A Vigil of Spies

Four

Wednesday, Early Morning

THE AIR HAD stilled overnight and heavy mist cloaked the woodland into which Malcolm, the falconer, led the small party shortly after dawn — Owen, Princess Joan, Lady Sybilla, Sir John, Sir Lewis and a few servants. Malcolm dismissed Owen’s suggestion that they wait until the mist lifted, assuring him that Thoresby’s hawks were accustomed to the moods of the River Ouse and would hunt well even in a gentle rain. The falconer did not understand that it was the eyes of the guards that were of concern to Owen, not those of the hawks, though he did know that the guards were following them and would provide a circle of protection. As long as they could see …

Owen did not know the falconer well, having had little cause to talk to him in the past, for he had no interest in hawk hunting, preferring to fell the prey with his arrows. He saw no sport in being the beast of burden for a bird’s entertainment. Ravenser had assured him that the falconer could be trusted to stay within any bounds that Owen ordered, but it was Princess Joan who had overruled him.

Joan had asked to hunt with the largest female hawk, and to carry her from the start. Owen watched with fascination as the dark-eyed, sharp-beaked hawk perched on the princess’s leather-clad forearm threateningly flapped her wings, as if testing the princess. Rather than extend the forearm on which the bird sat to keep it at a distance, Joan folded her arm in closer and gently stroked the hawk’s chest while softly talking to her. Staring into the princess’s unblinking eyes, the hawk quieted. It appeared that Joan had won her trust and respect, and, as the party began to ride, the reddish-gold hawk and the straight-backed princess in her deep green gown and hat moved as if they had hunted together for years.

Elegantly garbed in leather leggings and a leather tunic over a deep green shirt and sporting a peacock feather in his leather cap, John Holand had also chosen to ride with a hawk, and he, too, handled it with the ease of an accustomed hunter. Apparently, hawk hunting was a passion mother and son shared. Lewis Clifford had his servant carry his bird until he was ready to hunt. He looked even less rested than he had the previous day. Owen wondered what had kept Lewis awake.

With a flirtatious smile and posture but serious eyes, Joan had requested that Owen ride beside her. Sir Lewis had teased that Owen was a married man, and she’d teased Lewis that she detected a touch of jealousy in his protest. Reaching back into his former life, Owen had dredged up laughter and an appreciation for court banter, a lightness that did not come easily for him in the midst of his very serious responsibility for the princess’s safety.

Now, as they paused for the falconer and his boys to flush out some game, the princess tapped Owen’s thigh to catch his attention. It proved most effective. Owen was immediately drawn to her.

‘You are highly regarded by all. Are you aware of that, Captain Archer?’ Her lips teased, but Joan watched him with a humourless intensity. He was learning to rely on her eyes for the accurate reading of her message. The rest was her public performance.

‘You are kind to tell me so, my lady.’

She made an impatient sound. ‘My purpose in telling you is not to be kind, Captain. Two families with great ambition reside in the north, the Percies and the Nevilles.’ With her forefinger, she stroked the hawk’s breast as she spoke. ‘I have need of someone up here whom I can trust to listen to and watch these families, and to inform me of their activities — particularly their pursuit of alliances. Their wooing, if you like.’ Her smile was almost impish as she glanced sideways at him. ‘Several men have recommended you to me.’ She paused for his reaction.

He tried to hide the uncomfortable confusion of interest and alarm pulsing through him. ‘I am honoured to hear that, my lady.’ As Owen was about to ask who had recommended him, the hawk twitched and ruffled her feathers, something on the ground catching her eye. Several coneys stumbled out of the underbrush.

‘Before I depart Bishopthorpe, we must discuss this more fully.’ Joan bestowed on Owen a last, enigmatic smile. ‘For now, the hunt begins.’ She let go of her bird, who immediately spread her majestic wings and swooped towards a hesitating coney.

Not interested in watching the attack, Owen quietly dismounted and handed his reins to one of the servants. He stretched and twisted a little until his back felt usable; he did not ride often enough these days to be as at ease astride as he’d been when in the old duke’s service. Thoresby had little need to send Owen on long missions away from York. He wondered whether he would travel if he were to spy for the Princess of Wales. He was surprised to feel a little thrill at the thought of joining her household.

Joan’s beautiful laugh was followed by an intimate, cooing monologue; Owen guessed that her hawk had killed and returned to her. To so delight in death seemed obscene to him. He’d seen too much of it. He walked away from the hunting party, scanning the woods for his men. He had ordered that half of them be on foot, half mounted — those on foot were quieter and might observe more, those on horseback were faster. Walking very slowly, his eye trained about ten strides beyond the company, he gradually picked out with his half-vision three men, the centre one mounted. All were still but alert, their eyes on the hunting party. He became aware of a fourth, another mounted guard, but this one with his back to the hunting party, watching for intruders. If the circle continued so, and Owen had no cause to think it did not, he was well satisfied. He heard a flutter of wings, the strangled cry of an animal. At least he knew the game would not be wasted. Thoresby’s cook would use any game brought to her kitchen.

Through the canopy of leaves, a dappled sunshine awoke and the mist began to writhe up from the ground, causing the woodland to shimmer and pulse. Owen closed his eye, the tricks of the rising mist disturbing him. Since he’d lost the sight in his left eye, he’d disliked anything that blurred or negatively affected his vision, uncomfortable about how vulnerable it made him feel. Archdeacon Jehannes had once suggested that this disquiet arose from the very lack of faith that might have caused God to blind him — that God may have blinded him in order to strengthen his faith in his ability to see beyond physical sight. Owen found that interesting but unlikely. God was too busy to play such games with each soul.

‘Captain!’

Owen moved in the direction of the shout. As the mist shifted, he seemed to see his mirror image approaching him, but realised it was Tom, one of his guards, much younger than Owen, with the same curly dark hair, unusual height and broad shoulders. Some teased that Tom was Owen’s bastard, though no one believed it — at least he was reasonably sure that neither his fellows nor Tom did. As he picked his way along the uneven, mist-shrouded ground, the hairs on the back of his neck and a twitch in his blind eye warned him that Tom had found trouble.

‘Up there, Captain, in the tree.’ His eyes raised up to the canopy, Tom spoke softly, almost reverently.

The woods were unusually quiet, Owen realised. Leading his horse, Gilbert was moving forward on Owen’s right. Still unable to see what they were looking at, Owen stepped closer until he saw what spooked the birds to silence. A body hung from a tree, a few feet above the ground, the man’s legs gently swinging. He could just make out the groan of the rope against the green wood, a sound that he felt more than he heard.

‘God help us.’ Owen crossed himself and then motioned to the converging guards to halt. ‘Touch nothing.’ As Owen made his way through the underbrush, another man came into sight, lying on the ground beneath the hanging man, curled in a foetal position, absolutely still. He wore the robes of a Benedictine monk, the elegantly tailored robes of Brother Michaelo. Owen cursed, and his scarred eye tingled with dread.

The ground beneath the tree, a damp mixture of leaf mould and earth, had been churned up by a horse’s hooves. Owen saw no horse but Gilbert’s. An old ladder lay on its side nearby, as if the hanging man had kicked it away.

Twisted and swollen and shadowed by incongruously beautiful autumn leaves, the face did not at once reveal the victim’s identity, but the clothes and the fair curls suggested to Owen that Dom Lambert had joined his servant. He drew nearer until he could see the distorted face, indeed the wreckage of Lambert’s once-beautiful visage. Owen crossed himself and prayed for the emissary’s soul. Whoever had failed to kill him by damaging the wrong saddle would be most pleased.

As for the body curled up near the dead man, Owen could not tell whether or not Michaelo was breathing. For the obsessively tidy monk to lie in the rotting vegetation so startled Owen that he feared he, too, was dead, and he crossed himself as he picked his way across the churned ground to crouch beside Michaelo, gently resting his hand on the monk’s neck to feel for a pulse. He was relieved to find a strong pulse, and the flesh warm. God be thanked. But it was even more puzzling that Michaelo did not respond either to Owen’s touch or to his own name.

Tom moved closer.

‘Had you expected this?’ Owen asked him. ‘Had someone directed you here?’

Tom, looking frightened, shook his head. ‘No, God help them, I just now noticed something odd in the tree. I did not see Brother Michaelo on the ground at first. Is he dead as well?’

‘No.’

‘Thank God.’

As Owen searched his mind for a flaw in his organisation of the guard around the manor, a horse and rider came up behind him, and he held up his hand for them to halt as he turned.

‘Deus juva me,’ Lady Sybilla cried.

Owen silently cursed to see that it was she who had witnessed this darksome sight. She tightly clenched the reins with her gloved hands, her small eyes round with shock. Her mare, sensing her unease, danced a little, and Sybilla let go of the reins with one hand to stroke the horse’s mane. At least there was no hawk on her arm to react to her emotion; she’d accompanied the hunting party solely to assist Princess Joan in any way she might.

‘Who is it?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly steady.

‘My lady, return to the others. This is no sight for you,’ said Owen, running his hand along the horse’s neck to reassure her and then catching the front loop of the rein to turn her around. But Sybilla halted the motion by leaning to one side, the soft, rich fabric of her short green cape pooling over Owen’s arm as she peered up to see the hanging man. She smelled of rosewater and her breath was warm and sweet as she turned to speak to Owen.

‘Dom Lambert? Sweet Jesu, it is him, isn’t it? That beautiful man.’

Absurdly, Owen felt a stab of jealousy as he steadied her horse. He doubted any woman had ever called him beautiful, scarred as he was. Perhaps before he was wounded, but not likely. Christ, he was a fool to care. His grisly find here in the wood had unhinged him. ‘I pray you, say nothing to the others, Lady Sybilla.’

‘Why say nothing? Who is it?’ Sir John came striding up beside Sybilla’s horse. He was on foot, still carrying his hawk, who was beating his wings as if distressed by being taken away from the hunt.

Sybilla leaned forward over her horse’s head, as close as she dared, and, when she’d made sure of Owen’s attention, pretending to address the horse, she whispered, ‘The brooch is a moonstone in silver.’ After making a slightly louder calming comment to the horse, she straightened.

Her brief look had been intent, serious and disturbing, and, with her mentioning it, now the lost brooch took on a new, ominous dimension. He must later ask what it signified. At present he must see to Lambert’s body, and have someone help Michaelo back to the palace. Lady Sybilla and Sir John must leave so that he could concentrate on observing all that he might before the guards released the corpse from the tree.

‘My lord, I would be grateful if you would have the servants go ahead to fetch Master Walter and Archdeacon Jehannes while you escort your mother and her lady safely back to the palace.’

Both the young man and his hawk were eyeing the swinging man. ‘Dom Lambert, is it? Too humiliated to face Bishop William, I suppose.’ His tone was mocking.

Owen felt like slapping him, the pampered pup, but he did not want to deal with the uproar such an attack would cause. ‘Please send for Master Walter and Archdeacon Jehannes.’

‘What is Brother Michaelo doing there?’ Sybilla asked. ‘Is he hurt?’

‘I cannot tell. I pray you, bring help.’

‘Dear Lord, watch over them,’ she murmured, as she began to move back towards the hunting party.

‘What is the archbishop’s secretary’s part in this?’ John had stepped closer to him.

Owen stepped between Michaelo’s inert body and the princess’s son. ‘I will find out, I assure you.’ He stared at the young man until, with a snarl, John withdrew.

As the lady and the knight moved away, two more guards approached, one on horseback. Owen sent the horseman to ride back to the palace with the hunting party and return with Jehannes and Walter, as a reinforcement in case Sir John found the assignment beneath his dignity. Owen ordered Gilbert to keep his horse outside the area beneath the hanging tree while he studied the churned ground.

Now that Owen knew Michaelo was alive, his mind was awash with questions, implications, suspicions and concerns, as if a great dam had burst. If Lambert had taken his own life, Owen faced an uncomfortable question: had he pushed the emissary too hard, a man who had been desperately fumbling for his balance after having been felled by his weaknesses? He had not sensed such a profound despair in Lambert, but perhaps he had not wanted to acknowledge it. Owen had been angry that his prayer for calm in Thoresby’s last days had been rejected, an anger aimed most passionately at Wykeham for sending trouble with the princess. It had been Lambert’s misfortune to represent Wykeham — Owen might have been gentler with a member of Princess Joan’s household.

My sweet Lord, forgive me if I had any part in this man’s despair.

And Michaelo — what was Owen to make of his presence beneath Lambert’s body? Had he anything to do with the man’s death? Remembering the looks exchanged between Lambert and Michaelo, their whispered conversation, Owen was sick at heart. He’d often feared that Michaelo’s discipline to forgo sins of the flesh was but a varnish, and, as it aged, might become dangerously brittle. Perversely, he was also irritated about the inconvenience if Michaelo could not supervise the household — it was just the sort of ridiculously mundane concern that often came up in moments of crisis, as it was more comfortable to complain about day to day frustrations than to face the larger implications.

Owen forced his attention to the evidence before him. He considered the toppled ladder, an old thing dark with damp and moss. It would have sunk into the damp woodland floor beneath Lambert’s weight, but there was no mud clinging to it. But for the moss, it was quite clean. There had been a thick covering of leaf mould that might have protected the legs from sinking, acting as a carpet over the mud, but the horse had disturbed it — unless the horse had come afterwards. It was also possible that Dom Lambert had not taken his own life, but that his executioner had placed the short ladder there to make it look as if the emissary had done so. A chilling possibility, for it suggested danger for all at the palace. Brother Michaelo? Had he gone mad and murdered Lambert, then swooned to see what he’d done? Owen did not think a madman would have the forethought to bring the ladder, nor did it seem possible that such a brief acquaintance could inspire Michaelo to cold-blooded murder. He had spent too many years in deep penance for that.

Or had he dammed up his passions for so long that it had taken little for the dam to break? Who could ever answer such a question but God? Owen was certainly not up to the task.

Gazing up, he realised that Michaelo could not have managed it alone. Yet Michaelo was a solitary soul, and the thought of him recruiting someone to assist him in hanging Lambert was ludicrous.

If it had been suicide, the horse that had churned up the ground would be found wandering. Now there was something Owen could search for — the horse. A horse that had returned without a rider.

But a rider had taken it from the stable sometime in the night, and no one had yet come forward to report it. Owen had surrounded the manor with guards and posted them at intervals within the grounds. More than one of his men should have witnessed Lambert’s movements from palace to stable to tree. And Michaelo’s movements should have been noticed, though he was so ubiquitous it was almost understandable if a guard had discounted it — but all the guards he’d passed? How careful had Lambert and Michaelo been to move without stirring the air? Why?

Murder or suicide, it was a violence that should not have been possible during this vigil. Someone should have interrupted it.

But, stare as he might, he could not tell whether there had been one horse or several — if Lambert had used the horse to help him into the tree, he might have fussed with it, causing quite a lot of movement.

Crossing over to where Gilbert stood beside his horse, Owen told him to take a good long look at the scene. ‘I want you to question the men on duty last night. Describe to them what happened here on their watch. Describe it in all its horror. God help us, that should make them talk.’

Gilbert, grim-faced, nodded. ‘I will, Captain.’

Owen turned back to Brother Michaelo. In all this while, he had neither moved nor made a sound.

‘Come help me, Tom.’

They picked him up — he was awkwardly limp — and carried him to an undisturbed area well away from the tree. Although he remained limp as if in a deep sleep or faint, he’d begun to murmur something. Owen caught fragments of Latin prayers. Perhaps Michaelo had an injury he could not see, or had been sedated with something similar to the concoction that had caused Will’s fatal fall. Michaelo’s breath revealed nothing unusual, but hours might have passed. Stains were difficult to detect on his dark habit, but it smelled strongly of leaf mould, so he might have been lying there for a good part of the night. Gently Owen felt his skull, and lo and behold, discovered a substantial lump which could explain Michaelo’s faint — indeed, moderate pressure elicited a moan. Owen would see that he was watched for signs of serious injury. Now he considered yet another possibility — that Michaelo had witnessed a murder, in which case, he might be the next victim — unless it seemed he was presumed the murderer or the cause of Lambert’s suicide. For now, at least, he was safe with them, but Owen would need to arrange for him to be under constant guard. He must think how to protect him. Christ, he must think how to protect His Grace and the princess as well.

Leaving Michaelo still murmuring disjointed prayers, Owen motioned for Gilbert to bring the horse close so they could ease Lambert down onto its back. He was still slightly warm and not yet rigid. Owen guessed he’d died several hours before dawn. He checked whether the knot was unusual, but found nothing to distinguish it.

Tom climbed into the tree with a knife to cut the rope, while Owen and a third guard grasped Lambert’s legs to ease his pull on the rope and prevent him from swinging. When Tom had finally severed the noose, he held the rope as Gilbert, Owen and the other guard lowered Lambert’s body onto the waiting horse. Owen was trying to decide whether to wait or to lead the horse back to the stables when Jehannes and Walter arrived, accompanied by Alfred.

‘What a cursed mission,’ said the physician, as he dismounted and joined Owen. He was so short that, as he stood next to Dom Lambert’s body sprawled over the horse, his head was level with the corpse’s.

‘Brother Michaelo?’ Jehannes crouched beside the archbishop’s secretary. ‘What are you doing out here? His Grace has been asking for you.’ When his presence and his words did not rouse Michaelo from his trance-like prayer, Jehannes looked to Owen. ‘How does he come to be here? What has happened to him? His robes are damp and smell of the woods.’

‘We found him curled up beneath Dom Lambert, as if in a deep sleep from which we cannot wake him,’ said Owen, half-expecting Jehannes to laugh at such an absurd story.

But the archdeacon nodded with a gravity that reassured Owen. ‘Hence your grim visage.’ Jehannes blessed Michaelo and then rose and went to Lambert. He proceeded to administer the last rites to him.

‘I’ll see to Brother Michaelo in a moment,’ said Walter, studying the corpse as Jehannes prayed over it. ‘Dom Lambert’s neck is broken, of course. He looks as one might expect from strangulation and then-’ The physician turned away, shaking his head. ‘It is a horrible sight.’

‘When we bring him to the barracks, I would have you examine his body for other injuries,’ Owen quietly commented, for Walter’s ears only.

The tiny physician made a show of distaste as he regarded the body. ‘Do you think someone had already wounded him? That this was simply the final act? Scourge, crown of thorns, lance through the side, then hanging?’

Owen found his sacrilegious use of the imagery of Christ’s execution offensive. ‘I’m implying nothing so crass, Master Walter. I simply meant that I need to know as much as possible about Dom Lambert’s last hours. His corpse might have much to tell.’

‘Or nothing more than that he hanged himself and the weight of his body pulling at the rope did the rest. I don’t like to examine him further,’ said Walter, both his throat and his face seeming to tighten against the prospect. ‘This is not what I came to Bishopthorpe to do.’

‘I did not expect you to find it pleasing, Master Walter. It is a duty, not a pastime.’

Jehannes motioned Owen aside, his expression not merely grieved but troubled.

‘Dom Lambert was to share my bed last night,’ he said, speaking as quietly as possible, ‘but, as far as I can tell, I slept alone. My servant, who was seeing to Dom Lambert as well, is quite certain I slept alone.’ The palace was crowded and all must share beds or chambers. Jehannes searched Owen’s face for his reaction, then nodded at his distress. ‘I pray Dom Lambert did not lie with Brother Michaelo. I noticed how they spoke, how they looked at one another.’

‘I did as well.’

‘Not that I believe that Michaelo would do this.’ Jehannes’s eyes begged Owen to reassure him. ‘He would have tried to dissuade him from taking his life, not encourage him.’

‘I pray you are right. I’d hoped that years of penance and service to the archbishop had changed Michaelo, purged him of his sinful passion.’ Later Owen would confide in Jehannes, for he trusted him above most men, but, for now, he thought it best to express suspicion. Indeed, it was possible he misinterpreted Michaelo’s injury. ‘Still, they say once one has murdered — or attempted murder — the barrier is far more easily crossed. He did try to poison Brother Wulfstan many years ago.’

Jehannes was shaking his head. ‘He had been under the influence of an evil man.’

Owen rubbed beneath his patch, his scar prickling as it did when he was deeply troubled. ‘I agree. It was a different time, he was young, and Archdeacon Anselm had poisoned his mind. But, if he has sinned, I worry how that might again poison his mind. He would be so ashamed. Listen to his prayers.’ Owen cursed under his breath. ‘His Grace needs Michaelo here and whole. The household needs him as well. There will be confusion and disorder enough when the company learns of what we’ve found here.’

Jehannes crossed himself. ‘I know. I’ve ordered my servant to keep his tongue about Dom Lambert’s absence, which he will.’

‘It will be more difficult for him once he hears of this.’

‘I trust him, Owen. He will not fail me.’

‘Impress upon him the grave danger we all face here.’

Jehannes nodded.

Working to compose his mind for the work at hand, Owen thanked Jehannes for telling him of Lambert’s not having slept in his bed that night. ‘And thank you for riding out. Has the hunting party returned to the palace?’

‘Yes. The princess wishes to talk to you as soon as that is possible. She understands that you cannot predict when you might go to her, but she will wait for you. Her son began to protest, but she silenced him with a look.’

Master Walter knelt down beside Michaelo, who had curled himself up once more and grown quiet. He sniffed his breath, lifted a hand and felt his pulse, probed along his back and his stomach, lifted an eyelid. Sitting back on his heels, he considered the man for a few moments, and then startled Owen by suddenly clapping several times.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ Michaelo cried out, struggling to sit up. He blinked rapidly, as if having difficulty keeping his eyelids up, and his movements were erratic, uncontrolled, unbalanced.

Owen stepped forward, but Jehannes was quicker, crouch ing down and taking Michaelo’s hands, stroking his head.

‘Peace, Michaelo. You are among friends.’

Michaelo looked at Jehannes, then all around, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, speaking barely loud enough for them to hear, his voice hoarse. ‘What is this place? Why am I here?’

Owen crouched down beside him. ‘What do you remember?’

Michaelo closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, hiding his face. He began to mutter a prayer.

‘You will have time for prayer after you talk to me, Michaelo.’

Though he did not intend to thoroughly question him here, Owen wanted to make a good show of it. He thrust a fist beneath the monk’s chin to lift his head, and, when Michaelo tried to turn away, he slapped him. Holding his burning cheek Michaelo glared at Owen.

‘At last. What happened here, Brother Michaelo?’

‘Why-’ Michaelo paused to clear his throat, wrinkling his nose at the state of his sleeve.

‘I found you lying in a faint beneath Dom Lambert’s body,’ said Owen.

‘Deus juva me,’ Michaelo whispered, fear widening his eyes, constricting his throat. ‘Hanged? It was not a dream?’

‘What do you remember?’

Michaelo shook his head and then pressed his hands to his face.

Owen leaned close and whispered, ‘Say nothing to anyone but me.’ Then he pretended to attempt to pry Michaelo’s hand from his face.

Michaelo sank to the ground, moving his hands to the back of his head and pressing them there with such strength they could not be pulled away without injuring him.

‘Damn Wykeham,’ Owen hissed. He glanced up at Jehannes, who had looked on with sorrow. ‘Will you take Brother Michaelo in hand if Master Walter says he can be moved?’

‘Take him away,’ said Walter. ‘I believe his wounds are better tended by a priest.’

Jehannes nodded.

‘If he is guilty, he must face his judgement. If he witnessed something, he may be in danger,’ Owen said to Jehannes, ‘and so might you.’

‘I am not afraid, my friend. This I gladly do for you.’

Owen pressed his shoulder. ‘God go with you.’ He thanked God for a man so trustworthy as Jehannes.

He called Tom over to bring a horse for Michaelo and Jehannes and to assist the former in mounting, and then left them to join Alfred where he stood beside the hanging tree.

‘I cannot explain how this could happen. You should hang me where he was swinging.’ Alfred’s hands, fisted, were pressed to his gut as if he would eviscerate himself.

‘I can’t spare you at the moment,’ said Owen. ‘You will have to bide your time for penance.’ He slapped Alfred on the back. ‘I pray we suffer no other such losses.’

‘The ladder — he hanged himself?’ Alfred finally brought himself to face Owen.

‘I don’t know. He would have had to fetch a horse and ride out here — surely someone saw him — someone besides Michaelo. I’ve ordered Gilbert to question all those on guard last night. The ladder looks like something he might have found out here. God help us if none of the guards noticed anything, for that would paint yet another problem. No one is to leave the manor, Alfred, and none are to be admitted but Magda, Alisoun, and Sir Lewis Clifford’s men, who will be returning from Nun Appleton. See to it.’ He need not mention the messenger to Winchester — he prayed that, by his return, which would take a while, they’d know what had transpired. But he must send yet another messenger to report Lambert’s death to Wykeham. He mentioned that to Alfred.

With a nod, Alfred went off to begin passing orders to the guards.

Master Walter chose to walk back to the palace with Owen.

‘The walk will help me forget Dom Lambert’s face,’ he said.

‘And prepare you to see it again.’

The physician shrugged. ‘A moment of peace is better than none, Captain. The air in the wood is fresh, cleansing.’

‘I’ll have no peace until I know what happened there.’

‘God grant Brother Michaelo the strength to tell you, and soon.’

Something about the physician’s tone caught Owen’s attention. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I have never before seen a hanged man, Captain, so it may be my ignorance, but the bruises on Dom Lambert’s neck seemed too wide to be the result of the rope’s pressure.’ He lifted his own long-fingered hands to his neck and pressed his thumbs to his throat, raising his eyebrows as he met Owen’s gaze.

‘You think he was strangled?’

Dropping his hands, Walter shrugged. ‘As I said, I have never before examined a hanged man.’

‘I will look more closely.’

‘Brother Michaelo seems to run the household. Has he been long in His Grace’s service?’

‘Almost ten years.’

‘I understand he fell under the influence of Dom Jehannes’s predecessor as Archdeacon of York.’

‘Anselm. Yes. But Brother Michaelo-’ Owen caught himself before he denied the possibility that the monk might be guilty. ‘It is difficult to accept that he might have strangled Dom Lambert.’

‘Perhaps he had fallen under the influence of another manipulative man.’ Walter tapped his teeth as he thought. ‘But, if there is truth to the rumour that Dom Lambert failed in his mission for the Bishop of Winchester, then I should think it more likely someone is trying to silence him.’

Owen had been turning that over in his mind. It seemed possible that whoever stole the documents might not want Lambert to remember something that, in hindsight, seemed suspicious.

‘I pray Michaelo regains his wits,’ said Owen. ‘How did you choose the sisters you brought to assist you?’

Master Walter made a surprised sound. ‘You don’t think either of them strangled Dom Lambert and then hanged him?’

‘We don’t know that only one person committed the crime.’

‘Would a crowd not be noticed?’

‘Would not two men and at least one horse be noticed?’

Walter nodded. ‘I see your point. I’m afraid I can tell you little about the sisters. They had already been chosen, and I was simply told they would assist me if I had need of them. I had never met either of them.’

The physician paused to stare up into a great oak, his hood falling back, his neck straining as he looked up, up. ‘Soon these colourful leaves will turn brown, drained of moisture, and what this morning is a soothing whisper will be a sorrowful rattle causing one to shiver and think of the grave.’ He lowered his head and took a breath that seemed to expand him for a moment. Then he shook his head, his eyes sad. ‘I see so much death, Captain. I have looked into the eyes of Princess Joan’s husband, the once magnificent warrior, Prince Edward, and I have seen that his death is very near. I was one of many physicians summoned to examine him. That is how Her Grace knew me.’

‘Thank you for telling me without my needing to ask.’

Walter nodded. ‘I count myself fortunate that I have no acquaintance with the Bishop of Winchester. He seems a dangerous man to serve.’

Owen had not expected the physician to be so talkative. ‘It was a great honour to be summoned by the Prince of Wales.’

‘I have served his brother, the Duke of Lancaster, when he is in the shire,’ said Walter, his voice less comfortable. ‘I also serve the Bishop of Lincoln from time to time, as well as his esteemed guests. I’ve travelled with him to York on occasion. In fact, I knew your wife’s late husband — Nicholas Wilton? You are married to Dame Lucie, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘You are nothing like her first husband. I say that with no intention of judging your worth against his; I pray you do not take offence. I merely wished to express my delight that Dame Lucie, about whom Nicholas spoke with such love and admiration, was accepted by the guild. They can be harsh with widows, and it is so unfair when we know that husband and wife worked together as one.’

It had been Archbishop Thoresby’s influence that had kept the apothecary in Lucie’s hands. ‘God has smiled on my family,’ Owen said.

‘As I recall, the evil Archdeacon Anselm who led to Brother Michaelo’s downfall had a part in Nicholas Wilton’s death.’

Owen remembered Geoffrey’s warning about Walter being a gossip.

‘Anselm? Not that I can recall.’

Though he did not look as if he believed Owen, Walter merely shrugged. ‘I am curious about this healer, the Riverwoman. I cannot think how His Grace came to know her. Does Dame Lucie know anything about her?’

On another day, when his mind was less weighted with serious problems, Owen would have laughed at the physician’s transparent appetite. But today he merely found it burdensome, yet another hurdle to clear. ‘There was a time His Grace forbade Dame Magda to enter York,’ he said. ‘But he has since witnessed her skill. All who do come to respect her.’ He was uncomfortable with the direction in which the physician was going with his questions, and glad that they were approaching the stables, a scene of milling people calling to one another, horses being shifted, and supplies being moved. Alfred looked up from a conversation with Gilbert and caught sight of them, waving to make sure Owen saw him. Sir Lewis and one of his men stood nearby, watching the activity and talking.

‘But this Riverwoman is not a Christian,’ Master Walter was saying, apparently intent on pursuing the topic.

‘No, Dame Magda is not a Christian, but she would give her life for another’s if that is what she deemed necessary. Perhaps she does not need all the prayer that most of us require to teach us to love one another.’ He bowed to the physician, who frowned as if trying to decide whether he’d been insulted. The safety of the palace was Owen’s first priority, not the professional pride of the little physician. He joined Alfred.

‘Is there anything else Gilbert should ask about besides whether anyone had seen Dom Lambert or Brother Michaelo since the feast?’ asked Alfred.

‘Other riders last night — one or several. Someone carrying a ladder in the woods.’ Gilbert had a good mind and was liked by everyone. The men would talk to him if they would talk to anyone. ‘Come to me with anything you learn,’ he said to Gilbert, and then moved on to Sir Lewis and his man. As he reached them, he heard them discussing Princess Joan’s wish to be kept informed of his progress in discovering how Lambert had died.

Lewis glanced up. ‘Here he is.’

‘I pray you, assure Her Grace that I shall keep her informed,’ said Owen.

Sir Lewis nodded. ‘Captain, what do you think? Was Dom Lambert murdered?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Owen.

‘By Brother Michaelo?’

‘I pray he is innocent.’

‘I understand there was a ladder?’

‘Yes. The murderer might have used it, or Dom Lambert might have hanged himself. Either way, he is dead and a messenger must be sent at once to Winchester.’ Yet another. He wondered whether Wykeham would regret his interference.

‘I had not thought of that. Forgive me for delaying you.’ Lewis seemed embarrassed.

‘Do you know where Archdeacon Jehannes has taken Brother Michaelo?’

‘To the monk’s bedchamber, I believe.’

Owen thanked him but did not depart at once, mentally scanning the list of those in Princess Joan’s party to see whether he had any more questions for Lewis. There was someone about whom he was curious. ‘Lady Eleanor did not join the hunt this morning. Is that unusual?’

‘She is ill at ease around the hawks, Captain.’ And Sir Lewis was quite obviously ill at ease about the question, though perhaps he was merely still uncomfortable with Owen’s abruptness. ‘You cannot be thinking that she hanged Dom Lambert?’

‘I merely asked. Eventually I hope to be able to account for everyone’s movements last night and this morning. Have you known her to avoid hawks before?’

‘I don’t recall her presence on any hunt. No.’ Lewis shook his head. ‘I cannot remember ever seeing her with a hawk.’

Owen nodded. ‘You have been most helpful, Sir Lewis.’ He noticed Richard Ravenser crossing the yard towards them. ‘Commend me to Her Grace. Meanwhile, I have commanded my men to allow no one to leave the manor.’ He bowed to Sir Lewis and his companion and then went to reassure the archbishop’s nephew that he was doing all that he could to ensure the safety of Princess Joan and Thoresby.

Ravenser nodded to Lewis and moved aside with Owen. He looked haggard and uncomfortable in the moderate glare of the weak sun, as if he had not slept or was unwell. ‘Dom Lambert’s death. Brother Michaelo’s presence. This is very bad, Archer.’

‘I consider it worse than “very bad”, my lord. In this crowd, with the future queen and a dying archbishop here, it is a dangerous situation. I have ordered the guards to allow no one to leave the manor. But, of course, I do not know whether the murderer is still here, or whether there is a murderer — or more than one. And, if Michaelo is innocent, I’ve no idea who the murderer might be, or, indeed, who might be the next victim. If Michaelo witnessed something, then he might be in danger.’ Owen stopped, realising he was only heightening Ravenser’s anxiety when what was most needed were calm heads. ‘Who is with His Grace now? With Brother Michaelo indisposed …?’

Ravenser pressed the heel of his hand to one eye and softly groaned.

‘One of your headaches?’

‘God’s blood, I’ve no time for this affliction.’

‘Do you have the physick you need?’

‘Yes.’ Ravenser took a deep breath and forced himself to open both eyes, blinking rapidly. ‘You asked- One of the sisters is with my uncle. I’d not seen Brother Michaelo yet this morning — of course, now I know why, and Dom Jehannes was called away, so it fell to me to read to him. Pray God Dame Magda returns soon. His Grace is tired but unable to rest quietly. Only she is able to comfort him when he is so agitated.’

‘God willing, she will be here before nightfall,’ said Owen. ‘Does His Grace know of this latest death?’

‘No. I heard of it only when I came out for some air.’ Ravenser shaded his eyes with his hands. ‘Brother Michaelo. Do you think he-?’

Owen glanced around to check that he could not be overheard, and, when he was satisfied, he said, ‘I doubt that he is guilty, and I pray that I am right. But I will pretend to suspect him. Do not be surprised to hear it.’

‘Why the pretence?’

‘For Michaelo’s safety.’

He seemed to understand. ‘My uncle took him as his secretary for reasons other than fondness,’ said Ravenser, ‘but, over time, I believe he’s come to have a deep affection for him. It appears he symbolises for my uncle the power of penance, renunciation of sins, redemption. I fear my uncle’s reaction to this news.’

Owen had much the same concern. ‘I’ll go to His Grace after I’ve seen Michaelo. Rest, my lord. His Grace needs you whole and healthy. I will tell him what happened, and I’ll make sure someone he trusts is with him at all times until Dame Magda arrives.’

‘God be thanked that my uncle has such a loyal and worthy captain.’ Ravenser pressed Owen’s arm. ‘God go with you. I’ll be in my chamber if you have need of me.’

Owen bowed. Ravenser departed with a little groan.