect quite some tension at the villager’s house.’

‘But of a different kind. I am curious — why are we riding? We might walk and be there and back again before vespers.’

‘To impress the family,’ said Owen, ‘and to allow us to hurry back if we’ve learned anything. Nor do I wish to be long away.’

Jehannes said nothing for a little while. ‘Forgive me if you do not wish to speak of it, but I sense great anger in you — you looked as though you could make thunder when you strode from the stables, and you were so curt with Gilbert.’

Owen could hardly have expected that his fury would not be noticed, yet he was sorry Jehannes had seen him so. ‘I’ll not attack you.’

Jehannes laughed. ‘I did not think you would. But perhaps you’ll confide in me as we ride?’

‘Gladly. I could use a good dose of your calm wisdom.’

Indeed, as Owen slowly rode from the palace, he was already calming. The feel of warm sun on his back eased his spirits, and the pleasant, almost crisp breeze was a subtle sign that autumn was adding its breath to the summer breezes and starting to cool them. He could imagine Gwenllian and Hugh introducing the baby Emma to her first snowball. It was good to think of how happy his household was, with the new baby and Lucie so strong and back to her clear-witted self again.

‘It is good to see you smile,’ said Jehannes, tearing Owen from his reverie. ‘I find it a pity that the household is so glum, for His Grace is quite happy. He’s made his peace with God and he is ready to be relieved of his fleshly body.’

‘I’m paid to be suspicious, not happy,’ Owen reminded him.

He wondered whether Thoresby would be aware of autumn this year, or if he would be trapped now in his great bed until God called him. He remembered the times he’d come upon the archbishop in one of his gardens, sitting on sun-baked stones enjoying the quiet hum of insects. He wondered whether, when struggling for his next breath, Thoresby ever wished that it might be redolent with the perfume of flowers.

‘There is a woman in the princess’s party who keenly watches you, have you noticed? The Lady Eleanor?’

‘She watches me?’

Jehannes read something more than indifference in Owen’s voice or on his face, for he said, ‘You are not strangers?’

‘I’d not seen her since I left the old duke’s service. I trust she’s praying that I say nothing of having bedded her many years ago.’

‘Oh!’

‘Once. I think only once.’

Jehannes sighed. ‘I would remember every breath in the embrace of such a lady.’

‘I am not proud of my former ways. Her presence has not been easy on my conscience.’

‘I’ll say no more about this.’

Owen nodded. But he was glad Jehannes had spoken. He’d not noticed that Eleanor watched him. He changed the subject.

‘The nun Clarice may have stolen a letter from His Grace, one from Marguerite,’ said Owen. ‘I wish I knew why.’

‘Why, in heaven’s name, did he keep such a thing?’ Jehannes asked the sky. ‘Why did Michaelo befriend the handsome Dom Lambert? Their weaknesses are their undoing. Perhaps this is the meaning of original sin. We each have a flaw that will destroy us if we relax our vigilance.’

‘I do not like to think God was so cynical in our creation,’ said Owen.

‘Is the nun’s theft the cause of your anger?’ Jehannes asked.

‘No.’ Owen moved his horse a little closer to Jehannes. ‘I think that some of the guards may have betrayed His Grace’s trust. And mine.’ He confessed his fears.

‘May God lead them to confess,’ said Jehannes, when Owen grew quiet.

‘Aye.’ Owen spent the rest of the ride telling Jehannes of his purpose in visiting Sam.

At Sam’s house, they learned from his wife that he was out in the fields. While one of the girls was sent out to fetch him, the goodwife invited them to sit on a bench in the kitchen garden and she would bring them some ale. The house was simple wattle and daub, a longhouse shared with the livestock, with one small, shuttered window opened to the lovely day. No doubt the goodwife thought it too crude and dark for the likes of them. And yet, Owen had been in her shoes in his youth and knew that keeping the lord’s men outside was also a safeguard against their noticing poached meat hanging from the rafters or other items out of place. If Sam had been paid for his part in the concealment of Lambert’s murder, Owen might find some evidence of new wealth in the house. He listened closely, and soon heard a clatter that allowed him to rush in, asking whether there was anything he could do to help.

The poor woman was on a stool trying to tuck a hefty sack of grain into the corner above a beam and a small tear was leaking corn as she pushed. A girl a little older than his own Gwenllian, perhaps nine years old, held a very full pitcher of ale and watched her mother with uncertainty — should she serve the guests or help her mother?

Owen was beneath the goodwife in one stride, tall enough to finish the task for her, tucking the hole upright.

The light in the house was too dim and smoky to allow him to see subtlety in her expression, but, by her quavering ‘God bless’, it seemed clear to him that she knew that he knew what he’d seen.

‘Mary, take the ale out to Dom Jehannes,’ said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron and then reaching for two bowls.

A baby slept in a cradle by the fire. And over the fire hung a fine new pot — no charring or dents. A fine piece of ironwork.

‘Forgive me, I do not know your name,’ said Owen.

‘Janet,’ said the woman, tugging on her wimple to straighten it.

‘Dame Janet, I am here because of the death of the man whose horse your husband returned to Bishopthorpe yesterday.’

‘Death?’ Janet breathed, lifting a calloused hand to her throat.

‘Hanged in the archbishop’s woods,’ he added.

She quickly lowered her hand. ‘So that is why his horse was wandering. Poor man.’

‘He was a man of the Church.’

‘A priest? Like the one without?’

‘Not so high in the Church as my companion, the Archdeacon of York, but a cleric,’ said Owen. ‘The dead man had been entrusted by the Bishop of Winchester to carry important documents to the archbishop. I very much fear that he was murdered, Dame Janet. That is why we wish to speak with your husband.’

‘God have mercy on his soul,’ she whispered. ‘You think my Sam killed him?’

‘I did not say that. He may have seen or heard something that will help us catch the murderer.’ She’d be of no help if she felt she needed to protect her husband. Owen made a show of looking around the longhouse with a half smile. ‘I grew up in a house much like this.’

‘You?’ Though she looked him up and down and shook her head, she seemed more at ease.

He nodded and smiled down at her. ‘In Wales. I am a long way from home. Now I live in the city — in York, with my wife, the apothecary. Our home is much different from this.’

‘Dame Lucie mixed a salve that saved my Sam’s arm when he was badly scalded,’ Janet said.

Mary stuck her head in the door. ‘Ma, are you bringing the bowls?’

With a nervous laugh, Janet hurried past him, then paused in the doorway to urge him to join Jehannes in the garden for some ale.

Owen joined her, but stayed in the doorway. ‘You’ve come into some wealth of late, Goodwife. I pray it had nothing to do with the dead man’s horse.’ Though, how they might have spent it so soon … ‘I hope that someone did not come to your Sam a while back, promising more if he would assist in whatever way was necessary?’

The woman reddened, but said nothing.

‘I am racing against time. I promise you that if you help me I will punish neither your husband nor your family. You have my word.’

She bowed her head and crossed herself. ‘He did it for our souls, Captain Archer. They told him that the new Archbishop of York would grant us indulgences for his help, that it was God’s work. But, if they killed the bishop’s man-How could we hope for God to honour such ill-begotten indulgences?’ Her eyes welled with tears. Indeed, she looked quite frightened. ‘We’ll be cursed instead!’

‘Did your husband mention any names?’

As Janet shook her head, the infant in the house began to cry.

‘Mary, see to little John. Go along.’

As Owen stepped aside to let the girl pass, he noticed a lad of about seven eyeing the horses from a careful distance. That was four children and two adults to feed so far, and he decided that he would not tell anyone about the grain he’d seen, or the pot. The indulgences were enough to report, and they would deprive no one of nourishment.

Beyond the horses, he now saw a man he presumed was Sam loping across the road. Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for the opportunity to coax the information out of Janet, for he could see, by the changing drama of anger, fear and calculation on his face as he approached, that Sam was cut from a very different cloth than his wife. He looked an opportunist. The Nevilles must have been delighted to find him.

‘Captain Archer, I did not think to see you here.’ He wiped grimy sweat from his brow with a sleeve and muttered to the girl who had fetched him to bring him a bowl of ale. He glanced at his wife’s face and his jaw tensed as she bowed her head and shrugged.

Now he returned his gaze to Owen, who took the opportunity to introduce Jehannes.

‘Archdeacon of York?’ Sam said.

‘I have come on a difficult mission,’ said Jehannes. ‘I fear that you may have mistakenly helped a murderer to escape punishment.’

‘What?’

Jehannes told Sam almost precisely what Owen had told Janet. The woman stood with tears of gratitude in her eyes as Jehannes added, ‘I fear that he or his helpers might have told you that they represented the future Archbishop of York, and that you might be rewarded with indulgences. It is their custom to make such false claims. Am I right?’

‘I-’ Sam turned to his wife in a fury. ‘What did you tell them?’

Janet backed from him and, hugging her arms to herself, began to weep.

‘Cursed woman,’ Sam spat.

Owen grabbed him by the shoulder and unceremoniously led him a little away from his family. ‘Don’t make me change my mind about revealing the source of your extra grain and new pot, you thankless cur. I thought to ease your family, seeing no harm in that. But, if you persist …’

‘A murderer, you said?’

‘And the victim an envoy of the Bishop of Winchester. Your greed has led you into a cursed trap and now you’ve sold your soul. There will be no indulgences won by you for this foul deed.’

‘But he said-’

‘He said what he knew would win you over. Who was he?’

Sam shrugged and spat to the side. ‘Curse you, all of you high-blooded bastards.’