Seventeen A Plot to Fool the Fox


Hempe stood by the gate to the apothecary garden. Owen led him through, Poole close behind. Though the storm had ceased, the surfaces were slick with the day’s rain. They gathered in the center of the garden where they were least likely to be overheard.

Even so, Owen spoke quietly. ‘You said yourself the men need more training.’

Hempe grunted.

‘Watching their tongues when at home or with their fellows is not drilled into them. We cannot risk them slipping.’

‘You’re right. I’m just weary to the bone and don’t see the end in sight.’

‘We’ll get him,’ said Poole. He sounded confident. ‘How do you plan to protect your house and the shop?’

‘We will speak of that tomorrow. The matter to hand is tonight. We have work to do. If you would give me a moment.’ Owen moved away from them to collect the strands of ideas that had come together in the tavern. Scudding clouds revealed the stars now and then. The rich scent of the rain-drenched garden refreshed his mind and spirit.

Sir Francis giving his men an evening in the tavern had revived memories of evenings with his own men when captain of archers. He tried to see Reynard, Bruin, and Madoc in the crowd. They had not often stayed with the rest, filling their tankards and disappearing. But he did recall the night after he had begun training Madoc. He was a good archer, but a clumsy fighter with a sword or fist, wildly attacking without thought, easily duped. Owen had landed him on his rear over and over again, calling out suggestions that the man at first seemed unable to grasp. Gradually he’d caught on, and Owen had congratulated him. He’d rewarded all the men for a grueling day of training with extra ale, inviting Madoc to sit with him, tell him about himself. He was curious about such a large man having developed so little skill in fighting. But Madoc sulked, making it plain that he felt Owen had singled him out for public humiliation in the practice yard. Though Owen took pains to say it was all part of training, that he was coming along quickly, the man looked not to him but his fellows to see how he was regarded. Owen himself had been new to the role of captain of archers. Perhaps he had been too harsh. In the end, Madoc had limped off that night with Bruin. Poole was right. Madoc would be the one after his family.

Thinking of Bruin reminded him of the gap in the account of the original attack – the moving and stripping of his corpse. Even had Reynard wished someone to find the body, he could not imagine a reason for him to strip his friend and leave him unburied, unless they’d had such a falling out that it extended beyond death.

Someone else moved him from a protected spot and stripped Bruin? Had Reynard intended to return but did not want to risk it once the sheriff’s men found the body? Was it important?

Returning to his friends, he shared what was on his mind. They put their heads together and devised a plan.

As Poole and Hempe dispersed to prepare for their parts, Owen sensed Lucie’s approach. He drew her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. ‘Everyone sleeping?’

‘Even Jasper. Magda is sitting with Rhys. How was your meeting at the York?’

‘Helpful. Perhaps.’ He told her about it, and his memory of Madoc. ‘I was inexperienced and made many mistakes.’

‘Is that why you are out here pacing?’

‘That. And wondering who stripped and moved Bruin’s body. I can’t see why Reynard would have exposed his corpse.’

Lucie did not respond at once, but considered it. He loved that about her. Never the quick response.

‘Not the behavior of a friend. Perhaps Reynard callously used him all along and there never was a bond between them.’

His turn to pause and consider. ‘I believe there was friendship. I noticed it because it was not what I had expected of Reynard. But that was long ago. What if I’m wrong about all of it?’

‘Do you doubt that the one called Raymond is Reynard?’

‘No.’

‘Or that Laurence Gunnell is afraid of something?’

‘No.’

‘I have all confidence in you. And I hope … When Wykeham departs, might Reynard and Madoc follow?’

‘I need to make certain of that. It is time to distract and confuse the fox.’

‘Tonight?’

He heard her sigh and held her tighter, kissing her, whispering that he would do his best to put an end to this soon.


In the archdeacon’s hall, Jehannes and Wykeham were sitting by the fire, drinking wine and quietly talking when Owen joined them.

Jehannes glanced toward the door, his usually smooth brow creased with worry. ‘I hoped Brother Michaelo might be with you. He is never so late returning from his rounds.’

‘He awaits me at the castle,’ said Owen.

‘I have caused more trouble,’ said Wykeham.

‘Brother Michaelo’s presence at the castle is part of my plan to alleviate that concern, Your Grace. If I might explain.’ Owen took the cup of wine Perkin offered him and settled down to describe what he had set in motion. Wykeham’s initial resistance, indeed outrage, was expected, as was Jehannes’s attempt to find a compromise. But as Owen pointed out the shortfalls of each suggestion, the bishop abruptly declared himself satisfied with the original proposal. Relieved, Owen bowed to him.

‘I swear to you I will do everything in my power to protect you, Your Grace. Yet nothing is certain.’

‘God’s will be done.’ Wykeham nodded to Owen and Jehannes before withdrawing to instruct his servants and dress in the required disguise.

When Jehannes rose to assist, Owen drew him back to discuss plans for two mornings hence, when Wykeham’s party would depart for the priory and then south. He was answering Jehannes’s many questions and concerns when the bishop rejoined them wearing the habit that had been a gift to Michaelo from Prince Edward and Princess Joan. Owen was pleased to see that it fit, though Wykeham filled it out more than Michaelo did.

The bishop stroked a sleeve. ‘I did not expect silk. I doubt I wear it as well as the elegant monk.’ He frowned out the window. ‘Might I wear my own cloak?’

‘Once we are past the minster gate.’ Owen held up his hands at Wykeham’s protest. ‘The storm has passed. Remember, we will be hurrying along as I tell you of a prisoner ready to confess all he knows, and that I need you to record it all. You will be grumbling and fussing with this.’ He held out the large scrip in which Brother Michaelo carried his wax tablets and stylus. ‘Once out the gate, you can loudly complain of the cold and I’ll hand you the cloak.’

His Grace paused for a heartbeat, then plucked the scrip from Owen’s hands, hooking the long strap over his head, wearing it crossed over from shoulder to hip. Turning to Jehannes, he thanked him for his gracious hospitality.

‘It has been my honor and privilege,’ said Jehannes. ‘May God watch over you, Your Grace.’

‘Let us pray I am still in His favor.’ Wykeham nodded brusquely to Owen. ‘I am ready.’

Moving beneath the skimming clouds in the intermittent moonlight, Owen marveled at the zest with which the bishop played his role, softening his voice, taking on a good semblance of the tones of Michaelo’s native Normandy, fussing with the scrip and sniffing with irritation. He had studied the monk. Trusting to the impetus that had set him on this path, Owen hurried along, opening his senses, aware of eyes in the shadows watching, then slipping out to follow. Out on Petergate, the false Michaelo let go his scrip and gasped at the cold. Owen draped the cloak over his shoulders.

A figure in a doorway withdrew into the dark. Owen sensed a friend, one of his men. He trusted Hempe had chosen with care. Wykeham walked faster than Owen had expected. They hastened through the darkened streets, making good time to the castle.

At the sheriff’s chambers, a manservant answered Owen’s knock, bowing his head for the message, then closing the door to deliver it to Sir Ralph. From the room they heard the sheriff saying something as he approached the door. As he stepped out, ready to protest, the bishop pushed back his hood.

‘Sir Ralph,’ he said.

The sheriff puzzled over the man he had thought to be Brother Michaelo. ‘Do you never sleep, Archer? Who is this?’

‘Your Grace, may I present Sir Ralph Hastings,’ said Owen. ‘His Grace the Bishop of Winchester requires your hospitality.’

Sir Ralph caught his breath, then bowed deeply. ‘I pray you forgive me, Your Grace.’

‘No need.’ Wykeham smiled benevolently. ‘I am delighted to see your confusion. It is what we hoped for in my borrowing Brother Michaelo’s habit.’

‘His Grace will be your guest for a few nights,’ said Owen. ‘I regret I could not risk sending a messenger to prepare you.’

‘Of course, of course. I am most honored, Your Grace. Captain, if you would show His Grace to my bedchamber, I will say goodnight to my guests. My man will bring you some refreshment.’

‘You trust your man not to talk?’ Owen asked.

‘I will make it plain to him that he must be silent, on pain of death, Captain.’

Owen escorted Wykeham to the sheriff’s bedchamber, a spacious room already warmed with a fragrant fire. ‘I will have your own clothes delivered tomorrow,’ said Owen.

‘You will not stay to talk?’

‘I cannot, Your Grace. Brother Michaelo awaits me.’

‘I pray this ruse accomplishes what you intended. A few nights here, you say?’ Wykeham glanced round at the comfortably appointed chamber. ‘I believe I will survive it.’

‘I am grateful–’

Wykeham held up a hand to halt Owen’s thanks. ‘It is I who must thank you. I do not forget that. May God go with you.’

‘And with you, Your Grace.’


Michaelo rose from the lamplit corner where he’d sat with Dame Alys.

She hissed her disgust with the lateness of the hour.

‘I apologize for the delay,’ said Owen. ‘Matters took a turn. I have just now delivered someone to the castle.’

‘My son? Is it Laurence?’

‘No. Now I will leave you to your rest. Tomorrow we will talk. Do you have all you need?’

‘I need my freedom. My own bed,’ she snapped. But he could see her weariness in the droop of her shoulders.

‘In good time, Dame Alys.’ Owen bowed and departed.

In the corridor, Brother Michaelo hissed, ‘You took your time.’

‘I will explain. Come with me.’

Sir Ralph waited in the chamber in which he had received his guests, rising to peer closely at Michaelo. ‘This time it is you.’

Brother Michaelo lifted a brow. ‘This time?’

By the time they left the castle, Michaelo understood his part in the plan. He fussed with the scrip collected from the bishop – he had said nothing of the loan of his best habit, but Owen had noticed the slight wince. He would have Kate clean it with care. She was a wonder with cloth of all kinds.

‘You rushed me to the castle after dark for so little?’ Michaelo said, in character. ‘In future you might ensure that you do not injure a potential witness to the point they can barely speak.’

‘I am satisfied with the information,’ said Owen, in a loud whisper, as if he did not wish to be overheard.

Just beyond the castle precinct, someone behind Owen and Michaelo dislodged a stone and stumbled, heavy-footed. They glanced at each other without breaking stride. Once again Michaelo complained of the late hour and being caught up in the city’s business.

‘Perhaps you should have returned to St Mary’s Abbey,’ said Owen.

A sniff. ‘You forget. They would not have me. The fallen monk.’

‘Of course.’

They fell into silence, punctuated now and again by Michaelo’s complaints, parting at Owen’s door on Davygate.

‘Thank you, my friend. I will call on Jehannes tomorrow when I am finished at the castle.’

‘I will tell him.’ In a louder voice Michaelo said, ‘Pray you do not arrive too early.’ And walked off, muttering to himself.

At last Owen headed home for the night. In the kitchen the fire burned low, the house silent. As he poured himself a bowl of wine, he realized Lucie lay curled up on the settle by the fire, and bent to kiss her awake.

Blinking, she smiled and struggled to sit up as he settled beside her.

She leaned against him while coming fully awake. ‘I feel I slept hours.’

‘I did say I would be late.’

‘Success?’

‘I pray so.’

‘Is that it for the night? Will you come up to bed now?’

‘After I talk to Magda – she is still here?’ He’d come through the garden to the kitchen, not wanting to wake the three sleeping in the hall.

Lucie nodded. ‘I will sit with Rhys while you talk.’ She began to rise.

He drew her back down. ‘First we need to talk. I have a plan for protecting the apothecary and our home two mornings hence, when Wykeham’s party leaves for Clementhorpe. I count on you to tell me if it is feasible, and if you agree. And if you think Jasper will agree.’

‘It involves his participation?’

‘His and Alisoun’s.’

‘Oh.’ She looked at the fire, shaking her head but saying nothing.

‘What is it?’

‘Unfortunate timing. Alisoun made it plain to him this evening that they are no longer a couple. Jasper’s heart is broken. To work together will require them to rise above their discomfort.’

‘What was her mood?’

‘Quiet. Collected. She was the one breaking it off. She cares for him, it’s clear. But they do not want the same things. Magda says she is going up onto the moors as a traveling healer for a time.’

‘And she told him all this tonight?’

‘She did. What is it you need of them?’

‘To be my bowmen, one on the roof of our house, one on the shop. So not together.’

‘But they will depend on each other.’

‘Yes. Would you be opposed to my talking to Jasper about it? And Alisoun, if Magda approves?’

‘Of course not. But do not put too much hope in their cooperation. Not only because of their parting, but Jasper found his previous experience harrowing. And this would be in daylight. Exposed.’

‘There will be others, including a bowman on the roof of the tavern. But Jasper and Alisoun are two of the best archers in the city. And I believe it will be an archer – Madoc – who brings the trouble here.’

‘That is why you were thinking about how you might have failed him.’

‘Trying to understand him. Yes.’

She tilted her head once more, gazing at him. ‘Time passes. Some move on, some cannot stop reliving every slight. He and Reynard are the latter. And jealous of you for creating a new life, a good life.’ She curled her arm round his and kissed him. ‘I will send Magda to you. Stay by the fire, warming yourself before sleep.’

The healer gazed deep into Owen’s eye for several heartbeats. He held his breath.

‘Breathe, Bird-eye. Magda is thy friend, not thine inquisitor.’ She felt his wrist, his pulse. ‘Thou are primed for battle. But thou needst a calm, steady mind to prepare and to see what is before thee on the day. Much can change in the moment. Thou must see clearly what is happening round thee.’ She pressed her forehead to his.

Closing his eye and leaning toward her, he felt warmth spread from his head to his torso and limbs, his heartbeat steadying, slowing. When she sat back the feeling lingered.

‘Thank you.’

She patted his arm. ‘Now. What didst thou wish to ask of Magda?’

He told her his plan.

‘Ah.’ Magda sat quietly, her blue gaze unwavering.

The cat padded by and jumped up onto the bench beside Owen. Leaning against him, she began to groom.

‘If thou art certain this is how to catch the fox, Magda will tell Alisoun in the morning.’

‘You would advise me to find another way?’

‘This is for thee to decide. It is thy reckoning, not Magda’s. If Alisoun is able to help thee, she will. Magda will try to relieve her of other work on that day.’

‘Bless you.’

She reached out and touched his scarred cheek. ‘Magda will go to her at first light. And thou canst ask thy son in the morning. Now sleep. Thee and Lucie. Magda will stay in the hall, watching over all three who rest there.’

He poured himself another cup of wine, then thought to offer it to her.

She shook her head. ‘Take that with thee.’

In the hall he gathered Lucie and headed up to their bedchamber, where they talked softly, sharing the wine, until sleep took them.


Bent over the table set up before the fire in the hall, Jasper shared breakfast with Gwen and his parents, listening to his father’s proposal. He seemed to droop more with each word.

‘Why me? I failed you last time.’

So that was the cause of his despondence. ‘As a captain I am pleased with your performance on your first watch. More than pleased.’

Squinting at him, Jasper asked, ‘Are you adding Alisoun in case I fail again?’

‘No. I need at least one on each roof and hope to have one on the roof of the tavern. Who has impressed you lately at the butts in St George’s Field?’ Owen guided the men of the city in archery practice on Sunday afternoons, upholding an old royal order that would supply the king with sufficient experienced archers for war. Jasper assisted him.

‘Ned Cooper has come along well.’

‘Has he?’ Owen nodded. ‘That is good news, son. I can trust him to hear the plan beforehand and say nothing. Thank you. I will ask Hempe to talk to him.’

Jasper brightened. ‘I am glad I can help. I will not disappoint you, Da.’

‘What can I do?’ asked Gwen, who had been listening intently.

Owen smiled on her, thanking God that the attack had not hurt her spirit. ‘On that day, I would have you safe in the house.’

‘But Da–’

‘Today you might help out in the apothecary,’ said Lucie.

The disappointed frown turned to a cautious smile. ‘I can? You think me well enough?’

‘I believe you are.’ Lucie took her hand. ‘There is much to do and I could use a helper.’

‘But what about my lessons at the Ferribys’?’

‘Until this is past I don’t want you going so far,’ said Owen. Seeing her disappointment he went to her, crouching beside where she sat. ‘I am doing all I can to bring this to a close. If you are out and about, I will be distracted with worry. You do know how precious you are to me?’

Gwen flung her arms round him, kissing his scar. ‘I do, Da. I will be good.’

‘I propose that you spend time in the shop by my side on all days except the day the bishop departs,’ said Lucie.

Gwen beamed.

Owen prayed she could keep that promise.

They were dispersing to their day’s work when Brother Michaelo tapped on the garden window, motioning for Owen to join him.

‘I am taking this to the castle.’ He patted the leather scrip in which he usually carried his writing tools. ‘A change of clothing for His Grace. But first, a woman who sleeps in the minster yard came to me this morning. She told me that she and several others saw a light in the palace last night, after I had departed. Only for a little while, flickering, moving along from the great hall toward the chapel.’

‘Inside the palace?’

‘Yes. They would see it as it passed the embrasures.’

‘For a little while?’

‘Yes. I thought it important. They swear none of them would dare to break into the archbishop’s property. It is neglected, you know. Archbishop Neville should have men guarding it. The minster guards have their own responsibilities. They miss you.’

One of Owen’s responsibilities in the former archbishop’s household had been to ensure that both the palace in York and at Bishopthorpe were secure.

‘I will have someone search it,’ said Owen. ‘You will spend some time with His Grace?’

‘If he wishes. You are coming to speak with the widow Gunnell?’

‘In a little while. I will see you there?’

‘Of course.’

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