The Nun's Tale

Eighteen

Owen climbed the stone steps round and round, higher and higher, to the battlements of Scarborough Castle. Sir William de Percy had invited him for a private talk up near the heavens, where eavesdropping would be difficult. Owen wondered if Percy had any notion how heights bothered a one-eyed man. Not that Owen had ever meant to decline; he sought to train himself out of his skittishness. Reason and experience should make up for depth perception — with practice. He had forced himself up onto Knaresborough’s battlements once a day and several times at night. But Owen had not walked Scarborough’s battlements yet; he expected that Knaresborough’s dizzying height would be nothing compared with this, high over the North Sea.

Owen reached the top of the tower warm with the effort, but breathing comfortably — until he faced into the wind. Sweet Jesu, the force was so strong he had to duck and gasp for air; surely a slighter body would be blown over in this gale. And it was yet summer. What must the watch on these battlements suffer in winter? A handrail would have been appreciated on the inside of the ledge on which he stood, but Owen refused to let anyone know how vulnerable he felt. He was grateful as he looked out and down that the drop-off from castle wall to bluff to sea was no more dizzying than Knaresborough’s prospect of the River Nidd.

Owen spied Sir William at a guard station on the next tower. He made his way towards Percy, forcing himself to saunter and look about, as if enjoying himself, and not clutch the wall beside him. Fortunately, Percy had chosen a spot sheltered slightly from the wind. ‘Sir William.’

The stocky man spun round, fixed his beady eyes on Owen. ‘How did you fare with Edmund?’

An abrupt beginning. ‘He cannot help us with Captain Sebastian.’

Percy nodded, looking perversely pleased. ‘No matter. Perhaps I can help you there. The men of the Free Companies are a greedy lot. My men will pass rumours through the town that the King has a tempting proposition for Captain Sebastian; I wager the captain will send word. You watch — with a sizeable bribe, you will succeed where Hugh failed.’

Owen looked out at the North Sea, grey-blue in the summer sun. ‘Surely that is not why we are up here, Sir William?’

Percy leaned against the wall to Owen’s left, trying to see his companion’s expression. ‘What does your prisoner say about Hugh Calverley’s death?’

Owen only sensed Percy on his blind side; he could not see him, nor would he satisfy the man’s curiosity by turning towards him. He did not want Percy at ease. ‘Edmund claims no knowledge.’

‘We were not responsible.’ The voice was defensive.

Now Owen turned towards Percy, feigning surprise. ‘You? But of course not.’

Percy snarled. ‘Do not play the innocent with me, Captain Archer. You made it plain yesterday that you thought the Percies had been negligent in seeking out Hugh’s murderer and notifying his family.’

‘It puzzled me is all.’ Owen smiled, turned back towards the sea. ‘So who are you so hesitant to implicate?’

‘I do not know who killed him.’

‘But you suspect, Sir William. You sit up here, steward of Scarborough Castle, and you watch the goings-on below. You have eyes all about. You admit as much by offering to lure Captain Sebastian to a meeting. Who do you think killed Hugh?’

Percy came round to Owen’s good side, though it placed him in more wind. ‘You must understand Scarborough. ’Tis home to smugglers, pirates and spies. Scots, Flemings, Zealanders, Normans. .’ He blinked against the wind, but stood his ground.

Owen looked south towards the harbour, north towards Whitby. A coastline rippling with coves and, bluffs pocked with caves. ‘I can see it would suit them.’

‘To keep the King’s peace among such folk requires compromise.’

‘No doubt.’

Percy moved back into the shelter of the tower wall and settled with a grunt on a stone bench. ‘Two of the three powerful families who supply most of our bailiffs — the Accloms and the Carters — are bold thieves.’

Owen leaned against the wall facing Percy, arms folded. ‘Your point?’

‘Hugh was warned to turn a blind eye — but he did not always do so.’

‘You think he crossed either the Accloms or the Carters once too often?’

Percy looked down into the castle yard, where a group of boys screamed in mock battle. ‘Should I put all who live in this castle in jeopardy for the death of a man whom few mourn?’

‘But you do not know for certain these families were involved?’

Percy shook his head.

‘What do you intend to tell the Calverleys?’

‘Hugh died for King and country.’

‘Tell me, Sir William. If you disliked him so, why was he here in Scarborough?’

Percy looked surprised. ‘He was good is why. Rounded up spies, traitors, trouble-makers — and Sebastian’s recruits. Many of them are now in my service. A good soldier is often the last man to whom you would marry your daughter. You should know that.’

Owen and Ned took advantage of the long evening to see Hugh Calverley’s house. Deaf Harry showed them how he had managed to run messages between the castle and Hugh’s dwelling all those years without being caught by Sebastian’s men. He led them on such a fiendishly circuitous route that neither would have sworn they still looked out on the North Sea. The house was a squat, thatched cottage that would be taken for a peasant’s house by all except the wary, who would note the absence of children, animals, crops. Two rooms with packed mud floors; in one a fire circle and a sleeping loft, in the other a stable. The place had been stripped of all signs of Hugh Calverley.

‘His men slept here, too?’ Owen asked.

Harry, who tended to bend very close while reading lips, jerked back and nodded. ‘Aye. They slept on t’other side, with horses.’

‘And you slept below, Hugh above?’ Owen asked.

Harry straightened again and shook his head. ‘I slept above. The master had a curtained feather bed below.’

‘Fancy for such a hovel,’ Ned remarked.

Harry had not been watching Ned. ‘What?’ he shouted, turning to Ned.

Ned repeated his comment.

Harry nodded. ‘My master and his women liked their comfort, Sir.’

‘And you, Harry, did you find it comfortable?’ Ned asked.

Harry beamed. ‘Master Hugh promised the Percies would see to me if aught happened to him, and they have. That’s a good master.’

Owen saw the doubt on his friend’s face and wondered what he was up to.

‘They say your master beat you about the head.’ Ned mouthed the words dramatically, ‘And that is why you’re so deaf.’

Harry tugged an earlobe, shrugged. ‘Master Hugh had a temper, true enough. But he was patient wi’ me most times. I had threads and bread, sir, and a goodly fire. And now in my decline I work at the castle.’ His blackened teeth formed a grim smile. ‘I never looked for such riches.’

Owen stared into the fire in the hall until his vision blurred. A cup of wine in his hand attracted flies that he absently swatted away. He could not get deaf Harry out of his mind, the gratitude expressed in those watery eyes for the bare necessities and beatings that had bloodied his ears too often. Owen had grown so accustomed to his comfortable life that he had forgotten folk like Harry. Owen’s family were freemen, but poor. They would see his home in York as luxurious. And Sir Robert D’Arby was offering to expand it twice over. Why was he so fortunate? Should he return to Wales, see how his family fared? Lucie had once accused him of being cruel, not returning to show his family he had survived his years as an archer for Henry, Duke of Lancaster. But what might Owen do for his family? Would he shame them by offering help? Were any of them yet alive?

Sir William Percy entered the hall and made for Owen. ‘You have it.’

Owen lifted his eye to his host, slowly focusing on the man. ‘Have it?’ He shook his head, not understanding.

‘Captain Sebastian will meet with you and Ned tomorrow, midday, the church of St Mary the Virgin, right below the castle.’

Owen sat forward, now alert. ‘In truth?’

Percy grinned from ear to ear. ‘I’ve done well by Lancaster, eh?’

‘You have done well indeed, Sir William.’ Owen rose. ‘I shall tell Ned and Sir Nicholas.’

Percy stayed him with a large, beringed hand. ‘You heard what I said, eh? You and Ned. Sir Nicholas later, if the captain is satisfied.’

Owen turned his good eye dead centre on Percy’s face. ‘Why?’

‘You are soldiers. He is comfortable with soldiers. Sir Nicholas is an ecclesiastic. The captain says they talk in circles.’

Owen and Percy shared a good laugh over that observation.

Owen paused to admire the new carvings flanking the door of St Mary the Virgin, heads of King Edward and Queen Phillippa. The royal couple had taken their marriage vows in York Minster, and all Yorkshire had embraced them. Owen wondered if the gargoyle on the waterspout directly above Phillippa might be modelled after Alice Perrers. He had never seen the King’s mistress, but he knew that stonecutters often entertained themselves with such subtle jokes, and Thoresby had described her as very much the gargoyle.

Ned nudged Owen and nodded towards two richly caparisoned horses in the churchyard held by a squire in a jacket much like the one Louth had found with the Sebastian emblem hidden inside — a subtle livery. ‘Our man is here betimes.’

Owen nodded. The squire glanced nervously about, and from round the side of the building Owen could hear a horse snort impatiently. ‘He has prepared for trouble.’

Ned grinned. ‘As we knew he would.’

They entered the west door. After the glaring noon sun, Owen’s eye took a moment to adjust to the dark church nave, dimly lit by wall torches. A huge man in dark clothing rose from a camp stool, snapped his fingers. A boy opened a lantern.

‘By your patch and height, you must be Owen Archer.’ Captain Sebastian was a shaggy bear of a man with a booming voice. Owen was accustomed to being the tallest in any gathering. Sebastian was no more than four fingers taller than Owen, but his girth made it seem as though he towered.

‘Captain Sebastian.’ Owen held out his hands, showing he held no weapon.

Sebastian did likewise, then turned his dark eyes on Ned, who quickly lifted his hands.

‘Good,’ Sebastian thundered. ‘John!’ The boy scurried to open two more camp stools. ‘Sit,’ the captain said. His smile exposed healthy teeth.

But for the height, he reminded Owen of Bertrand du Guesclin. Owen commented on the resemblance.

Sebastian looked pleased. ‘But your memory has softened his appearance. Du Guesclin is much uglier than I.’ He threw back his head and roared. A chantry priest glanced their way. Owen could imagine the sniff and frown. Sebastian was clearly a man who saw no reason to whisper merely because he was in a church. ‘So.’ Sebastian sat forward, hands on knees. ‘You carry a letter from King Edward?’

Ned drew it out of his belt pouch.

Sebastian nodded, but made no move to take it. ‘About Don Pedro the Cruel, eh?’

‘You are the last of the English knights to hear the warning,’ Ned said. ‘Our King has vowed to win back the throne of Castile for Don Pedro, the rightful king. Any English knight fighting against Don Pedro commits treason.’

Sebastian wagged his head from side to side impatiently. ‘And he offers gold?’

Ned held up the purse.

‘Our King is puzzlingly misguided in one fact, gentlemen.’ Sebastian sat up straighter. ‘Though I deserve it more than anyone I know, I am not a knight.’

Ned frowned, tapped the letter against his hand. ‘But you are the Sebastian who made a pact with four English knights?’

‘Aye. They sorely needed me.’

Owen knew where this led. ‘So you will not change your allegiance in this struggle?’

Sebastian scratched his beard. ‘I cannot read, ’tis true, but I understand law well enough to know the King’s letter holds no power over me. It states “knights”, if you represent it properly. So I am still free to follow my conscience.’

‘You would trip your King on a detail?’ Ned’s voice was sharp with disapproval.

Sebastian made a face. ‘A detail to you, far more to me.’

Owen glanced at Ned, expecting his friend to pursue this. But instead Ned tucked away the letter and the purse with the jerky motion of anger.

Owen and Sebastian exchanged puzzled looks.

Sebastian snapped his fingers. The groom hurried over. ‘Wine!’ The boy brought forth a wineskin and handed it to his master. Sebastian threw back his head, squirted a generous gulp into his mouth, and passed the skin to Owen who drank.

Elbow on knee, Sebastian leaned closer to Owen. ‘So you have seen du Guesclin?’

‘I was captain of archers for Henry of Lancaster when he fought du Guesclin at Rennes.’ Owen passed the skin to Ned who took a squirt and returned it to the boy.

Sebastian grinned from ear to ear. ‘Ah! Rennes was a glorious moment.’

‘Du Guesclin is a master of trickery,’ Owen said, ‘and cuts a dash that delights the troubadours. But he is said to be a fair-minded man.’

Sebastian nodded vigorously, snapped his fingers for the wineskin. ‘Which is why he — and I — support Enrique de Trastamare against Don Pedro. Trastamare might be a bastard, but Don Pedro is far worse in God’s eyes — he is a murderer. Right is on Trastamare’s side.’

‘Don Pedro is the born king,’ Ned reminded him.

Sebastian drank, handed the skin to Owen, shrugged. ‘So was our King’s father — yet we put him aside for the good of the realm.’

‘True enough,’ Owen said, ‘but King Charles plays this hand to free his countryside of the routiers, not because he believes Trastamare is God’s chosen.’ Owen drank and passed on the skin.

Sebastian shrugged. ‘Then Charles does it for the good of his people.’

Now was the time for Ned to begin bargaining, but Ned showed no signs of doing so. Owen did not wish to lose the opportunity, ‘Captain Sebastian, I trust you would obey King Edward’s command if knighthood were added to the gold.’

Sebastian beamed.

Ned choked on a mouthful of wine.

‘Your friend does not deem me worthy of knighthood,’ Sebastian said. ‘Yet he mistook me for a knight earlier.’

‘We have no right to offer it,’ Ned protested.

‘Rest easy,’ Owen said. ‘I merely ask it so that we may know the terms to report to Sir Nicholas.’

‘Prince Edward is to lead the expedition?’ Sebastian asked.

Owen nodded.

Sebastian held out his right hand. ‘The gold and the knighthood and I shall fight alongside my Prince no matter my personal opinion of the cause.’

Owen grinned. ‘I thought so.’ The three men shook hands.

As Owen rose to leave, Sebastian asked, ‘What of Edmund of Whitby? I hear you bloodied him and dragged him to the castle.’

‘He must answer in York for the death of one of the archbishop’s retainers. I shall take him there.’

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. ‘A retainer? Foolhardy Edmund.’ He shook his head. ‘The Percies cannot try him here?’

‘No.’

‘A waste of a good horse, riding him to York. They will surely execute him.’

Owen shrugged. ‘I merely obey orders.’

Sebastian snapped at the groom to gather his things. ‘There are two men we share a desire to find, Captain Archer. Will Longford and Edmund’s friend, Stefan. If you should find them, tell them I have need of them.’

Owen promised to do so.

On their return to the castle, Ned headed for the practice yard and spent a long time hacking at a straw dummy with his sword. When he was stumbling with fatigue and soaked through with sweat, Owen approached him. ‘What is it, friend?’

Ned turned on Owen, sword poised, then relaxed, sheathed it, sat down hard on the ground. ‘I cannot do as you do. And that is what he wants, you know. I am to replace the spy stolen by the Lord Chancellor.’

Owen crouched beside his friend, searched the pained eyes. ‘What nonsense are you talking?’

‘Lancaster. He thinks to create another Owen Archer of me, and I cannot do it. Not once did it occur to me that Sebastian was never called “sir”.’

‘And you think I saw it? He told us, Ned.’

‘But you caught his purpose at once. Knew he would tumble for the knighthood.’

True enough. ‘It was not the old Duke taught me to think so, Ned. It took a churchman and lawyer to do this to me, to make me see the twists in a man’s purpose.’ Owen stood up, stretched. ‘A large tankard of ale will keep your joints from aching. Come along, Ned. Let’s get drunk once more before I’m off to York and you to the King.’

*

Sir William and Ralph Percy seemed pleased to hear of Owen’s intention to leave the following day; but they were puzzled by his request to take Edmund along.

‘He will walk me round Longford’s haunts in Beverley,’ Owen said, ‘mayhap loose the nun’s tongue. We must satisfy my lord Thoresby.’

Ralph spat into the fire. ‘He will kill you in your sleep.’

‘I think not. And Alfred will watch him with murder in his heart — he still holds Edmund responsible for the death of his partner.’

Louth and Ned were to take a more direct route to the King with Sebastian’s demands.

‘Joanna, stop! Joanna, look what you have done!’ Lucie grabbed at the nun’s arm, but Joanna shrugged her off, kept on digging. Lucie, great with child, lost her balance and fell to her knees. Struggling to rise, she stumbled again as Hugh’s terrified scream rose from deep in the earth. ‘Listen, Joanna. He is not dead! Why are you burying your brother alive?’ Joanna had dragged Hugh to the edge of the impossibly deep grave, so deep that mists in its depths concealed the bottom, and had rolled him into it with a casual motion of her booted foot, all the while looking distracted, as if she were hurrying through a repetitive chore while thinking of something else. And now in the same manner she shovelled the dirt on top of her living, writhing brother. Lucie wanted to close her ears to the malevolent scraping of the shovel through the piled earth, the whispered descent, the faint thump of the clumps of earth and gravel landing on Hugh. Over and over again. And still he screamed. ‘Joanna, for pity’s sake!’ But Joanna kept up the rhythm as she looked off in the distance. How could Hugh scream so? Joanna had ripped open his neck with her teeth. Lucie crawled to Joanna, tugged at her skirt. ‘For the love of God, Joanna, if you will not stop, at least be quick about it.’ As Lucie grabbed Joanna’s ankle, the shovel came down on her head. She was falling, falling towards the screams. ‘My baby! My baby!’

Lucie clutched her stomach and breathed deeply. A cramp from thrashing in her nightmare, nothing more, please, God. She breathed deeply, slowly, breathing round the pain. It eased. She rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. Fine. She stood up. No pain. Thanks be to God.

Lucie walked sleepily to the window and gazed out on the first glimmer of dawn on the rooftops of the city. Whence came such a dream? Why would she dream of Joanna injuring her brother and burying him alive? Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. .