A Vigil of Spies

Eight

Thursday Morning

IDLY OBSERVING THE gardens of Bishopthorpe lining the riverbank as his journey upriver began, Jehannes noticed a pair of servants cutting back the branches of a broad shrub in order to access a breach in the retaining wall. Their clothes already hung heavy with moisture wicked up from the morning mist and the dripping foliage, and their shoes sank into the soft, shifting soil that had allowed the wall to crumble. It seemed an inspired theme for a sermon, and Jehannes toyed with appropriate lessons as the landscape changed, the gardens giving way to fields and woodland.

Composing sermons calmed him, drawing him into contemplation of God’s laws and Christ’s teachings, the ordering of society and the path to inner peace. He was particularly fond of Christ’s Sermon on the Mount, a reminder of the rewards awaiting the good, the gentle blessings of a virtuous life. A crumbling foundation — a lack of the cohesive qualities of loving one another, compassion. The corrosive quality of pride, which precluded this compassion, prevented the binding of cooperation and sharing. Alexander Neville’s overweening pride that had perhaps tempted Owen’s good men away from the bond that had worked well these many years. He’d sensed Owen’s pain and prayed that balance might somehow be restored. But, with John Thoresby dying, the men were, understandably, looking out for themselves, feeling their future prosperity threatened, and someone like Neville knew how to feed that sense of vulnerability and offer false security.

This exercise in composition was not cheering Jehannes this morning. He turned to his servant and asked him to join him in prayer. Praying for the suffering and the spiritually floundering was never a waste of time.

Alfred shook his head in disbelief. ‘Gilbert? They cannot be right, Captain. Someone sounding like him, surely. God help us, they cannot be right. And he was the one you’d sent to talk to the men — do you think he did as you ordered?’

‘No. It was only after I talked to them that a few came to me. We must act on the possibility that they are right about Gilbert. Tell him nothing, Alfred, and set someone to watch him.’

Bowing his head, Alfred groaned. ‘I would it were not so.’

‘I feel the same. We cannot trust him and heaven knows who else. I am working hard not to curse Princess Joan for coming here.’

Alfred cursed for him. ‘And may Gilbert rot in hell if he’s betrayed us.’

‘I pray he’s done all the damage he means to do,’ said Owen.

Alfred crossed himself. ‘Soon I won’t be able to sleep for worry about who’s guarding my back.’

Owen could not reassure him.

Lucie woke to a misty morning, chilly and lonely in the big bed. She hugged a cushion as she prayed that Owen would soon be sleeping beside her again. She ignored the prick of conscience that her prayer was selfish, that his return would happen only on Thoresby’s death. This morning she wanted her husband, yearned for his strong, warm body beside her, his sweet kisses, the fire he kindled in her.

On rising, she had no peace in the hall — the weather bored Gwenllian and Hugh. They loudly challenged their nurse, Maud, for insisting that they play in the house rather than kick through the fallen leaves in the garden, and their crankiness — not to mention their shrill young voices — agitated their Great Aunt Phillippa. Lucie had hastened to her workshop behind the apothecary intending to accomplish a long list of chopping, pounding, mixing and potting. Her apprentice, Edric, had helped her set up the materials on a large table, and she’d settled down with a sense of quiet contentment to the repetitive work, which freed her mind to meander where it would. She missed Alisoun, who would have managed the restlessness of Gwenllian and Hugh with songs and games. Maud was good with the infant Emma, but she was easily overwhelmed by the older children. As usual these days, Lucie’s thoughts turned towards the future, considering alternative careers for Owen once Thoresby died — in truth, worrying about them. He might serve the new archbishop, or become more engaged in the management of Freythorpe Hadden, or perhaps become an alderman in the city, or perhaps first a bailiff.

She lifted her head as she heard Edric greet one of Bess Merchet’s servants. Concerned that his appearance meant an illness at the York Tavern, Lucie set about tidying her work space in case she needed to rush to her neighbour, closing the jars she had been filling so that Jasper’s cat, Crowder, would not track powders about on his paws or an errant draught would not send them all over the workroom. Her first thought was of Tom Merchet — he had complained of pains in his chest lately but refused to take something to strengthen his heart and quicken his blood. Bess had threatened to slip something into his next batch of ale, but Tom had called her bluff, knowing that she would not risk losing business by sickening her customers.

When Edric announced that Bess had sent for her, Lucie hurried through the beaded curtains with a jar of the powder she’d prepared for Tom.

‘Dame Lucie, my mistress thought you would wish to speak to Archdeacon Jehannes. He’s come to see her from Bishopthorpe.’ Bess’s serving lad nodded as if Lucie had expressed doubt. ‘In truth, mistress, he came by barge this morning.’

Her momentary relief that she was not being summoned to Tom’s sickbed was quickly overridden by anxiety about Jehannes’s mission. Lucie set aside the jar so that she might remove her apron and the cloths covering her sleeves, saying a silent prayer that Owen was safe and well as she shook out her veil and brushed her skirt.

‘Presentable?’ she asked Edric. It was a wicked thing to do to the young apprentice who adored her, to ask him to approve her appearance, but she did not want to waste time searching for a mirror.

Edric blushed and tapped the side of his nose. ‘You have some powder right there. All else is perfect.’

Lucie brushed her nose, thanked him, and told him to be sure to fetch her at the tavern if he needed her. She doubted she would be long. As she stepped out into the now more substantial drizzle, she breathed deeply, welcoming the damp air after working with powders and dried plants. She forced her mind towards the positive, hoping that Jehannes would not feel it was gossiping to talk of the princess and her ladies, for she had a head full of questions, having heard tales of Joan’s beauty and the extravagance of her wardrobe and household. The cobbles in the square were slippery, the gentle rain merely dampening the summery residue of dust and debris. A good downpour was needed to cleanse the stones before they were once more made even more slippery by falling leaves from the trees that shaded St Helen’s churchyard. As Lucie reached the tavern yard, she abandoned her effort at calm, growing more and more anxious about why Jehannes had come to the city, and she was almost running as she reached the tavern door.

There were few customers in the main room. Tom glanced up as he poured ale into a tankard and nodded towards the kitchen.

‘Bess swept the archdeacon out there. He’s on a mission for Owen — he’s assured us that Owen is fine. But Bess thought you’d like to talk to Jehannes yourself.’

‘Bless you, Tom, I was stirring up the litany of fears I’ve collected over the years, all the risks Owen might take and the dangers he might face when on the archbishop’s business.’ She hugged her old friend, his scent of sawdust, hops and yeast comfortingly familiar, then stepped out of the tavern and across to the large tavern kitchen in the yard behind. She heard the voices of Bess and Jehannes coming from behind a screen that separated her friend’s private space from the almost always busy work area. Today was no exception, with the cook and two kitchen servants moving about preparing the midday meal that would be served in a few hours. Slipping behind the screen, Lucie recognised trouble in the grave expressions on her friends’ faces.

Jehannes rose to greet her, giving her a blessing and reassuring her that Owen was well and Thoresby still alive. He explained that he’d come to ask round the city for news of a moonstone brooch that might have been sold, and he’d hoped that Bess and Lucie might have heard something or could advise him where to search. But he also wanted to make sure they knew the truth of events at Bishopthorpe, so they would know to disregard any false rumours.

‘Is my husband sleeping? Taking care of himself?’ Lucie asked.

‘He is well.’

She could tell that he was not telling the entire truth. ‘Has there been another death?’

‘Yes, and Owen feels an urgency. He is working against time. I’m to return to the palace today.’

Lucie thought of how early the light faded these days. ‘That leaves you so little time.’ No time at all to entertain them with descriptions of the fine company and lavish feasting.

‘Do begin at the beginning now that Lucie is here,’ said Bess. ‘Tell us all that Owen has told you. Perhaps something will tease our memories.’

Brother Michaelo’s implication in Dom Lambert’s death saddened Lucie. She had grown fond of him. He had taken loving care of her father on his last pilgrimage, and he had been kind in his efforts to tell her everything he knew of Sir Robert’s experiences on that journey to St David’s. It had helped to ease the emptiness she’d felt in losing her father so far away, buried so far away, a place she’d probably never see.

‘The sisters from Nun Appleton sound like trouble,’ Bess said, ‘and the princess’s two ladies — can she be such a poor judge of her own sex?’

‘I would think her choice of waiting ladies is complicated by family alliances and favours owed,’ said Lucie. She was reminded of a conversation she’d overheard in the minster. ‘One of the ladies travelling with Joan of Kent is related to the late Margaret Neville, who was the wife of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland,’ she told Jehannes. ‘I did not hear her name, but I wondered whether she might be working to further Alexander Neville’s cause. Or for the Percies. Are they for Neville? They will care who is to be Archbishop of York — they rule the north.’

‘Though the Nevilles are doing their best to elbow them aside,’ said Jehannes. ‘I think you must mean Lady Sybilla, who is a Neville.’

‘So you already knew.’ Lucie was disappointed. ‘I’ve heard nothing about such a brooch.’

‘Nor I,’ admitted Bess. ‘But I’ve heard much about Alexander Neville.’

‘I’ve yet to hear of another candidate with strong support,’ said Jehannes. ‘It is strange that he is fighting so hard for something that seems about to be offered to him without a struggle.’

‘Much to hide?’ Bess suggested. ‘They say he was the lesser of twins, and that he has risen so far only because his twin died and his preferments went to Alexander, all undeserved.’

‘Does no one care about the spiritual wellbeing of the See of York, of the care of souls?’ Lucie wondered. ‘Do they all see His Grace’s death merely as an opportunity to seize power? Has everyone forgotten that York is more than a temporal seat?’

They all grew quiet at the thought.

Owen had drawn Geoffrey back out into the softly falling rain, which had everyone crowding into the hall so that it had been impossible to find a quiet place where they might talk without being overheard.

The reports from Duncan and Stephen disturbed Geoffrey — Owen could see it in the tension around his wide eyes and the grim set to his mouth.

‘God help her if they are speaking of Lady Eleanor,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Sir Lewis was candid with me about his concern for her. In truth, he seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk about his fear that she has become involved in something that has gone too far. She has a gentle, acquiescent nature. He has debated with himself whether to ask her outright and, in doing so, risk her anger, for she also has a temper when frightened, but she has precluded any choice in the matter by avoiding him. He is dismayed by his sense that she is frightened and trusts no one. He describes her eyes as wary, like those of her beloved falcons, and her movements as agitated.’

It troubled Owen to think of Eleanor so benighted. ‘So she had not confided in him at all?’

Geoffrey shook his head, shifting on the damp bench. They’d walked out into the gardens, but the rain made it an unpleasant venue.

‘If she was party to murder, and to arranging it to look as if Brother Michaelo committed that murder, I do not think she would confide such heartless and unforgivable deeds to Sir Lewis. Theirs has been a playful wooing, nothing deep and enduring.’ He shifted again. ‘There is a summer-house farther on with benches, though it is likely a fanciful name for something that is doubtless rarely warm and dry so far north and close to that dreary brown river with the ugly name. Still, it might be drier than this. Shall we move on to that?’

‘It is the peat that gives the Ouse the brown colour and the name. It is a Norse word.’

Geoffrey gave a little laugh. ‘I am delighted to know that, but, as I sense that you have much to discuss yet, I require a more comfortable seat.’

They moved on through a box hedge silvery with raindrops and past a bed of lady’s mantle, its huge late-season leaves heavy with water. Several leaves drifted down from a hazel as Owen brushed it with a shoulder, and mud oozed beneath his boot where gravel had been worn away over time by many unquiet feet in front of a stone bench.

‘I’ll confess to you my urge to protect the Lady Eleanor,’ said Owen, as Geoffrey caught up with him. He’d walked at his long-legged pace forgetting that, though Geoffrey had the torso of a man of average height, he had short legs.

‘What is your secret with women, besides your scarred face and great height?’ Geoffrey asked, chuckling. But, before Owen could come up with a response, Geoffrey sighed. ‘I confess I’m more concerned about Her Grace’s other lady, Sybilla. She seems less experienced than Eleanor, more impulsive.’

It struck Owen as strange how differently the two of them perceived Sybilla. Owen found her the more manipulative of the two ladies, her behaviour carefully gauged to achieve the effect she desired.

‘You do not give Lady Sybilla enough credit,’ he said. ‘She has a cunning wit.’

‘I delight in women of wit and determination. And you are partial to the gentle Lady Eleanor,’ said Geoffrey.

Owen grunted his admission.

They stepped into the summer-house, their boots echoing hollowly on the raised planking as rain whispered on the thin roof. Brushing blown leaves from one of the benches, Owen lowered himself with a moan.

‘The worst of it is not Lady Eleanor,’ he said, ‘though I’m cross with myself for being too slow to suspect her darksome aspects. Even worse is the betrayal by one of my guards, a young man I trusted with my wife when she needed an escort and I could not accompany her. Gilbert. How had I disappointed him that he turned against me? He’d assisted me in questioning my men here — God’s blood, I was so confident in him and his ease with the other men. Now his possible guilt throws doubt over everything I thought I knew.’ Owen could not sit still. Boiling up from within, a surge of anger pushed him to his feet and he punched a post.

‘Just when we found a dry spot,’ Geoffrey muttered, sliding away from that corner. ‘Put your anger to better use than destroying a decorative shed, for pity’s sake.’ Geoffrey leaned his forearms on his thighs and bowed his head, pressing his hands into the back of his neck.

‘Do you never lose your temper?’ Owen asked.

‘Of course I do, but I think of clever insults.’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘What else have you learned?’

‘I sent Archdeacon Jehannes to York for the day, to try to get a description of the man who sold Lady Eleanor’s brooch, if that’s what has happened. I pray that Lady Sybilla has not completely led me astray about its existence and to whom it belonged. For all I know, the conversation the men overheard was about selling a horse.’

‘Nor do you know whether they’d heard the same couple,’ Geoffrey noted. ‘It seems it was a busy night, despite all your men on guard. No! I pray you, calm yourself.’ He lunged for Owen’s arm, laughing as he caught it.

‘You should have been a jester,’ Owen said. ‘You have a way of turning the grimmest mood to laughter.’

‘It is my best defensive strategy,’ Geoffrey said with a chuckle, but his smile faded. ‘I do not mean to make light of all this, Owen. I am well aware that we’re all in danger until we discover who murdered Lambert and who took the letter from Dame Clarice and then returned it. It would help to recover the documents stolen from Lambert. Do you believe that Gilbert is in Alexander Neville’s employ?’

‘I fear that is the case.’ Owen settled again beside Geoffrey. ‘It was John Holand’s man, Douglas, who carried Dame Clarice into the palace last night. Her Grace trusted him to protect Clarice. But why would she also ask Sybilla to watch her?’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘I agree it seems a doubling of effort, or as if one is spying on the other. Have you asked Her Grace if she did set two to follow Clarice?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Not yet. I must tread carefully with Her Grace. She already chides me for questioning her judgement.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘She never forgets her blood and her marriages.’

‘Sybilla seems too eager to assist me. Like Brother Michaelo telling me too much.’

‘You don’t like Lady Sybilla, do you?’

‘You do. That worries me. Do I favour Eleanor so much that I want to distrust her companion instead? To me it seems most likely Sybilla stole the letter from Dame Clarice, then returned it.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘I confess that does seem likely.’

In her dreams, Magda realised how she might help Owen. Princess Joan kept him at the distance she maintained from her household servants, which prevented her from confiding in him about Dame Clarice until she formally presented the information to the archbishop. But she might agree to convening the meeting early this morning rather than at her leisure if Magda could convince her of the importance of sharing all that she knew with Owen. She woke after a brief sleep and freshened herself before going to Joan.

The sounds of activity outside the sisters’ little sleeping area, both around and below it, stirred Dame Clarice. There was only Alisoun to notice, for Dame Katherine was snoring on the pallet beside her companion. Though pale and shaky, Clarice managed to prop herself up and focus well enough on Alisoun to realise she did not know her.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’ve been asked to sit with you. My name is Alisoun Ffulford. I’ve been assisting the healer Magda Digby with His Grace the Archbishop.’

‘Asked to sit with me?’ Clarice tried to rise too quickly and apparently met with a pounding head, for she pressed her fingertips to her temples and lay back down with a moan. ‘What happened to me?’ she asked, her voice much softer than at first, almost a whimper.

‘You fainted out in the fields last night, we know not why. The physician Master Walter gave you something to ease your distress so you might heal with a good night’s sleep.’

The nun glanced at her companion. ‘Dame Katherine was also given something to sleep?’

‘No. She watched over you last night.’ Alisoun left her seat to pour a drink from a pot on the brazier, then crouched down to hand the cup to Clarice. The nun seemed to shrink from it. ‘It is but honey in boiled water, nothing more,’ said Alisoun. ‘It will refresh you.’

Clarice warily sniffed it. ‘I fainted?’ The scent must have met her approval, for she accepted the cup and took a few sips. Then she wrinkled her nose. ‘So sweet.’

‘Honey soothes the throat and cleanses the blood. Most people enjoy its sweetness.’

‘I’ve a tooth that sharply complains whenever something sweet touches it.’

‘I’ll tell Dame Magda. She might know of something that would ease the pain.’

Clarice sipped again. ‘It does feel good on my throat.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I remember rushing from the porch. I remember the fields. My feet were so cold. But then — I can’t remember what happened.’

‘Had you been feeling ill earlier in the day?’

With a wince, the woman put the cup aside and explored the inside of her mouth with her tongue. ‘Yesterday.’ She groaned. ‘It’s difficult to think with my tooth throbbing.’

‘Rest a while. We can talk later.’ Alisoun removed the honey water and sat quietly until Clarice began to fidget.

‘I was not ill before I shared a flagon of wine with that plump little harlot who calls herself a lady,’ she muttered.

Alisoun tried not to sit too far forward, not to sound too eager. ‘You shared wine with one of Her Grace’s ladies?’

‘Sybilla. A spoiled bitch bragging like a child about the archbishop agreeing to her request for one of the puppies in the kennel. Can you imagine? Dressed in silk, jewels winking in her hair and on her fat fingers, delicate slippers that she did not wish to risk on the garden paths and she must have one of his puppies as well?’

She had certainly regained her voice, Alisoun thought. ‘Were you in the hall?’

Clarice pressed her temples. ‘My head is pounding.’

Alisoun added water to the small pot on the brazier to dilute the honey and poured a cup of the tepid liquid. ‘Thirst can cause your head to hurt after strong wine. Try this.’

‘Is that all it was?’ Clarice asked. ‘Strong wine?’ She tasted the water, then drank it down. ‘Bless you. That did not make my tooth throb.’

‘Are there foods that sicken you? Anything that others can drink that you cannot?’

‘The infirmarian complains that my humours treat many remedies as poisons,’ said Clarice. ‘My mother has also suffered ill effects from the potions of some of the finest midwives and apothecaries.’

So, if Sybilla had put something in the wine, she might not have meant it to have any ill effect at all. ‘Could you taste anything other than wine in the drink?’

Clarice shrugged. ‘I did not pay it much heed. She made me angry and I drank up her wine, then felt as if a fire was simmering beneath my eyes. She saw that something was wrong and tried to help me loosen my wimple, but I did not like her touching me and I hurried away — I thought I was about to get sick.’

‘I don’t recall your wimple looking disturbed.’

‘I pushed her away.’ Clarice frowned. ‘You saw me?’

‘I was sitting in the garden when you rushed past. One of the guards in Her Grace’s company was near. He caught you as you fell in a faint and carried you into the palace. Much fuss was made over you.’ Alisoun tried a smile, but it was not returned and she abandoned it. ‘It would help me know what you need if you could describe to me how you feel this morning.’

‘Prickly in my arms, bitter in my belly, scratchy in my throat. My eyes burn and everything aches. My head pounded when I tried to sit up just now.’

‘But you can feel all your limbs?’

Alisoun was sorry she’d asked that, for the fear in Dame Clarice’s eyes intensified a hundredfold as she shoved the cup back at Alisoun and proceeded to poke and shake and pinch her arms, legs, fingers, shoulders. But it had been necessary to ask or Alisoun would need to prick her and observe her responses.

‘It’s all painful,’ Clarice concluded. ‘I trust that is good?’

‘Yes. I am sorry I frightened you.’

‘I wasn’t frightened.’

Alisoun did not argue, seeing the stubborn set to the nun’s shoulders despite her illness. ‘Master Walter left a draught that he said would ease the discomfort. Would you like me to mix some in your honey water?’

‘I have two healers — the physician and the midwife?’

‘I told you they’d made a fuss.’ Alisoun smiled again.

‘I would like some of the draught.’

For a while, Clarice lay quietly, her face almost peaceful. But suddenly she asked, ‘Did I say anything while I slept?’

That was a question to report to Captain Archer, Alisoun thought.

‘Not while I’ve been with you. You’ve been far quieter than Dame Katherine.’ Her snoring had grown louder, as if attempting to drown out their voices.

At last Clarice looked about to smile. ‘She’s a pig. Can you imagine travelling with her all this way?’

‘Nun Appleton is not so far, I think.’

‘Far enough in such company.’

Lady Sybilla, a plump, fair-haired woman not much taller than Magda herself but far younger, barred Magda’s entrance to the princess’s chamber, suggesting that later would be better for a conversation with Princess Joan. But her mistress disagreed, inviting Magda to enter, and Magda saw at once that the princess was still in pain from her over-indulgence of the previous day.

Fortunately, she had brought with her an unguent that would be useful. ‘Wouldst thou allow Magda to rub some warmth into thy afflicted foot, Thy Grace?’

She showed her the unguent and urged her to smell it, for the scent was pleasant, unlike the unguents that most mixed for gout. Joan hesitantly bowed her elegantly coiffed and delicately veiled head towards the small pot, plainly ready to pull away as quickly as possible. Her brow smoothed as she sniffed a second time.

‘It is fragrant enough to wear as perfume,’ she marvelled. ‘Eleanor, come, smell this. It will remind you of your garden.’

The quieter lady had sat on the bed holding the princess’s monkey while trying to be discreet about studying Magda. Now she leaned over and smelled the pot.

‘I think perhaps there is some germander, and rosemary, and — a drop of rosewater?’

Magda nodded. ‘Thou hast some knowledge of scents.’

‘A garden can be a source of deep comfort,’ said Eleanor. She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were dark with trouble.

‘I thought the stench was part of the healing property of a salve,’ said the princess.

Magda laughed. ‘A mountebank would tell thee so.’

Joan sighed and sank back against her cushions, a forearm to her forehead. ‘I would fain stay in bed all the day, but I think you would advise that I move about, perhaps walk around the hall?’

‘Surely not!’ the fair-haired doorkeeper exclaimed, fluttering towards the bed.

‘You may go amuse yourself, Sybilla,’ said Joan. ‘I am safe with Dame Magda watching over me.’ She waved away the protesting attendant. ‘She is a sweet, lovely woman,’ Joan said, as Sybilla stepped out of the chamber, ‘but too clever to trust at present. I yearn to complete this journey and return to Berkhampstead.’ She turned to Eleanor. ‘You may leave as well. Just put Gaspar in his basket.’

The animal squealed with indignation as he was shut away. With a whisper of silk, Eleanor bowed and departed the chamber.

‘Thou hast promised a meeting with His Grace concerning Dame Clarice,’ said Magda. ‘Walking from thy chamber down to his would begin to move thy blood through thy limbs and prepare thee for thy journey home.’

‘I am not well enough for such a visitation this morning, Dame Magda,’ the princess said, in a petulant tone.

She pretended to be a pampered pet like the angry Gaspar, but Magda knew that the behaviour masked a pride that did not easily bend to the desires of others. Yet Magda must try.

‘Thou hast a grave responsibility and, with some preparation, thou canst indeed fulfil thy promise this morning, Thy Grace.’ She sought the woman’s eyes. ‘Unless thou wouldst prefer to have the archbishop and Owen Archer attend thee here.’

The servant standing near the bed sucked in her breath at Magda’s boldness. But Princess Joan merely frowned and seemed to consider the idea.

‘I would be relieved to shift this burden to their shoulders,’ she said, as if weighing the benefit. ‘But I would not be so unkind as to ask His Grace to attend me here — his infirmity is far worse than mine. Can your salve ease me enough to sit in grace and dignity in his chamber long enough to tell the tale?’ She fixed Magda with her clear blue-grey eyes.

‘It will. Wilt thou permit Magda to apply it?’

‘Dame Clarice is in danger?’

‘Owen Archer believes she may be, and he is seldom wrong, Thy Grace.’

Princess Joan lay back on her cushions. ‘My servant will assist you with my slipper.’

Apparently Princess Joan was not satisfied to wait until Thoresby summoned her. He was sorry for that, for he was not satisfied that he had any advice that might be of use to her. ‘My dear Princess.’

‘Your Grace. I have something important — and difficult — to tell you.’

Hearing the strain in her voice, he looked more closely and saw that she was not smiling and that she hesitated to look him in the eye, as if she were uncertain she wished to engage with him, despite her words. Today she wore a gown of deep blue, a colour that Thoresby associated with the Blessed Virgin. He wondered whether she intended the association, perhaps to reassure him.

‘You are not here for my advice?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Your Grace, I am here to tell you something that you must know, that it is your right to know.’

That struck him as an ominous promise. He glanced down, seeing Ravenser and Archer seated below and to either side of the great bed. Archer looked grim but leaned towards Thoresby and Joan, as if determined not to miss a word. Ravenser looked officious, as if prepared to advise, and weary — he carried a double burden these days, his duties and Thoresby’s. Behind Joan stood Magda Digby in her gown of many colours, a calm figure in a room busy with tension. Looking beyond them, he noticed the day was grey and damp. He wondered what he would be doing were he well.

‘Your Grace?’ Joan was apparently awaiting a signal to proceed.

‘Has Dame Magda counselled you in this visitation?’ he asked.

‘She has.’ Joan glanced back at the wizened healer and her voice softened. ‘She has shown me my duty, Your Grace. Might I sit beside you?’

Though he was not at all sure that he welcomed this dutiful telling of something that it was his right to hear, Thoresby thought it best that he accept it.

‘I would be honoured, my lady.’

He noticed with what care Joan folded herself onto the chair beside him. He’d not considered that she might be unwell, but he was comforted by the knowledge that Magda would do her best to ease whatever might be afflicting her. He noticed also that she clutched a leather pack such as a courier might use — indeed, very like the one in which Lambert had carried his blank rolls.

‘Have you found the documents stolen from Dom Lambert? Wykeham’s documents?’

‘Alas, no. I had my men fetch the copies held at Nun Appleton, Your Grace.’

This was indeed something he had a right to read. He held out his hand. ‘I would see them.’

She did not move to hand them over. He could imagine her using on her son John the maternal look she now bestowed on him — a gentle but firm warning that he must abide by her terms. ‘I would rather prepare you with some information.’

‘You say these are copies held at Nun Appleton. That is whence came the sisters in your company, one of whom stole something from me. Who is she?’

‘Do you remember Euphemia of Lincoln, Your Grace?’

‘Of course I do not,’ he snapped, growing irritated with her stubborn delay. ‘Who is she and what does she have to do with all this?’

‘Dame Clarice is her daughter by you, Your Grace.’ Joan said it gently and a little breathlessly, as if expecting an ungentle response.

Of all the revelations Thoresby might have imagined, this was so far from what he’d expected that he asked, ‘Do I understand you to say that Dame Clarice is my daughter?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Clarice. My daughter.’ He tasted the idea. It was not so dark a thing, though neither was it immediately pleasing.

He looked down the bed at his nephew, who was looking startled, having just learned of a cousin he’d not guessed existed. And so soon after learning of his cousin Idonea in the convent at Hampole. Then Thoresby looked at Archer. He could see his mind working, comparing two faces, Thoresby’s and Clarice’s. He guessed that because one look at his nephew, who was so much a mirror of him years ago, and he’d realised the resemblance. He’d noticed her deep-set eyes, but other families had similar features.

‘Yes, I can see the family resemblance around the eyes,’ he said. He sensed Joan’s relief. ‘Did you expect me to deny this? Euphemia of Lincoln.’ He shook his head. ‘I still do not recall her, but, though it be sad to say, I have no doubt that I sired a number of children about whom I was never informed. This Euphemia must have been of noble birth, or at least did not need financial support from me?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. The family tucked her away to give birth so that she might yet make a good marriage, which she did.’

‘Does Dame Clarice know who I am?’

Princess Joan nodded.

‘Why did she not say anything to me?’

‘She believes that you were informed of her birth and denied her, Your Grace, but I thought it unlikely that you’d been told. Considering the family, they would not have wanted to risk informing any more people than necessary, particularly you, the father, as you were in no position to wed Euphemia.’

‘So my daughter hates me.’

Joan sighed and wagged her head. ‘That is a stronger word than I would have chosen, but she is bitter, yes. She resents being given no choice as to her station, no alternative to religious vows. In truth, I do not believe she is suited for the convent, but few are.’

Women’s talk. He had no patience for such chatter. ‘But what does this have to do with the Bishop of Winchester? Was Euphemia his kinswoman?’

‘No. He learned of this from Thomas Brantingham, who showed him papers left to him by his predecessor as Bishop of Exeter. They documented Alexander Neville’s campaign to gather information against you in case you seemed to lean towards rejecting his claim to the Archdeaconry of Cornwall.’

‘He thought to force my support by threatening to expose my sin if I ruled against him?’

Joan sighed. ‘He thinks more like a merchant than a noble. Brantingham expressed dismay that such a man might become archbishop.’

‘This is just the sort of petty nastiness I would expect from Alexander Neville,’ Ravenser said, breaking his silence.

Princess Joan handed Thoresby the pack. ‘Euphemia was harassed by Neville’s men and her family sent a report and copies of Neville’s letters to the Bishop of Exeter to warn him of the man’s low character. These are the originals, which they kept at Nun Appleton in case of future need to defend themselves against Neville. As for Clarice, she believes that you knew of Neville’s treatment of her mother but refused to help. That, I think, is the source of her deepest anger. As to her search of your chamber, she merely wished to know more about her father. I do not think you can deny that a powerful temptation.’

‘And so she stole a letter from one of my other mistresses,’ Thoresby said.

‘Sweet heaven!’ Joan exclaimed.

‘She learned little from that. So who scraped or stole Lambert’s documents?’

‘I do not know. I wish I could tell you.’

Thoresby closed his eyes, his head swimming.

‘Might I ask a question, Your Grace?’ Owen inquired.

Thoresby had almost forgotten Archer’s presence. ‘Of me or Princess Joan?’

‘Of Her Grace,’ said Owen.

‘You are most welcome,’ said Thoresby. ‘I need a moment to collect my thoughts.’

‘Your Grace, why did you wait so long to tell us this?’ Owen asked.

‘I’m curious as well,’ said Ravenser. ‘Had we known the content of Wykeham’s documents, we might have known to protect the young woman.’

‘I’ve had my men watching her,’ said Joan. ‘The captain knows this.’

‘And you’ve had Lady Sybilla watching her as well?’ Owen asked.

Thoresby opened his eyes, curious as to how Joan would respond to this questioning. At the moment her lovely eyes were fastened on Archer.

‘Sybilla watching her? No. Who told you that?’

‘Lady Sybilla.’

Thoresby saw that this gravely disturbed the princess. He also noticed a look pass between Archer and Magda.

‘Who knows what you’ve come to tell His Grace?’ Owen asked. ‘Do either of your ladies know that you are here with him now?’

‘I doubt there is anyone in the palace who does not know that I am here,’ said Joan. ‘But, as to the contents of the documents I’ve given His Grace, only Sir Lewis knows.’

‘Not your son? Or either of your ladies?’ Thoresby asked.

‘No. As to why I did not tell you of this when Lambert was murdered — I wanted the documents safely here before anyone knew of their contents. I saw no connection between the emissary’s death and the theft of the documents — I was certain he’d taken his own life. I still believe I made the right choice.’

Thoresby could see that neither Archer nor his nephew concurred, but he was not certain he disagreed with her. He opened the pack on his lap, saw several rolls, and set it aside, suddenly reluctant to read them. It was not from lack of curiosity — after all this, he wanted very much to see what the fuss had been all about. But he sensed that all in the room expected him to do something about the documents, and that was the problem. He did not care to go after Alexander Neville, he had not the energy, and his attempts to suggest a man more worthy than Neville to succeed him at York had failed. His family’s influence waned in the north. It was the time of the Nevilles and the Percies.

‘I shall read them later. What is your concern about Lady Sybilla, Archer?’

Before his captain could respond, Princess Joan struggled to her feet. Magda was there at once to inquire whether she was in pain. The princess gave a weary nod and, sighing, made her excuses to Thoresby.

‘I have delivered what I’d intended, the documents and the news that Dame Clarice is your daughter. I trust you to decide what use you will make of the former, and whether you will attempt to make your peace with the latter. If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I am in some pain and would lie down to rest.’

‘Of course, my lady. God go with you, and bless you for bringing these to me.’ He patted the pack. ‘As for Dame Clarice, we shall see.’

Magda guided the princess from the room, bowing as she caught Thoresby’s eye.

They would have much to discuss later, he thought.

When Alisoun saw the elegant woman on the threshold, she had to fight for the confidence to assert her authority.

‘This is a sickroom, my lady. If you bear a message, you may entrust it to me.’

Her words seemed to confuse the woman for a moment. Her dark eyes searched what was visible of the room behind Alisoun, which was very little, then returned to look directly at Alisoun. Her expression brightened and softened.

‘I am Lady Eleanor. Who are you?’

‘Alisoun Ffulford, apprentice to the healer Dame Magda, who is here at His Grace’s request. I’ve been charged with the care of Dame Clarice.’

The lady seemed more comfortable now, smiling as if hoping to put Alisoun at ease.

‘As my lady the Princess Joan has no need of me this morning, I thought to sit with Dame Clarice, entertain her with tales of the court. Perhaps you would enjoy a walk in the garden or some pleasant respite from your duty here, Alisoun?’

‘I have been ordered to stay, my lady.’

Indecision played across the lady’s face as she swayed away and then back.

Clarice spoke up softly from her bed. ‘Do sit with us a while.’

‘You may rest assured your tales are safe with me,’ said Alisoun. ‘You need not send me away. I am not a gossip, my lady.’

The lady had the courtesy to blush.

Stepping aside, Alisoun welcomed her into the room. Dame Katherine gave up her place on the bench beside Clarice’s pallet and offered the guest some wine, which she declined.

‘What about you?’ Lady Eleanor asked Katherine. ‘Might I entice you to find some pleasant exercise in the hall or out on the porch? This is such a tiny chamber for four of us.’

Alisoun busied herself with adjusting Clarice’s cushions while Dame Katherine fussed about her responsibility and then, at last, bent to Lady Eleanor’s will and withdrew in a cloud of disappointment.

Lady Eleanor settled on the seat beside Clarice’s pallet, and Alisoun set her own little bench in the shadows. She was most curious about the lady’s visitation, a courtesy she could not imagine was totally selfless. Eleanor’s dark eyes and hair and the deep greens and golds of her beautiful clothing — the vision of elegance momentarily choked Alisoun with envy until she met the woman’s eyes and recognised a deep abiding unhappiness.

‘I pray you are feeling better this morning,’ Eleanor said to Clarice.

‘I am, my lady.’

‘My companion, Lady Sybilla, told me of your bitterness regarding your lot in life,’ said Eleanor to Clarice, ‘and I thought I might be able to ease your unhappiness by telling you something of the life you were spared.’

Clarice did not mirror Eleanor’s gentle smile.

‘What would you know of how I feel? How can you know what it is like to be shut away with so many unhappy, unwanted women?’ Clarice grimaced and looked away. ‘You said you would tell me tales of court.’

‘And so I shall, at least one tale. It is of a young woman sent to court to find a husband. By tragic happenstance, the handsome young man to whom she lost her heart was her first cousin, and the family laughed at their request to pay the pope for a dispensation.’

‘Is this your own story?’ asked Clarice.

Again the sad smile. ‘You have guessed so quickly. Yes, this is my story, more bitter for me for the example of what might have been my joy had I been born to a nobler family.’

‘Prettier gowns?’ Clarice snipped.

Eleanor looked at the woman lying on the pallet as a mother might look on a stubbornly erring child, with a smile reflecting empathy. But still there was the sorrow in her eyes.

Alisoun realised she was holding her breath, that something about Lady Eleanor made her expect some unpleasantness.

‘I am in the household of a woman, Princess Joan, who married her nephew, the son of her father’s brother’s grandson, a marriage that required several dispensations — the barriers melted away with money and alliances. But our marriage promised no great alliance, nor were we clever enough to bed before asking permission.’

‘At least you have had such a love. I’ve never had the chance.’

‘The chance to have your heart torn from your breast, Dame Clarice? To see your love wed to a pretty woman he likes well enough who has given him healthy sons and daughters? To be forced to sleep with a husband old and infirm, scarred and ever stinking of wine? And then to be pushed aside when you had borne the required son, in favour of his former mistress? To give your youth to someone who cared nothing for it? You have no idea how fortunate you are.’

‘Did you never find another man you might love?’

‘Oh yes, I did. Several. But — they do not love as we do.’

‘I find it difficult to pity you. You have had the experience of love, something that has been denied me.’

‘I doubt that you would ever have been given a choice in your fate,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know that you are the daughter of a man of the Church.’

Clarice reddened. ‘You stole the documents from Dom Lambert,’ she accused in a tight voice, her expression gradually shifting from anger to fear. ‘You read them, didn’t you?’

Alisoun was puzzled. Had the documents concerned the identity of Clarice’s father? It seemed a trifle, to have caused such pain.

‘You believe that being his daughter should have brought you great privilege, more choice in your life, don’t you? But, at his rank, from such a family, he would never have openly supported you.’

‘So my life is wasted so that he might rise to such heights and I’m to be content with that?’ Clarice snapped. ‘Is that your message, Lady Eleanor?’

‘I am trying to explain by my example, Clarice, that, as a woman, you were never destined to have choice in your role in life. Except perhaps a woman such as my lady, Princess Joan, with great beauty, with the blood of kings bringing the blush to her cheeks, with extensive lands in her name and a power over men that have led some to whisper.’

‘I wanted to know who he is,’ said Clarice. ‘I wanted to see the man who’d fathered me. I did not expect a frail old man who treasures a love letter from a woman who died long ago.’ Her deep-set eyes had cooled into a puzzled melancholy.

‘When Alexander Neville becomes Archbishop of York, you will see what an honourable man your father was in comparison,’ said Eleanor. ‘But then you know how devious Neville is, how ruthless.’

Dame Clarice was staring at Lady Eleanor. ‘Did you kill Dom Lambert and his servant?’

With a shrug, Lady Eleanor dismissed the question. ‘Princess Joan has sought His Grace’s counsel because he knows many of the most important men in the realm and is a man whose judgement she trusts. I would be proud of such a father.’

Alisoun covered her mouth as a gasp rose up. They spoke of Archbishop Thoresby.

‘And if he were not proud of you?’ Clarice retorted.

‘A father proud of his daughter?’ Eleanor’s eyes were cold, her smile cruel. ‘You are a fool.’

While trying to remain silent and invisible, Alisoun wondered whether her sense of danger in the woman suggested that she was capable of committing murder.

‘You have a child of your own, Lady Eleanor,’ Clarice reminded her.

The statement brought tears to the lady’s eyes and a hand to her waist, as if remembering her pregnancy. ‘A son.’

‘You are fortunate.’

‘Yes, I was, for a while, happy with him. But he is not mine, he is his father’s heir, and I have not seen him in a long while.’

No wonder she bowed her head and wept.

Clarice reached out for the lady’s hand and, taking it, whispered an apology.