A Vigil of Spies

Seven

After Midnight and Into Thursday Morning

Sharing ale with Maeve had done nothing to quiet his mind. After leaving the kitchen, Owen had been drawn back into the palace, but the crowd of pallets occupied by snoring servants that lined the corridor outside Thoresby’s chamber reminded him that he would find few awake at this hour. Most had eaten and drunk their fill and would be worthless, even if he could wake them. Still, he had an angry urge to race through the palace waking all and dragging them to the hall to be questioned en masse. How dare they sleep when he could not for fear that more would die? How could they sleep? Did they think they were immortal?

Sybilla and Clarice — is that who Alisoun had seen in the porch? He stepped out into the kitchen yard and discovered Geoffrey sitting on a stool, his ink-stained fingers curled around a bowl from which steam curled into the chilly night. He nodded at Owen.

‘Maeve told me you’d just left her.’ He held out the bowl. ‘We can share this, if you like. A tisane of fennel and I’m not sure what else. Maeve assured me it would cool my belly without killing me.’

Owen settled beside him and took the bowl in his hands, letting the steam clear his head, then sipped it before handing it back. ‘You were at the evening meal in the hall?’

‘I was.’

‘Were the ladies Eleanor and Sybilla there?’

Geoffrey nodded slowly, then grunted. ‘Sybilla left early. Very early.’

‘She was in Princess Joan’s chamber afterwards, when I arrived.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘Not long before you appeared, she returned, rosy-cheeked from a walk outdoors, I presumed.’

‘And Eleanor?’

‘We left the hall together. I was in her company all evening until you arrived in the princess’s chamber. Later, I saw Sybilla in the hall with one of the men who’d ridden to Nun Appleton, and Eleanor was out here in the yard for a while — she enjoys some evening air before she sleeps.’

‘God’s blood,’ Owen groaned in frustration, raking his hands through his hair and then tugging on it as if he could wake his brain. ‘Which one?’

‘I’d heard that the nun you’d caught trespassing in His Grace’s chamber had taken ill while we were in the hall for the evening meal. You don’t think Sybilla responsible?’ He looked incredulous.

Owen told him what Alisoun had seen. ‘Though I’ve also had a disturbing report about Lady Eleanor. One of my guards claims to have seen her leaving the stable with Lambert the night he died.’

Geoffrey crossed himself. ‘Eleanor? Have you spoken to her of this?’

‘No.’

‘I saw you with her in the hall earlier in the evening. Sir Lewis growled to see her look on you with such affection — and you her.’ Geoffrey tilted his head, trying to get a good look at Owen’s expression.

‘I remind her of the time she was free and all happiness seemed possible. Can she be so desperate as to commit murder? Why? How would these deaths benefit her?’

‘The bitter wife, a common theme in courtly discourse. They are usually too despairing to act.’

‘Perhaps Sir Lewis might know more of her situation. Something that might align her with the Nevilles?’

‘I’ll speak with him.’ Geoffrey put a hand on Owen’s forearm and paused, waiting for Owen to look at him. His eyes were serious, his expression concerned. ‘What if she is part of this crime, Owen? Will you forget the past and confront her?’

Owen shuddered to think of it. ‘Reluctantly, Geoffrey. But I will do it if I must.’ He reached for the bowl and took another drink, though he knew his gut was beyond such gentle ministrations. ‘Speak to Sir Lewis and watch them both, would you?’

‘I will. How is the nun?’

‘Master Walter has her sleeping, and I’ve agitated him enough that he’ll watch her closely.’ He handed the bowl back to Geoffrey and rose. ‘I’ll try to sleep now.’

Geoffrey stood as well. ‘I doubt either of us will sleep well.’

‘With two murders and now the nun, how are all those within sleeping so soundly?’

‘They put all their trust in you.’ Geoffrey chuckled at Owen’s expression. ‘I am teasing you. They are all drugged with drink. It is not a natural sleep.’

‘But they do expect my men to keep them safe,’ said Owen. ‘Yet I wonder which of my men are to be trusted. And the now-ailing nun-’

‘She was trespassing, Owen. Remember that.’

‘I’ll have Alisoun sit with her. Michaelo can attend His Grace when Magda is resting. With you watching the ladies, I’ll have a little peace of mind.’

Geoffrey reached up and grasped Owen’s shoulder, looking long and seriously at him, glancing away only as the night’s peace was shattered by a company of drunken singers staggering into the yard from the gardens. ‘To have your trust means much to me, my friend. I’ll do my best to deserve it. And, for the moment, I’ll save you from an encounter with that nasty drunk, John Holand. I saw him and his companions earlier. Hie thee to the stables!’

With a nod of thanks, Owen hurried away from the approaching voices. It was a little heartening to know that carousers were threatening the privacy of any who hoped to slip about unnoticed in the night.

In the stables he lay down, but he could not rest. His heart beat in a crazily uneven staccato, his head buzzed with too many worries battling for prominence, and his skin crawled with anticipation of trouble that could come from anywhere. After what seemed hours of tossing about desperately praying for a comfortable drowsiness to pull him under, he gave up and rose. So be it. He stepped out into the chilly night. Clouds segmented the sky, alternately revealing small fields of stars, hiding others, slowly changing the patterns until Owen felt unsure of the steadiness of the ground beneath him.

Energy built up in him and he began to walk, needing the movement. He found himself just outside the chapel, and stepped within to pray for guidance.

Kneeling before the Lord, he felt humble, lost, insignificant.

Magda had once suggested that his blinding had been the wound that allowed the healer in him to come forth. Now he found himself smirking at the absurdity. He’d been blinded as a sign that he was blind to some kernel of wisdom that would allow him to be whole.

And then he’d been swept up in the service of John Thoresby, against whom he’d proceeded to struggle and fight for ten years, righteously judging the archbishop as a man whose ambition blinded him to compassion, love, the healing of the people in his care.

Jehannes knelt down beside Owen. ‘You are also wakeful?’

Owen nodded. ‘And God seems distracted.’

He could see Jehannes’s smile in the soft light from the sanctuary lamp.

‘He cannot be distracted,’ said Jehannes. ‘You have not the ears to hear at the moment.’

They knelt side by side, silently pursuing their own thoughts, for a long while. When Jehannes finally rose, Owen followed.

‘Sir John Holand woke me,’ said the archdeacon.

‘I heard him as well.’

‘He wanted to know what you intend to do to protect his mother and her ladies, as well as the nuns. He grows more hostile towards us with every mishap. He was furious when he saw poor Clarice being carried in last evening, convinced that she’d been raped and murdered. He has an unsubtle wit.’

‘I count myself fortunate that, for the most part, he’s kept his distance from me.’

‘Perhaps it’s his fortune — or he’s smarter than he behaves. I imagine you would take some satisfaction in thrashing him.’

Owen could not help but chuckle. ‘Oh, that I would.’ He stretched. ‘God watch over you on your journey to York.’

‘I pray that He inspires me, that I do not fail you. Are you certain you want me to return in the afternoon, even if I’ve learned nothing?’

‘Yes. I need you here — there are so few I can trust.’

Jehannes nodded and wished him a good night.

But Owen had no intention of returning to his pallet. He could wait no longer to inquire about Clarice’s condition. Stepping out into the predawn dark, he hesitated. Dame Katherine might yet sleep. But it was no time for courtesy. He resumed his walk across the yard and entered the pallet-lined palace, heading up to the small chamber in the solar where the nuns were lodged. He was relieved to see one of his men standing without, wide awake and ready to challenge him until he recognised Owen.

‘You’re up betimes, Captain.’

‘I haven’t slept.’

‘The physician and the midwife have been wakeful as well. They’ve both come to see the sisters.’

The plump Dame Katherine opened the door looking hollow-eyed and rumpled, her face carrying the pattern of a wrinkled surface on which she’d rested, the lamp in her hand dangerously tipping.

‘What is it, Captain?’ She clutched at the neck of her gown as if protecting her throat.

Owen steadied the lamp. She seemed startled by his touch, but she held the lamp steady now.

‘I am concerned about Dame Clarice,’ he said. ‘How is she?’

Katherine shrugged. ‘Asleep. As she was when Master Walter came a little while ago, and Dame Magda before him. Why is everyone so worried?’ The nun shifted to rub the top of a bare foot against the back of her standing leg.

Owen took the opportunity to push past her and into the small chamber.

‘Captain, you should not be in here!’

He ignored her. ‘It did not concern you that she was carried in from the fields in a faint?’ Owen took the lamp from her and set it down on a small table, kneeling to listen to Dame Clarice’s breathing, relieved to find it steady, easy.

‘At Nun Appleton we are accustomed to her fits of temper, Captain,’ Katherine said in a loud whisper. ‘I tried to tell the physician so last night. And that pagan healer.’ She let go of the neck of her gown to cross herself. ‘I would not allow her to touch Dame Clarice.’

Then Katherine was a fool, but so was her abbess to send on such a mission a woman who suffered frequent fits.

‘Despite what you say, you do seem worried,’ he noted. And she was plainly very tired — but then, he was her third visitor. ‘Were you the one who put her to bed?’

‘To be sure, I was! And you should not-’

‘I have reason to believe she might have taken a letter from the archbishop’s chamber. Did you find anything like that?’

Katherine seemed to debate with herself, opening her mouth as if to answer, then looking away. At last she drew out a small parchment from her sleeve, but she hesitated when Owen held out his hand.

‘His Grace is anxious to have it back in his possession,’ said Owen. ‘Have you read it?’

‘Just enough to know it was not hers,’ said Katherine, shrugging her shoulders forward as if to protect her heart. But-’ She bit her lip and frowned at the letter. Her hands were rough and her nails caked with dirt. She was not a pampered nun.

‘I pray you, trust me, Dame Katherine. My purpose is the safety of all this company.’

Shyly, she seemed to force herself to look him in the eye. ‘I did not find it on her when I first removed her wet gown. It was not until later — after all the fuss had quieted down and we were alone — that I found it tucked into the sleeve of the gown I’d hung over a stool by the brazier to dry.’

He was grateful that she had decided to trust him. ‘Who was in here?’

‘Master Walter, one of the princess’s retainers — the one who had carried her from the garden — and one of the princess’s ladies — she seemed to know the man, a maidservant who accompanied the lady, and a kitchen servant … I believe that is all.’

‘Which of the princess’s ladies?’

‘The fair-haired one — not the pretty one. Sybilla? I think that is what they called her — Master Walter and the retainer.’

‘And the man’s name?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He was fair as well.’

It would be easy enough to find out who had brought her into the palace. ‘Could you describe the maidservant?’

‘She was very ordinary, Captain.’

‘And the kitchen servant?’

‘A young man, with a tooth missing right here.’ She tapped the spot in which one of Maeve’s long-time helpers was missing a tooth.

‘So you think one of them brought in the letter?’

‘They must have. I removed the gown and draped it over the stool, arranging the sleeves so they would dry. I would have seen it then.’

‘I am most grateful for your help.’ He took the letter from her and, as if it had been all that was holding her up, she slumped down onto a stool.

‘I’ve never known her to faint after one of her fits.’ She spoke softly, glancing behind her as if gauging how loudly she might speak without waking Clarice. ‘I was frightened when she was carried in, so pale and lifeless. And, when Master Walter returned after he had given her the sleeping potion, wanting to listen to her heartbeat, I feared he knew of some mischief that had befallen her, something that the pagan healer’s girl had not thought to tell me. This morning he means to bleed her and wants a sample of her urine. But he says I’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Did he seem concerned after listening to her heart?’

She nodded and crossed herself. ‘Everyone is worried because of the letter, isn’t that it?’

‘She was foolish to steal something from the Archbishop of York,’ said Owen. As Katherine began to sputter something, he changed the subject. ‘You say that she often has fits of temper. Do you know the cause of her anger?’

Her rosebud lips pursed, Katherine considered her response. ‘It is hardly worth speaking of. She resents the fact that she was not given a choice in her vocation, that she was sent to the convent so young she remembers no other life. This journey has certainly not appeased her in any way. Quite the contrary, in fact. I fear that being here and seeing the princess and her ladies has filled Clarice with impossible yearnings.’

Owen could imagine how that might be — the luxurious clothing of the princess’s entourage, their pretty language, the sumptuous feast, the gorgeous tapestries and fittings of the palace. She would see nothing so elegant in the nunnery. ‘I am sorry for her.’

Katherine did not look moved. She sniffed. ‘There is nothing out of the ordinary about it, Captain. Except that three of you have been troubled enough to inquire about her in the middle of the night. Is there more to it? Did something happen to her last night? Was it not her usual fit of temper? Did someone try to kill her for the letter?’

‘I know no more than you, Dame Katherine. I think it likely that the deaths of Dom Lambert and his servant have touched us all in different ways. Perhaps healers see omens in unusual faints such as hers. I am charged with the safety of all here, so I respond to unusual behaviour. The letter disappearing and then reappearing is admittedly cause for grave concern.’

She crossed herself. ‘Deus juva me.’

‘I do not know your abbess, but I question her judgment in sending a woman prone to fits of anger on such a mission, to attend a dying archbishop in the company of the Princess of Wales.’

‘My abbess is a good and noble woman, Captain. It is not my place to question her decisions.’

The tight-lipped reply was no more than he’d expected. She was naturally, and perhaps admirably, guarded in her criticisms of her superiors.

She tried but was unable to suppress a yawn. ‘I would sleep a while. Master Walter said he will be back this morning to bleed Clarice.’ She took a step backward and reached for the door handle.

‘Then I shall leave you to rest a little before he returns,’ said Owen. ‘I will send Alisoun Ffulford to you, the young woman-’

‘I know who she is, Captain. I assure you, I can care for my fellow sister.’

‘I’ve no doubt you could in the peace and safety of your nunnery, Dame Katherine, but this palace is neither peaceful nor safe at present.’

The woman looked almost amused. ‘And that girl can protect me?’

‘She is an expert archer, Dame Katherine, and skilled with a dagger as well. I’ll see that she has a dagger — her bow would be of no use in this small space.’

‘Ask her to be quiet,’ the nun snapped, as she closed the door behind him.

As Owen moved away, he tried to remember whether he’d seen Sybilla in Joan’s chamber when he was leaving the room the previous evening, but his irritation with the princess must have blinded him to anything else, for he could not recall any but the returned guard and the servant who had announced him. She’d been there earlier, but it was quite possible that, while he spoke to Her Grace, Sybilla had slipped away to return the letter after reading it.

In the kitchen, a sleepy Maeve handed him a bit of cheese and a small, crusty loaf of bread.

‘Would you like cider or ale?’ she asked.

He felt blessed by this abundance, having expected to find the kitchen help still asleep and nothing more at hand than perhaps a cup of water and, if lucky, a crust of bread. ‘I think cider this morning. I’d not thought to find you at work so early. We shared that ale late last night.’

She looked at him askance. ‘I would sleep late when I’ve such a company of folk to feed? I’m lucky to rest at all.’ With a nod to him, she added, ‘Should I worry that both you and Dame Magda are up betimes? I pray there is no more trouble.’

‘Not so far, but I’ve trouble enough.’

With a knowing nod, she went about her work.

Now Owen saw Magda sitting near the fire, a bowl of cider on her lap. She seemed to be drowsing. He settled beside her and, while he ate, watched Maeve and several kitchen helpers move about in what seemed a well-rehearsed dance between ovens, cauldrons, and tables, organising the ingredients for the day’s meals. It was a comforting performance and the chills of the night receded a little despite all the nagging questions that remained. The warm bread and cider helped as well.

Remembering the letter, he opened it and skimmed it, smiling at the sweet, affectionate tone. The writing was a clumsy scrawl — of course Marguerite would not have dictated to her chaplain or secretary such an intimate letter to Thoresby, already a bishop. He wondered whether Thoresby was yet awake. He wanted to place the letter in his hands.

A quiet voice said, ‘Dame Clarice will recover.’ Magda was now sitting upright, regarding him with her clear blue eyes.

‘God be thanked,’ said Owen. ‘Is His Grace sleeping?’

Magda nodded.

Owen tucked the letter beneath his tunic. ‘Would you walk with me in the garden a while?’

Without a word, she rose and accompanied him out into the yard.

The damp of the previous evening was held close to the ground by low clouds, though it was not raining. Owen had thought it would feel good to pace off some energy in the garden while waiting for the household to awaken, perversely regretting that another hawk hunt had not been arranged for the morning. He would have welcomed the distracting activity.

Once they were well away from the buildings, he asked Magda what she had noted about Clarice.

‘Magda saw her whilst she slept the sleep of Master Walter’s physick. It was as if seeing her through a thick veil — of little worth. But there was no poison in her breath, and no hint of it in her eyes — Magda lifted the lids, and looked at her fingernails, her tongue, her feet.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Thou hast witnessed men fall ill from a drink that would simply help most sleep, eh, Bird-eye? Magda thinks Clarice was meant to drowse, but the drink made her ill. She might have taken it willingly.’

Owen told her about the letter Clarice had taken and its mysterious reappearance.

‘She was to sleep in the garden while someone read it?’ Magda shook her head. ‘Clumsy, but possible.’

‘I’ve told Dame Katherine that I would send Alisoun to attend Dame Clarice, to nurse and to guard. I thought Brother Michaelo could sit with His Grace when you are resting.’

‘Magda is glad thou art giving him such responsibility for his master. His devotion will keep him safely in the chamber. He slipped out last night, Magda does not know for how long, making his bed look as if he was tucked up beneath the blankets.’

‘Damn him. What was he doing?’

‘Magda knows not.’ She looked grave.

‘I’ll talk to him when I return the letter to His Grace. I’ll go now.’

He cursed Michaelo as he headed back down the path to the palace. What aggravated and enervated him was a sense of missed opportunities and time rushing on — towards another ‘accident’? He wished he’d watched Michaelo more closely. He wished he’d questioned Dame Clarice more when he’d found her alone in Thoresby’s chamber. He wondered what she’d done to anger Princess Joan, and whether it was the princess’s anger that had brought on her own temper in turn. Clarice was angry that her family had sent her to the convent while still a child. If Dame Katherine knew that, then most likely so did her abbess, and she’d made a grave error in choosing such an embittered young woman for a mission on which she would be exposed to a palace and a princess, the trappings of a life any dissatisfied young woman might yearn for. He wondered whether Dame Clarice had approached Princess Joan about leaving the convent, or had, perhaps, set her heart on one of the young men here at the palace. As for Michaelo, he prayed that the monk had merely been praying in the chapel.

A few pallets remained in the corridor, not yet stacked in the corner for the day. Owen could hear the servants and squires moving about in the hall. In Thoresby’s chamber, Michaelo knelt at a prie-dieu near his pallet, and Alisoun sat with some sewing near a window, glancing up to nod a silent greeting. The curtains of the great bed were still closed. Owen drew a stool up beside her and explained what he and Magda had agreed, that Alisoun would go to the sisters. He watched the light dim in her eyes, her jaw tighten.

‘Why me?’ she asked, softly, so as not to wake Thoresby, but her irritation was plain.

Owen knew that he had but one chance to convince Alisoun of his sincerity. Once she’d taken offence, she would not be stirred. ‘I need you there because you are both a healer and a warrior, and I trust you,’ he said.

Her usually wary eyes widened in surprise, and she blushed, dropping her gaze to her embroidery, as if to hide her confusion.

Praying for the right words, Owen leaned closer and said so softly that he saw her strain a little to hear, ‘I’ve precious few I can trust at present. And, being a woman, you can remain in the chamber. Will you help me, Alisoun?’

For a moment he thought he’d failed. But, at last, without looking up, she nodded. She stayed very still for a few more heartbeats, and, when she raised her head on her so-slender neck, her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I will be honoured to be of service, Captain.’ A tremulous smile lit her face, and, for the first time, Owen saw the beauty in her that his son Jasper saw.

‘If you need help, if you encounter something that you think I must know at once, use the guard — he is just without in the corridor. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I could not forgive myself if anything happened to you.’

She nodded once. ‘Shall I go now?’

‘Yes. Go softly. Dame Katherine’s sleep was disturbed throughout the night and she is resting until Master Walter returns. Do you need assistance? Have you much to carry?’

‘No, I can manage.’ She ducked her head in confusion as he helped her gather her sewing and spinning. He walked with her to the door, and, just outside, asked, ‘Has Brother Michaelo been in there all the while?’

Her eyes now met his. ‘Yes. Do you not trust him? Even Brother Michaelo?’

‘I trust his devotion to His Grace,’ said Owen.

‘He was asleep when I relieved Dame Magda, and, since waking, he has been as you saw him.’

‘Good. Ask the servants for anything you need, Alisoun. My mind is much eased knowing you’ll be up there with the sisters.’

She was smiling as she made her way down the corridor. Owen prayed she would be safe.

Back in the chamber, Michaelo rose from his devotions and greeted Owen.

‘I am glad to find other souls awake and about at this hour, for I weary of my own company,’ said Owen.

‘You’ll soon tire of my company,’ Michaelo said. His tone was uneven, as if his throat threatened to close around his words. ‘I should not burden you.’ He took the seat Alisoun had vacated, shrugging and fussing with the drape of his habit, the peace of his prayer gone, already ill at ease. ‘I heard a little of what you said and was pleased for young Alisoun.’

‘It was not an easy decision to send her. I meant all I said about her being most suited for the task, but it means that you must be here whenever Magda is away.’ Owen observed Michaelo’s increasing agitation. ‘You see my dilemma.’

‘You can trust me to ensure that His Grace is attended at all times,’ said Michaelo. ‘I worry about the household, but so be it. Soon none of that will matter.’

‘There is more on your mind. Tell me.’

Michaelo closed his eyes and shook his head, his face constricting as if he were in great pain. ‘I am accursed and so ashamed. I am the devil’s plaything. How can I possibly believe Our Lord will hear my prayers? And how can I look His Grace in the eye? He made possible my redemption and, now, after all this time, I have betrayed his trust.’ Michaelo shivered and hugged himself, and would not meet Owen’s gaze.

It was his refusal to look him in the eye that reminded Owen to be on his guard. It was not an attitude from which to offer comfort, but then Michaelo did not inspire such an impulse, he who sneered at the slightest shortcomings in others. Even now, though Michaelo was apparently wretched with humiliation and despair, Owen was too aware of that other side of him. Indeed, Michaelo fussed with his habit as if disgusted with himself. Like the guards, Michaelo might succumb to a bribe — he’d been disappointed in the chapter’s indifference towards Ravenser. It was possible he’d back a Neville.

‘What was the nature of your betrayal?’ Owen asked.

‘I have already told you,’ Michaelo moaned. He stilled his hands by crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his sleeves. ‘I knew by Lambert’s looks that he shared my passion, but he did not speak it. Nor did I. I must have thought to fool myself and him by suggesting a cup of wine and a chance to unburden his heart, to speak of his failed mission. But our flesh overcame our chaste intentions. Dear God.’ He dropped his chin and took a sobbing breath, though his crossed arms held him rigid.

Owen waited.

Michaelo groaned. ‘I have undone all I’d achieved with my penances for my former sins. I have thrown away my salvation for a night of passion. I cannot believe it now. I prayed when I woke that it had been a dream — a beautiful, passionate dream, but only a dream. But I would not then have been lying in the wood. I would do anything to undo it.’

The pain in his voice moved Owen. ‘I’ve yet another reason to curse William of Wykeham’s part in this.’

‘No. I am the one to blame. But bless you for listening and not judging me.’

‘You may yet regret confiding in me. More questions.’

Michaelo nodded. ‘I will answer all I can.’ Still he held himself rigidly with his crossed arms like a corset about his torso.

‘Was Lambert worried that night? Frightened?’

‘Yes, yes, and tormented by his clumsiness as Wykeham’s emissary — he believed his career was ended, that Bishop William would never trust him again with anything of consequence. But that night he also felt haunted by his servant, Will.’

‘You said he had traded horse and saddle with Will because his horse was agitated?’

Michaelo bowed his head for a moment, as if thinking how best to present Lambert’s deed. ‘He was embarrassed. He suffered sores — haemorrhoids — and the horse’s fidgeting caused him much agony. I believe that his humiliation over his affliction blinded him to the need to examine the horse. And then the beast threw Will. Fear, self-loathing — they warred in Lambert. He seemed beset by devils, buffeted by storms, cursed by his own stupidity. I would not have been surprised had he taken his own life.’

Michaelo painted a pathetic man, and Owen realised how little he’d taken into account all that Lambert had suffered in so short a time. ‘Were you worried when you woke to find him gone?’

‘Worried? No. God help me, I was relieved. I prayed he was as ashamed as I was.’ Michaelo paused, meeting Owen’s gaze, his face haggard, so unlike the self-possessed man he’d seemed in Thoresby’s service. ‘Did I drive him to his murderer? He said that you had told him to stay at the palace, not to risk venturing into the fields. Why did he go out there that night? Who was the woman? Dear God. Oh dear God, I’ll never know, I’ll never know.’ His breath caught and the moan that followed deeply affected Owen.

He wanted to believe Michaelo’s pain, his remorse, his innocence of anything but lust.

‘I want you to remain here, in this chamber, as much as possible. I have enough to contend with without Sir John or someone else attacking you. I need you here, do you understand?’

Michaelo’s eyes searched Owen’s face with a growing expression of panic. ‘You think it possible that I am guilty of Lambert’s death.’

‘In truth, I cannot think how. But, until I have solved his murder and that of his servant, and know whether Dame Clarice fell ill by someone’s agency, I will not allow myself to believe anything that I cannot prove. I am sorry, Brother Michaelo, but that is how it must be.’

The great bed creaked, and Thoresby peered out from the curtains scowling, his face puffy and wrinkled from sleep. ‘In God’s name, confess to murdering Lambert and let us all feel safe in our beds, Michaelo.’

The monk blanched and bowed his head. ‘I would confess if I were guilty, Your Grace, I swear to you that I would. But, though I am guilty of much, I had no hand in the murder of Dom Lambert.’

Thoresby stared at his secretary for a long while, a weariness in his face, as if he were revisiting concerns he’d thought he’d moved past, and finally nodded as if satisfied, his expression clearing. ‘This is no time for reverie, Archer,’ he suddenly barked. ‘Ask young Alisoun to help me with my cushions. Has something happened to the nun?’

‘I’ve sent Alisoun to sit with Dame Clarice,’ said Owen. ‘But I can assist you.’

Leaving Michaelo, Owen opened the curtain wider. As Thoresby’s energy fluctuated, it was difficult to know how much help to offer and when, but Owen thought he would attempt to assist him in easing his position. Michaelo joined him, and together they adjusted Thoresby’s cushions until he pushed them away, impatient with their fussing. Only then did Owen hand him the letter. After a quick glance at the contents, Thoresby pressed the parchment to his heart.

‘God bless you for finding this and returning it to me, Archer.’ The tender relief on his face softened his entire visage. But it was only a momentary mood. ‘The nun had taken it?’ he asked sharply.

‘She did, much to her misfortune.’ Owen described Dame Clarice’s condition, Dame Katherine’s story, and Magda’s assessment. ‘I asked Alisoun to act both as healer and guard.’

Pressing his long, bony fingertips to his temples, Thoresby sighed. ‘What foolish sentiment tempted me to keep this letter from a woman so long dead? The nun had no right to take it, but, had it not been there, she would not have been tempted.’

‘No one placed the book into her hands, Your Grace. I am more concerned about whether someone ordered her to search your chamber, and what she was looking for.’

‘I am too close to death to care about much, Archer.’

‘But she found the one thing you held dear,’ Owen said. ‘I don’t like that.’

‘You don’t think Alice Perrers is behind this?’

Owen almost laughed at that, Thoresby’s fixation on the king’s mistress, as if all that went wrong in his life could be traced to her. ‘I have heard nothing to connect her with the choice of your successor, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘I merely meant that I fear Clarice might have been instructed in her search by someone who knows you well.’

‘Nevilles, you mean.’ Thoresby closed his eyes. ‘Perhaps I should simply write a letter to the chapter supporting Alexander Neville as my successor, and ask Brother Michaelo to read it out at supper. It might save lives.’

‘And ruin others once you’ve passed on,’ said Michaelo.

Thoresby grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘That is not my concern.’

Never in all her years had Magda Digby imagined conversing with someone as close to the king as Princess Joan. But here she sat, holding the delicately fleshed hands of a woman who had lived her life with others’ hands doing her work, her only scars the genteel results of threads and needles and the beaks of falcons, as this so-alien woman allowed fear, anger, pride, hurt, an abundance of emotions to flash to life, rage about her being and subside. Magda had merely shown the princess that, in the small trunk in which she carried her physicks about on her progresses, there were two powders that might quite easily have been combined to create the sleeping potion mixed with water germander that she and Lucie had detected in Lambert’s servant’s wineskin. It was Joan herself who quickly connected that with a fear she confessed to having fought hard to ignore — that one of her women, either one of her ladies or a maid, had withdrawn her loyalty.

‘I’ve felt a dangerous chill draught in the cocoon spun round me,’ she said, ‘but I’ve turned my back to it, as if I could protect myself in such wise. I’ve refused to acknowledge it, to speak its name and make it true.’ She had spoken with deep, yet quiet emotion, without self-pity or any apparent hope of engaging Magda’s sympathy.

Magda sensed the tremendous burden this woman carried, wife of the king’s eldest son and mother of a future king. ‘Thou art a great lady who rises to thy duties without resentment and with fierce courage. To catch a traitor will be painful for thee, but thou hast the heart for it.’

Joan looked into Magda’s eyes for a long while, then took a deep breath. ‘I have not felt such comfort in a long while, Dame Magda. To be in your presence is to feel the solace of sanctuary. I’d heard you were a pagan, but I feel Divine Grace in you.’

Grace could be interpreted many ways. God was another matter. Magda accepted the compliment.

‘What would you have me do about my doubts?’ Joan asked.

‘Watch thy people and tell Owen Archer of anything thou canst not explain.’

Again, Joan quietly studied Magda for a dozen heartbeats before responding. ‘So many here place their trust in the handsome Captain Archer. You do as well?’

It was Magda’s turn to consider an impression she received as the princess asked that question, that Joan meant to invite Owen into her household. Magda doubted that such a position would sit easily with him and considered saying something to ward off the princess, but, of course, it was not her decision to make.

She merely nodded. ‘Magda trusts him.’

‘My son, John, does not like Captain Archer, and I teased him that he sees his father in him, still resenting his efforts to discipline his temper. My first husband, Tom, lost an eye in battle. Faith, I wondered whether I trusted Captain Archer so quickly because of his resemblance to Tom. But you and the archbishop — truly everyone here speaks so highly of him. I fear my son is a poor judge of men. In truth, I fear for him in all ways. I should have taken better care in choosing his companions as he was growing up.’

‘A child will find his own way.’

‘Have you any children?’

‘Two. Magda’s son is dead, and her daughter found her own path.’

‘I lost a son as well. But I still have three, and the youngest will someday be king. I must be strong for all three of them, and for my husband, Edward.’

‘A woman’s strength is a fearsome thing, eh? Thy gout. Dost thou knowest that walking, dancing, riding, all these pleasures, will go far to take away thy pain?’

The princess’s cream complexion bloomed with roses and she was suddenly shy, dropping her gaze. ‘I do. I’ve allowed the weight of my husband’s illness and my fears for the future to send me to my bed, where I drink sweet wine and mead and eat far too much. My physician says that I have unbalanced my humours.’

‘Magda is glad to hear thou hast a wise physician.’ She pressed the princess’s hands before releasing them.

‘Would you come to see my husband?’ Joan impulsively asked. ‘You could return with me.’

Though the thought of such a journey amused Magda, she did not laugh. ‘Magda appreciates the honour such an invitation carries, but she is needed here, amongst those who cannot send for the finest physicians. Thou hast no need of a country midwife.’

Joan looked stricken. ‘You are no country midwife, Dame Magda.’

‘Fear not. Thou hast strength and grace in thee.’ Magda bowed and took her leave.

Richard Ravenser invited Owen to join him by the fire in the hall while breaking his fast. Though Owen had already eaten, he took the opportunity to eat a little more while reviewing with the archbishop’s nephew all that he knew. Ravenser was so busy seeing to his uncle’s archiepiscopal duties that they’d had little chance to talk.

He flicked breadcrumbs from his chest and fussed with an elegant silk sleeve as he listened. ‘You’ve learned precious little of use,’ he muttered. ‘You must have Her Grace’s men snapping at your heels.’

‘No, except for an outburst from John Holand when he escorted me to his mother’s chamber, I’ve been left alone. I should count myself fortunate that I’ve not seen more of Holand.’ As soon as he’d said that, Owen realised that it was strange. ‘Though he was attentive on the day he arrived. Why would he avoid me?’

‘Curious,’ said Ravenser. ‘That is curious. I would have expected him to follow you about demanding satisfaction.’

Owen noticed Master Walter enter the hall and excused himself to go and talk to him. The physician nodded when he saw Owen approaching.

‘I hoped to find you here,’ said Walter. ‘I wanted to tell you that there is a scent and a discoloration in Dame Clarice’s urine which I cannot identify. I don’t know whether it is poison or she merely consumed something that sickened her. I do not believe her life is in danger, but I took the precaution of bleeding her.’

‘So she seems better this morning?’

‘I did not say that. She is silent, unmoving, and her breathing is too quiet. I had another thought — that these are the signs of one in a trance or, if you believe such things, under the influence of a spell.’

‘Do you believe such things?’

‘When nothing else makes sense, I find myself wondering.’ Walter removed his hat and patted his forehead, then ran a hand through his fair hair before covering it again. ‘Though I would deny it to my patrons.’

‘Dame Magda also observed Clarice, and she proposed that something had been put in the sister’s food or drink to make her drowsy, but, for her, it was too much, or it was something that would not sicken others but did her. In short, that it was not another attempt at murder.’

‘God be praised, if she is right,’ said Walter. ‘She is a clever woman, the midwife. That does indeed sound quite possible and is a comfort — of sorts.’ He rubbed his cheeks, as if to revive himself.

‘You look as if you need to find a place for a nap,’ said Owen. ‘The barracks are quiet as the men take turns sleeping. I trust you could find an empty pallet.’

Walter’s face smoothed out with relief. ‘Bless you, Captain. That is just what I need.’

‘I am headed there myself,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll walk with you.’ He meant to talk to Fiddler John himself concerning his report to Gilbert about the two he’d seen leaving the stables.

Breath had never seemed so precious as it did now, and Thoresby thanked God for each one. He also thanked God for each awakening. He had made his peace, but he wished to live long enough to see Princess Joan on her way and to welcome his godchildren in turn. It was much to ask. He doubted now the wisdom of having agreed to Joan’s visitation. Had he known that she sought advice regarding her fear that her family’s ills were the result of divine retribution for the slaying of her father and uncle, he might have been more honest with himself, admitted that he was too weak and exhausted to summon the wisdom that she sought. But he’d proudly agreed to advise her, and now found himself with little to say, which weighed heavily on his conscience, considering how, through his self-deceit, he’d put his household and her company in grave danger.

He particularly blamed himself for putting Brother Michaelo in harm’s way, albeit inadvertently. He’d known his secretary was weak in spirit, but here, again, Thoresby’s own pride had betrayed him, had convinced him that Michaelo would not dare sin while he who had given him a chance to redeem himself yet lived.

His intentions had been generous, charitable. He sympathised with Joan’s situation, the wife of an ailing prince and an under-aged princeling. But it was all going so wrong. He’d disliked his painful and humiliating sense of vulnerability when he’d awakened and found Archer with Dame Clarice, the cold sister from Nun Appleton, the one who had watched him with disturbing intensity. When Archer had said he’d caught her reading his breviary, Thoresby had felt helpless. Now he’d proof that she’d done more than that — she’d stolen the love letter he’d hidden in it. He shivered and pulled the mound of covers up under his chin. Perhaps he should place more of the blame on Princess Joan for having included in her company those who were almost strangers to her.

Owen and Walter were walking past Thoresby’s chamber when Magda stepped into the corridor. Already tiring of flitting from one person to another this morning, Owen once again excused himself. Fiddler John could wait, and Walter was only too happy to withdraw to the barracks alone. Magda nodded to Owen and gestured to him to walk with her.

Out in the garden, she raised her arms overhead and took a deep breath.

‘It is unpleasantly hot in His Grace’s chamber,’ Owen said, settling down on a bench.

‘The fire in his body cools,’ she said. ‘Magda would rather walk than sit, Bird-eye. Come along.’ She did not wait for his opinion.

But her stride was short enough that it cost him no breath to fall into step beside her. ‘Did you talk to Princess Joan?’

Magda nodded as she considered a fork in the paths. She chose the river walk, which seemed the choice of most walkers. Perhaps in winter one would choose to move inland, away from the icy river.

‘The Princess of Wales is a most gracious lady. Magda found powders that might have been added to the dead servant’s wine with little fuss, and, without further prompting, the princess admitted that she has sensed a traitor amongst her ladies and servants, but knows not who it might be. She has promised to watch and tell thee aught that seems amiss to her.’

Owen had not expected so much. ‘I am glad that she said so, and grateful that you saw her.’ He found it dissatisfying to talk to Magda in motion, unable to watch her expression, note the subtle sounds and see the gestures as she considered his words. Reaching a bench, he said, ‘I hope you’ve cooled off enough to agree to sit for a moment.’

She had walked on, but paused now, and seemed to sniff at the air before she turned back to him. ‘Thou hast something darksome on thy mind.’

‘Yes.’

Looking back at the palace, she shook her head, a sad shake, as if regretting her thought. ‘Darksome is a subtle current beneath the surface of this company, Bird-eye.’

Owen reflexively crossed himself.

‘Aye, beware,’ she nodded. ‘Come. Magda has the strength to listen to one more tale before she finds a place to rest.’ She led him to a stone wall at the edge of the rose garden. ‘Tell Magda thy trouble.’

He told her of Lady Eleanor, being more honest with her about their past than he had been earlier, and that she might have been with Lambert when he took the horse from the stables. ‘I don’t want to believe she murdered Dom Lambert.’

She turned to him on the bench, her wrinkled face set in a thoughtful frown. ‘Thou hast a difficult role, Bird-eye. Magda has ever sensed the weight of it on thy broad shoulders. Magda has not met her, but, as Lady Sybilla expressed, loyalties can be terrible burdens. Magda senses thou’rt sad about Michaelo as well.’ Before he could speak, she held a finger to his mouth. ‘No, Magda understands. Thou dost fear that he is not the redeemed soul thou hast believed him to be.’ She took his hand, looking down at it, smoothing the skin on the back. ‘Hast thou ever thought that what Black Swan feels for men is simply his nature? Nothing to punish him for?’

‘God condemned sodomy.’

‘Men wrote thy bible. Men lead thy church. Men create unnatural laws that cripple their fellow men so that they might control those they do not understand. Thy church has made many such laws, and good men who serve thy church suffer for no good cause.’

‘Are we still talking only of Michaelo?’ Owen heard more emotion in her voice than he would have guessed she would have for the monk.

Magda said nothing, but, letting go of his hand, she turned away from him, towards the river. ‘How different might Black Swan’s life have been if he had been permitted his love for men, Magda does not know. She does not know him well. The sin that brought him to Old Crow’s attention was about far more than carnal love. He had given his power to a man who was consumed by hate.’ She looked back at Owen. ‘Hast thou looked into thy heart and judged him so harshly? Or her, this woman thou didst once embrace? Or dost thou merely fear thou wilt not be happy when thou dost discover the murderer?’

‘My heart?’

She placed a palm on his eye patch. Her body heat relaxed the muscles beneath his patch.

‘Thy wounding forced thee to look within. Magda has seen thy hand fly up to thy wounded eye as if it has suddenly spoken to thee with a pain that has no source that thou canst detect.’

He often felt a shower of tiny pains like hundreds of pin pricks over his eyelid and the scarred socket. He’d interpreted it as dread, which he supposed might be a kind of knowing.

‘I do feel something. But what does that have to do with Brother Michaelo’s confession? Or Lady Eleanor’s possible guilt?’

‘Didst thou sense a lie in their words?’

He’d felt there was much that Eleanor was not saying. And Michaelo — he felt the man was telling him more than was necessary, which made him suspect that he meant to distract Owen. But Magda seemed to be suggesting that he try to open his heart to Michaelo’s suffering. It was difficult, for he kept seeing him lying beneath the tree on which Lambert had been hanged.

‘I am sad for Michaelo, but I cannot afford to believe that he is entirely innocent and will cause no more trouble. I pray that he is true in all things but his sin with Lambert. But I cannot let down my guard with him. As for Lady Eleanor, I don’t know what to think about her. I must have a doubt, else why would I be sitting here worried that she might be a murderer? There is a desperate yearning in her behaviour towards me, making too much of an afternoon long ago.’

‘Gifts, skills, talents — they torment folk with riddles. Thou must learn through practice, as thou didst learn to be an archer.’ Magda cupped his chin in her hands. ‘Thou’rt a good man, Bird-eye. Courageous, true, and gifted with inward sight.’ She dropped her hand and gave him a coy smile that forced a smile from him. ‘And, if Magda had met thee when she was young, she would have done anything to share thy bed.’ She barked again as she rose. ‘And now Magda must sleep.’

As she hurried away, Owen realised that she had flirted with him to distract him at the last moment, preventing more questions that would delay her rest. The flirtation reminded him of Sybilla.

In the hall, he found Sybilla discussing the day’s plans with one of Her Grace’s servants. Although he stood near her being rudely obvious about waiting to talk to her, she ignored him until she was finished, and then turned to him with the sweetest of smiles.

‘Captain Archer. What do you think? His Grace has said he is pleased to grant me the puppy.’

How skilfully she lightened the mood around her, Owen thought, like a musician plucking out a cheery tune that tickled one into a jig. But he could use her topic to woo her out into the yard. ‘Shall we bid your new friend good morning?’ he asked, crooking his arm.

She took his arm and stepped lightly through the milling guests and out into the yard.

‘Sir John made a fool of himself last night, did you hear him?’ she asked, rather loudly, as they passed him berating his squire for a stain on his boots.

‘I am partially blind, not deaf — though I would have been glad of the latter last night. I wondered why he’d found his drink so irresistible as to let it take command of his senses, if yesterday’s events so disturbed him.’

‘He needs no excuse, Captain.’ Sybilla nodded at Sir Lewis, who was talking to one of the grooms.

‘I understand that you sat with Dame Clarice out on the porch last evening shortly before she fell ill,’ said Owen. ‘Had she also been drinking too much?’

Sybilla fought hard to mask her surprise with laughter. ‘Now that would be an intriguing pairing — Clarice and John.’ She made a comical face and rolled her eyes. ‘They’re both champion complainers. But, to answer your question, Captain, no, the poor woman was drinking her own bile. She is a tragically bitter young woman. I thought she needed a friendly ear, but I found, to my discomfort, that it was not my friendship she wanted. My finery, my very station in Her Grace’s company offends her, but not morally. She resents having been sent to the convent by her mother and her unknown father rather than having been set up in a noble household. So much for a life of prayer bequeathing grace and beatific joy.’

She sniffed and flipped her skirts, stepping directly in front of Owen and facing him, forcing him to stop. ‘I did not think that you sought me out to ask about the dogs,’ she said, no longer smiling. She’d manoeuvred them to an empty part of the yard. ‘Princess Joan asked me to watch Dame Clarice, and so I did as I was told, bearing her insults so long I wanted to scream. But I did not poison her in retaliation for the poison of her words, Captain.’

‘I am glad to hear that. What of her complaints? Were they only of you?’

‘She complained of her fate in general, Captain. She did not name her poisoner, if that is your question.’

‘Why do you speak of poison, my lady? I said nothing of that.’

He saw by the tightening of her silk-clad shoulders that she realised she’d stepped into a trap.

‘Master Walter and Dame Magda both believe she fell ill by eating or drinking something that sickened her quite by chance,’ he said. ‘Did she seem ill when you talked?’

Sybilla shook her head. ‘No. But she did suddenly quit the porch. I confess I was relieved to see her go.’

‘And she did not eat or drink while you were there?’

‘To be honest, I cannot remember.’

‘Why has Princess Joan asked you to watch Dame Clarice?’

‘I am reliable. Now come, Captain, we’ve been serious quite long enough and it’s time to see my charming puppy.’ She took his arm and tried to pull him in the direction of the kennels.

But Owen did not move. ‘You misunderstood my question. I’ve no doubt you were an excellent choice, but why is the princess concerned about Dame Clarice?’

‘I’ve no idea. I did not think to ask.’

‘Do you know why she sent messengers to Nun Appleton yesterday?’

‘You must ask her, Captain. Neither Eleanor nor I were privy to what she told them.’ Prettily pouting, she tugged on his arm.

‘I’ve also learned that you went to Clarice’s chamber when she was carried in from the fields. Why?’

Sybilla, still pouting, tilted her head as if trying to see him from a better angle. ‘What is this, Captain? Do you think me heartless? I was concerned for her.’

‘You’ve just told me that you lost patience with her insults.’

Shrugging, she toed a pebble. ‘She is a bore, Captain, but I sympathise with her complaint, her fate being one I narrowly escaped.’

‘Do you know who carried Dame Clarice into the palace last night?’

‘It was Douglas, one of John Holand’s men. He’s been favoured by Princess Joan on this journey. I do not think he’ll be long in her son’s household.’ With a sigh, she tugged again on his hand. ‘Come now.’

‘Go on, my lady. I am not good company today.’

She dropped his hand. ‘You disappoint me, Captain.’

‘I pray you will forgive me for that, my lady.’

He bowed to her and headed back to the palace. He must talk to the guard who had been following Clarice and discover why Princess Joan had both Sybilla and a guard following the nun. It was a simple matter to have him pointed out.

‘Of course I noticed Lady Sybilla, Captain. I’ve not the strength to not notice her,’ said Douglas. They laughed companionably. ‘But Her Grace had not mentioned that she, too, was watching Dame Clarice. I am not, in truth, of that household.’

‘I understand that. But Princess Joan finds you useful.’

‘My master has little need of me while we are here, and does not like his men idle.’

Owen sensed a hint of resentment in the man’s tone. ‘Could you describe exactly what you witnessed last night?’

Douglas’s description of the event was very like Alisoun’s.

‘Did you notice a parchment? Perhaps in her hands? Did she drop anything as you carried her?’

Douglas shook his head.

‘Did anyone approach you? Did you stop? Talk to anyone who might have touched her?’

‘As I passed my master, he taunted me for ravishing a nun. I cannot recall whether he touched her.’

John Holand. That was an uncomfortable possibility. ‘Anyone else?’

‘As I walked, she grew heavier and heavier, and I did not notice much beside putting one foot before the other.’

The night watch had already bedded down for sleep, but, as Owen stood at the top of the loft ladder allowing his good eye to adjust to the dimness, he noticed two men talking quietly on the nearest pallet. They sneaked glances at him several times, and then one rose and approached him.

Duncan was one of the older guards, a pious widower who had told Owen that he considered guarding the archbishop a form of worship. He asked whether Owen had a moment to talk to him.

‘That is why I am here,’ said Owen, ‘in the hope that someone will come forward with some detail — a sound, a movement, anything — that might help me understand what happened the night Dom Lambert died.’

‘Stephen and I were just talking.’ Duncan gestured for his companion to join them and put his arm round the younger man, as if determined to hold him there. ‘We were beyond the place where the poor man died that night, out towards the village, and so we thought anything we might have witnessed would be of no use to you. But Stephen told me about the villager finding the horse.’

‘You hadn’t known?’

‘When I sleep, I sleep soundly, Captain. Nothing wakes me, not even a horse.’ He grinned.

Owen sank down on a bench and folded his arms, signalling that he was ready to listen. ‘Tell me.’

Duncan nodded to Stephen to go first.

‘I heard a man and a woman arguing about something she’d given him. She wanted to know what he’d done with it and was none too pleased when he said he’d sold it in York. ‘For to pay for all this. What did you think I would do with it?’ he spat at her, and she hissed back something I couldn’t make out. But they did not part friends, I can tell you.’

Owen, of course, thought of the brooch. ‘Did you hear what the item was?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Nor could I see them. And they talked in whispers — loud whispers, but, all the same, I don’t think I’d know them if they spoke plainly.’

‘Thank you, Stephen. Was this towards morning?’

‘Aye. Still dark, but I could hear the birds shifting.’

He wanted to ask why in God’s name the man had not come forward with this yesterday, but held his tongue. He’d spoken up now, and he should not be punished for that.

‘And you, Duncan?’

The older man glanced round, then stepped closer and leaned towards Owen’s ear. ‘I swear I heard your second lieutenant, Gilbert, say something, and a woman answer him. It was a fleeting thing. I think she moved on past me towards the village, and he moved towards the palace. But it’s troubled me. I’d swear it was him.’

‘What were they saying?’

‘He said something like “they’ll find him there and think the worst”. And she said, “Poor man.”’

‘But you saw nothing?’

‘Nay.’

This time Owen could not keep himself from asking in frustration, ‘Why did you wait till now to tell me?’

‘I did not like to think it of him, Captain. Gilbert is a good man, and I reckoned, since you hold him second only to Alfred, you trust him.’ Duncan shrugged.

He had, that was true, and this accusation was difficult to accept. But Owen pushed that aside. ‘Good man, Duncan. Never keep anything from me you think I should know. I will not betray you.’

Duncan nodded. ‘I told Stephen as much, that you would protect us if we did our duty. God go with you, Captain.’

‘And you and Stephen,’ said Owen.

He rose, but, for a moment, he stood woodenly, unsure what to do next. Gilbert. He did not want to think right now about the significance of Gilbert being a traitor.

‘Do you know which pallet is Fiddler John’s?’

Stephen pointed to one at the far end.

‘One more thing. When Gilbert spoke to you after we found Lambert — did he not urge you to come forward with anything you might have noticed?’

Stephen looked puzzled. ‘He said nothing to me, Captain.’

Owen turned to Duncan, who shook his head.

Cursing beneath his breath, Owen headed over to Fiddler John’s pallet and a little too impatiently shook the man, made even angrier by the stench of ale that the man gave off. As Fiddler John woke and opened his mouth, Owen clamped a hand over it.

‘Come downstairs with me.’

The man struggled.

Owen’s anger had made him clumsy. He whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s your captain. I don’t mean to harm you. I need to hear what you told Gilbert — in your own words.’ He was grateful to feel the man relax a little. ‘Follow me away from your fellows. I would not wake them.’

John nodded, then scrambled up with the brittle energy the ale still in his belly provided, and stumbled after Owen, awkwardly climbing down the ladder and joining him in an empty area near a side door.

‘You gave me a start,’ he mumbled, rubbing his face.

Turning a little to spare himself John’s noxious breath, Owen was not inclined to soothe the man. ‘What did you see the night of Lambert’s death?’

‘A man and woman leave the stables with a horse, Captain.’

‘Can you describe them?’

John hung his head. ‘The man, he looked to be dressed like Lambert. The woman was very fine.’

‘Could you see her face?’ John shook his head. ‘Her hair colour?’ Another shake. ‘What of him?’ Another shake. ‘So all you saw was a man dressed like Lambert, and a finely dressed woman?’

‘That’s all I could swear to, Captain.’

‘Is that all that you told Gilbert?’

John nodded.

‘You’re drinking too much, John. Be careful of that. But I thank you for your report. Go on, back up to your pallet. Sleep the sleep of the virtuous.’

With a curse, Owen strode out of the barracks part of the stable and sat down on his own pallet to piece together what he’d learned. Gilbert. Eleanor. Sybilla. Clarice. Michaelo. He felt a growing panic that he was too tired, pulled in too many directions, and was not seeing what was right before him. If only he had Lucie here to talk this over with him. He wished he’d gone upriver this morning in Jehannes’s place, but, of course, his absence was out of the question. Today, Princess Joan would explain why she’d sent to Nun Appleton and he intended to be in Thoresby’s chamber when she did so.

Though weary to the bone, he could not lie still. He needed to pace, and to talk. When he’d left Sybilla, he’d noticed Geoffrey talking to Sir Lewis out in the yard. Perhaps he’d learned something about Lady Eleanor. He splashed his face with cool water before he headed back to the palace.