A Vigil of Spies

Six

Wednesday Evening

Unfortunately, Sam knew little of the man who had offered money and indulgences, except that it was a different man who’d come with the horse in the early hours past midnight, banging on the door and simply instructing Sam to deliver the horse at midday to Bishopthorpe with the tale of finding it in the fields. The one who had paid him several days earlier had spoken like a noble, using some foreign words; the man who came in the night spoke like a man of the shire.

Owen and Jehannes had returned to the palace knowing little more. On the ride back, Owen fell to brooding about Sybilla and Eleanor, two enigmatic women who seemed to invite mystery.

God was looking after him, for as he entered the palace yard, he spied Sybilla, her blue silk gown and gold surcoat bright against the dark wood of the stables. She appeared to be talking to one of the grooms about two young dogs rolling about in play nearby. Lifting laughing eyes to Owen, she momentarily rendered him reluctant to broach a serious subject and dim that smile. There were all too few smiles in the palace at present.

‘Captain Archer. I’ve been admiring the puppies. They’ve captured my heart.’ Sybilla’s round face and short stature, animated by her excitement, made her seem childlike.

‘I trust His Grace would be willing to part with one — if you would like to carry one back with you,’ Owen said.

She beamed with joy, clapping her hands as she exclaimed, ‘I shall ask him!’ She pointed to the larger and rowdier of the pair and playfully commanded the groom to guard him with his life.

‘I will, my lady,’ said the young man, with a wink at Owen.

‘My lady, might we walk away from here and talk a moment?’ Owen took a few steps towards the gardens.

With a quizzical look, Sybilla bowed her head and followed. Overhead, clouds were gathering, and the late summer garden was dreary with dry, rotting leaves, flowerless stalks, and drooping blossoms gone to seed. Sybilla’s bright clothing only emphasised the faded mood of the garden.

When they were well away from anyone who might overhear, she said, ‘You want to know about the brooch.’ She glanced up at him with a tiny, apologetic smile. ‘I have teased you with it.’

‘Why, my lady? It seemed a very odd time to speak of it in the wood this morning, unless the brooch is connected to Dom Lambert’s hanging.’

She crossed herself. ‘I did not mean disrespect. I pray they are not connected.’

‘The corpse made you think of it?’

‘I do not know what to think. My intent was that if you were to encounter it, you would know that it meant something. Do you see?’

‘Not at all. Why would I come upon it?’

She wrapped an arm round his and led him to a far bench beneath a linden.

‘I fear a friend is in danger, and I am — prying.’ She shrugged. ‘Hoping to find out how I might help without breaking a promise to say nothing. I’m not very good at it.’

‘The friend for whom you fear is the owner of the brooch?’

She nodded. ‘It will probably turn up among a servant’s belongings, but I cannot help but worry, with all that has come to pass on this journey, whether the loss of the brooch is more significant. I thought that, if you came across the piece, then I would know where her danger lies — or whether I am worried over nothing more than a greedy servant.’

‘Who is this friend?’

‘I cannot say.’

Owen was losing patience. ‘Two men have died, my lady. If you believe her to be involved in their deaths, you must tell me.’

‘No. I pray you, forgive me for mentioning the brooch.’ She fussed with her surcoat, kicked a leaf out of the way with her pretty shoes, then looked him in the eye, all hint of teasing gone. ‘My concern might be much ado about nothing. And then I could not forgive myself for breaking my promise and perhaps compromising her reputation.’

‘I’m assuming you speak of your companion, of Lady Eleanor.’ He watched Sybilla fight to conceal her reaction, but it was clear to him that he’d guessed right. ‘What sort of danger do you think she’s in?’

She was quite visibly upset, teary-eyed and flushing crimson. ‘Why did I mention it?’ she cried.

‘What danger, my lady?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Betrayals of the heart, Captain.’ She rose. ‘Forgive me for distracting you with my petty concerns. God go with you.’

‘I don’t believe you think them petty, my lady. There is a sadness in Lady Eleanor. Is she content in her marriage?’ Owen asked, hoping to learn more of Sybilla’s thoughts, seeking the key to the change in Eleanor.

Sybilla brightened a little, apparently amused by the question. ‘Is anyone content in their marriage, Captain? Are you?’

‘I am most content in mine, my lady. Aren’t you?’

‘Would that I were, Captain. You are a most fortunate man, and your wife a most blessed woman.’ She nodded to him and turned to leave.

He frantically searched for a way to ask more without revealing his past acquaintance with Eleanor. ‘So she is not content?’

‘In her position here, yes. But her home is a cold place.’

‘The brooch is from a lover?’

‘No! But-’ Sybilla hesitated, then said quietly, ‘It might have been given to one.’

‘And therein lies the danger?’

Sybilla looked mortified. ‘I pray you, ask no more.’

‘Do you know where I might find Lady Eleanor?’

Frightened eyes searched his face. ‘God in Heaven! You would tell her of this conversation?’

‘Do you take me for a cur, my lady? Of course I would not so betray you. I would enquire as to her recovery from this morning’s fright. She was most affected by Dom Lambert’s death.’

‘I believe she is in the great hall, talking to Sir Lewis,’ said Sybilla, and, with another nod, hurried down the path.

The sun was beginning to set, and a fine mist fell from the sky, seeming to tease tendrils of fog from the river. The brightly dressed Sybilla seemed an exotic bird in the dying light, flying down the path towards the stables and the puppies she coveted. Owen guessed that the woman was not the silly pet she pretended to be, but was rather a shrewd woman who knew how to use her effect on men. He wondered why she’d sought to distract him with this matter of the brooch.

He sank back down on the bench to consider how to approach Eleanor, and was deep in an argument with himself when he noticed an oddly flickering form approaching. He crossed himself and whispered a prayer. Blinking to clear his vision in the dying light, Owen realised it was Magda Digby, her multicoloured gown catching the occasional glimmer of twilight in the swirling mist. He felt his mood lift as she stepped lightly along the stone pathway, seemingly waking nature up as she came, the water pooled in the lady’s mantle leaves shimmering as her skirts brushed them, the rosemary releasing its heady scent into the air as her hands swept past. Her presence healed even before what she would consider her work began.

‘Magda, I am more relieved to see you than I can say.’

‘It would not be fitting to say Magda is delighted by thy greeting,’ she said, with a concerned tilt of her head. ‘Thou’rt in need.’ She moved aside to allow Alisoun to step forward and deliver into Owen’s hands the pack he had sent with them.

‘I am glad to see you as well, Alisoun.’ To his surprise, Owen meant it. As often happened, Magda’s naming of his state made him more aware of it. He was glad to have these two allies present.

Never reticent, Alisoun asked outright, ‘What has happened here, Captain? As we passed through the hall, we heard whisperings of another death. A hanging.’

He settled the pack on his lap as he considered how much she might need to know, but realised that she must know enough to be safe and to recognise information that might be useful to him. ‘You heard rightly. We found the Bishop of Winchester’s emissary hanging from a tree in the archbishop’s woods this morning. He might have taken his own life, or someone might have gone to some trouble to make me think so.’

‘May he rest in God’s grace,’ whispered Alisoun, as she bowed her head and crossed herself.

She had grown up in Magda’s company, Owen thought. Although she looked as gangly and sharp-edged as ever, her slender neck seeming too fragile for her adult-sized head, there was a quiet about her now that invited one closer than before.

‘I count on you to pass on to me anything you hear that might help me discover what happened,’ said Owen. ‘His name was Dom Lambert. It was his servant who died when his saddle failed the day the company arrived.’

Alisoun looked him in the eye and nodded once. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Captain.’

Magda smiled to herself, but Owen saw it. Then she grew solemn, studying Owen’s face, shaking her head. ‘Thou art weary of heart, Bird-eye. To blame thyself will help no one.’ She settled down beside him and took his hand in both of hers.

The simple gesture brought him great warmth. He realised he’d been feeling deathly cold.

Glancing up at Alisoun, who was blinking against the drizzle, Magda said, ‘Hie thee to His Grace’s chamber, and have a servant fetch thee some food and wine. Sit close to the brazier and dry thyself. Magda will have need of thee in the days to come. Thou must not catch a chill.’

As Alisoun moved to obey, Owen made one more request.

‘There are two sisters here, in pale habits and black veils. I do not want them alone in His Grace’s chamber at any time, for any reason, particularly the younger one, Dame Clarice. If either should question your refusal to leave them alone with His Grace, send them to me.’

Alisoun frowned, but did not ask why. She simply nodded, then bobbed to them and hurried off.

‘She is maturing in your service,’ said Owen.

‘She is,’ said Magda, a smile in her voice. ‘She is a lesson in trusting thy gut about someone. Magda doubted up here,’ she tapped her head, ‘but believed down here,’ she pressed her stomach. ‘She was patient when Magda stopped to help an injured man on the way to the barge. She uttered not a word of complaint.’

Owen found it almost beyond belief, but said nothing.

A gust of wind shook the tree overhead, sending down a shower of moisture, but Owen did not find it unpleasant enough to warrant moving, and, apparently, neither did Magda.

‘The nuns are not to be trusted?’ Magda asked, after a comfortable silence.

‘No.’ Owen told her about Dame Clarice’s disturbing behaviour and how she might have stolen something — so he distrusted her and yet at the same time could not rule out the possibility that she might be the next victim, if someone wanted what she’d taken and chose to silence her after relieving her of it. ‘It comes down to trusting few in the visiting company. Even fewer of my men — I fear they may have fallen prey to greed, money offered to them to betray His Grace and help those who hope their man will replace him as archbishop. Money and indulgences as well, I’ve just learned.’

Magda’s barking laughter rang out, but she did not smile. ‘Blessings for betrayals. Thy religion can be sadly amusing, Bird-eye. But, in truth, thou dost deserve better from thy men. Thou’rt loyal and good to them. Magda is sorry to hear of their falseness. What of the physician?’

‘I have no cause to distrust him, but neither do I have proof that I can trust him, so I prefer to be cautious.’

‘Perhaps the physician and the nuns will leave now that Magda and Alisoun have returned?’

‘No. I’m allowing no one to leave. Until I have found the murderer, I cannot risk that.’

Magda stretched out her legs and yawned. ‘Magda will nap for a short while, then sit with His Grace through the night.’ She squeezed Owen’s hand. ‘Thou wast right to think this visit from the Princess of Wales ill-advised. Two dead, and at least one of those deaths was hastened by someone.’

‘You found poison in the wine?’

She tapped the pack on Owen’s lap. ‘Magda and Lucie found that the wineskin holds a sleeping potion — poppy, mandrake and water germander. A strong potion, though not a poison.’

‘I doubt he had chosen such a drink for travel,’ said Owen. As ever, the proof that someone had arranged a mortal accident angered him. Poison was the coward’s way to rid himself — or herself — of an inconvenient person.

‘Nay,’ said Magda, ‘thou hast a murderer here at the palace. The germander could be thy most helpful clue, for it is most often used for gout.’

‘Gout?’ Owen was surprised. ‘I’ve seen no one I would guess was so afflicted. Perhaps you might observe the guests, Magda.’

She patted his hand once more and shifted on the seat with a little groan. ‘Magda prefers making a journey on her own two feet.’

Owen realised she’d said nothing about her time at his home. ‘My family is well?’

Her blue eyes brightened. ‘All but for missing thee, and Lucie grieves Old Crow’s imminent passing. For all his sins, he is well loved by thy family, eh, Bird-eye?’

‘Much to my surprise,’ Owen agreed. ‘I wish Lucie were here. I worry that I’m too angry to observe with the care I should. She calmly listens and advises me when I am so.’

‘Anger can cloud thy vision,’ said Magda, nodding. ‘Remember that violence rises out of fear and pain. Remember as well that Magda is here if thou shouldst need her.’

‘I depend on you.’

‘Thy family will come by and by, sooner than thou wouldst like, but not so soon as to help thee with the murderous guest.’

As always, Owen felt that, in her words, she hid a knowing that went beyond observant common sense. Yet he knew she would deny any gift of prescience.

He told her in greater detail about Lambert’s death, the evidence of strangling, and Michaelo’s involvement. He also told her about Sybilla and the brooch, curious what she might make of the woman’s behaviour. ‘Did she seek to distract me from my investigation, or am I seeing guilty behaviour where there is none?’

‘Magda hast not yet met this young woman, but, from what thou sayest, she might be honest in her concern about a friend, fearing the woman might trade this small treasure for trouble.’

‘Why did she tell me of it but not tell me all?’ Owen wondered.

‘She told thee of her promise. And yet she broke it, little by little. Have a care — thou might be wise to doubt her explanation.’

‘And the nun, Clarice — though I warned Alisoun against her, I cannot discount the possibility that she might have taken something that the murderer or murderers might want.’

‘Old Crow wants peace and he is instead surrounded by the fearful and the desperate. Thou hast a heavy burden, Bird-eye.’ Magda rose and stretched her arms up towards the darkening sky. ‘That cloud is about to open. Magda is off to nap. Thou art surrounded by friends as well as foes.’

Owen thought it a frustratingly vague encouragement. But he had no time to sulk. Going to the great hall in search of Lady Eleanor, he discovered her seated at a little distance from Sybilla and Joan, a piece of needlework forgotten on her lap. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.

‘My lady,’ he said, bowing to her.

Eleanor’s lovely face with its high cheekbones, large, dark eyes and wide, expressive mouth glowed for a moment as she gazed up at him. Then, as if catching herself, she glanced down to fuss with her embroidery.

‘The light is too dim now for stitching, my lady.’ He sat down near her. ‘Have you recovered from this morning’s darksome fears?’

When she looked up, her eyes shimmered with tears. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Captain Archer? Owen?’ She whispered the last.

‘Remember you? Sweet lady, of course I remember you. I thought surely you would not remember me — or would not wish to.’ He smiled gently and her embarrassment dissolved.

Still a little tearful, she said, ‘I hear you are happily wed to an apothecary.’

Owen nodded. ‘I came north in despair after the death of my lord and, to my surprise, I found a blessed new life. We have three children of our own and a foster son.’

‘I am happy for you, Owen. I have a son as well, a bonny boy.’ Though she smiled, tears fell down her cheeks. ‘But now that I’ve done my duty …’ She looked away, delicately dabbing at her eyes with the edge of a long sleeve. ‘Forgive me. I’ll say no more.’ She took a deep breath and turned back to smile on him. ‘In your presence, I fear no harm, Captain. Would that we might have walked away from Kenilworth hand in hand.’

‘Your life is so unsatisfying?’

‘Worse than that. Far worse than that. But you asked whether I’d recovered from this morning’s despair. I am sorry that you witnessed me in such a state. My husband loses patience with me when I fall into my dark moods. He lectures me on trusting in God’s grace.’

‘What causes them, my lady?’

‘I pray you, call me by my Christian name.’

‘Eleanor,’ Owen whispered.

She looked long into his eye. ‘I recall the story of your blinding. When we were together, you were so angry, your wounds so fresh. I’ve often wondered whence came the woman’s anger, what more there had been to her story.’

Owen had been wounded by the mistress of a Breton prisoner he’d protected and released. Catching the man when he’d returned, sneaking through the camp to slit the throats of the valuable prisoners, Owen had attacked him in a rage at his ingratitude and his own poor judgement, and the woman had come to her lover’s aid, slicing Owen’s eye.

‘Whence came her anger?’ he said. ‘I was part of the invading army, my lady. We were at war. I’d attacked her love. That all seems plain enough.’

Eleanor shrugged. ‘As for my story, I trust no one in my household but my son. There is no one on whom I might depend. That is the bleak truth of my life, Owen.’

‘You’ve no one?’

She must have caught a gesture from Princess Joan, for she bowed to her mistress and said to Owen, ‘I forget myself. My lady wishes you to attend her after the evening meal.’

Owen turned to the princess and bowed. ‘I will be there,’ he said to Eleanor. ‘Have you confided in the princess?’

‘She is aware of my unhappy state. To my shame, most of my travelling companions have witnessed my despair. I am heavy company.’ She forced a smile. ‘And now you must go, or we shall provide the gossip for the evening.’

He took his leave of Eleanor then, having no heart to ask about the brooch. He’d thought of another aspect of Sybilla’s concern about the piece of jewellery — that she might think it had been given as a bribe or payment, and could have been sold in York. He considered whom he might trust to take the barge to York in the morning and talk to the goldsmiths, who might hear of such a transaction. It might be useful, in general, to listen for any rumours of the events at Bishopthorpe. The person who came to mind was Archdeacon Jehannes, to whom all felt safe in confiding. He found him meditating in his chamber and apologised for interrupting him, but he soon discovered that his friend was eager to learn of Owen’s progress in the investigation. After telling him all he’d learned, Owen proposed to Jehannes the trip to York.

Even a man as ready to do anything for His Grace and all his friends as Jehannes baulked at the thought of a river journey in the autumn damp. ‘Not tonight, surely?’

‘This is not meant as a severe penance, of course I meant in the morning. You might begin at the York Tavern with a comforting tankard of Tom Merchet’s ale and Bess Merchet’s memory of people’s conversations the past few days.’

Jehannes’s eyes brightened and he smiled. ‘Indeed, this begins to sound like a blessed respite from this besieged place.’

Anticipating that the presence of the Princess of Wales would insinuate itself in some marvellous way throughout the palace of Bishopthorpe, Alisoun was disappointed to find the archbishop’s chamber unchanged. It was still overheated, dark, and tinged with the smell of the sickroom, though the latter only faintly, for Brother Michaelo was skilled in tempering the odour with fragrant fires and aromatic oils.

Brother Michaelo, however, seemed alarmingly changed. Wilted. Hollow-eyed.

‘Benedicite, Alisoun,’ he said, rising from his seat beside the archbishop’s great bed, his smile oddly sad, as if she reminded him of happier times now gone.

‘Benedicite, Brother Michaelo,’ she said. ‘Dame Magda is with Captain Archer. She sent me to arrange her things.’

‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’

She nodded. ‘Dame Magda told me to have a servant bring food.’ She glanced at the servant who stood ready at the door.

‘Yes,’ Michaelo nodded to him, ‘some food for this young woman. And for Dame Magda?’

‘She said she would nap a while, and then attend His Grace,’ said Alisoun.

Michaelo motioned for the servant to see to it, then led Alisoun away from the sleeping archbishop to review with her His Grace’s condition during her absence. Alisoun wondered whether the archbishop had surrendered to his fate with the physician’s diagnosis, but Michaelo did not allude to that and she was not comfortable asking him. When she had eaten a little and arranged Magda’s trunk of physicks, she offered to sit by His Grace.

Michaelo seemed most grateful. ‘I will leave you, then, and go make certain the servants are seeing to the evening meal. With so many guests, they are easily confused.’

He stopped in a far corner to drop something on a cot that had not been there before. She wondered whether that was a sign that the archbishop needed more constant attention.

A quiet time ensued, interrupted only by one of the sisters the captain had warned her about inquiring whether Alisoun would like some company. It was the older one, Dame Katherine, and Alisoun saw no harm in her presence as long as she was not left alone in the chamber. They sat quietly for a long while, the nun praying, Alisoun spinning. When Thoresby woke and asked for some wine, the sister departed, having exhibited no suspicious behaviour. The archbishop seemed genuinely glad to see Alisoun. She did not find him at all diminished by the gloomy prognosis of the princess’s physician. In fact, he seemed as calm and matter-of-fact as before, though he sought to reassure her that she need not feel threatened by the deaths of Dom Lambert and his servant. She appreciated that he treated her as a responsible adult.

When Magda arrived in Thoresby’s chamber, she told Alisoun that she was free to do as she wished until dawn.

‘Magda has rested. She looks forward to a quiet night in His Grace’s company.’

Alisoun had grown accustomed to the friendship between Magda and Thoresby, and understood when she was in the way. But it was difficult, despite her admiration for Magda, to believe that the elderly woman could remain awake all through the dark, quiet, uneventful hours.

‘I do not mind returning earlier.’

‘There is no need. Thou couldst dine in the great hall with the company,’ Magda suggested.

Alisoun knew she was welcome in the hall. But, once out of the chamber, she was drawn out into the evening. Hastening out of the door to the kitchen yard, she turned towards the river gardens. She was making her way beneath the eaves when someone grabbed her arm. She turned towards a man who stood so close she could smell the wine on his breath.

‘What a pretty poppet. Where have you been hiding?’

By his elegant dress, she guessed that he was one of the knights in the company. He thought her easy prey.

‘I am no poppet,’ she hissed, yanking her arm from his grasp. ‘I am apprentice to Dame Magda Digby and of the household of Captain Archer.’

He took a step backward and swept her a mocking bow. ‘Sir John Holand, stepson of Prince Edward.’ Then, lunging for her, he grabbed her round the waist and pulled her close.

Her heart pounding, she said, ‘You have had too much to drink, sir, and will regret this behaviour. Go now.’ She was about to bring her knee up into his groin when she heard voices just ahead.

He must have heard them as well, for he suddenly released her and, with a chuckle, moved back towards the kitchens.

Alisoun hurried on.

‘It is I who should leave, being the one who has given offence, however unwittingly. I pray you, stay and rest awhile.’

Two women stood in the shadows of a lovely porch facing the gardens, one of them a nun. Alisoun did not think it was Dame Katherine, but it was difficult to be certain and she did not wish to stare. The speaker wore elegant attire. She sounded as if she were trying to lighten her companion’s mood — there was a hint of teasing affability in her tone.

Welcoming the refreshing coolness of the gentle rain on her face and in no hurry to return to the palace, where she might encounter Sir John, Alisoun moved on through the gate and into the autumn gardens. She found just enough shelter on a stone bench beneath a tree and was calming down when footsteps on the gravel path set her heart pounding once more. She shrank into the shadow and apparently succeeded in becoming invisible, because a woman in the habit of a Cistercian nun rushed passed her without so much as a glance or a hesitation. The drizzly twilight did little to illuminate the nun’s face, but her sobs were enough to make Alisoun curious, particularly after having heard the sweet consolation in the lady’s voice in the porch. If this was Dame Katherine, Alisoun wondered what had happened to her in the short while since they’d parted in the archbishop’s chamber. If it was Dame Clarice, she was even more anxious to discover what was wrong, considering Captain Archer’s warning about her.

Stepping with care over the damp spots on the path and ducking beneath the branches growing heavy in the mist, Alisoun followed the nun out beyond the cultivated gardens and into the fields. She was soon shivering, as her damp skirts clung to her ankles and the moisture ran down into her shoes, but she did not hesitate until the nun approached the edge of the woods — remembering Dom Lambert’s death among those trees, Alisoun did then pause. Her curiosity was not strong enough to lure her there at twilight.

But the nun had also halted. Now Alisoun could see that she was taller and thinner than Dame Katherine — this must be Clarice. She stood quite still for a while, and then slipped her fingers up a sleeve. Apparently not finding what she’d thought was there, she checked the other sleeve, and then her bodice, her movements increasingly frantic.

‘Bitch!’ she muttered. ‘Trust no one, Clarice, no one. You know that, you fool.’ After more frantic searches of her clothing, the nun groaned as she tilted her face upward to the soft mist and shouted, ‘Damn her! And damn him for calling me a spy and a thief.’ Her voice broke into a sob and she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, her continued muttering impossible to understand.

Alisoun was undecided whether to reveal herself and attempt to comfort the woman, or to withdraw and allow the woman time to regain her composure.

But, in the end, it was not hers to decide. The woman made a loud, choking sound, startling Alisoun, who was already quite nervous about being so close to the edge of the woods. Clarice was clutching at her throat with one hand, stretching the other out in front of her as if to reach for help. She stumbled forward a few steps, coughing more forcefully now, as if she was trying to clear her throat, and then she spun around in the opposite direction, took a few hesitant steps and tripped on her skirts.

Before Alisoun could reach the poor woman, a man in the princess’s livery rushed forward, knelt to lift Dame Clarice, and rose with her in his arms. He noticed Alisoun and nodded to her.

‘I’ll take her to her chamber. Fetch Master Walter.’

Alisoun gathered her skirts and ran back to the palace.

As Owen stepped into the kitchen yard, a maidservant and one of his men unwound from an embrace and joined him, arm in arm.

‘We’ll walk with you to the stables, Captain,’ said Ned.

Owen read fear in his eyes. The young maid’s as well. He knew she was a laundress and occasional kitchen maid, but knew nothing more about her, not even her name. He led them into the stables, to a quiet spot on the ground floor, away from those sleeping off the night watch — which should have included Ned, he realised.

‘You’ve something to tell me?’

Ned nodded. ‘Ann and I both, Captain.’

‘I spurred him to speak, Captain,’ said Ann, ‘and he planned how we might come to you without anyone guessing our purpose.’

‘Dom Lambert’s murderer might not want us to talk,’ said Ned.

Owen hoped their information was as helpful as they seemed to hope and fear it was. ‘Go on.’

The young woman took a deep breath as she met Owen’s gaze. She had a plain face but for large, deep blue eyes that drew one in.

‘My pallet is so near where Brother Michaelo is sleeping that I feared he’d stumble over me in the dark,’ she said. ‘But all who were sleeping there worried about folk moving about, so we agreed to keep a lamp burning while we slept. The night Dom Lambert died, I saw him creep from Brother Michaelo’s bed.’

Owen crossed himself. ‘God bless you for telling me this, Ann. How did he look?’

‘I thought he might be weeping,’ she said. ‘He made a noise like a sob and hurried out of the door where we just met you. I was falling back into sleep when I heard a woman’s voice out in the kitchen yard, and Dom Lambert answering, or at least I guessed it was him.’

‘Could you hear what they said?’

She shook her head. ‘Later, Brother Michaelo’s habit brushed my arm as he passed. I could not tell you how much later.’ She shrugged. ‘That is all.’

‘How did he look?’

‘Hurried.’

‘And you, Ned?’

‘I saw Brother Michaelo walking in the fields before dawn. I thought nothing of it — he is everywhere on the manor.’

‘He was alone?’

Ned nodded. ‘And empty-handed. I wish I could tell you more.’

‘I am grateful to both of you,’ said Owen. In a louder voice, he said, ‘I’m warning you, Ned. Sleep with the others on your watch. You can court Ann after Her Grace’s company departs.’

With grateful smiles the couple parted, he to climb up to his pallet, she to scoot out of the stable door.

Owen lay down on his cot to consider this new information — it would seem to support Michaelo’s story. He wished Ann had been curious enough to peek out of the door and identify the woman who’d spoken to Lambert, but perhaps someone else would come forward. Before long, he’d returned to his fear about the loyalty of his men, reviewing how he had come to hire each one, searching for the telling detail. Unfortunately, there were some he could not recall. Some had been added by Alfred while Owen was away in Wales. Some had been in Thoresby’s guard before Owen joined it.

John Holand found him still lying there, wrapped in his worries.

‘You lie there doing nothing? The Princess of Wales is making excuses for you and how do I find you?’ His fine clothing was misted with rain and, when he shook his head, he sprayed Owen.

Owen closed his eye and reminded himself that strangling the son of a princess would bring ruin on Lucie and their children. ‘I may appear to be idle, but I am considering possible changes to the arrangement of my guards.’

‘We looked for you in the hall. We expected you — you had supped there the previous evening.’ He stank of wine and was already unable to give his full attention to another’s response.

‘I thought Her Grace would prefer to enjoy her evening meal in peace,’ said Owen. ‘I have much on my mind. I would be too grim a guest at the table. Nor can I spare the time for a long feast. Should I understand by your presence that the company has dispersed so early?’

‘You cannot spare the time,’ John growled. ‘But you’ve plenty of time to lie abed.’

Perhaps it was Sir John’s unlined, unscarred face that made Owen react to him as an impertinent boy, but that he was not — he was twenty-one and, no doubt, knew his way around the court circle. Owen must have a care. A drunk courtier was often an unreasonable courtier. They stared at each other with caution.

John was the one to look away first. ‘I’ll escort you to my lady,’ he said. ‘Remember your station.’

Owen decided that it was best to take that as an order and acquiesce.

Princess Joan had been given Thoresby’s former bedchamber up in the solar, a lovely, spacious room. Brother Michaelo had managed to arrange the one large bed and several smaller ones to give the princess and her ladies some privacy from one another. Tapestries from Thoresby’s other nearby residences had been brought to Bishopthorpe and the chamber walls were festive with scenes of hunting and winemaking.

The princess’s ladies and a pet monkey had been sitting with her on the bed, and Geoffrey Chaucer had been sitting nearby spinning a tale for their delight, eliciting laughter and applause. Owen was sorry when his presence dampened the much-needed cheer and dispersed the gathering. Eleanor and Sybilla took John and withdrew to another part of the room, and Geoffrey bowed and took his leave. Fortunately, the monkey went with the ladies — Owen did not trust the exotic little beasts.

Princess Joan thanked Owen for coming. She still wore the beautiful green silk gown that shimmered in the candlelight. She sat quite upright on the bed against a mound of cushions, her outstretched legs draped with an embroidered coverlet. A small cushion peeked out from beneath the coverlet, revealing that one foot was propped up.

After the polite greetings, Owen inquired whether the princess had been injured.

Her laughter was sweet. ‘No, God be thanked. It is enough that I am an aging woman who does not heed her physician’s advice, Captain Archer. Riding and hunting this morning were excellent activities for me, and had I strolled in the garden for a while this afternoon and eaten a little less at supper I might be quite comfortable tonight. But I sat this afternoon over my embroidery, ate and drank too much at supper, and now my ankle and foot ache.’ She laughed again. Though her face was rounded and softened with age, her forehead was smooth, her eyes bright, and her entire face alive with her mood. She was lovely to behold. ‘God forgive my petty complaints. I am not so sinfully self-absorbed as I might sound. I have, indeed, thought of little else than that poor Dom Lambert since you found him. He was a lovely, courteous, gentle man. Have you learned anything about what happened?’

Rich food, idleness — Owen was distracted, thinking that Princess Joan was very possibly the one using water germander for gout. But, when she asked again whether he had learned anything, he hastened to satisfy her concern — such as he could.

‘As you know, Dom Lambert suffered much embarrassment yesterday when he presented the archbishop with blank parchments. His mission for the Bishop of Winchester failed, it is possible that he took his own life.’

Princess Joan made a sympathetic sound. ‘Or perhaps he despaired over that and his shame over lying with His Grace’s elegant secretary, a man known to have unnatural passions.’ She adjusted her foot a little, then met Owen’s eyes. ‘There is little I do not know, Captain. What was Brother Michaelo doing at the feet of the hanged man?’

‘I do not yet know, Your Grace. He says he was concerned about Lambert and followed him there. Someone overcame him and he woke confused.’

‘And do you believe him?’

‘I think it unwise to believe anyone without witnesses or some evidence.’

‘And no one saw anything last night?’

‘So far someone has reported seeing Dom Lambert leave Brother Michaelo’s chamber, and another saw him take a horse from the stable. It is possible he was alone. Another saw Brother Michaelo walking through the fields, also apparently alone. It is little to go on.’

With a sigh, Joan gazed thoughtfully at the bed’s canopy as she idly twisted and released a silk scarf. ‘You say he felt shamed by the failure of his mission.’ She nodded. ‘That I find within reason. But then, for someone who had already brought notice on himself to risk sneaking out in the middle of the night with so many eyes supposedly watching all our movements, to have the presence of mind to move silently and manage to climb the tree, bring his horse beneath it — still in silence — oh I forgot, there was the ladder, yes, he need not have used the horse beneath him.’ She sighed, then looked at Owen. ‘But the horse must still be kept quiet until the deed was done. If the horse whinnied, he might have been discovered by one of your men in the midst of hanging himself — well, you see why I find it an unsatisfactory explanation.’ She punctuated her conclusion with a flutter of the scarf. ‘Brother Michaelo may be speaking the truth.’

Owen was at once filled with admiration for her careful reasoning and with despair for the renewed certainty that there was a murderer in their midst.

‘I do see, Your Grace, and I am worried about your safety and that of all your company.’

‘Except for the murderer.’ She laughed, then made a face. ‘Faith, you must think I make light of this, but it is my remedy for fear when my dear husband is not at my side to protect me.’

Owen found it a strange comment, for he could not imagine that Prince Edward had been at her side so very often, at least before his illness, and now, from all accounts, he would find it difficult to protect her. Perhaps it was a story she told herself to feel safe.

‘I do wonder whether the same person killed both Dom Lambert and his servant, Will. If it would please you, I would inquire, Your Grace — did you bring with you a sleeping potion?’

‘I assure you, I carry all manner of potions, Captain.’ Her expression was suddenly wary. ‘Why do you ask?’

He explained what Magda and Lucie had found in the wineskin.

‘The healer has returned from York?’

He did not believe for a moment that she had not been informed about Magda’s return, but he must play along with her. ‘Yes. I spoke with her earlier.’

‘I look forward to meeting her. And your wife is an apothecary.’ She smiled and nodded, as if giving her approval. ‘A woman made master apothecary. I am glad to hear of such an accomplishment.’ She seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘But I am certain that what the servant carried in his wineskin was not from my stores, Captain. How could it be?’

‘Such confidence might be just what the murderer depended on — that we would not dare to search the physicks of the Princess of Wales.’

He was relieved to see her struck by his reasoning.

‘I’d not considered that. You may be right. I am reassured by your clear thinking, Captain. What would you have me do?’

‘I hoped you might agree to show Dame Magda the medicines you have with you.’

‘I see no reason to refuse your request, Captain. Lady Sybilla will assist her.’

‘Might Dame Magda come directly to you, Your Grace?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not trust Sybilla?’

‘If someone stole from you, Your Grace, it was someone who knew what was there. A physick might easily be misplaced.’

She straightened a little. ‘Send Dame Magda to me in the morning. I shall keep the trunk containing my physicks by me, and she shall look through it in my presence. No one will know that she is to come, so no one will know to remove anything.’

Owen thanked her. She stared at him for a moment, then suddenly reached forward and gently brushed his eye patch. He flinched, a reaction he found it impossible to prevent, even so many years since his wounding.

‘My dear Tom, John’s father, lost an eye in combat. So did our dear friend Sir John Chandos. Did you know you shared such august company in your affliction?’

Her choice of words pained Owen — he preferred people to consider it an injury and not an affliction, despite his own fear that his blinding was God’s punishment for his sins, but he understood that she meant to put him at ease. ‘I am honoured that you place me in their company, Your Grace. I remember Sir Thomas Holand a little. He was greatly admired by all who served under him. I saw Sir John Chandos only from afar. Their wounds did nothing to diminish them. But it is different for an archer — my skill was all I had.’

‘Archbishop Thoresby is fortunate that your lord, the old duke, knew you had far more to offer than just skill with your bow. But forgive me. I should not have called it an affliction. Neither my first husband nor Sir John liked anyone to call attention to the scars on their faces.’ She tilted her head and smiled as she studied his face. ‘You are a handsome man, Captain. The scar merely adds the spice of danger to your appearance, which women find exciting. But then, you know that, I am sure.’ She glanced over in the direction of her women, though the screens hid them, and then back to Owen. ‘I’ve seen Eleanor watching you. And I saw you two confer so prettily in the hall before dinner.’

‘You tease me, Your Grace.’

Joan smiled and waved her scarf. ‘In matters of the heart, teasing is innocent, Captain. You are a married man, she a married woman, so a little excitement can be refreshing. But I see I embarrass you and I shall desist. Had you any more news for me?’

‘I would beg a question, if it please you, my lady. I wondered how you came to choose the sisters from Nun Appleton?’

All teasing left her visage and again she grew wary, resuming the nervous twisting of the scarf. ‘I said we must have some sisters to assist Master Walter, and they were provided, with assurances from the abbess of their character.’

‘You know neither of them?’

Her expression was carefully blank. ‘I trusted their abbess.’ But she clutched the scarf and held herself terribly still. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was in the garden earlier and saw you from afar in conversation with one of the sisters, Dame Clarice. I heard nothing that passed between you, but I saw from her face and your stance that it was an uneasy exchange.’

Joan had closed her eyes and sat without as much as a muscle moving for a long while. Owen began to think he’d been dismissed, but he could not bring himself to rise. Princess or no, he felt she owed him at least a feeble lie.

‘I had not met Dame Clarice before she joined our travelling company,’ Joan suddenly said in a quiet, unemotional tone. ‘Nor had I heard of her even so recently as a month ago. Her part in this situation-’ She hesitated, then continued, ‘Her part will be revealed in a few days, I promise you. Events here have led me to send to Nun Appleton for information that might assist you. For now, you need only to know that she is not a murderer. Indeed, I fear that the murderer might wish her harm. I have men watching her at all times.’

‘Not earlier today,’ said Owen. ‘I found her quite alone with the archbishop, searching through a chest of his belongings.’

She looked surprised. ‘Searching his chamber?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Foolish woman. But my men know that, when she is in the archbishop’s chamber, she is quite safe — though I’d assumed there would always be someone present in addition to His Grace.’

‘I have arranged for that to be so from now on,’ said Owen. ‘Is she in danger because of her search of His Grace’s chamber?’ The princess had expressed surprise, but he did not believe her.

‘I knew nothing of that. Why should that endanger her?’

‘I hoped you might know, Your Grace.’

‘What do you think she took?’

‘A personal letter.’

Joan bowed her head and touched the scarf to her forehead, effectively hiding her expression from Owen. ‘If you like, I’ll send for her and see what I can discover.’

‘I would be grateful for that, Your Grace.’

‘Meanwhile, Dame Clarice should not cause you any more trouble.’

‘At the moment, I’m more concerned about what you just said — that she might be in danger, Your Grace. I pray you, tell me what I need to know about her.’

He could see at once that he’d pushed too hard, and he silently cursed himself.

‘You forget yourself, Captain Archer.’ She was suddenly stern and imperious. ‘The welfare of the people of this realm tempers all that I do, for I am the wife and mother of your future kings. I know what is best here. I have told you all that you need to know. I will order her to return anything that is not hers, and I shall see that you are present when I reveal the reason for her presence here in the palace.’ She softened her tone. ‘For now, I am reassured by your sense of duty, and you may rest assured that she is watched by one of my men. May God watch over you and bless you for coming to see me.’ She bowed her head and called for a servant, who was slow in responding because he was distracted by a messenger who’d just arrived.

‘He has returned from Nun Appleton, Your Grace,’ said the servant.

‘Excellent.’ Joan saw Owen watching with interest. ‘You shall know all tomorrow, Captain. You are dismissed.’

Owen quietly withdrew, though beneath his calm he was in danger of exploding with the frustration of dealing with the princess. Imperious, petty, enjoying her little mystery — damnable woman.

The nuns. God had been guiding him in his stealth when he’d come upon Dame Clarice in Thoresby’s chamber. Owen crossed himself.

‘Captain?’

He turned as Alisoun stepped into the dim light from the sconce by the chamber door.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You look worried. And wet.’

Her veil was limp with damp and the scent of wet grass and soil rose from her hem.

‘The sister, Dame Clarice, fainted out in the fields. One of Princess Joan’s servants carried her back to the palace. She was struggling for breath. Master Walter has given her something to calm her.’

‘Out in the fields? How did you both come to be out in the fields at this time of day?’

‘I was in the garden as she rushed through, seeming very upset. I did not think she should run off like that alone. And I remembered what you had said about the sisters.’

‘Was there anyone else? A servant?’

‘The man in the princess’s livery came rushing forward to assist Clarice as soon as she fell. He must have followed her.’

Owen nodded. ‘I’ll put a guard by her door.’ One of his own men. ‘Thank you, Alisoun. You have been very helpful.’

With the ghost of a smile, she turned away, but suddenly turned back. ‘Stay a moment, Captain. I’d forgotten the porch. I saw her first on the porch that faces the gardens. She was with a woman in elegant dress, and-’ She stopped, shaking her head. ‘I think it was Clarice on the porch — it was one of the sisters.’

‘Tell me what you can.’

‘The lady was comforting the nun — she suggested that she stay and rest a while.’

‘This lady — was she dark or fair?’

Alisoun shrugged, and he could read the frustration in her brown eyes, her furrowed brow. ‘I could not see her clearly.’

‘Slender or stout?’

‘Not slender, I think — but her clothes — just as with the nun, I can’t be certain.’

‘I am most grateful to you, Alisoun.’

‘Really?’ Despite the tears of frustration in her eyes, she almost smiled. ‘I did not wish to interrupt you with Her Grace, but I wanted to tell you as soon as I might.’

‘God go with you,’ said Owen. ‘Go dry your clothes by the kitchen fire and ask Maeve for something warm to heat you within.’

Alisoun bobbed her head and walked slowly away down the corridor, leaving a trail of wet boot prints.

Owen fought down anger — he should have had one of his men follow Clarice. But whom could he trust? For a long moment he considered returning to the princess with this latest news of the mysterious Dame Clarice, but, in the end, he desisted, admitting to himself that his sole motivation for doing so right now would be to shock the princess into revealing all she knew about the nun, and he was fairly certain that it would fail. Princess Joan had a strong will and she’d already made it quite plain that she believed she knew what was best. He feared it would also cost him too dearly — that she would not cooperate with him again.

Outside Thoresby’s chamber, Gilbert caught up with Owen. ‘Captain, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘You’ve found a guard who saw something,’ Owen guessed.

‘I have. Fiddler John says that he saw Dom Lambert leave the stable with a horse, and with him was Lady Eleanor.’

Owen’s heart sank. The voice in the kitchen yard — had it been Eleanor out for one of her walks in the night air? ‘Is he certain that it was the princess’s lady?’

Gilbert nodded. ‘The dark-eyed one.’

It was a most unwelcome report. ‘Send him to me in the stables later.’ Owen took a step towards the archbishop’s door, then turned back. ‘No one else had anything to tell you? Only Fiddler John?’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘He’s the only one who said aught to me. Perhaps they are waiting for you to settle for the night, and then they’ll come to you.’

‘When they’re least welcome,’ Owen said with a curse. They’d had ample opportunity when he’d gone back to the stable while the guests dined in the hall and only Ned and Ann had come. ‘But I thank you. Well done, Gilbert.’

The guard withdrew.

Owen entered the archbishop’s chamber. Michaelo lay on the cot, apparently asleep. Magda and Thoresby were quietly talking, but broke off and looked towards him with interest, making space for him near the great bed. He told Magda of his meeting with Princess Joan, and that she’d agreed to have Magda attend her in the morning.

‘I am glad she has agreed,’ said Thoresby.

Owen told them of Dame Clarice’s faint, and that Master Walter had given the nun something to help her sleep.

‘I am uneasy,’ he added. ‘For her to be overcome so soon after searching this chamber, my mind misgives. Did someone poison her so they might search her?’

Magda frowned thoughtfully. ‘Not all poisons are meant to kill. Magda will look in on her in the morning.’

‘I would be grateful,’ said Thoresby. ‘Despite her transgression, I would not have her suffer in such wise. We’ve had enough death in this palace.’ He turned to Owen. ‘But how would anyone know she might have stolen something — I’m assuming that’s why they would wish to search her?’

Owen described his glimpse of the altercation between Clarice and the princess in the garden. ‘It is possible that someone overheard them.’

Thoresby groaned. ‘Too many people. Why did she bring such a large company?’

‘There is more.’ Owen told them of Lady Eleanor’s prostration in the chapel, the sightings of Lambert in the corridor, the woman’s voice in the kitchen yard, Michaelo’s walk in the fields before dawn, and Dom Lambert departing the stable with a woman, with one guard naming her as Lady Eleanor. He regretted upsetting Thoresby, but it was his duty to inform him. ‘What I do not yet understand is how, if they left together and Michaelo followed, even losing his way, how did they manage it so quickly before he reached them?’ Owen suddenly felt a great weariness.

As if she read his mind, Magda said, ‘Thou hast a body that demands food and rest, Bird-eye. See to thyself. Magda will see to the young nun in the morning. Thou hast done enough for one day.’

Owen was only too happy to leave the two of them to their nocturnal musings.

Out in the kitchen, he discovered a consolation gift in the presence of Master Walter. The physician was enjoying one of Maeve’s meat pies as she smiled on him. She was always grateful to satisfy a good appetite. As soon as she saw Owen, she rose to assemble a meal for him.

‘I just heard about Dame Clarice,’ Owen said, as he sat down beside Walter.

Walter nodded to him in greeting, washed his food down with some ale, and then said, ‘She will sleep through the night.’

‘God grant that she wakes in the morning,’ said Owen.

Halting the pie halfway to his mouth, the physician eyed Owen with alarm. ‘That she wakes? I saw no sign of poisoning. Is that what you fear? Have you cause to believe she’d been poisoned?’

‘I am relieved that you believe her to be in no danger,’ said Owen.

‘Who would poison one of the sisters?’

‘We must all pray that I can soon answer that, Master Walter. To whom do you entrust the physicks that you carry?’

‘My physicks? Why, my manservant Jonah carries them.’

Owen had noticed the servant, at least as old as Walter and at least twice his size, with the look of a soldier rather than a manservant. ‘He has been in your service a long while, has he?’

Walter nodded. ‘I know him better than I do my own children. He’s not only a loyal and hardworking servant, but his mere presence frightens would-be attackers and convinces clients to honour their bills.’ He laughed, but it was nervous laughter. ‘Why do you ask? Do you think someone would steal from me? Or has?’

Owen was glad that Maeve and her kitchen maid were having a loud conversation by the crackling fire as they worked, for he did not want anyone but Walter to hear what he was about to ask. ‘Do you carry poppy, mandrake and water germander?’

‘Of course I do. All physicians do.’ Walter grunted as he turned a little on the bench — though his diminutive build made him look boyish, he was not, and he moved with the stiffness of his age. ‘Now you’ve confused me. I might guess that you believe Lambert’s servant had been slipped a strong dose of poppy and mandrake that made him too languorous to sit his horse. But the germander? Bloating? Gout? He did not seem one to suffer from that. It is a rich man’s disease, not that of the servant of a bishop’s clerk-’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘Though I have treated a disappointingly large number of monks for it. And the occasional manservant of a wealthy master.’

Maeve set a tankard of ale and a meat pie before Owen, returning at once to her maid and commencing her loud discourse. Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for her discretion. Walter seemed lost in thought at the moment, and Owen took the opportunity to bite into the pie. The aroma had awakened his stomach juices, and he was not disappointed. It was manna from heaven — hot, spicy, rich, the meat cooked to a tenderness that melted on his tongue. He wished he were alone to savour this.

‘Maeve, you work miracles every day,’ he called to her.

She glanced over her shoulder, beaming.

‘We were talking of gout,’ Walter said.

‘We were talking of poppy, mandrake and water germander,’ Owen said. ‘My wife and Dame Magda detected all three ingredients in the remaining wine in Will’s wineskin.’

‘In his- God in heaven. How unlike me not to notice he suffered from gout. How did I fail to notice that?’

‘I do not mean to suggest that Will suffered from gout, Master Walter. Even if he did, and he also had trouble sleeping, he would not carry such a mixture to drink while riding, eh?’

Owen chewed as he watched understanding dawn on Walter’s face.

‘Oh, yes, I see.’ The physician wiped his forehead. ‘I am weary and not thinking as clearly as I might.’

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you at your meal,’ said Owen.

They ate companionably for a moment.

‘Would you permit Dame Magda to look at your physicks?’ Owen asked.

Walter wiped his mouth with a cloth. ‘I’d heard she’d returned.’ When Owen said nothing, Walter went on. ‘To what end would you have her look at my supplies? I do not mix anything until it is needed. She could see that I have poppy, mandrake, and water germander, but I have already told you that I do.’

‘I see. And you trust that your servant, Jonah, would be aware of anyone attempting to take anything?’

‘Oh yes. He is proud of my trust. He believes that it raises him to a position quite superior to other servants.’ Walter smiled with affection. ‘I thank God for Jonah.’ He was quiet again for a while, eating a little more. But, suddenly, he turned to Owen. ‘If Will’s wine was made to cause his accident, does that mean that Dom Lambert’s supposed suicide was murder, that I was right about the bruising on his neck?’

‘What do you think?’

‘That it would so follow.’

Owen nodded. ‘So do I, despite the horse in the villager’s field.’

‘Which would mean that not all of your guards are honest,’ said Walter, lowering his voice.

Meeting the physician’s searching gaze, Owen said simply, ‘Not at present.’

‘God help us.’ Walter crossed himself. Fear was writ plainly on his face.

‘Amen,’ said Owen. He fought the urge to soften what he’d just admitted, a strange compulsion, for the situation was as serious as Walter seemed to have just realised.

The physician had been staring into his cup. ‘I’ve lost the thread of our conversation. You are concerned about Dame Clarice? That she might have been poisoned like Will?’

‘I have the word of someone I trust that Dame Clarice may be in danger, and Alisoun’s description of the nun’s fall suggested to me that she’d suddenly become ill.’

‘I will request samples of her urine as soon as she wakes,’ said Walter, pushing the remaining piece of pie aside. ‘And I’ll bleed her on the morrow for good measure. God help me if I did not pay enough heed to her condition, if I gave her something that will help the poison along.’

‘How could you know if Alisoun did not describe it clearly?’

He guessed that Walter thought some of the blame might be his. Certainly, Owen’s words did not seem to calm the physician, who rose with a nervous energy and bade him good evening, then thanked Maeve for her excellent pie. ‘I’ll sit with the young sister tonight,’ Walter mumbled as he crossed the room. ‘I want to be there if there is a change.’

When the door closed behind the physician, Maeve left her maid and settled her large body across from Owen. Reaching for Walter’s abandoned tankard, she tilted back her head and drained it of ale.

Owen did likewise with his tankard.

‘Did the sisters from Nun Appleton take their meals in the hall today, Maeve, or in here?’

‘I’ve no idea where they dined midday,’ she said, ‘but they favour a cold, light repast in the evening, which I give them in here.’ Her broad, pleasant face creased with concern. ‘Has one taken ill? Is that what you and the physician were discussing?’

‘Yes. Dame Clarice.’

‘Poor soul! But I cannot think of anything she had of me that would sicken her.’ Maeve had straightened and tucked in her chin, refusing responsibility.

‘You were here all the time? No one else might have slipped something into the food?’

Maeve bristled. ‘I cannot think how.’

Owen held up his tankard. ‘Join me in another?’

Maeve hesitated, but soon relaxed. ‘It is late enough. Everything else can wait until dawn.’ She called to the kitchen maid to come fill their tankards.

Quiet had settled on the palace. If he strained his ears, Thoresby could hear the water lapping at the river landing, the shriek of a coney as an owl swooped down on it in the orchard, the cats settling by the mouse holes, watchful, ready to pounce. Most of his life he had treasured this time of night if he found himself awake, rarely annoyed by any break in his sleep. But tonight his mind kept turning to the scene he’d imagined over and over, the handsome Dom Lambert, a rope already draped round his shoulders, climbing a tree and methodically testing for a branch that would hold his weight long enough to crush his windpipe. Because he had not sufficiently guarded Wykeham’s letters and someone had stolen them? He had not thought Lambert so distraught over the loss that he would commit the ultimate act of despair. Considering the servant’s death, Thoresby thought it more likely that Lambert had been murdered — that someone had murdered him in a way that would look like suicide.

But perhaps, with a little too much wine clouding his thoughts, Lambert had been unable to imagine standing up before William Wykeham and admitting his failure. Perhaps Lambert had put all his hope in the esteem he might garner by completing this mission. Perhaps Wykeham had promised him a promotion on his return. Thoresby wondered how it would be to serve Wykeham, a man so ambitious who had so recently been bitterly disappointed and was now so determined to win back the heart and confidence of the king. He would be impatient with failure, perhaps worse than impatient.

Thoresby returned to the image of the man with the rope draped around his shoulders, perhaps weeping as he drunkenly scrambled into the tree, the wine igniting his imagination, convincing him that death would be far easier than facing his master. What must it feel like to lose all hope? Thoresby’s stomach clenched. He knew what it felt like, for he felt it now. Master Walter held out no hope for him, suggested no remedy for his failing body. His heart raced and the blood pounded in his head. He gasped for breath.

The lamp had been moved near the doorway and his bed curtains were closed. He lay in darkness like the grave and he did not find it at all comfortable.

‘Dame Magda?’

‘Magda is here.’

He found it interesting how she responded as if another were reporting her presence.

Thoresby tugged at the curtains. ‘I would have some light.’

Without fuss or argument, the small, elderly woman drew aside the curtain, standing on tiptoes to tug it wide, then brought the lamp closer, setting it on a table near the stool on which she sat her night watch. She helped him sit up, then adjusted his pillows to support him in a more upright position. She smelled of smoke, spices and earth, a not unpleasant combination.

‘Art thou thirsty?’ she asked. ‘Fear dries the throat, eh?’

‘How did you know?’

She smoothed his forehead, her bony hands reassuringly warm, her touch comforting. ‘Thine eyes.’

He reached for her hand and she, in turn, firmly grasped his, her warmth and strength flooding up his arm to his heart. ‘God resides in you,’ he said.

‘Thou hast strange ideas.’ She accompanied the comment with a gentle smile. ‘Rest thine eyes whilst Magda mixes a soothing powder for thy wine.’

‘I was imagining myself climbing the tree to die,’ he admitted to her before he let go of her hand.

‘Hast thou ever thought to take thine own life?’

Thoresby paused, trying to remember. He never answered her questions thoughtlessly. There was something about her that inspired him to search deep within for his answers. He believed that, in doing so, he learned much of value. ‘No. I cannot recall a time when I despaired of finding a way out or grasped at death as an acceptable solution.’

‘Magda thought not.’ She slipped her hand from his and gently felt for his pulse. After a pause, she nodded and let go of him.

Her touch reminded Thoresby of his long ago beloved. He had lain with other women after her, but Marguerite had been able to soothe him with the gentlest touch, or a thoughtful word spoken at the precise moment he needed to hear it. Marguerite. She’d been much in his dreams of late, a sweet presence. He wished he could remember where he’d last hidden her letter. He cursed his failing memory. He had not liked how foolish he felt with Archer, not being certain whether the nun might have stolen the letter.

‘And you, Dame Magda?’ he asked, not wanting her to move on just yet. ‘Have you ever tried to take your life?’

‘A violent death is not a good death. Worst of all, by thy own hand. How might thy spirit ever find rest?’

Thoresby crossed himself. ‘God help all who despair.’

‘But thou knowest Lambert did not take his own life. He was strangled, or so says Bird-eye.’

‘Oh! Yes. I’d forgotten.’ Was that a better death? Then he remembered — it was Michaelo about whom he worried. Caught by his old demon, would his secretary take his own life?

‘Does Michaelo sleep?’ he asked.

‘Aye. Like a babe,’ said Magda.

She withdrew to the table at which she mixed her physicks, set up near the brazier on which a pot of water always steamed. Thoresby closed his eyes and extended his prayer for all those who took their lives, or were in danger of doing so. He had never felt such compassion for those lost souls as he did now. He wondered if there was something he might have done in his lifetime to comfort them, to teach them that God loved and forgave them. When Magda placed a steaming cup in his hands, he was grateful for the warmth.

She settled on her stool, gathering her multicoloured gown about her, and, as she moved the cloth, the flickering light from the brazier made the pattern shift and ripple, as if it had come alive. Sometimes Thoresby imagined the odd movement of her coloured clothing to be a spirit presence that hovered about her, bequeathing her power.

‘Thou must drink it to benefit,’ Magda said, with a gentle smile.

He sipped and found the warm, slightly sweet liquid comforting.

‘I have opened my heart to you about my daughter,’ he said, not wanting her to withdraw into herself. He was not yet comfortable with sleep. ‘Now I would learn something of you. Why do you speak of yourself as “Magda”, not “I”? It is as if you are outside yourself. I don’t understand. I remember your granddaughter, Tola — she did not speak so.’ Magda’s granddaughter had been wet nurse to Lucie and Owen’s son when they had sent the children to the country to escape the pestilence.

‘No, Tola does not speak as Magda does. She has no cause.’

No cause. Thoresby felt a thrill of anticipation as he swallowed a bit more of the warm, sweet concoction. It soothed his throat. ‘I knew there was a tale behind it.’ He fidgeted, seeking a more comfortable position. His back did not like so much lying abed. ‘Would you tell me?’

He sensed her hesitation, though it was brief.

‘Magda Digby once forgot that her gift as a healer was for all folk, not only those she thought worthy folk. She forgot that her opinion must count as naught, that she must step aside from herself. I is not for a healer.’

‘You neglected someone? Refused them healing?’

‘Much to Magda’s shame.’ The pain in her voice moved him.

‘I have conjured bad memories. Forgive me, my friend.’

She patted his arm.

‘I would say you have long since made reparation for your very human error,’ he said. ‘You are remarkable for holding to such an ideal.’ He coughed and silently cursed his weak body, for he was enjoying the conversation.

‘Magda is not remarkable,’ she said, as she tapped the cup to remind him to drink. ‘She is merely a vessel for healing, and she had not surrendered her pride as completely as she should have.’

Thoresby drank again and felt his limbs relaxing. ‘Our duty is difficult to know, Dame Magda. I doubt that many of us ever fully understand our purpose, and, if we do, few of us have the courage to embrace it without occasional rebellions. Even Christ questioned God’s purpose in the suffering he was about to endure.’ His last sentence came out in such a tortured whisper he feared she would not be able to hear it.

She touched his forehead. ‘Magda is glad to hear that this man thou callest a redeemer was not cursed with perfection.’

In the firelight, Thoresby could see her teasing smile. In anyone else, such irreverence would make him uneasy. Perhaps it was that he sensed no malevolence in her?

Magda had just stoked the fire in the brazier and returned to her chair beside Thoresby’s great bed when she felt a draught on her neck. Turning, she could just make out a tall, slender figure enter the room. By the grace of his movements, Magda recognised Brother Michaelo, the black swan. She was accustomed to his nocturnal vigils at his master’s bedside and seldom let him know that she was awake — she rarely slept during the night when sitting with the dying. The patient’s condition could turn suddenly, and she should be awake for that. But, tonight, she had thought him sleeping peacefully in the corner. As the monk drifted down onto a chair near her, she almost gasped aloud at the wave of sorrow and pain that arrived with him, and the cold damp emanating from him. She guessed he’d been lying on the damp stone floor of the chapel, as those devoted to the Christian god often did.

‘Magda is also wakeful,’ she said, in a quiet voice, not wanting to startle him and wake Thoresby.

‘I just wanted to rest in his presence,’ said Michaelo, a great weariness in his voice.

‘It is peaceful here,’ said Magda. ‘Thou hast taken much care in making thy master comfortable in his last days. He is blessed to have thy devotion.’

‘He lifted me out of a terrible darkness. He has been my redemption.’ His voice broke and he covered his face with his hands.

Magda said no more, leaving him to his sorrow, sensing his need for solitude.