A Vigil of Spies

One

Monday

Captain Owen Archer stood in a shaft of sunlight with his lieutenants, Alfred and Gilbert, his scarred but handsome face grim as he spoke to them. As Brother Michaelo rushed about, overseeing the preparations for the large and grand company of guests expected to arrive by mid-afternoon, he caught snippets of the captain’s commands. The fair Gilbert was to ride out with a group of guards to surround the company as it approached, and the lanky, balding Alfred was in charge of the guard protecting the perimeter of the manor of Bishopthorpe. Noticing a deep shadow beneath Archer’s good eye and how he wearily rubbed the scar beneath his leather eye patch, Michaelo remembered their conversation the previous evening.

Archer had reluctantly admitted that he would miss Archbishop Thoresby, and that he resented the danger Princess Joan’s visit presented. With King Edward and his heir and namesake both ailing and the Archbishop of York on his deathbed, the Scots might anticipate sufficient disarray in the northern defences that they could easily seize Prince Edward’s wife as she travelled so far north. The French had no love for Prince Edward, who had proven his military prowess on their soil all too frequently, and the new King Robert II of Scotland, having renewed the Franco-Scottish alliance, might enjoy handing Edward’s wife to the French king to prove his worth.

‘His Grace should have peace in his final days and not be worrying about the possibility of such a disaster,’ Archer had said, smacking the table with his hand. ‘I would have it so.’

His voice broke with the last words — that was when Michaelo plumbed the depths of the captain’s affection for the archbishop. It surprised him. Archer had spent a decade resenting His Grace. Michaelo wondered at this change.

‘They say the fair Princess Joan has ever been headstrong. Pray she suddenly changes her mind and rides south,’ Archer had added.

But Michaelo welcomed the distraction of a royal guest in the palace. In his opinion, it would cheer them all. Though he admitted to himself that the captain and his lieutenants hardly looked cheered.

Breath. I’m fighting my own body for breath. My flesh wants to cease this struggle, but my spirit is not ready. I will soon meet St Peter at Heaven’s gate. But not yet, dear Lord, not yet.

John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and sometime Lord Chancellor of England, reminded himself of this when tempted to complain about how weary he was, how frustrated he was with his struggle for full, satisfying breaths. He was still alive, choosing to blow on the dying embers to tease out more life, and every moment was precious.

Never in all his long life had he felt so keenly the separation of mind and body. He was a little forgetful, but, for the most part, his mind was still robust. He felt betrayed by the weakness of his body, which trembled now with fatigue as he adjusted his legs, trying to stretch out a cramp without attracting the attention of the healer Magda Digby, who watched so discreetly from her seat beside the foot of the bed that he sometimes forgot she was there.

‘Thou art cramping.’ She rose and reached beneath the covers, exploring his calves, then pressing and pulling just the right muscle, showing it how to relax.

Despite his attempt to hide his discomfort from her, Thoresby was grateful for her ministrations. ‘God bless you,’ he murmured.

She made a quiet, chuckling sound.

‘He will bless you if my prayers are worth anything,’ said Thoresby. Their playful interaction lifted his spirits.

‘Thy god may do as he pleases,’ said Magda. Clear blue eyes in a wizened face, the wrinkles exaggerated by the smile that engaged all her features — eyes, mouth, cheeks — she held his gaze for a moment, her expression affectionate, kind and teasing. Then she nodded, satisfied, and returned to her chair — a stool, actually. But, as she was a tiny woman, her spine still straight and strong, she preferred it to the cushioned chair the archbishop’s personal secretary, Brother Michaelo, kept offering her, which would leave her feet dangling in the air.

Thoresby had grown fond of Magda. It was such an unlikely friendship that he smiled to himself thinking about it — a pagan healer and an archbishop. Magda Digby was a pagan as far as Thoresby could decipher, always quick to reject his prayers for her, though she gave of herself in a most Christian way. She was a midwife and healer, preferring to work among those who could not afford to pay her. She lived outside the city walls, close to the ramshackle huts of the poor, on a rock that was an island when the tide rolled upriver — many called her the Riverwoman. Owen Archer and his wife, the apothecary Lucie Wilton, had worked hard to convince Magda to come to Thoresby at Bishopthorpe. She had argued that he had the wealth to hire the best physicians in the realm. But Thoresby had observed first-hand her skill as she worked with a badly burned man a few years earlier, and the experience had opened his eyes to her profound work as a healer among the folk of York and the shire. He had decided he wanted none other caring for him at the end. He also knew she would not fuss, nor would she lie in an attempt to cheer him. There was a time when he’d condemned her, for he knew she helped women prevent unwanted births, tended some people with injuries they wished to hide from authorities, and performed other questionable services for those who could afford it in order to finance her work among the poor, but Thoresby had come to believe that her good works far outweighed those he must disapprove of as a leader of the Church.

All must come to understand Magda Digby for themselves. She was unique.

Unfortunately, his peaceful time in her care was soon to be interrupted. Later this day Joan, Princess of Wales, wife of Edward, the present King Edward’s eldest son and thus the future king of England, was coming to Bishopthorpe, bringing with her a highly recommended physician as an offering. Thoresby did not wish to see the physician, but to refuse him might cause too much official interest in Magda Digby’s presence. Some might consider her a heretic and oppose her presence or wish her harm, and he would be sorry to cause any discomfort to his new-found friend.

He knew Princess Joan was bringing the physician as compensation for the advice she sought from him. In her letter proposing the visit, she had mentioned how the late Queen Philippa had sought Thoresby’s advice in both matters of state and personal issues, and had advised Joan to place her trust in him. Indeed, she had written, he was widely respected for his sage counsel. She need not have bribed him with compliments, for such a journey was not lightly undertaken, and he knew the seriousness of her situation. Her father-in-law, the king, was aged and vague, her husband, Prince Edward, had been suffering a wasting sickness for several years, her eldest son had died two years earlier and she feared her remaining son, Richard, might be called to the throne too soon, being but six years old. Thoresby’s goddaughter, Gwenllian Archer, was that age, and he could not imagine saddling her with adult cares. She was so young, so unformed, so vulnerable. He understood why the princess worried.

Take the boy and your ailing husband and return to Bordeaux, where you were happy, Thoresby was tempted to advise. But Joan was the granddaughter of Edward Longshanks, the present king’s grandfather; the daughter of Edmund of Woodstock, who had given his life for his brother; and she had been wed to two members of the Order of the Garter. She was not a woman who would run from her duty.

Nor would Thoresby neglect his duty, despite Magda’s advice to refuse any visitations. In one of his first conversations with Magda he’d realised she had no idea of his status. She was unaware of the extent of his power as Archbishop of York, and hence the fierce competition among the various court and Church parties to have their representative chosen as his successor. Nor did she grasp the weight of his responsibility towards the Church and the government of the realm. No wonder she treated him as an equal, he’d thought, somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t a sign of a strong sense of her own personal worth. But, when her behaviour did not change after he’d explained his standing to her, he was strangely delighted.

‘You realise that the Church of Rome is more powerful than any individual kingdom?’ Thoresby asked her.

‘Magda is aware that churchmen use fear of terrible suffering after death to control most of her countrymen. That has been sufficient understanding of thy power for Magda’s purpose.’

Thoresby did not for a moment believe that to be the true extent of her knowledge, but he’d proceeded to explain that his see, or archbishopric, included half of the souls of the realm, and that he controlled an immense wealth as well as the spiritual conscience of half the kingdom. ‘And, as former Lord Chancellor, I have considerable knowledge of the powerful families in the realm, their alliances, their ambitions — these same families expect me to use my influence to guide the dean and chapter of York Minster in their choice of my successor.’ Although the selection of the next Archbishop of York would affect not only the Church in the realm but also the political climate, it was the duty of a small group of men, the canons and the dean of York Minster, to choose Thoresby’s successor. ‘I’ve no doubt that they’ve spies everywhere trying to discover my intentions, whether or not I’ll push harder for votes for my nephew, so that they might know whether to support or undermine me.’

‘This does not sound spiritual to Magda.’

‘No. If the pope and his archbishops and bishops are carrying out their duties, they have little time for the spiritual life.’ He dropped his gaze, embarrassed by this admission. In boasting of his temporal power, he’d emphasised his spiritual poverty. It was then that he’d realised that he’d sought out Magda not just as a healer but also as a spiritual guide, sensing in her a depth of soul that he no longer found in himself.

‘And the princess?’ Magda had asked. ‘What is her purpose in disturbing thee?’

Something in her voice suggested that she sensed his discomfort and meant to change the subject. Thoresby was grateful.

‘Princess Joan might also wish to influence the chapter’s vote, but her main purpose is to hear my thoughts on whom she might trust to support her young son if his father dies betimes.’

‘These are heavy matters for thy sickbed,’ said Magda.

‘Ah, but there is a promise of blue sky behind the impending clouds — Princess Joan is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever encountered, fair of face and figure, gentle and kind. She will light up this pathetic sickroom. That is a measure of God’s grace.’

Magda had found that amusing.

‘You leave shortly, Dame Magda?’ he asked now, though as he spoke the words he heard them echo in his mind and knew that he’d asked this already, her response lost in his sometimes muddled mind.

‘In a little while, Thy Grace,’ she said. ‘Magda and Alisoun will go to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary for physicks and a rest, and then return in a few days, when thy royal visitor is not so likely to take note of common healers.’

She looked him in the eyes as she spoke, not alarmed that he’d forgotten her plans, steady in her resolve, in all things a comfort to him.

A few days. He prayed that he lived so long and was still awake and aware upon her return.

‘You will remind Dame Lucie to bring my godchildren?’ Gwenllian, Hugh and Emma Archer, the children of Lucie Wilton and Owen Archer, his captain of the guard, were his godchildren, and he was very fond of them.

Magda nodded. ‘They will kiss thy brow before thou dost take thy leave, if Magda can make that possible. Thou mightst pray to thy god for that as well.’

‘You know that I have.’ He smiled as he closed his eyes, but opened them with one more request. ‘Ask her to bring her adopted son as well, young Jasper. He is an admirable lad.’

‘Magda will include Jasper.’

Strange old crow, Magda thought, as she glanced around the chamber. Silken hangings and bed coverings, embroidered cushions and finely carved chairs, the finest wines, broths made with the best ingredients — and Magda in her gown of multi-coloured rags in charge. She chuckled to herself. John Thoresby had proven to be an unexpectedly complex man of quiet wisdom, surprisingly inspiring love. She was honoured that he trusted her to care for him — she had not expected to feel so. She would mourn his passing.

Plumes of vapour floated just above the roadbed as the hot afternoon sun shone down on the mud from a week of rain. September had begun with a touch of autumn, but it now seemed like high summer again, except for the cool evenings. Though they stood their posts, well aware of their captain’s watchfulness, the archbishop’s guards squinted against the glare when the steam shifted.

No one was more aware of the glare than Captain Owen Archer, who disliked anything that caused his one good eye to tear, effectively blinding him. Those with two functioning eyes could not appreciate their immense gift — he had not when so blessed. He sent his lieutenant, Alfred, to admonish those whose attention wandered from the road. He wanted no missteps in the plan for his men to encircle the company of the Princess of Wales as they entered Bishopthorpe, ensuring that they and only they entered the yard of Archbishop Thoresby’s palace.

Owen heard the travelling party before they rode out of the woods. Horses and wagons, clopping and creaking. The herald sounded his horn as he came within sight of Owen and his men, armed and mounted and commanding the road. Owen bowed and sheathed his sword, signalling his men to begin closing in around the last of the princess’s party as it halted. Knights, soldiers, clerics, a nun and a lady were on horseback, accompanied by several carts. From the cart in the centre hung with gaily-painted fabric, a heavily veiled head emerged and then quickly withdrew. The two knights dismounted — one was much younger than the other. As Owen dismounted, he noticed the usual apprehension on their faces as the knights took in his scars, the patch over his left eye.

‘Captain Archer.’ The older knight bowed. ‘Sir Lewis Clifford. And this is Sir John Holand.’

‘Sir Lewis. Sir John.’ Owen was especially interested in the younger knight, Princess Joan’s son by her first husband, Thomas Holand. Joan’s marital history had been the talk of the realm on several occasions. As a girl of twelve, being raised in the household of the Earl of Salisbury, she had been secretly betrothed to the young Thomas Holand. But, when he was away, making his name and fortune in Prussia, her guardian had married her to his son and heir, William Montague. On returning to England Thomas Holand had petitioned the pope to overturn her marriage to William Montague in favour of her earlier secret, but still legitimate, marriage to him, and eventually won her back. In widow-hood, she had won the heart of Prince Edward and, once again, entered into a clandestine marriage. Upon discovering it, King Edward had been furious, having intended to use his heir’s marriage for a political alliance outside the realm. But, in the end, he settled for dissolving the vows made in secret and solemnising the marriage with a more official, traditional, public ceremony. Joan’s sons by Thomas Holand would never be kings, but her son by Prince Edward would, in his turn, be heir to the throne; Owen was curious how that sat with the half-brother, whether he harboured any resentment, any ambitions beyond his station.

‘I am relieved to see a seasoned soldier in charge.’ Sir Lewis looked Owen in his good eye; his own were red and tired, and the dust of the road picked out the lines of fatigue on his square, tanned face. ‘I had heard you were wounded in the service of Henry of Grosmont.’

‘It was my great honour to serve him.’ Grosmont had been Duke of Lancaster, a duchy now held by Princess Joan’s brother-in-law, John of Gaunt, the second-oldest living son of King Edward III.

‘I have heard you had risen to the rank of captain of archers in Lancaster’s service. You were much honoured by a noble commander,’ said young Sir John.

Though he did not speak it, Owen heard in that last comment Sir John’s incredulity that a Welshman had been so trusted. Once again he wondered whether the young man felt shoved aside, one who feels outside the honoured circle being more keenly aware of another outsider.

Someone in the knights’ company cut short a chuckle by coughing. Owen glanced up and met the amused eyes of Geoffrey Chaucer. His stomach knotted. Geoffrey’s presence was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. The man had a penchant for uninvited interference and a passion for gossip. The latter was of concern to Owen not only for what might transpire at Bishopthorpe but also for what had happened in the past. Geoffrey and Owen had once travelled together to Wales in the service of John of Gaunt, the current Duke of Lancaster. Geoffrey knew that Owen, a Welshman, resented the treatment of his people by the English, and he might know that Owen had been approached to stay to help his people. He was also well aware of how Holand’s implied comment would rankle.

‘God’s grace was upon me,’ said Owen, returning his attention to the knights. ‘Sir Lewis, Sir John, His Grace the Archbishop of York is honoured to welcome Her Grace the Princess of Wales to his palace of Bishopthorpe. Your travelling party is now in his protection.’ In truth, the troop of Owen’s guards led by Gilbert, his second most trusted man, had shadowed the company since noon, but the escort was now visible and solidly surrounding it. The safety of the beloved wife of Prince Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Lord of Aquitaine, was worth Owen’s life and that of all his men.

‘We’ve had a tragic loss this day,’ said Sir Lewis. ‘A servant fell from his horse, his neck broken. His body is in one of the carts.’

Here began the trouble Owen had dreaded. He crossed himself. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘We’ve no cause to think otherwise,’ said Sir Lewis, but his eyes belied his words.

Owen’s scarred and blinded eye prickled and ached with foreboding. ‘We will arrange for his burial, if you wish,’ he said. He would examine the body, see what he might glean. A long journey without accident, and then a death at the approach to Bishopthorpe meant further danger, Owen was certain.

The knights bowed again and stepped back beside Princess Joan’s cart.

Composing himself, Owen greeted Geoffrey Chaucer, who looked plumper and more prosperous than when last they had met. He had regular features and was a well-built man, but for his short legs. It was his eyes one noticed, alert and amused, taking in the world and giving little back. He dismounted with a happy grin.

‘Welcome,’ said Owen. ‘I’d not thought to see you here.’ Not that it was inappropriate, as Geoffrey was in the household of the king, Joan’s father-in-law, but he had not been included in the description of the travelling party.

‘I was fortunate to hear about this journey in time to promote my services — my acquaintance with the archbishop’s personal secretary and his captain of guard,’ said Geoffrey, with glee in his voice. He was here to revel in gossip and high drama, Owen guessed. ‘It is good to see you again, Owen. I pray I have the opportunity to call on your family in York.’

Although they had worked together on several occasions, they had never met each other’s families, except for Owen’s late father-in-law, who had travelled with them into Wales. Owen’s wife, Lucie, had long been curious about Geoffrey. ‘I would like that,’ he said.

‘Good. So would I.’ Geoffrey gave Owen a little bow and returned to his horse.

With very mixed feelings — relief, anticipation, anxiety — Owen led the company into the yard of Bishopthorpe. The procession moved along smoothly and they were whisked within into the expert hands of Brother Michaelo while Bishopthorpe’s grooms and pages helped those of the princess’s party see to the beasts and carts.

Owen watched as a noblewoman, blessed with the vitality and grace of youth, climbed down from the largest cart and offered her arm to one who followed, the one he’d glimpsed veiled and cloaked against the dust of the road. White veil, green cloak — the colours of Prince Edward. Sir Lewis rushed forward and lifted Princess Joan out of the cart and onto solid ground. Owen observed the exquisite fluidity of the veils, the green cloak, and the woman’s lyrical gait as she approached, and he remembered thinking of Princess Joan as moving with the grace of a willow when he’d seen her at court and at Kenilworth, when he was in the old duke’s household. He’d not thought about Kenilworth in a long while, resisting the memories that quickly rose of lost friends.

‘She is a vision, is she not?’

Archdeacon Jehannes must have been standing beside Owen for several seconds. His youthful face and his apparent excitement gave him a boyish air. Owen felt a momentary resentment — Jehannes was able to enjoy the moment because, as Archdeacon of York, he was too valuable to the next archbishop to be anxious about his future. But the feeling passed, for Jehannes deserved all the good that came his way.

‘The Princess of Wales is pleasing to look on, but her presence is troublesome in the circumstances,’ said Owen.

‘I agree.’ Jehannes grew serious, shaking his head as he watched the approaching group. ‘I do not entirely understand why His Grace agreed to this excitement. He has sought calm and equanimity in our evening conversations and in the Bible passages he chooses for me to read. Perhaps he welcomes a fair distraction, eh? It is not my place to judge — nor did he ask for my opinion.’ Jehannes smiled. ‘He desires me to escort Princess Joan to his chamber that he might greet her. Pray that all goes smoothly.’

When the princess lifted her veil to receive Jehannes’s greeting, Owen noticed the lines around her mouth and eyes and a slackening of the flesh — the little that showed within the confines of the wimple. She was Owen’s age or more, in her forties. Yet her eyes, her complexion, the grace, the smile that lit up her face — even now she was, indeed, most fair.

Once she, Jehannes and her ladies passed — one of them carrying a squawking pet monkey secured by a jewelled leash — Owen moved to the body that had been lifted from a cart and placed on the ground. It was wrapped in a heavy cloth. Gesturing towards two squires looking on, Owen ordered them to carry the body to the stables beyond the palace.

‘And bring whatever he’d carried on the horse, including the saddle,’ he said.

To be powerful is to be isolated from most of one’s fellow men — this had been the unhappiest discovery of Thoresby’s career. As Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, he’d learned that few people approached him in sincere friendship, few gestures were uncalculated. Even his long friendship with the king had changed with his higher status; eventually they could no longer agree to disagree.

In his long life in the Church and at court, Thoresby had gathered around him a few people he implicitly trusted. For the rest, he maintained a healthy and self-protecting doubt. Few people were who they would have him believe they were. So it followed that he harboured no illusions about the princess’s visit, nor did he imagine that those who accompanied her were there without purpose.

‘A vigil of spies,’ he muttered.

‘What, Uncle?’ Richard Ravenser said, startled from a doze in the chair beside Thoresby’s bed. ‘Spies?’ Ravenser was Master of St Leonard’s Hospital in York and a canon of York Minster, as well as a prebend of Beverley Minster, and, until Queen Philippa’s death, her receiver. Despite his extensive responsibilities, he’d been most attentive to his uncle in his illness, clearly out of sincere affection. Though Thoresby often chided his nephew for being a peacock in dress, he trusted him implicitly and believed he would have been a good choice for the next Archbishop of York. Ravenser had said little about his lost opportunity, though his disappointment was plain in his subdued manner — and his chronic headaches had increased in frequency.

‘I was reminding myself of what we discussed earlier. We must keep our counsel and pray that the company bides here in peace and then departs in peace.’

‘Amen,’ said Ravenser.

They both looked towards the door as voices crowded the hall outside.

‘It begins,’ said Thoresby.

The stables were the temporary quarters for Owen’s men and those palace servants who’d been shifted to provide space for the guests. Most slept above in the hay, though Owen and a few others would set up their cots on the main floor in the workroom. It was there he’d had them place the body.

Alfred, Owen’s second in command, had appeared, having a good nose for trouble. The balding, gangly man already looked weary. When they were alone, Owen told him what he knew.

‘You doubt it is a simple matter of a clumsy rider,’ said Alfred.

‘Were it anyone else’s servant, I might find it easier to believe, but he was the servant of the emissary from the Bishop of Winchester.’

They exchanged an uncomfortable look. William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, had drawn trouble to himself a few years earlier on a visit to York. When he’d been Lord Chancellor and a favourite of King Edward, he had made many enemies, most importantly the powerful John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.

‘Ah, trouble indeed.’ Alfred nodded as he touched the wineskin the dead man had carried on his saddle. ‘Perhaps he was drunk?’

‘Then someone will have noticed it,’ said Owen. ‘I hope I am wrong. Come. Let’s see what else we might learn.’

In silence, they unwrapped the body. There was little to see. Bruises on his face, and his head and right arm at odd angles.

‘Pulled his shoulder out of joint,’ said Owen.

They drew off the man’s tunic.

Alfred nodded. ‘If he was not already dead, that must have hurt like the devil.’ He lifted the man’s right hand. ‘See the palm?’

‘Burned by the reins. He held on tightly, eh? I might be wrong, but I would think that a man falling asleep in the saddle would loosen his grip on the reins before falling. Now, if he’d died astride …’

‘Do you mean his heart stopped?’ Alfred considered the corpse. ‘In truth, he was not so young, but not that old.’ Gently, with the back of his hand, he touched the man’s cheek. ‘I’ll be him one day. I don’t like to think of that. Do we have a name for him?’

‘Will.’

‘Poor Will.’ Alfred touched the discoloured neck. ‘We mean no disrespect.’

Owen wondered what event in Alfred’s life had brought on this mood, for he’d often seen dead men before without musing on his own end. It was not like him. ‘What of the saddle?’ he asked, wanting to draw his second back to the world of the living.

Alfred shrugged his shoulders hard and shook out his hands, as if waking himself, and then hoisted the saddle up onto the table. It was worn but quite serviceable, well maintained, the leather supple, with a pouch for a wineskin and a strap that secured a scabbard — though the latter was empty. ‘Look.’ He’d turned over the girth where it had come apart.

‘Perhaps it snapped from his weight as he fell.’

‘Look again,’ said Alfred, holding it to Owen’s good eye.

Owen brought the lamp closer and saw what Alfred saw. Underneath, the strap had been cleanly cut partway through by a sharp blade.

‘Will fell as it snapped,’ said Alfred.

Their eyes met. They had no need to voice what they both thought. Murder. Someone in the company had wanted this man injured or dead. That was unsettling in itself, but when it was the company in which the Princess of Wales was travelling, that was more than unsettling. The palace was now crowded with high-born guests as impossible to herd as cats, and as opaque.

‘Cursed be the day Wykeham was born,’ Owen muttered.

‘I doubt he cut the strap,’ said Alfred, with a half-hearted chuckle. ‘But now we know we have trouble.’

‘We do,’ Owen agreed. ‘And we don’t know whether Will was the intended victim.’

‘The emissary?’

‘Wykeham’s man, Dom Lambert? It’s possible. Perhaps, once we know the purpose of his inclusion in the party, we’ll have a better idea whether that might be so. We will also need to find out whether they always used the same saddle.’

‘The emissary is more likely to have enemies than his servant.’

‘We don’t know that.’

Alfred slowly shook his head as he gazed on the corpse. ‘Poor man. But truly, who would care about a servant?’

‘Say nothing to anyone about this.’

‘You know that I won’t, Captain.’

‘I do, but I feel better for saying it.’ Owen coaxed a smile out of his companion. ‘Let us see what else we might learn about him.’

In Will’s pack were paternoster beads, part of someone’s castaway comb, a clean shift and soft-soled shoes. Nothing to distinguish him as a potential murder victim. But he was from Wykeham’s household.

‘Put his things in the trunk by my pallet,’ said Owen, handing Alfred a key. ‘Including the saddle. And take care to lock it.’ Alfred was again frowning down at the corpse. ‘Jehannes will say a mass for him, Alfred.’

‘I find myself hoping he was murdered for some crime he committed. I don’t like to think he died because he served a servant of Wykeham.’

‘You’re beginning to think too much. Like me.’

Alfred gravely nodded as he took the key. ‘I feared it would come to this.’ He broke into a grin, and then bent to collect Will’s belongings.

That was more like Alfred.

They moved away from the corpse, telling a servant to ask Archdeacon Jehannes to arrange for the mass and preparation of the body.

‘I pray there is no one waiting for Will to return,’ said Alfred.

Owen thought it best not to comment, instead attempting to distract Alfred with the business at hand, reviewing the details of the watches. While they talked, a servant shook the dust from Owen’s jupon. Thoresby had insulted Owen, instructing him that, while the guests were present, he was to present himself as a minor noble — clean, polite, not sullen — as if he were not in the habit of conducting himself in such wise. He cursed to think of it now as he washed his face and hands before donning the clean jupon.

In his days as captain of archers, Owen had enjoyed feasts, drinking with his men, and then catching the eye of a pretty woman to bed afterwards. Surely those days had not been as carefree as they appeared now in his memory, but he sometimes had to work at recalling the bad times. It was not that he chafed at his present life; he loved his wife, Lucie, and his children beyond anything he might have imagined. And when with Lucie he still enjoyed such celebrations, proud to show her off — her beauty, her quick wit, her grace — and he was always glad to snuggle in bed with her afterwards sharing his impressions, amazed by how much more she had observed than he had. But now, being responsible for the safety of the feasters, and with a corpse in the stables and murder in the air, he looked forward with little joy to dining with them. Even more than was his habit, he must watch how much he drank, he must watch his tongue, he must be ready to move if anyone misbehaved.

The two nuns in the princess’s company appeared with two servants — they were to take charge of the body. Owen thanked them and headed to the hall.

When he entered Bishopthorpe’s great hall, he was amazed that, within a few hours of the arrival of so many guests, most of them were already seated and feasting. The guests were seated facing inward at trestle tables arranged in a U, the servants bustling about within filling tankards and delivering trenchers and platters of meat. Owen’s stomach growled as he turned his head slowly, sweeping the crowd with his half-vision, seeking Brother Michaelo, who was adamant about the order of guests. Owen did not intend to cause a fuss by taking a seat on the wrong bench, an argument with a frenetic Michaelo not worth the time saved. His gaze came to rest on Thoresby at the high table on the dais beside Princess Joan and he wondered whether the archbishop had heard of the servant’s death.

Archbishop Thoresby looked pale, and his deep-set eyes were over-large in his illness-ravaged face. His elegant robes provided some heft and colour to his otherwise skeletal frame, but he was funereal beside Princess Joan’s magnificence. Her cotehardie was of a costly blue silk, the neckline low, exposing plump, milk-white shoulders, and her surcoat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, was ermine-lined despite the early autumn warmth. Delicate gold brooches secured her sleeves, and a gold circlet held her gossamer veil. Who would not be beautiful in such attire? Owen wondered. Her features were even and her eyes expressive, her hair a honey-gold that was doubtless enhanced, in the Italian fashion, with lemon and exposure to the sun. He’d once argued with Geoffrey Chaucer about her reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, and Geoffrey had insisted that Owen had only to speak to the princess to understand the claim, for she surpassed all but Blanche of Lancaster in grace. Owen looked forward to testing that theory. For now, he was relieved that she had been safely delivered into the hands of Michaelo.

And suddenly there he was, Brother Michaelo, elegant in the Benedictine robes tailored for him in his native Normandy, standing beside Owen with an air of having alighted on the spot for but a heartbeat. ‘All is well, Captain?’

‘At present,’ Owen lied. ‘The hall looks crowded — this great hall!’ He would never have believed it.

‘Even so, you have a seat at the second table. His Grace insists I treat you as a knight.’ The monk’s tone made it clear that he considered it a mistake.

‘I would that Lucie might be here,’ said Owen. His wife was a knight’s daughter, and he often wondered whether she regretted marrying beneath her, forsaking such honours.

‘Dame Lucie would grace the gathering,’ said Michaelo. ‘But I’ve no time to rue what might have been. Another time. Come.’

Owen cursed as he realised he was being guided to Geoffrey Chaucer’s bench.

Michaelo paused to say, ‘Master Geoffrey requested that I seat you by him. As it was at the very table to which I’d assigned you, I accommodated him. I apologise if you find it uncomfortable. I know that the two of you had your differences in Wales.’

Brother Michaelo had accompanied them on that journey, though Owen had not thought his relationship with Geoffrey had become uncomfortable until after the monk and Owen’s father-in-law had been left at St David’s.

‘I’m honoured that Geoffrey sought my company,’ Owen lied, as there was nothing to be done. ‘By meal’s end, I’ll have a head full of gossip concerning all in the company.’ It might prove helpful.

Michaelo’s long, expressive nose quivered. ‘I pray you will share what you learn, in gratitude for my making it possible. And for seating you despite the dust on your surcoat and mud on your boots.’ He sniffed as he backed away.

There was no pleasing him. Owen might have saved his time and effort — but he reminded himself that he’d done it for Thoresby, not his pompous secretary.

‘God go with you,’ Owen muttered.

As Geoffrey shifted on the bench to make room for Owen, Michaelo motioned for a server to fill a tankard for him.

‘Brother Michaelo has not aged a day in the four years since we met,’ said Geoffrey.

‘He has not aged a day since I met him ten years ago,’ said Owen. ‘I have wondered whether he made a pact with the devil.’

Owen and Geoffrey toasted one another and exchanged insults about their respective changes. Then Geoffrey grew serious.

‘I see we come not a moment too soon. John Thoresby is much diminished in flesh.’

Owen nodded. ‘I had not expected to see him in the hall again. The effort is a gift of great price for the pleasure and honour of Princess Joan.’

‘You can see that the princess is well aware of that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Look how she bends to hear him, offers him food.’

Owen watched for a few moments and saw indeed how she bowed her head close to Thoresby to listen, lifting her veil to do so, and then offered a titbit of food at the end of a jewelled knife as she replied. Her expression was that of quiet joy, neither silly nor smotheringly concerned. Thoresby’s eyes seemed brighter than Owen had seen them in a long while.

‘It appears he finds it worth the sacrifice,’ said Owen, his heart lightening a little. His changed feelings towards Thoresby kept surprising him. He’d spent most of his time in Thoresby’s service wishing he served elsewhere, but, now that the archbishop was dying, Owen’s heart felt heavy with grief. He did not wish to think about that. ‘Since you and I last met, Geoffrey, I have been blessed with a second daughter. My family thrives. How go your son and wife?’

‘They are well, God be praised. Though neither of them are as delighted by our new quarters over Aldgate as I am. Pippa is accustomed to the spacious palaces of the royal family. She is not fond of London.’ He skewered a piece of meat.

Owen chewed a mouthful of tender coney spiced with just the right amount of ginger, washing it down with wine of a quality he was not often served. He could not deny that, as far as the dining, there was much to recommend this visitation. He tried not to see Will’s corpse in front of him.

Needing a distraction, he lowered his voice to ask, ‘What can you tell me about the members of your company? What of Lewis Clifford?’

Geoffrey chuckled. ‘He composes dreadful poetry, but is otherwise an upstanding member of Prince Edward’s circle.’ He, too, spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the background clamour of a crowd feasting but soft enough to avoid being overheard by the others at the table. ‘You met the princess’s son, John Holand, who struts about as if unaware he’s an untried youth. He is most attentive to Lady Sybilla, one of his mother’s ladies. The one with the gurgling laugh.’

Owen had noticed her, a plump woman with inviting lips and bold eyes — the one who had ridden in the cart with the princess. ‘Isn’t she a married woman?’

‘Yes, poor man, elderly, surely cuckolded. The other lady is Eleanor, quick-witted and practical. Everyone in the company seems at ease with her.’

She was a petite, attractive woman, with compelling eyes and a graceful carriage. She seemed familiar. Owen had a vague memory of flirting with a woman much like her long ago, and yet not like her, for this woman’s eyes bespoke suffering and his memory conjured a merry woman, free of cares.

‘She has a tragic air about her,’ said Owen.

‘Which is perhaps what puts all at ease — suffering invites confidence, eh?’ Geoffrey chuckled. ‘As you see, Princess Joan surrounds herself with people pleasing to look on. I was not her choice!’

When Owen had first met Geoffrey, he’d found his habit of self-deprecation annoying, as he was pleasant-looking enough — there was nothing about him that Owen found silly except that he enjoyed belittling himself. He glanced back at Lady Eleanor, trying to decide whether she was old enough for him to have bedded her perhaps fifteen years earlier. It might be she, grown subtle with the years, more beautiful, burnished by time … He shook himself out of the memory.

‘What can you tell me of the sisters?’ Owen asked.

‘Dames Katherine and Clarice, Cistercians — but, of course, you see that in their pale habits — from Nun Appleton. They are to assist Master Walter, the physician, in the archbishop’s sickroom. Be wary of Walter, for he is quite the gossip.’

Owen noticed that the cleric sitting beside Geoffrey had grown quiet, as if straining to hear their whispered conversation. He’d wondered about him when he’d taken his seat, a striking man, large dark eyes, well-defined lips, high cheekbones and a long, elegant nose, pale hair curling about his tonsure, all his features well proportioned and pleasing. A mature angel was what had come to Owen’s mind, and he’d been surprised that Brother Michaelo paid him no attention, handsome men being his weakness. Owen looked at Geoffrey as he nodded towards the man.

Geoffrey understood at once and, leaning back so that the man and Owen might make eye contact, said, ‘Dom Lambert, allow me to introduce you to His Grace’s Captain of Guard, Owen Archer.’

So this was the murdered man’s master. Owen bowed to the cleric, whose expression was coolly polite, allowing a mere hint of a smile.

‘Dom Lambert comes with an embassy from William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Captain Archer.’ Lambert bowed his head. ‘Bishop William has spoken of your brave efforts on his behalf.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Owen, though he imagined that much of what Wykeham had said was the opposite of complimentary. They were not friends. ‘My condolences on the death of your servant.’

The handsome face softened a little. ‘May Will rest in peace,’ he murmured, crossing himself.

Owen was trying to think of a tactful way to ask whether Lambert thought the servant’s death an accident when Brother Michaelo swirled to a halt across the table.

‘His Grace requests your presence, Captain Archer. For a moment only.’

‘Fortunate man,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘You are to be introduced to Princess Joan.’

As Owen rose, he lifted his cap and raked a hand through his hair, a subconscious reaction to being presented to a great lady.

‘Approach him as I have approached you, from the opposite side of the table.’ The servants’ side, Michaelo meant. Owen cursed — like Thoresby, Michaelo behaved as if Owen had no experience of courtly manners.

Sir Lewis sat to one side of Thoresby and Princess Joan to the other. Beside her was her son, Sir John, beside Sir Lewis was Lady Sybilla of the gurgling laugh, fair hair caught up beneath a veil almost as translucent as the princess’s. She looked interested in Owen as he approached, one hand fluttering over her low-cut bodice. He forced his attention back to His Grace, who had just noticed him.

‘Archer. Come.’ Thoresby waved him closer. ‘I would introduce you to my esteemed guest, the Princess of Wales.’

The archbishop’s voice was faint, his eyes slightly unfocused. Owen wanted time to reverse. He wanted his overbearing, devious archbishop back. He wanted to resent this man, not pity him, especially not mourn him.

Thoresby was saying something to Princess Joan about her need for a sergeant of the household, and, as she smiled sweetly, she was closely studying Owen.

‘I understand,’ she said, ‘that you rose to captain of archers in Henry of Grosmont’s service, and that, when you were blinded, he educated you so that you might serve as his spy. So that he might be in two places at once.’ She paused with her head tilted to one side, awaiting a response.

Owen could not think what to say, too busy wondering whether it was Thoresby or the old duke who had spoken of this to her and amazed that either would divulge his role, which depended on secrecy.

‘You are taken aback,’ she said, with no attempt to hide her amusement. ‘We all have eyes and ears in our service, Captain, and make it our business to know those of our peers.’

He’d prided himself on being inconspicuous. He felt shamed. Slighted. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘I am honoured to be known to you.’ He felt mute and awkward; in addition to the unexpected topic with its unpleasant revelation, he found it difficult to hear and be heard across the table and over the cacophony of music, voices, barking dogs. ‘Your safety is my only concern at present.’

She bowed her head. ‘I am confident that I am in good hands.’

Thoresby nodded him away. As Owen returned to his seat, his head cleared enough for him to wonder whether he had been recommended to join the princess’s service after Thoresby’s death. Though it would, of course, be a great honour, it was nothing he wished for. Yet, how could he refuse the woman who might be his future queen, if God spared her husband? He only half heard the rest of Geoffrey’s gossip as he filled his belly, trying to focus on the excellent fare rather than his worries about the future. When he could eat no more, and long before he could drink no more, he departed to check on his guardsmen.

When Thoresby wished to rise from the table, he found, as often happened of late, that his feet seemed curled and twisted and quite impossible to set flat enough on the ground to gain purchase. God played with him, allowing him the ease to come to the feast but not to leave it on his own two feet.

‘Who would you have assist you, my lord?’ asked Joan, in a perfectly composed tone of voice, as if she were asking his preference in the dishes set before them. He wondered whether she was practised in this from seeing to her husband, whose illness must colour their marriage in all ways.

‘Archdeacon Jehannes, if you would be so kind as to catch his attention,’ he said.

As the Archdeacon of York was seated just beyond Sir John on the princess’s other side, it was a request Thoresby felt easy making. He heard Jehannes send a servant for Brother Michaelo. He was grateful, for he would need a man at either elbow.

God’s blood, but he was exhausted. The effort required to sit upright was becoming too great and he might fail at any moment. And yet he felt it had been worth it, to sit here in his hall sharing a meal with the beautiful and gracious Joan of Kent. She was already queenly, and he regretted that he would not live long enough to see her husband crowned.

It was a clear night, cool but not unpleasant, the moon a barely discernible slice. Gazing up at the stars, Owen felt a wave of melancholy. All in all, his life had improved during his time in Thoresby’s service. He’d married Lucie, they’d been blessed with children, and he had a place in the community of York, a respectable place. Now an uneasy change was in the air, and it saddened him. The feast had conjured memories of his life before York, when he served the old duke, Henry of Grosmont, at his palace of Kenilworth, and that, too, had brought on melancholy — or perhaps the melancholy was actually caused by the presence of death, that of Will the servant, and the imminent death of the archbishop.

Owen sat outside the barracks with a tankard of ale ready to share with Alfred when he appeared, to refresh them as they reviewed the first day of this ordeal.

From the moment he’d learned of the princess’s visit, Owen had disliked the timing. He understood that Thoresby’s failing health was all to the purpose, that the princess wished to consult with the archbishop, while she still might, about whom she could trust in the north should Prince Edward die and her young son become king — evidently a very real possibility. She was right to hurry, as Geoffrey had noticed — only days before her letter arrived, Thoresby had called in his kinsmen to witness his will. But surely a letter might have sufficed, delivered by someone implicitly trusted?

Thoresby had noted Owen’s disapproval and grimly asked what better time he might propose. The news had seemed to buoy the archbishop’s spirits — some colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes had sparkled when he spoke of Princess Joan.

In an unusually companionable moment, Thoresby had confided to Owen that he had not originally approved of the marriage of Edward and Joan, that he’d believed Prince Edward had shown a lack of the stuff that kings must be made of in secretly marrying his father’s cousin. The heir to the throne was expected to make a strategic alliance with his marriage; he should not marry for love. That had been reason enough to disapprove of the marriage, but it was all the worse for the scandal of Joan’s first marriage, which had also been secret, and she so young she’d not had the courage to admit to it when her guardians had arranged another marriage — the annulment had been the occasion of much gossip.

But Thoresby had said he’d come to admire Joan of Kent, despite her romantically irresponsible marriages, and he was pleased that she would seek him out for advice. Owen prayed it did not prove Thoresby’s undoing, that his end might arrive in a more peaceful moment.

Brother Michaelo sauntered over to where Owen sat. ‘Might I join you for a moment?’ he asked. ‘The air is deliciously cool and abundant.’

Owen slid over to make room for Michaelo. ‘How goes His Grace?’

‘He is abed. Jehannes and I practically carried him he was so exhausted.’

‘Stubborn to the end,’ said Owen.

Michaelo sank down with an air of exhaustion and sorrow, allowing his shoulders to slump for a moment before catching himself and straightening. In that brief collapse was manifest the monk’s sincere grief over his master’s illness. ‘What do you make of the servant’s death?’ he asked, with false briskness.

‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘I want a messenger to take the dead man’s pack and wineskin to my wife.’

‘I’m to send a messenger by barge to Dame Magda in the morning, after Master Walter the physician has conferred with His Grace. I understand the Riverwoman is at your home. You might use the messenger for your purpose as well, if that will suit you.’

‘That would serve me very well.’ Owen rose. ‘Thank you. I’ll bring them to you.’

‘Not tonight. I cannot predict who will assail me when I return to the hall. They’ll be safer with you until morning.’ After a pause, Michaelo asked, ‘So you doubt that the servant simply fell off the horse?’

Owen considered telling Michaelo of the cut strap, but there was no need. ‘Had he been anyone else’s servant, I might believe it was an accident, but the servant of Wykeham’s emissary?’ Owen shook his head. That seemed sufficient information for Michaelo.

‘You never did trust Wykeham.’

‘Can you recommend that I should?’

It was Michaelo’s turn to shake his head. ‘I thought he would never leave that autumn when he retreated to York to lick his wounds after being coerced to step down as Lord Chancellor. His Grace would clench his teeth and forget to breathe when the bishop was in the room. And, in the end, his ingratitude!’ Michaelo took a deep breath and sharply exhaled, as if blowing the memory away. Then he sighed again. ‘The handsome Dom Lambert is without a personal servant now. I’ve asked Jehannes’s man to assist him.’

So he had noticed the emissary. Owen smiled as he settled back down on the bench. ‘You are a most excellent host,’ he said.

‘All must go smoothly while the Princess of Wales is here. Sweet Jesu, is she not a vision of beauty and grace?’

‘She is indeed beautiful,’ said Owen. ‘Prince Edward is a most fortunate man in his marriage. Would that his health were better.’

‘Do you believe the rumours that Lancaster has his eyes on the throne?’

‘Whether or not I believe them is of no importance. It worries me that the clerics all around me believe them. If they did not, why would anyone care whether Alexander Neville is the next Archbishop of York? They dislike him because he is Lancaster’s man.’

Michaelo coughed. ‘There is more beneath their displeasure, Archer. I read the letters when Alexander Neville was fighting for the Archdeaconry of Cornwall. I witnessed the king’s fury over what Neville was doing in Avignon, whispering in the pope’s ear against our king’s choices, presenting petitions listing his complaints without the king’s permission — well, of course, since he knew full well that in all things he was going counter to the king’s interests.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘I intend to be far from York if Alexander Neville is chosen.’ Michaelo softly moaned. ‘God help us, Archer. That he is considered now is a sign of the king’s disinterest in his duty, God forgive me for my disrespect in saying so.’ He crossed himself.

‘I’ll not hand you over to the sheriff,’ Owen teased, ‘though you’ve added to the worry that’s burning my gut.’

‘You are worried about having a murderer among us.’

‘I am, and you’ve just pointed out to me afresh what an unsettled time this is. I did my best to enforce peace by convincing His Grace to send away his kin and the clerics from York Minster.’ Owen trusted the two who remained — Thoresby’s nephew, Richard Ravenser, because he knew Princess Joan; and Thoresby’s former personal secretary, Archdeacon Jehannes, because the archbishop found him a comforting presence in the wee hours, when he would read scripture to distract him from his wakefulness. ‘Most of the guards have served under me in the archbishop’s household for at least a year. And the few I added for this occasion I chose with care.’ He said nothing for a while, looking up at the stars. It had been a tense day, and now, with the spectre of trouble in the crowded palace and the rich food, he needed to move about in the night air before he might sleep with ease. He rose. ‘I need to walk. I’ve waited for Alfred long enough. Would you care to join me?’

Brother Michaelo shook his head as he rose. ‘I must see to the guests. Bring the items to His Grace’s chamber when you wake. And please, Archer, do not blame yourself for any troubles here. You have done all you could to keep the peace, and I have all confidence that you will continue to do so. His Grace could not ask for a more loyal captain and steward. It is the circumstance that is to blame. The death of the second most powerful churchman in the realm must needs be a time of strife, as everyone tries to influence the chapter at York Minster. Wykeham would have done better to send an emissary to the dean at the minster rather than the archbishop.’

‘You believe Wykeham sent Dom Lambert with information to sway the choice of Thoresby’s successor?’ Owen asked.

‘What else could it be?’

‘But quite ineffectual?’

Michaelo shrugged. ‘His Grace has washed his hands of it.’

‘Can he truly be indifferent?’

‘Now that his effort on the behalf of Sir Richard has failed? Yes, he can. He has made his peace with God, each breath requires painful, exhausting effort-’ Michaelo’s voice trembled. ‘His Grace is now beyond caring who succeeds him, though none keen on influencing the choice of his successor believe that. In the past he would have tried again, indignation spurring him to stronger measures, and they know that.’ He turned away from Owen, dabbing his eyes. Then, with forced gaiety, he said, ‘Ah. One of the princess’s ladies is abroad seeking the fresh night air. Lady Eleanor. Did you know that the other, Lady Sybilla, is a Neville by birth?’

‘No, I did not. Do you think she cares who succeeds John Thoresby?’

‘A cub out of that ambitious den of foxes? I’ve little doubt her family campaigned for her presence on this journey. Lady Eleanor, however, is said to be one of the princess’s favourites.’

‘Geoffrey Chaucer said all in the company find her agreeable.’

‘Your friend Geoffrey. He is retained by both the king and the Duke of Lancaster. Have a care what you share with him,’ said Michaelo.

‘I always do,’ said Owen.

‘I pray you sleep well,’ said Michaelo, and with a little bow, he swept away.

Owen stood for a moment watching Lady Eleanor stroll back and forth beyond the hall door. Something about her was so familiar. He had a fleeting memory of a chase through the gardens at Kenilworth, a bedchamber deserted in the middle of the afternoon, lavender scented sheets, a tinkling laughter that seemed ethereal. He’d yet to hear Lady Eleanor’s laugh. How solemn she was, how beautiful. Now she cocked her head, a sweet, graceful gesture, and he knew for certain it was the woman he had pursued for days, obsessed with her, and finally bedded, oh so long ago. The next day she had been spirited away. With a sigh, he headed away from the palace. He had enough troubles with a murderer loose in the palace.