by Candace Robb
Their eyes met. They had no need to voice what they both thought. Murder. Someone in the company had wanted this man injured or dead. That was unsettling in itself, but when it was the company in which the Princess of Wales was travelling, that was more than unsettling. The palace was now crowded with high-born guests as impossible to herd as cats, and as opaque.
‘Cursed be the day Wykeham was born,’ Owen muttered.
‘I doubt he cut the strap,’ said Alfred, with a half-hearted chuckle. ‘But now we know we have trouble.’
‘We do,’ Owen agreed. ‘And we don’t know whether Will was the intended victim.’
‘The emissary?’
‘Wykeham’s man, Dom Lambert? It’s possible. Perhaps, once we know the purpose of his inclusion in the party, we’ll have a better idea whether that might be so. We will also need to find out whether they always used the same saddle.’
‘The emissary is more likely to have enemies than his servant.’
‘We don’t know that.’
Alfred slowly shook his head as he gazed on the corpse. ‘Poor man. But truly, who would care about a servant?’
‘Say nothing to anyone about this.’
‘You know that I won’t, Captain.’
‘I do, but I feel better for saying it.’ Owen coaxed a smile out of his companion. ‘Let us see what else we might learn about him.’
In Will’s pack were paternoster beads, part of someone’s castaway comb, a clean shift and soft-soled shoes. Nothing to distinguish him as a potential murder victim. But he was from Wykeham’s household.
‘Put his things in the trunk by my pallet,’ said Owen, handing Alfred a key. ‘Including the saddle. And take care to lock it.’ Alfred was again frowning down at the corpse. ‘Jehannes will say a mass for him, Alfred.’
‘I find myself hoping he was murdered for some crime he committed. I don’t like to think he died because he served a servant of Wykeham.’
‘You’re beginning to think too much. Like me.’
Alfred gravely nodded as he took the key. ‘I feared it would come to this.’ He broke into a grin, and then bent to collect Will’s belongings.
That was more like Alfred.
They moved away from the corpse, telling a servant to ask Archdeacon Jehannes to arrange for the mass and preparation of the body.
‘I pray there is no one waiting for Will to return,’ said Alfred.
Owen thought it best not to comment, instead attempting to distract Alfred with the business at hand, reviewing the details of the watches. While they talked, a servant shook the dust from Owen’s jupon. Thoresby had insulted Owen, instructing him that, while the guests were present, he was to present himself as a minor noble – clean, polite, not sullen – as if he were not in the habit of conducting himself in such wise. He cursed to think of it now as he washed his face and hands before donning the clean jupon.
In his days as captain of archers, Owen had enjoyed feasts, drinking with his men, and then catching the eye of a pretty woman to bed afterwards. Surely those days had not been as carefree as they appeared now in his memory, but he sometimes had to work at recalling the bad times. It was not that he chafed at his present life; he loved his wife, Lucie, and his children beyond anything he might have imagined. And when with Lucie he still enjoyed such celebrations, proud to show her off – her beauty, her quick wit, her grace – and he was always glad to snuggle in bed with her afterwards sharing his impressions, amazed by how much more she had observed than he had. But now, being responsible for the safety of the feasters, and with a corpse in the stables and murder in the air, he looked forward with little joy to dining with them. Even more than was his habit, he must watch how much he drank, he must watch his tongue, he must be ready to move if anyone misbehaved.
The two nuns in the princess’s company appeared with two servants – they were to take charge of the body. Owen thanked them and headed to the hall.
When he entered Bishopthorpe’s great hall, he was amazed that, within a few hours of the arrival of so many guests, most of them were already seated and feasting. The guests were seated facing inward at trestle tables arranged in a U, the servants bustling about within filling tankards and delivering trenchers and platters of meat. Owen’s stomach growled as he turned his head slowly, sweeping the crowd with his half-vision, seeking Brother Michaelo, who was adamant about the order of guests. Owen did not intend to cause a fuss by taking a seat on the wrong bench, an argument with a frenetic Michaelo not worth the time saved. His gaze came to rest on Thoresby at the high table on the dais beside Princess Joan and he wondered whether the archbishop had heard of the servant’s death.
Archbishop Thoresby looked pale, and his deep-set eyes were over-large in his illness-ravaged face. His elegant robes provided some heft and colour to his otherwise skeletal frame, but he was funereal beside Princess Joan’s magnificence. Her cotehardie was of a costly blue silk, the neckline low, exposing plump, milk-white shoulders, and her surcoat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, was ermine-lined despite the early autumn warmth. Delicate gold brooches secured her sleeves, and a gold circlet held her gossamer veil. Who would not be beautiful in such attire? Owen wondered. Her features were even and her eyes expressive, her hair a honey-gold that was doubtless enhanced, in the Italian fashion, with lemon and exposure to the sun. He’d once argued with Geoffrey Chaucer about her reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, and Geoffrey had insisted that Owen had only to speak to the princess to understand the claim, for she surpassed all but Blanche of Lancaster in grace. Owen looked forward to testing that theory. For now, he was relieved that she had been safely delivered into the hands of Michaelo.
And suddenly there he was, Brother Michaelo, elegant in the Benedictine robes tailored for him in his native Normandy, standing beside Owen with an air of having alighted on the spot for but a heartbeat. ‘All is well, Captain?’
‘At present,’ Owen lied. ‘The hall looks crowded – this great hall!’ He would never have believed it.
‘Even so, you have a seat at the second table. His Grace insists I treat you as a knight.’ The monk’s tone made it clear that he considered it a mistake.
‘I would that Lucie might be here,’ said Owen. His wife was a knight’s daughter, and he often wondered whether she regretted marrying beneath her, forsaking such honours.
‘Dame Lucie would grace the gathering,’ said Michaelo. ‘But I’ve no time to rue what might have been. Another time. Come.’
Owen cursed as he realised he was being guided to Geoffrey Chaucer’s bench.
Michaelo paused to say, ‘Master Geoffrey requested that I seat you by him. As it was at the very table to which I’d assigned you, I accommodated him. I apologise if you find it uncomfortable. I know that the two of you had your differences in Wales.’
Brother Michaelo had accompanied them on that journey, though Owen had not thought his relationship with Geoffrey had become uncomfortable until after the monk and Owen’s father-in-law had been left at St David’s.
‘I’m honoured that Geoffrey sought my company,’ Owen lied, as there was nothing to be done. ‘By meal’s end, I’ll have a head full of gossip concerning all in the company.’ It might prove helpful.
Michaelo’s long, expressive nose quivered. ‘I pray you will share what you learn, in gratitude for my making it possible. And for seating you despite the dust on your surcoat and mud on your boots.’ He sniffed as he backed away.
There was no pleasing him. Owen might have saved his time and effort – but he reminded himself that he’d done it for Thoresby, not his pompous secretary.
‘God go with you,’ Owen muttered.
As Geoffrey shifted on the bench to make room for Owen, Michaelo motioned for a server to fill a tankard for him.
‘Brother Michaelo has not aged a day in the four years since we met,’ said Geoffrey.
‘He has not aged a day since I met him ten years ago,’ said Owen. ‘I have wondered whether he made a pact with
the devil.’
Owen and Geoffrey toasted one another and exchanged insults about their respective changes. Then Geoffrey grew serious.
‘I see we come not a moment too soon. John Thoresby is much diminished in flesh.’
Owen nodded. ‘I had not expected to see him in the hall again. The effort is a gift of great price for the pleasure and honour of Princess Joan.’
‘You can see that the princess is well aware of that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Look how she bends to hear him, offers him food.’
Owen watched for a few moments and saw indeed how she bowed her head close to Thoresby to listen, lifting her veil to do so, and then offered a titbit of food at the end of a jewelled knife as she replied. Her expression was that of quiet joy, neither silly nor smotheringly concerned. Thoresby’s eyes seemed brighter than Owen had seen them in a long while.
‘It appears he finds it worth the sacrifice,’ said Owen, his heart lightening a little. His changed feelings towards Thoresby kept surprising him. He’d spent most of his time in Thoresby’s service wishing he served elsewhere, but, now that the archbishop was dying, Owen’s heart felt heavy with grief. He did not wish to think about that. ‘Since you and I last met, Geoffrey, I have been blessed with a second daughter. My family thrives. How go your son and wife?’
‘They are well, God be praised. Though neither of them are as delighted by our new quarters over Aldgate as I am. Pippa is accustomed to the spacious palaces of the royal family. She is not fond of London.’ He skewered a piece of meat.
Owen chewed a mouthful of tender coney spiced with just the right amount of ginger, washing it down with wine of a quality he was not often served. He could not deny that, as far as the dining, there was much to recommend this visitation. He tried not to see Will’s corpse in front of him.
Needing a distraction, he lowered his voice to ask, ‘What can you tell me about the members of your company? What of Lewis Clifford?’
Geoffrey chuckled. ‘He composes dreadful poetry, but is otherwise an upstanding member of Prince Edward’s circle.’ He, too, spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the background clamour of a crowd feasting but soft enough to avoid being overheard by the others at the table. ‘You met the princess’s son, John Holand, who struts about as if unaware he’s an untried youth. He is most attentive to Lady Sybilla, one of his mother’s ladies. The one with the gurgling laugh.’
Owen had noticed her, a plump woman with inviting lips and bold eyes – the one who had ridden in the cart with the princess. ‘Isn’t she a married woman?’
‘Yes, poor man, elderly, surely cuckolded. The other lady is Eleanor, quick-witted and practical. Everyone in the company seems at ease with her.’
She was a petite, attractive woman, with compelling eyes and a graceful carriage. She seemed familiar. Owen had a vague memory of flirting with a woman much like her long ago, and yet not like her, for this woman’s eyes bespoke suffering and his memory conjured a merry woman, free of cares.
‘She has a tragic air about her,’ said Owen.
‘Which is perhaps what puts all at ease – suffering invites confidence, eh?’ Geoffrey chuckled. ‘As you see, Princess Joan surrounds herself with people pleasing to look on. I was not her choice!’
When Owen had first met Geoffrey, he’d found his habit of self-deprecation annoying, as he was pleasant-looking enough – there was nothing about him that Owen found silly except that he enjoyed belittling himself. He glanced back at Lady Eleanor, trying to decide whether she was old enough for him to have bedded her perhaps fifteen years earlier. It might be she, grown subtle with the years, more beautiful, burnished by time … He shook himself out of the memory.
‘What can you tell me of the sisters?’ Owen asked.
‘Dames Katherine and Clarice, Cistercians – but, of course, you see that in their pale habits – from Nun Appleton. They are to assist Master Walter, the physician, in the archbishop’s sickroom. Be wary of Walter, for he is quite the gossip.’
Owen noticed that the cleric sitting beside Geoffrey had grown quiet, as if straining to hear their whispered conversation. He’d wondered about him when he’d taken his seat, a striking man, large dark eyes, well-defined lips, high cheekbones and a long, elegant nose, pale hair curling about his tonsure, all his features well proportioned and pleasing. A mature angel was what had come to Owen’s mind, and he’d been surprised that Brother Michaelo paid him no attention, handsome men being his weakness. Owen looked at Geoffrey as he nodded towards the man.
Geoffrey understood at once and, leaning back so that the man and Owen might make eye contact, said, ‘Dom Lambert, allow me to introduce you to His Grace’s Captain of Guard, Owen Archer.’
So this was the murdered man’s master. Owen bowed to the cleric, whose expression was coolly polite, allowing a mere hint of a smile.
‘Dom Lambert comes with an embassy from William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Captain Archer.’ Lambert bowed his head. ‘Bishop William has spoken of your brave efforts on his behalf.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Owen, though he imagined that much of what Wykeham had said was the opposite of complimentary. They were not friends. ‘My condolences on the death of your servant.’
The handsome face softened a little. ‘May Will rest in peace,’ he murmured, crossing himself.
Owen was trying to think of a tactful way to ask whether Lambert thought the servant’s death an accident when Brother Michaelo swirled to a halt across the table.
‘His Grace requests your presence, Captain Archer. For a moment only.’
‘Fortunate man,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘You are to be introduced to Princess Joan.’
As Owen rose, he lifted his cap and raked a hand through his hair, a subconscious reaction to being presented to a great lady.
‘Approach him as I have approached you, from the opposite side of the table.’ The servants’ side, Michaelo meant. Owen cursed – like Thoresby, Michaelo behaved as if Owen had no experience of courtly manners.
Sir Lewis sat to one side of Thoresby and Princess Joan to the other. Beside her was her son, Sir John, beside Sir Lewis was Lady Sybilla of the gurgling laugh, fair hair caught up beneath a veil almost as translucent as the princess’s. She looked interested in Owen as he approached, one hand fluttering over her low-cut bodice. He forced his attention back to His Grace, who had just noticed him.
‘Archer. Come.’ Thoresby waved him closer. ‘I would introduce you to my esteemed guest, the Princess of Wales.’
The archbishop’s voice was faint, his eyes slightly unfocused. Owen wanted time to reverse. He wanted his overbearing, devious archbishop back. He wanted to resent this man, not pity him, especially not mourn him.
Thoresby was saying something to Princess Joan about her need for a sergeant of the household, and, as she smiled sweetly, she was closely studying Owen.
‘I understand,’ she said, ‘that you rose to captain of archers in Henry of Grosmont’s service, and that, when you were blinded, he educated you so that you might serve as his spy. So that he might be in two places at once.’ She paused with her head tilted to one side, awaiting a response.
Owen could not think what to say, too busy wondering whether it was Thoresby or the old duke who had spoken of this to her and amazed that either would divulge his role, which depended on secrecy.
‘You are taken aback,’ she said, with no attempt to hide her amusement. ‘We all have eyes and ears in our service, Captain, and make it our business to know those of our peers.’
He’d prided himself on being inconspicuous. He felt shamed. Slighted. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘I am honoured to be known to you.’ He felt mute and awkward; in addition to the unexpected topic with its unpleasant revelation, he found it difficult to hear and be heard across the table and over the cacophony of music, voices, barking dogs. ‘Your safety is my only concern at present.’
She bowed her head. ‘I am confident that I am
in good hands.’
Thoresby nodded him away. As Owen returned to his seat, his head cleared enough for him to wonder whether he had been recommended to join the princess’s service after Thoresby’s death. Though it would, of course, be a great honour, it was nothing he wished for. Yet, how could he refuse the woman who might be his future queen, if God spared her husband? He only half heard the rest of Geoffrey’s gossip as he filled his belly, trying to focus on the excellent fare rather than his worries about the future. When he could eat no more, and long before he could drink no more, he departed to check on his guardsmen.
When Thoresby wished to rise from the table, he found, as often happened of late, that his feet seemed curled and twisted and quite impossible to set flat enough on the ground to gain purchase. God played with him, allowing him the ease to come to the feast but not to leave it on his own two feet.
‘Who would you have assist you, my lord?’ asked Joan, in a perfectly composed tone of voice, as if she were asking his preference in the dishes set before them. He wondered whether she was practised in this from seeing to her husband, whose illness must colour their marriage in all ways.
‘Archdeacon Jehannes, if you would be so kind as to catch his attention,’ he said.
As the Archdeacon of York was seated just beyond Sir John on the princess’s other side, it was a request Thoresby felt easy making. He heard Jehannes send a servant for Brother Michaelo. He was grateful, for he would need a man at either elbow.
God’s blood, but he was exhausted. The effort required to sit upright was becoming too great and he might fail at any moment. And yet he felt it had been worth it, to sit here in his hall sharing a meal with the beautiful and gracious Joan of Kent. She was already queenly, and he regretted that he would not live long enough to see her husband crowned.
It was a clear night, cool but not unpleasant, the moon a barely discernible slice. Gazing up at the stars, Owen felt a wave of melancholy. All in all, his life had improved during his time in Thoresby’s service. He’d married Lucie, they’d been blessed with children, and he had a place in the community of York, a respectable place. Now an uneasy change was in the air, and it saddened him. The feast had conjured memories of his life before York, when he served the old duke, Henry of Grosmont, at his palace of Kenilworth, and that, too, had brought on melancholy – or perhaps the melancholy was actually caused by the presence of death, that of Will the servant, and the imminent death of the archbishop.
