Morning dawned grey and chill, with intermittent squalls. Autumn settling in. Stepping through the space in the new foundation for an expanded workshop, Owen almost tripped over Rhys’s hammer and chisel. Kate had mentioned seeing the young man already at work out there when the lad from the York Tavern delivered a cask of ale first thing. Now he was nowhere to be seen. He tucked the tools in a dry spot.
Owen found him in the workroom, searching the shelves near the doorway into the shop. Recalling the dropped tools, Owen asked whether he had injured himself.
Startled, Rhys apologized for the intrusion.
‘Hardly an intrusion when you are working here and lodging with us.’
An uneasy smile. ‘You have all been so kind.’
‘Let me see your injury. I have tended many on the battlefield and among my men.’
Rhys touched the still raw scar running down the side of his face. ‘I thought to find some of the salve your daughter mentioned, that keeps your scar from pulling. I mean to pay.’
Owen guessed a random comment to be the likely source of the stonecutter’s unease. Gwen’s bluntness could sting. ‘I am glad she thought to suggest it, though I apologize for her candor.’ Reaching for the jar of ointment he kept by the garden door, he measured out a penny’s worth. ‘This should last a long while. You will depart today?’
‘I will walk round the garden wall to see whether I missed any places that need repair. If I finish in time, I plan to start out today. I am grateful for all you have done for me.’
Once the young man went out to the garden, Owen peered into the shop, curious who had been talking to Lucie all the while. She was handing a package to Gerald Trent. He noticed Owen.
‘Good day to you, Captain. The Merchets suggested I come here for …’ He colored. ‘It is a long while since I traveled so far.’ He thanked Lucie, bobbed his head at Owen, and limped out.
‘Saddle sores and blistered feet from walking in wet boots,’ said Lucie.
‘I could swear he had no limp yesterday.’
‘He certainly does now. Perhaps he had a difficult night and today feels it more.’
Quite possible. ‘Talkative.’
‘He began with much complaint, I countered with questions. I hoped to learn something in exchange for the tedium.’
‘And did you?’
‘He was keen to talk about Rhys’s work. It appears he’s watched him and finds him admirably careful. Commended his stonework.’
‘I hope he passed that on to Rhys.’ Perhaps the young man had overheard?
‘I suggested it, but as you saw he hurried off.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He seemed impressed by your connection to Prince Richard and Princess Joan, knew of our journey to see the late prince before he died. But he evaded my attempts to learn more.’
Why would that matter to a carter? And where had he heard of it? ‘That might be helpful.’ He glanced round. ‘Where is Jasper?’
‘The farewell feast for Simon.’
‘Ah. I’d forgotten. I’ve not seen him this morning. The argument in the garden with Alisoun … How did he seem after last night?’
‘He is worse than before if that’s what you’re wondering. Whatever she told him, he did not take it well.’
‘And now he’s spending the day with someone happily in love?’
‘An arranged marriage. The couple have met, but briefly.’
‘Is his friend happy about it?’
‘It’s Simon. What do you think?’
A young man with a gift for seeing the good in everything. ‘If only Jasper might learn his skill.’
‘I would not wish that for him,’ said Lucie. ‘Simon has lived a comfortable life, with a happy family, wealth, health. Jasper has that now, but before he came to us he experienced loss, and disappointments. He is aware that things can easily change. Simon is not.’
‘You’re right. Simon will expect his good fortune to continue. He’s unprepared for life. But our son’s present temper–’
Lucie touched Owen’s wrist as a customer entered the shop.
‘Captain Archer! What news of the murderer?’ the woman asked.
‘That is precisely what I must be away to discover.’ He bowed to her and exited by the shop door, lifting his hood as a shield as the sky opened.
In his chamber at the castle, Sir Ralph welcomed Owen and Brother Michaelo with bread and cheese, watered wine, and a roaring fire, the latter much appreciated after walking through intermittent squalls on the way. It pleased him that Michaelo would keep a record of the investigation, and he expressed his admiration for how quickly Owen had learned so much about the event. Indeed, they dispatched their business so quickly that Owen feared his clothes would still be damp when he rose from the comfort of the fireside chair.
But Sir Ralph poured more wine and settled back with his cup. ‘There is a new development. The men brought in a body found lying in a beck just beyond my property. Neck broken, and it looks as if he might have been stabbed. The animals had been at him, so it is difficult to tell. I hesitate to suggest, but do you think the carter should be brought here again to see if this is his other man?’
‘Thinning red hair, an archer’s body, calloused hands, about my age?’ Owen asked.
‘Ah. No. Younger than you, dark hair, plenty of it. Not him, then. Yet – though he’s mentioned only the two, wouldn’t he travel with a manservant?’
‘I think he would have mentioned him. But I will talk to him again. You are fairly certain it’s a stab wound?’
‘See for yourself. It looked so to me.’
Alfred awaited them outside the sheriff’s chamber.
‘Here to escort us to the body?’
‘It is not a pretty sight.’
They had it in a sheltered corner of the castle yard rather than indoors. That would not do for the night, but Owen appreciated the fresh air. Alfred pulled away the blanket to show them wounds on the chest that could indeed be stab wounds, since widened by whatever fed on the corpse. The condition of the neck was unmistakable. He asked Alfred about the search for bloody stones offloaded along the way. Or anything else too blood-soaked to risk being seen by the guard at Micklegate.
‘Nothing yet.’
This morning Bishop Wykeham’s garb still echoed the modesty with which he had made the journey north. Not merely the exigencies of travel, then. Michaelo had said the bishop maintained a solemn countenance and listened far more than he spoke. He greeted Owen with an untoward cordiality, but no smile.
‘Brother Michaelo is welcome to act as scribe today,’ Wykeham said as he led the way to Jehannes’s parlor.
Within, a table was set with wine, bread, cheese, apples, nuts. Two high-backed chairs flanked it, facing the garden window. A brazier warmed the room. A small table and stool for a scribe was placed to one side of the chair that Wykeham apparently remembered Owen would choose – always to the left so that his good eye was on the side facing the bishop.
‘You were confident I would call today,’ Owen said as he stood by his seat.
‘I pray you, sit when you please,’ said Wykeham. He nodded when Owen settled. ‘I did suppose that Dame Alice’s seal would catch your attention.’ The hint of a smile.
As Brother Michaelo set down his wax tablets, a servant moved out of the shadows to pour wine for all three, pass around the food. He then departed, closing the door behind him.
After commenting on the weather – ‘I had forgotten how early the rains come this far north’ – Wykeham settled back in his chair. ‘Dame Alice Perrers encourages me to trust you, Archer. She said you are owned by no man, not even the late prince. Or Thoresby.’
Owen digested that with the cheese, chased it down with wine. Fine wine. Jehannes was not a stingy man when it came to guests, even those he had not invited.
‘Is she right? Can I trust you?’ Wykeham’s gaze was locked on Owen’s good eye.
‘I hope I might be trusted to do the right thing,’ said Owen. ‘But one might not always agree with me about what that is.’
‘Cleverly cautious.’ Wykeham nodded to himself as he sipped his wine, his eyes wandering to the window. Several vicars hurried past, heads bent against a sudden downpour. ‘Dame Marian of St Clement’s Priory speaks highly of you.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘As you know, I come to York as a favor to the new abbess of Wherwell, Dame Cecily, who wishes Dame Marian to return and resume her training with Dame Eloise, the aging cantrice. Marian would become cantrice upon her teacher’s retirement, which is imminent. My ward has proved unequal to the position. But her training would be an asset to such a modest priory as St Clement’s.’
Owen knew all this. ‘Have you had word from Dame Marian?’
‘She has not yet declared her intent. But as St Clement’s is a poor community, I am confident that she will choose to return to the estimable Wherwell. I saw few signs of prosperity.’
‘Lord Neville’s wife would be disappointed to hear that. She has become a generous patron.’
‘Lady Maude?’ Wykeham considered that news as he set his cup aside. ‘I was unaware.’
‘This matter of the cantrice seems a small thing to bring you to York. Why not send representatives to see to it?’
Wykeham cleared his throat and studied his excessively clean hands. ‘Should Dame Marian return to Wherwell, I hoped you might commend me to her guardian, Sir Thomas Percy, and intercede on my behalf regarding another issue.’
Now they arrived at the true purpose. Yet Owen still did not understand. ‘Sir Thomas? I met him on the occasion of his niece’s coming to York, but I’ve had no communication with him since.’
‘You rescued his ward, kept her safe, introduced her to the prioress of St Clement’s.’
‘The latter was facilitated by Lady Maude. She was in residence there before the enthronement ceremony for Lord Neville’s brother.’
‘Of course. They are now the power here.’ He glanced at Michaelo, who had stopped scratching on the tablet. ‘You are discreet?’
‘I am enumerating only the information that will be of use to Captain Archer, Your Grace,’ said Michaelo.
‘Good.’ Wykeham returned to Owen. ‘You demur about your influence with Sir Thomas, but I have heard him praise you.’
‘Then you are in communication with him. So why–’
‘He is Lancaster’s man. As is Ergham, Bishop of Salisbury and Lancaster’s chancellor.’
‘I know nothing of Ergham.’
‘He is a close friend of Dame Cecily Lavington, the new Abbess of Wherwell.’
The circle closed. ‘Ah.’ Owen considered all the bishop had said – and not said – as he helped himself to more wine, settled in his chair. ‘You and the Duke of Lancaster have clashed again?’
‘Sadly, yes. Since the death of Prince Edward, as Lancaster has assumed the king’s duties while his father mourns, he has methodically undone the work of the recent Parliament. Rendering him unpopular with the citizens of London, the clergy, and the members of Parliament. In such a moment rumors fly. The particularly heinous one that has time and again been ascribed to me, of the duke being a changeling and no royal son, is resurrected.’
‘He still believes you to be the author of that slander?’
‘It is convenient for him to do so. One needs a scapegoat. As a wealthy member of the clergy, I am an excellent candidate. But I understand his anger. We – by that I mean the government in Westminster – failed him three years ago, when his army, battered by French assaults, with many dead or captured, arrived in Bordeaux to find the city in tatters. Famine and pestilence. His men starved. We did not know. And when at last we learned of his plight, his need for money and men, Parliament refused to help. Even when the king ordered them to send funds, nothing was done. Is it any wonder Lancaster returned furious with the Parliament?’
‘But why you as the scapegoat?’
‘Habit? In a strange way I have come to see it a fitting reprimand. My arrogance blinded me. I have tried to talk to him, but he refuses to speak with me.’
‘And so this penitential journey?’
‘A part of the reason, yes.’
‘Forgive me, but I cannot see what this has to do with Thomas Percy.’
‘He is one of Lancaster’s close advisers. The royal family is gathering next month to confer on the state of the realm. I have been warned that Lancaster will work to convince King Edward to humble me by stripping me of my temporalities in order to render me impotent outside of my spiritual duties.’ More softly Wykeham added, ‘And helpless against my enemies.’
A cruel spite. ‘How do you know this? Dame Alice?’
‘And a cleric I will not name. Both are in the confidence of the king, who grieves for his old friend, yet understands that his family walks a delicate path through parlous times, with a dying king whose heir is but a child. He dare not attempt to protect me in this moment. I did not read her letter, but I imagine Dame Alice expressed doubt that any actions might prevent what is coming.’
Such fear in his eyes. ‘Dame Alice led you astray in sending you to me. I have no influence with the Duke of Lancaster. I have met him, spoken with him, dined with him, but I am not in any sense part of his affinity. Nor would Prince Richard’s mother wish me to be.’
‘You think she would disapprove your interceding for me.’
‘More to the point, I have not the means to do so. I cannot think of any reason the duke or Sir Thomas would pay heed to such a request from me.’
Wykeham poured more wine, sat back, studying Owen. ‘I cannot decide whether you seek to deceive me or you are singularly unaware of your influence.’
The calculation in the bishop’s eyes gave Owen pause. ‘What influence?’
‘The parents of the heir to the throne personally chose you to protect their son. The Duke of Lancaster looked to his elder brother as a model prince, warrior, lord. His men know this, and know your position in Prince Richard’s household. You are respected.’
Owen moved to argue, but stopped, seeing some truth in the bishop’s words. The respect might not be quite so strong as stated, but it made sense. And served as a warning for him. With such respect came enmity, the enmity of all those who would choose to believe he might be bought by their own enemies, or those of their lord. Did Wykeham depend on Owen not seeing that? It was good he did not trust the man.
‘Years ago I chose to serve the Archbishop of York rather than the Duke of Lancaster,’ said Owen. ‘The duke has a long memory. He is courteous to me because I represented his beloved brother, and now his son, nothing more.’
‘A sign that he understands what he lost. But I did not ask you here to argue. Would you speak with Dame Marian and Sir Thomas?’
‘I do not even know where I might find Percy.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Wykeham, ‘and that worries me. But Dame Marian is near. She might know. And if you would encourage her return to Wherwell, I would be forever in your debt.’
That held no weight with Owen. He knew all too well that lords had short memories regarding their debts. ‘Have you considered confiding in her about your troubles?’
The bishop paused as he reached for the wine, casting a quizzical look at Owen. ‘I do not see the purpose. She would have no wish to help me. It cannot be presented as a favor to me, no, no, that would not do.’
‘She is a woman who has witnessed the dance of power – indeed her own situation is the result, as it was the power of her aunt, Lady Maud, that influenced the prioress of St Clements to argue for her right to return to the order.’
‘And my influence that doubtless led her to choose to remain here.’
‘At the time, yes. But she would understand.’ Owen felt certain of that.
‘And if she still chooses to stay here?’
‘Then she has made her choice. Does it occur to you that God might have led her here? A cruel journey, yet I’ve no doubt she grew in wisdom.’
With a shake of his head, Wykeham rose.
Owen quickly followed. ‘It would help my investigation to know why you traveled so modestly. Other than it being a penance. You said that was only part of it. Did you hope to conceal your whereabouts?’
‘I meant that the purpose of my journey was partly to return with Dame Marian and partly to ask you to intercede for me with Lancaster. As to whether my quiet arrival was to elude spies, the answer is yes. I should think our discussion makes it clear why.’
‘Lancaster’s spies will not be fooled. Nor Neville’s.’
‘But perhaps confused.’ Wykeham began to hold out his hand for Owen to kiss his ring, then withdrew it. ‘We will speak again on the morrow. Dom Jehannes invites you and your wife to dine with us. Meanwhile, I hope you will consider how you might convince Dame Marian that her place is at Wherwell. And ask her where to find her uncle.’
The man was not listening. Owen merely bowed his head and took his leave, asking Michaelo to accompany him.
Outside, clouds still blocked the autumn sunlight, but the rain had stopped and Owen lifted his face to the sharp breeze, drinking in the air. The brazier in Jehannes’s study had quickly dried his clothes, and then it had felt oppressive. Or was that the company? He had yearned to open the glazed window. He headed out toward Stonegate.
‘I was impressed by your lack of deference to His Grace,’ said Michaelo. ‘And so was he, I think. He needs clear thinkers.’
‘He might find any number of them among the clergy, of which we have plenty in York. Why not reach out to them? He must know that by now they are all aware of his presence.’
‘You are right. When he asked Dom Jehannes to say nothing of his presence in York, our friend pointed out that so many already know. Even should the sisters of St Clement’s keep his confidence, the servants will spread the word. And the incident with the cart – surely Gerald Trent has not held his silence. In the end he admitted that he’d underestimated the difficulty of secrecy.’
‘Yet he does not seek the counsel of the abbots and canons of the city?’
‘Most assuredly not.’
‘Queer,’ Owen muttered.
They were headed for the York Tavern to collect Gerald Trent and take him to see the new body in the castle yard, then Michaelo would deliver him to Wykeham. Reaching St Helen’s Square, they went straight to the York Tavern, where Tom Merchet directed them up to the top chamber.
‘He was out, but came through moments ago cursing the weather. Will there be trouble?’
‘If he refuses to come along willingly, I might be carrying him over my shoulder,’ said Owen. ‘Shall I gag him?’
A grin. ‘Might be a treat. But no need to do so.’
Trent made a choking noise in response to the knock. Clearly standing close to the door.
‘It’s Captain Archer.’
A sigh. The door opened a crack. ‘I told you all I know.’ He tried to shut the door.
But Owen held it there with little effort, then slowly pushed it wider, catching Trent as he began to topple and setting him on his feet by the pair of boots near the bed. ‘You’ll need these. You’re coming with me to look at a body found at the border of the same property as your man Beck.’
‘And you think it is Raymond?’ He looked pasty. Unwell. His eyes shadowed.
‘You said Raymond had thinning hair, fair?’
‘I did.’
‘This one has a full head of hair.’
‘Then you’ve no need of me.’
‘You are wrong about that.’ Owen crossed his arms. ‘Boots.’
Trent glanced behind Owen. ‘A monk?’
‘Brother Michaelo. My secretary.’
‘A city captain with a secretary.’
‘Captain Archer is part of Prince Richard’s household,’ said Michaelo. ‘A post requiring frequent correspondence. And after the castle I shall escort you to Bishop Wykeham.’
‘His Grace has summoned me? Should that not be the priority?’
‘I am a busy man, Master Gerald,’ Owen said quietly. ‘Come along now.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘The only question is whether you walk or I carry you.’
‘How dare you–?’
‘His Grace is already disturbed by your handling of this incident, and the caliber of men you hired. Perhaps you do not depend on his patronage?’
‘His Grace.’ Trent sat heavily on the bed, frowning down at his stockinged feet, then bent to lift one of his boots.
The corpse was no lovelier than earlier in the day.
‘God help me,’ Trent groaned, covering his nose and mouth as he turned aside.
Owen pulled him back, holding his head so that the man looked at the corpse. ‘Do you know this man?’
Michaelo stood opposite, studying Trent’s expression. He gave Owen a subtle nod.
So he knew him from somewhere. ‘Did you travel with more than the pair you’ve mentioned?’ Owen asked.
‘No. Only the two.’
‘Have you seen this man before? Not to know, but in passing?’
‘I do not believe so. How might anyone know for certain, with so much damage.’ He turned away, retching.
Owen let him go. For now.
With Brother Michaelo escorting Trent to Jehannes’s home, Owen took his time crossing the city, stopping in the minster stoneyard. This time he was fortunate to find another one of the master masons.
‘If you would look at this pouch of tools for fine stone carving,’ said Owen.
‘I have been curious to see them.’
The mason cleared a place on his worktable and lay down a clean piece of hide.
Opening the pouch of tools, Owen spread them out, explaining where they had been found, and described the second corpse as best he could, someone who might be connected to the cart of stones stolen, then abandoned.
The mason touched each item, nodding. ‘Fine tools. Well cared for.’ He lifted one, squinted at some lines scratched into the handle, then passed it to a young man standing beside him. ‘Recognize that mark?’ To Owen the mason said, ‘Young eyes.’
The young man shook his head. ‘No, master. I’ve not seen that mark before.’
‘I can tell you these are the tools of one doing fine stone carving,’ said the master mason. ‘Figures. Faces. Not strictly cutting tools. Costly. Someone will be missing them. You think they belonged to the dead man?’
‘I do wonder. Might you come have a look at him before he’s buried?’
The man made a face. ‘You ask much. And as I do not recognize the mark, and none of our carvers are missing …’ But he nodded. ‘When I’m finished for the day. He’s at the castle?’
‘I am grateful.’
‘You’ll owe me some of Merchet’s fine ale for this.’
‘A fair price.’