A Vigil of Spies

Two

Tuesday

The birdsong woke Owen at dawn. He lay with his eye still closed thinking that, for the birds to sound so loud, he must have forgotten to close the shutters before coming to bed. He should rise and close them or Lucie and the baby would be chilled. As he fought his way out of the fog of sleep, he became aware of a continuo of snores and sighs closer than the birdsong, and, gradually, he remembered he was not at home in York but in the archbishop’s stables at Bishopthorpe in the company of his men and some of the household servants. He need not worry about a shutter being ajar; he was not responsible for the comfort of all these folk. With that thought, he turned over to settle back into sleep, but a familiar tension in his neck and jaw reminded him that he’d gone to bed worried. In a few heartbeats, he remembered the death of Dom Lambert’s servant, the cut strap, and the items that he wanted Lucie and Magda to examine.

‘Awake at last,’ someone said.

That was sufficient to bring Owen fully awake. He propped himself up on one arm and discovered Geoffrey Chaucer sitting at the foot of his pallet looking quite recovered from his journey and last night’s wine. He wore no hat and his wet hair still held the marks of his comb. His clothing was finely made but drably coloured, as was his custom — a jester and poet in a magistrate’s costume.

‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked, dreading more bad news.

‘I am curious whether you believe Lambert’s servant’s death an accident.’

Remembering how irritating he’d found Geoffrey’s awkward attempts to help his investigations in Wales, Owen had no intention of confiding in him. He groaned. He’d had too little sleep, and it was too soon upon waking to have to work at avoiding a conversation. He felt round on the floor for his boots, which were not where he usually put them.

‘Do you see-’ he glanced up.

Geoffrey was dangling the boots at arm’s length. With an impish grin, he handed them to Owen. ‘I’ll wait here while you empty your bladder.’

‘That’s a comfort to me,’ Owen muttered. The man’s early-morning good humour irritated him.

Outside, Owen found few but the birds and several servants stirring. The sunrise washed the sky in watery blues and pinks but had not yet lit up the ground, which was vague with the mist of the dew rising. In the short time it took to relieve himself, Owen felt the damp seeping into his leggings. His joints creaked in complaint as he walked back to the barracks and his mind churned through insults and slights that might inspire Geoffrey to leave him alone.

Geoffrey still sat on Owen’s pallet with his chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. But he looked up as soon as Owen was a few strides away.

‘So you don’t believe it was an accident?’ Owen asked, as he continued to dress, strapping on his belt, tugging a comb through his hair.

‘Had it been anyone else’s servant, perhaps. But Dom Lambert is the awkward addition to the company, someone who might have unpleasant business with the archbishop.’

He’d expressed Owen’s thoughts precisely. Perhaps Geoffrey could be of help. ‘Has he been treated differently from the others?’

‘On the journey he kept his counsel and removed himself for quiet prayer when we halted.’ Geoffrey screwed up his face. ‘Now that I consider it, he was often out of sight of the group.’

‘Did anyone accompany him?’

‘I wish I’d had the sense to notice.’

‘Did his servant, Will, go with him?’

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘No. He stayed with the other servants.’

‘It was the servant, not Dom Lambert, who fell,’ Owen pointed out. ‘You say you can imagine why the master might have been killed, but what about the servant?’

‘I’m assuming Lambert bears letters from Wykeham, and perhaps someone thought the servant carried them.’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But that would explain a theft, not a servant’s death.’

‘Men do fall off their mounts, Geoffrey.’ Owen picked up his own pack in which he’d stuffed the smaller bag containing the servant’s belongings, having removed the damaged strap from the saddle before he’d gone to sleep. ‘I must attend His Grace. You are welcome to nap on my pallet.’

But, of course, Geoffrey fell in step with him. ‘I know the guests. You don’t.’

‘And what are we going to ask them — why did you push poor Will off his horse?’

Geoffrey laughed. ‘Why not? The question might startle someone to confess.’

Owen laughed as well. He’d forgotten what an agreeable companion Geoffrey could be, and the irresistible laugh the man had, as if mirth bubbled up in him from a deep, deep well.

More servants were moving about now out in the yard, and a heavyset nun, one of the two from the princess’s party, stood outside with the physician, Master Walter. She had her head bowed as she listened to him, nodding now and then. The physician spoke with a frowning earnestness, punctuating his words with grand gestures that took up a great deal more space than his short, slender, almost childish body would in repose. Owen and Geoffrey greeted the pair as they passed. Once in the hall, Owen bid his companion a good morning — whispering, for most still slept on the pallets lining the floor. This time Geoffrey said nothing, merely continuing on down the aisle that led to the fire.

Weak and often slight of breath, Thoresby had arranged to have his bedchamber moved from the solar above to his parlour beyond the great hall. Owen skirted the sleeping guests and found a cluster of servants outside the chamber door listening to instructions from the second nun. Tall, slender, with an authoritative air tempered by a melodious voice, she seemed absolutely in command. Brother Michaelo answered to Owen’s knock and drew him into the room, hastily closing the door.

‘Dame Clarice will be my undoing. She is contradicting all our arrangements, and inspiring me to extreme measures to silence her,’ Michaelo hissed, a tensely held bundle of righteous indignation. ‘If you wish to speak to His Grace, you must be quick; Master Walter will be here in a few moments.’

‘How is His Grace?’

Michaelo lowered his eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘As you see.’ Without the animation of his irritation, the monk’s exhausted state was more obvious, lines extending from inner eye to chin on either side of his mouth, shoulders sagging.

‘I need not bother him,’ said Owen. ‘I have the items we spoke of.’ Owen opened his pack and handed Michaelo the smaller one. ‘If I could have writing material, I’ll write a message for Lucie.’

‘Is that Archer?’ This morning Thoresby’s voice was hardly more than a frail wheeze.

Owen crossed himself and then tried to shake off any posture of grief, swallowing his emotion as he strode over to the bed. ‘It is, Your Grace.’

Richard Ravenser sat in a chair beside the archbishop, balancing rolls of parchment on his elegantly draped lap.

‘Good morning, Captain.’ Ravenser did not smile. He was a younger version of his uncle and looked this morning as the archbishop had when Owen had first met him — having them side by side emphasised for Owen how frail the old man who lay just beyond Ravenser was. Thoresby’s grizzled head propped on pillows, his watery eyes, the burst blood vessels on his cheeks from his frequent coughing — all this immeasurably saddened Owen.

‘Sir Richard.’ Owen bowed his head to Ravenser, then forced himself to make eye contact with Thoresby. ‘Your Grace.’

‘We know about Dom Lambert’s loss,’ said Ravenser, clearly hoping to cut Owen short.

But Owen had his duty. ‘His servant, yes. His saddle was weakened, Your Grace, the girth cut partway through.’

The emotion that passed across Ravenser’s face made it clear he’d no idea that Will’s death had not been an accident. ‘God help us,’ he said. ‘This is troubling news.’

‘It need not lead to more trouble,’ said Thoresby, speaking softly, ‘now that the company is here, surrounded by my guard.’

‘It was likely someone in the company who fixed the saddle,’ Owen said.

‘Then you have a heavy responsibility, Archer,’ said Thoresby, his voice a little stronger.

Of course he would say that. ‘I am sending his pack and wineskin to Lucie. If there is anything else unusual, my wife will find it.’

‘Good,’ said Thoresby. ‘We shall tell Lambert when we see him later.’

Without hesitation Owen shook his head.

‘We should not tell him?’ Thoresby seemed to perk up even more. No matter how ill he was, he did not like to be contradicted.

‘I advise keeping this to ourselves,’ said Owen. ‘I would rather the company knew nothing of this until I have something to tell them.’

‘I’ll consider this.’ Thoresby looked and sounded annoyed.

Owen wished he might insist that it be kept from the visitors, but, of course, he could not, having no right to do so. But he could plant seeds of doubt. ‘As for Lambert, there is always the possibility — though it might seem unlikely at present — that he is guilty.’

Thoresby began to cough and Ravenser leaned over with a cup of something — Owen guessed honeyed water.

‘Uncle?’ Ravenser straightened with a surprised expression that softened into a bemused smile. ‘He’s laughing,’ he said to Owen.

‘The pretty Dom Lambert arranging for his servant to fall off his horse,’ Thoresby gasped.

Ravenser grinned. ‘It does paint an improbable picture.’ He grew more serious. ‘But what if he asks for his servant’s possessions?’

‘With all the guests and extra staff, it is difficult to find anything at present. Make that excuse until we are at ease with telling him what we did with them or a messenger returns them.’

Ravenser nodded, looking relieved.

Owen was, for the most part, gratified that Thoresby and Ravenser seemed comfortable with his suggestion. He excused himself to write a message to Lucie, and afterwards departed.

A low stone wall warmed by a hot sun, lavender spears moving in a breeze so subtle he would not be aware of it were it not for the bobbing of the bloom-laden stalks. Thoresby fought to remain in the memory of his garden in York, but someone kept calling to him.

‘God’s blood, what do you want?’ he growled, opening his eyes to a stranger with very blond nose hairs. He’d never seen such fair nose hair. ‘Who are you?’

‘Master Walter of Lincoln,’ the man said.

Dear God, the physician. Thoresby groaned. He’d insulted the man whom the princess had brought as a gift. ‘Forgive me. I was in such a pleasant dream of summer.’

Walter moved far enough away for Thoresby to see more of his face. He was a man of middle years, though his small stature gave him a boyish air.

‘I am sorry to have interrupted your dream, Your Grace.’ Walter’s smile was intended to look kind, but it was the unpleasant kindness of someone who believes he’s dealing with an idiot. ‘I have come to examine you.’

‘I know your purpose in coming to Bishopthorpe.’ Thoresby wanted the man to know he knew where he was. ‘The Princess of Wales believes you might heal me, though I’ve never heard of a cure for old age.’ He was sorry for that last snipe the moment he uttered it. There was no need to spoon-feed the physician an excuse to neglect his duty. ‘I did not mean to sound so ungracious,’ he added. ‘I am yours to command.’

It was a tedious experience, though not as physically uncomfortable as some of Magda Digby’s probing. Master Walter did not pry Thoresby’s eyelids quite so wide as she had, nor did he scrape his tongue or press in as many tender areas. The physician seemed to consider his astrological charts as more likely to know what ailed Thoresby than his body might, though Walter did exhibit some fascination with a flask of archiepiscopal urine, studying it, sniffing it, swirling it about. Thoresby thought the physician’s pale hair, including eyebrows, eyelashes, and apparently facial hair, made him look oddly infantile. That and his unusually small frame. His appearance did not inspire confidence.

‘Your Grace, you need only say so and I’ll banish him from the chamber,’ Brother Michaelo whispered while Walter was far from the bed.

‘He means me no harm,’ said Thoresby. Michaelo’s obvious discomfort amused him for a while. But gradually his efforts to breathe quietly so as not to alarm the physician made his head pound and Thoresby wished he might nap.

‘Is it true you’ve been cared for by a pagan midwife?’ Master Walter asked at one point, as he was sniffing Thoresby’s mouth once more.

Of course it was impossible for him to speak at that moment, so he ignored the question.

When Walter sat down to consider his charts once more, he said, ‘You do not wish to comment on the rumour of the midwife, Your Grace?’

Impertinent little man. ‘I could not while your nose was in my mouth. Pagan? I suppose she is. Midwife? She is that, but much more.’

‘Might I ask why you would choose such a woman to attend you?’

‘I doubt there’s a soul in York without a story of her remarkable skill as a healer. I myself witnessed her faultless care of a badly burned man.’

‘He is alive?’

‘No. But his passing was peaceful, for she had made it so.’

Walter sniffed and grew quiet. Thoresby wished he had the breath to tell Master Walter of Magda’s soothing compresses and tisanes, how her mere presence calmed his feverish thoughts. But he did not. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut, and searched for the warm summer garden, the drowsy drone of the bees.

‘Your Grace?’

The infernal Walter again, he of the blond nasal hair.

‘I am here.’

With much hesitation and astrological nonsense, Master Walter declared Thoresby beyond the turning point, facing imminent death. ‘It is a matter of easing your passing with prayer and pleasant surroundings,’ he concluded.

This sentence was no surprise to Thoresby. Though he managed to rally for stretches of time almost every day, he felt closer to death each time the weakness returned. ‘It is a pity that you wasted your time.’

‘I do not consider it a waste, Your Grace.’

‘You are kind. I beseech you, rest now, enjoy your time in my home. You need not hover about my chamber. I shall send for Dame Magda,’ said Thoresby. ‘Michaelo? Did you hear?’

Michaelo bent to him. ‘I did, Your Grace. I have a messenger waiting for the word to depart. The bargeman awaits him.’

‘You would bring back the pagan?’ asked Master Walter, in a voice sharp with disbelief. ‘The sisters will be ill at ease with her.’

‘Then the sisters may return to their cells,’ growled Thoresby. ‘I did not ask for them. Michaelo, send for Dame Magda and her apprentice.’

With an impatient sniff — the man must exhaust those pale nose hairs — Master Walter began to gather his things.

‘What killed the servant?’ Thoresby asked.

Master Walter glanced up with a frown. ‘Your Grace?’

‘His Grace is concerned about Dom Lambert’s servant,’ said Michaelo. ‘He wishes to know what you think caused the man’s death.’

Thoresby nodded his thanks. He would expend no more energy on speaking with the physician.

‘He fell off his horse, Your Grace,’ said Master Walter.

Thoresby shook his head at Michaelo and gestured for more.

‘We know that, Master Walter. But was his neck broken? His back? Did he hit his head?’

‘I believe his neck broke,’ said Master Walter. ‘But it matters little to him.’

‘It will matter to Wykeham,’ Thoresby breathed.

‘He made it so far, and then fell off his horse,’ said Michaelo. ‘Did someone arrange it? Did someone wish to deprive Dom Lambert of his guard?’

‘Guard?’ Master Walter shook his head. ‘He was but a servant.’

Michaelo opened his mouth, but Thoresby shook his head. The physician was clearly disinterested in the death, and uninformed.

‘I shall rest until the Princess of Wales arrives,’ Thoresby said, closing his eyes.

Not so long ago, Thoresby would have felt as did the physician — that a servant’s death was of no consequence — but not this particular servant’s, and not in the circumstances. A member of the princess’s travelling party meeting such an ambiguous end — no, he never would have found that of no concern. The physician was a fool.

With the grace of one brought up to adorn the royal court, Princess Joan approached Thoresby’s great canopied bed in a swirl of pale silk and pearls, flowing into an elegant obeisance, bowing her veiled head to receive his blessing. He drank in a sensual bouquet of roses and spice; as his sense of smell had faded of late, she must be heavily perfumed for him to be able to name the flower. He wondered whether she’d found out about his paltry sense of smell and ensured that she wore enough.

‘How do you find the physician?’ Her look was searching, no doubt hoping for approval of her offering.

It pained Thoresby to disappoint her, but he had vowed to speak no untruth for the time left to him. He had little strength as it was, and he would not waste it on a lie. ‘Master Walter believes me to be beyond his help, my lady.’

Her grey eyes sparked. ‘Mon Dieu! He said this to you?’

Thoresby heard the Aquitaine in her speech; it was said she had wept most bitterly to leave Bordeaux and return to England when her husband’s ill-judged campaign in Spain ruined his health and his ability to rule Gascony. Thoresby made so bold as to touch her hand as he smiled his reassurance.

‘I saw it in his shoulders, his eyes, my lady.’ He saw no reason to distress her if he could truthfully reassure her. He waited until she calmed a little. ‘I am grateful for your concern. Touched by it, and honoured. But, I assure you, I have made my peace with my Lord and Saviour. Death holds no terror for me. I do not fear it.’

But Princess Joan was not a friend of death. ‘I cannot believe there is nothing he might do.’ In her sorrowful expression, Thoresby saw that she was at war with Death — no doubt because of her husband’s failing health.

‘Be at peace, I pray you, my lady,’ said Thoresby. ‘I would rather learn in what way I might be of some assistance or comfort to you.’

She sighed and delicately perched on the chair a servant had placed beside the bed. The whisper of her silken garments delighted Thoresby, the sound imparting a beauty to the moment. In her lovely blue-grey eyes he saw the weight of her position in the realm, and the sorrow she bore about her husband’s illness. God had not been kind to Joan and Edward.

‘Sweet lady, I would clear the sorrow from your brow.’ Because he was an old, dying man, he could say such things to a princess.

She honoured him with one of the saddest smiles he’d ever seen. ‘Your Grace, I fear for my family. I fear-’ she bowed her head. He thought of swans bending to their young. In a moment she faced him again with those pained, sad, beautiful eyes. ‘You know how I lost my father.’ It was little more than a whisper. ‘You know how my father, Edmund, the Earl of Kent, was cut down by Queen Isabella and Roger Mortimer.’

‘What is this? Such an old sorrow eats at your heart?’ asked Thoresby.

Joan’s father, Edmund of Woodstock, had been the half-brother of Edward of Caernarfon, the former king and father of the present king. Edward of Caernarfon had been deposed by his wife, Isabella, and her lover, Roger Mortimer, and was rumoured to have died in captivity. But Joan’s father had been convinced that his elder half-brother was alive, and he had won powerful backing for a plan to rescue Edward. Thoresby had been a young man at the time and had been surprised by the support the Earl of Kent had gathered, for he’d had a reputation as a young man quick to excite but also quick to lose interest. Indeed, some had considered him a poor risk, as he’d initially supported Isabella. From his present vantage point, Thoresby understood that brotherly love had overcome all else, and that, whatever Edmund’s reputation, what he’d professed had been more than plausible to those courageous enough to stand up against Mortimer and Isabella. In any case, Edmund had been brought before Mortimer and condemned without the trial appropriate to a peer of the realm, then executed by a convicted criminal — the only man willing to risk his soul to do the chore in exchange for a pardon.

‘This is my fear, Your Grace,’ said Joan, her voice stronger, but still breathy, as if afraid to speak her fear too loudly. ‘My Edward, my beloved husband, suffers so because of the sins of his grandmother — scheming against the anointed king, betraying her marriage vows with Roger Mortimer, and finally plotting her husband’s murder. I fear that our son, Edward, died before his time for the same sins. I fear we are cursed, Your Grace. I have come seeking your counsel as to what we might do to make reparations. How can I save my family, Your Grace?’

The emotion in her voice, how it tightened on the last question — this broke Thoresby’s heart. These were heavy cares, too heavy for anything but a well-considered reply. He would not insult Joan with empty reassurance. ‘I had not considered such a curse, my lady.’

‘His grandmother, the queen, committed a great sin,’ Joan whispered. ‘And the precedent she set — an anointed king brought down by his consort and her lover-’ She broke off, dabbed at her eyes with a heavily scented cloth. ‘Who is to protect our surviving son, Richard, if my husband dies betimes?’

‘This is why you have come? To ask whether I believe God would judge your family in such light?’ asked Thoresby. ‘To receive a penance that might release you?’

‘Mon Dieu, I sound so selfish.’

Her blush was not so becoming as it had been in her youth, but Thoresby found it endearing. ‘I must pray over this, my lady.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Now she looked uncomfortable, fidgeting on the chair. ‘But there is more, Your Grace. And now, having already embarrassed myself, I am hesitant to continue.’

‘You may speak your heart to me.’

She fussed with the hanging end of her jewelled girdle, smoothing a coil of gold thread. ‘I am concerned about your successor,’ she began, speaking softly, keeping her eyes on the thread. ‘Our brother Lancaster wants Alexander Neville to bear the crosier of York, as does the pope. They are of like minds in this.’ Now she looked into his eyes. ‘But I am afraid, Your Grace. You know of the rumours concerning the ambitions of my brother-in-law. Perhaps the Nevilles are merely his pawns? Alexander’s eldest brother, John, is not only steward of the king’s household but holds a lifetime retainer in Lancaster’s household as well. I fear-I cannot tell whether they will allow one of theirs to serve my Edward — or our son Richard — faithfully.’

‘Alexander Neville.’ Thoresby closed his eyes, feeling suddenly too weary to speak. ‘I would not choose him to succeed me. When he fought for the Archdeaconry of Cornwall, he seemed to me arrogant and Godless.’ The king had ordered Thoresby to arbitrate in the contentious situation. Neville had done nothing to deserve any of his positions, preferring to lurk around the pope in Avignon rather than to hone his skills as a priest and prove himself a man of God. Much of his earlier preferment had been transferred to him on the death of his twin brother, who had been a much more deserving man. ‘I had hoped the rumour that the Duke of Lancaster supports the pope’s nomination was in error.’ He realised that he had not addressed her concern. ‘But I cannot believe the duke would prove disloyal to Prince Edward, his own brother.’

‘I pray that you are right, Your Grace.’

So did Thoresby. ‘I grieve that such concerns weigh on your mind, my lady. The death of a member of your company must also weigh heavily.’

She blinked and drew her brows together, shaking her head. ‘You speak of the servant? Winchester’s servant?’

Thoresby nodded.

Her eyes crinkled into an affectionate smile. ‘Oh, Your Grace, that was just a silly accident. Imagine — riding all this way and then sliding off his horse on the last day of the journey here. They say he rode tilted to one side for a long while, and then just slid off.’ She clapped her hands. ‘I am not in mourning for a servant.’ Her smile faded and her eyes grew serious once more. ‘My worries are for the realm, for the safety of our people.’

Her response surprised and disappointed him. Where was her heart? And, even if she found it difficult to care about a servant, such a death suggested danger to the company. Indeed, there were many reasons she should care about the servant’s death, but Thoresby chose not to exert his energy to speak them, for Joan was clearly uninterested. He merely nodded.

‘I have tired you,’ she whispered, touching his forehead with her scented cloth. ‘I shall await your summons.’

As Thoresby watched her glide from the room, he felt sad, disappointed by her chilly indifference. Perhaps he was a foolish old man, but he believed in the unconditional and universal compassion of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and he cherished the belief that there were living, breathing women of her ilk. He’d thought the Princess of Wales a paragon of compassion and love, that she of all women, married twice for love and so beautiful, would care about the death of a servant and about the safety of her company. He wanted her to be perfect in this. But he’d learned that she was merely human after all.

Brother Michaelo and Archdeacon Jehannes prayed with him at midday, and then Thoresby napped for a little while.

‘Wake me when Dom Lambert comes to see me. I should like to read what Wykeham has sent, and to talk to his emissary.’

Sleep eluded him, and he tossed so much that Jehannes took a seat by him, his eternally youthful face exuding concern.

‘Is something troubling you? Do you need something, Your Grace?’

Thoresby considered the question. ‘The death of Lambert’s servant is troubling me. I wish to confer with Archer. I want to hear his thoughts on it. On what it might portend.’ He wanted to be reassured that someone saw the potential danger in the incident.

Jehannes nodded. ‘We shall send for Archer as soon as Dom Lambert has spoken with you. He is here, Your Grace.’

Thoresby had not heard the door. Michaelo and Jehannes grew skilled in silencing the world for him. Or perhaps what seemed to him sometimes unbearably enhanced senses were truly impaired, and his hearing was not nearly as acute as he believed it to be.

Jehannes now stepped aside and invited Dom Lambert to approach the bed. Thoresby was again startled by the cleric’s beauty, which he found disconcerting in a plainly dressed cleric. He glanced over at Brother Michaelo, at once sorry for having done so, for the man was staring transfixed by Wykeham’s emissary. Lambert, for his part, looked anxious. Joan had mentioned that it was the young man’s first official mission.

‘Benedicite, Dom Lambert. I was grieved to hear of your loss,’ said Thoresby.

‘Benedicite, Your Grace. I- Will had served me well and faithfully for many years. I shall miss him. May he be welcomed into the Lord’s embrace.’ He spoke in a breathy voice.

‘Was he a clumsy horseman?’ Thoresby asked.

The cleric stared at him for a moment, as if he hadn’t understood the question. Then, with a widening of his eyes, he shook his head. ‘I would not have described him so. No, Your Grace. Nor was he the drunkard some have suggested.’

Michaelo indicated that the emissary should sit. By the time Lambert had settled, Jehannes had also taken a seat near him.

‘We understand that you bring letters from Bishop William of Winchester,’ said Jehannes.

‘I do, Dom Jehannes.’ Lambert turned towards Michaelo, who motioned to the servant standing at the door with a small case to come forward. The servant handed Lambert the case and backed away. Opening the hinged lid, Lambert withdrew a rolled parchment from which dangled the seal of the Bishop of Winchester. ‘Your Grace.’ He began to hand it to Thoresby.

‘Your Grace, would you prefer that I read it aloud?’ asked Jehannes.

It was their practice of late, but Thoresby wished to handle this letter, to taste the words himself. William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, was a troublesome man, but Thoresby felt a bond with him, and for him to have sent an emissary under the protection of such a lofty travelling party signalled a message of some importance.

‘I’ll read what my eyes permit,’ he said.

Almost at once, Michaelo delivered his spectacles and brought a lamp closer, then untied the roll for him.

‘Bless you, Michaelo,’ Thoresby murmured, as he adjusted the frame on his nose and looked over the letter. ‘Ah, he recommends the Bishop of Exeter — Thomas Brantingham — as Archbishop of York,’ he said, as he began to read. ‘A good choice, but that he is only recently bishop. Still, he is a Yorkshireman.’ Thoresby silently read further. Wykeham wanted to ensure that he knew of all the nastiness connected with Alexander Neville’s insistence on taking his seat at the Archdeaconry of Cornwall. Thoresby thought it strange that Wykeham should think he did not know about it, having been commanded by the king to handle the case. Wykeham had sent additional documents that provided detail and proof of Neville’s unacceptable behaviour, particularly regarding something that involved Thoresby’s family, a pointless but vicious effort. His own family. He could not imagine what that might be. He glanced up at Lambert. ‘You have further documents?’

The emissary nodded towards the case, and Thoresby noticed several rolls.

‘Do you know the contents?’

‘I do not, Your Grace.’

Thoresby nodded and continued the letter. Wykeham pointed out how the king’s sudden approval of Neville as archbishop suggested a complete change of heart regarding the man, and such a turnaround was very unlike the king. Wykeham thought it was rather another instance of Lancaster’s power, and that of Alice Perrers, the king’s mistress. ‘Perrers,’ Thoresby groaned, apparently aloud, for Michaelo muttered a curse and Jehannes crossed himself. He laid the letter on his lap, took off the spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Bishop William sounds troubled, and presses me to see to this with some urgency. Of course, it might simply be that he fears I’ll die before advising the king.’ He lay back on the pillows. ‘Brantingham. I do like the man. What do you know of him, Dom Lambert?’

The emissary actually blushed to be asked, which made Thoresby wonder at Wykeham’s choice of this man for the mission. He was young, too pretty for his own good, and apparently well aware of and embarrassed by his lack of experience.

‘Your Grace, the bishop has been a guest at Bishop William’s palace in Winchester a few times, but I know little of him. I can only say that Bishop William consults with him on issues regarding his part of the country, and clearly respects his opinion.’

‘So you are part of Wykeham’s household?’ When Lambert nodded, Thoresby added, ‘Tell me — what is your position?’

‘I assist his personal secretary, Your Grace. Purely a minor deity.’ His smile was disarming.

Thoresby chuckled, glad that he had found a way to relax the man. Dom Lambert’s position in Wykeham’s household meant that he was deemed trustworthy. He nodded towards Jehannes. ‘Let me hear these supporting papers. He writes of something personally disturbing.’ He looked at each man in turn as he said, ‘Whatever the matter, word of this does not leave this chamber.’ All three nodded, and Michaelo ushered the servant out of the room.

Lambert held out the case to Jehannes. The archdeacon asked whether there was an order in which they should be read. ‘They were placed in here as you see,’ said Lambert. ‘The bishop’s secretary is an orderly man, so it is most likely that he placed them in order.’ He touched the one beside the letter he’d already presented. ‘I believe this would be next.’

Jehannes thanked Lambert in his kind way, and then lifted the roll, untied it, and gave an uncharacteristic grunt as he unrolled the document. ‘There is nothing here but hints of words — it has been scraped.’ He held up the parchment for all to see. ‘Do you know if the secretary had reused parchment?’

‘Certainly, he would have. But these were not documents he created. They had been given to Bishop William by Bishop Thomas of Exeter.’

‘Perhaps he sent along a blank parchment,’ Jehannes murmured, not convinced. He lifted out the next roll, untied it, unrolled it, and held up yet another blank parchment. ‘Is this some sort of jape?’

Lambert blanched. ‘How can that be?’ He reached for the unrolled parchments, handling them as if they might spit at him, turning them this way and that. ‘I don’t understand. Your Grace, Archdeacon, Brother- I cannot- The case was ever on my saddle during the day, in my bed with me at night.’ His voice trembled.

‘Is it possible you picked up the wrong case?’ Jehannes gently queried.

‘No. I watched the secretary place them in here. And the letter — Bishop William’s letter was in here. No. This can be no accident.’

‘Unlike your servant’s fall,’ murmured Thoresby.

Lambert looked him in the eyes and apparently disliked what he saw, for he dropped his gaze to the blank parchments. ‘Do you think …? Deus juva me, if someone wanted these … But how someone could make him fall while riding amidst all the others … No one has said they noticed anything.’ His pretty face shone with sweat.

Thoresby tired of him. ‘Pity we’ve no idea when the documents were switched or scraped.’

‘You’ve not looked at these documents while travelling?’ Jehannes asked, a trace of incredulity in his tone, unusually blunt for the gentle archdeacon. He, too, must find Lambert tiring.

Lambert shook his head, his fair curls bobbing, though those that touched his forehead and temple soon stuck to his sweat-slicked skin.

Thoresby closed his eyes. ‘Michaelo, bring Owen Archer to me. Jehannes, Lambert, you will stay here.’ As Michaelo departed, Thoresby opened one eye and asked Lambert, ‘Have you no natural curiosity? You never once attempted to peek at the documents? You asked no questions?’

Lambert did not blush now. All the blood seemed drained from him, and his paleness was quite unearthly. ‘No, Your Grace. To peek would have been dishonest, to ask — it was not my place to ask.’

Thoresby wondered what Wykeham had been thinking to use an idiot as an emissary.

Owen was conversing with Sir John and Sir Lewis in the hall, recounting his days in the service of Henry of Grosmont and enjoying it far more than he would have imagined possible, for Sir Lewis proved congenial and curious, and Sir John seemed interested, despite his superior air. He’d intended to speak to all in the party, one by one, about Lambert’s servant, in the hopes of easing his mind about the incident, though he could not imagine what would make him comfortable about the cut strap. But he’d not made it past the two knights. In fact, he’d yet to ask them about the incident.

The moment he noticed Brother Michaelo’s elegant figure winding through the crowd, his face frozen in a polite smile, Owen knew something untoward had happened. He said a silent prayer that it would not have to do with Wykeham’s emissary. He turned back to his companions and tried to pick up his train of thought, but Michaelo was already at his side, touching his arm.

‘Sir John, Sir Lewis, I fear I must deprive you of your companion. Captain, His Grace would see you at once in his chamber.’ Michaelo’s eyes were anxious, his speech clipped with agitation.

Fearing Thoresby was in danger, Owen immediately took his leave of the knights, and, as they walked, he asked Michaelo the details of the trouble. He’d placed a guard outside the archbishop’s chamber window and another at his door, but he worried that was not enough.

‘Important documents have been stolen. Bishop William chose a fool for an emissary. A beautiful fool, but a fool for all that.’

Owen cursed under his breath. First a dead servant, now missing documents — though he’d feared worse. ‘Who is with His Grace?’

‘Dom Lambert and Archdeacon Jehannes.’

‘I think Sir Richard should be present as well.’ Ravenser was his uncle’s proxy when Thoresby’s strength flagged.

‘I’ll find him. You know the way.’ Michaelo turned back into the crowded hall.

Owen slipped into the archbishop’s chamber, then paused a moment, listening to Thoresby’s laboured breathing. Jehannes and the emissary quietly sat by the great bed, heads bowed as if in communal prayer. The door behind him opened, and Ravenser and Michaelo joined him. Now Jehannes and Lambert noticed the arrivals.

‘Thank you for thinking to include me, Archer,’ said Ravenser.

‘Come. Let us see what we can learn,’ said Owen, approaching the bed. ‘Your Grace.’ He bowed. ‘Archdeacon, Dom Lambert. I’ve asked Sir Richard to join us.’ Thoresby looked suddenly dreadful, exhausted by the day’s visitations. ‘Perhaps we should first allow you some rest, my lord.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Time enough for that soon. Jehannes, show Archer.’

The archdeacon opened a case that sat on the bedside table and drew out a parchment roll which he handed to Owen. ‘Open it,’ he said.

Unrolling it, Owen thought for a moment that he’d somehow turned it about, but, flipping it over, found that both sides were blank. ‘What is this?’

‘It should have been a document from the Bishop of Exeter, revealing something about Alexander Neville that would convince His Grace that the man should not be the next Archbishop of York,’ said Jehannes, his expression unreadable, and, by that, Owen knew how troubled he was, for he’d always been able to read his friend the archdeacon, even in the chilly days of their first acquaintance when he was Thoresby’s personal secretary.

Owen looked at Lambert, who had been watching him but now quickly averted his eyes with a self-betraying blush. ‘When did this happen, Dom Lambert?’ Owen asked.

The man shook his head. Merely shook his head. Thoresby cleared his throat, and when Owen looked up, he motioned him closer.

‘He does not know what the documents contained, but I smell the Nevilles behind this incident. You must resolve it.’

‘I’ll do my best, Your Grace.’ Owen straightened and looked around at the others looking at him. ‘We should send a messenger to Winchester. It will take time, but we must know what the documents contained.’

‘No!’ Lambert cried, rising from his chair. ‘I beg you!’

‘What do you propose we do instead?’ Ravenser asked, sounding like his uncle in better days, his tone so biting and cold that Lambert flinched. ‘Wykeham will learn what happened in any case, and we must know what he wished to convey to His Grace.’

Lambert clutched some of the fabric of his clerical gown as he looked at each of them in turn, his expression that of desperation. ‘Then send me, I beg you.’

‘You?’ Ravenser turned the one syllable into an insult.

‘No, Dom Lambert,’ said Owen. ‘You have been compromised, and we cannot risk trusting you a second time.’ He looked to Thoresby for approval.

‘Your Grace,’ Lambert moaned, stepping close to the archbishop’s bed.

Owen could not help but pity the man, even though he had brought such trouble. He imagined Dom Lambert had expected this mission to make his career, not humiliate him — and possibly be the death of him.

‘I shall consider this, Lambert,’ Thoresby said, in little more than a whisper. ‘Now, you must assist Archer in any way you can. He will need to know all that you can tell him.’

‘Captain Archer is in charge now,’ agreed Ravenser. ‘He has our complete trust.’

‘You need not fear him, Dom Lambert,’ added Jehannes. ‘Captain Archer is a fair man, a believer in the supremacy of truth.’

Owen found their praise at once gratifying and embarrassing — and he also knew their confidence in him might be withdrawn at once should he uncover something they did not wish to acknowledge. He had been in the archbishop’s service too long to expect otherwise.

The emissary seemed at last to understand that he had no recourse but to acquiesce. He bobbed his head towards Owen. ‘I am yours to command, Captain.’ He sank back down on the stool and pressed his sleeve to his sweaty brow. Michaelo brought him a cup of wine. ‘You are kind. Bless you,’ said Lambert, taking a good long drink.

Owen noticed that the emissary and the secretary had avoided looking at one another — even as Michaelo poured the wine, his eyes did not wander to Lambert, and Lambert never glanced at Michaelo. Owen also caught Thoresby and Ravenser exchanging a look.

Ravenser said, ‘His Grace is weary. Dom Lambert, perhaps you would care to withdraw to the chapel to pray and recover from your unpleasant discovery.’

Lambert rose, looking relieved.

Understanding that they wanted to be free to discuss the situation, Owen grabbed at the moment to ask, before the cleric left, ‘Dom Lambert, did you and your servant have your own saddles? Did you and he ever trade them? Trade horses?’

Looking at first puzzled, then frightened, Lambert shook his head. ‘I rode the same horse all the journey, and I am almost certain the same saddle, though ours were much alike. Very much alike. It is possible that Will confused them. Do you think his fall was arranged? Do you think that I was the one who was to fall?’ His beautiful eyes were huge with fear and his face so pale Owen half expected him to faint. But he wondered whether it was fear that he’d almost died or fear of being found out. It was the vigorous head-shaking and rushed denial that bothered Owen.

‘I do not know, Dom Lambert. I must consider every possibility.’

Lambert crossed himself. ‘I wish I could be certain.’

‘As you say, your servant might have accidentally switched them,’ said Owen, closely watching Lambert. But the man bowed his head and so hid his eyes. ‘You should be quite safe in this household. I would ask you not to walk about the fields.’

‘No. I will stay with the company,’ Lambert said, in a soft, frightened voice.

Once Lambert had departed, Jehannes asked, ‘What did you discover about the servant’s saddle?’ He’d leaned forward, his forearms on his lap, his eyes fixed on Owen’s eye. ‘Had it been tampered with?’

‘It had.’ Owen explained. ‘Would that the Bishop of Winchester had not sent Lambert, but had kept his own counsel.’

Thoresby chuckled weakly. ‘He is your nemesis, eh, Archer?’ But he quickly grew serious. ‘Richard, you must inform the Princess of Wales of this trouble. And her son and Sir Lewis.’

Ravenser opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He glanced at Owen, frowning in what seemed to be an attempt to communicate something, but said nothing, dropping his gaze to his elegantly sleeved forearms, toying with the buttons.

Owen guessed that he did not wish to be the one to question the princess’s trustworthiness — not in the presence of his uncle. But someone needed to voice this; it must at least be considered. Owen felt a responsibility.

‘Your Grace, is it wise to move so quickly?’ he asked. ‘Can you be so certain that Princess Joan had no part in the theft? Would it not be understandable for her to wish to know what Wykeham had sent you?’

Ravenser’s face relaxed. ‘I am reassured by Captain Archer’s clear thinking.’

‘I had not considered that,’ said Jehannes.

Thoresby growled — softly, but it was an unmistakable growl — from the depths of his great bed. ‘Princess Joan told you she has spies, Archer. She’s no need to steal or damage the documents.’

‘What if all other attempts to discover the matter had failed?’ Owen asked.

‘We cannot keep this from her,’ said Thoresby. ‘She will know soon enough. I prefer to inform her.’

‘I merely ask because, if another person dies, we might regret having moved with too much haste,’ said Owen, aware that he had already lost the argument, but feeling compelled to emphasise the gravity of the situation.

Thoresby grunted and weakly waved them on. ‘I must rest.’

Owen bowed to him, as did Ravenser, and, with Jehannes, moved away from the bed. Michaelo moved towards the bed, inquiring what the archbishop needed.

‘Apparently you trust Sir John and Sir Lewis,’ said Owen to the other two.

‘Certainly what the princess hears, they will soon hear,’ said Ravenser, looking uncomfortable. ‘I would not say it is necessarily a matter of trust.’

‘Who else in the company do you think might be trusted?’ Owen asked. He must speak with everyone. He must decide beforehand how to approach them, what to say, what to avoid.

‘I was about to ask you about Geoffrey Chaucer, Captain,’ said Ravenser. ‘You’ve dealt with him before.’

‘I’m not certain of him,’ said Owen. ‘His curiosity makes me uneasy. And I’m even less certain of the princess’s ladies.’

‘I agree about the ladies. I have a vague memory that one of them is a Neville,’ said Ravenser.

‘Lady Sybilla,’ said Owen.

Ravenser raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds right. How did you know?’

‘Brother Michaelo told me.’

‘Will we send a messenger to Winchester?’ Jehannes asked.

‘Of course,’ said Thoresby, from the bed. ‘Richard will arrange it. But we’ll not tell that fool.’ The effort to raise his voice enough to be heard caused a coughing fit.

‘God protect him,’ Jehannes murmured, crossing himself.

‘Even Lambert might have been bought,’ said Ravenser. ‘I agree that we should not tell him.’

Owen was glad of that. ‘So, we’ve only the two knights and the princess in our confidence. Good. Have you any idea what Wykeham had wished His Grace to know?’

Ravenser shook his head. ‘Only that it involves His Grace — a personal issue.’

‘God help us,’ Owen said.

‘Amen,’ Ravenser whispered.

Michaelo looked deeply troubled. Owen had heard him and Lambert whispering at the door, a fast, urgent exchange as the latter was departing. He did not like it.