A Vigil of Spies (Owen Archer Book 10)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Benedicite, Dom Lambert. I was grieved to hear of your loss,’ said Thoresby.

  ‘Benedicite, Your Grace. I— Will had served me well and faithfully for many years. I shall miss him. May he be welcomed into the Lord’s embrace.’ He spoke in a breathy voice.

  ‘Was he a clumsy horseman?’ Thoresby asked.

  The cleric stared at him for a moment, as if he hadn’t understood the question. Then, with a widening of his eyes, he shook his head. ‘I would not have described him so. No, Your Grace. Nor was he the drunkard some have suggested.’

  Michaelo indicated that the emissary should sit. By the time Lambert had settled, Jehannes had also taken a seat near him.

  ‘We understand that you bring letters from Bishop William of Winchester,’ said Jehannes.

  ‘I do, Dom Jehannes.’ Lambert turned towards Michaelo, who motioned to the servant standing at the door with a small case to come forward. The servant handed Lambert the case and backed away. Opening the hinged lid, Lambert withdrew a rolled parchment from which dangled the seal of the Bishop of Winchester. ‘Your Grace.’ He began to hand it to Thoresby.

  ‘Your Grace, would you prefer that I read it aloud?’ asked Jehannes.

  It was their practice of late, but Thoresby wished to handle this letter, to taste the words himself. William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, was a troublesome man, but Thoresby felt a bond with him, and for him to have sent an emissary under the protection of such a lofty travelling party signalled a message of some importance.

  ‘I’ll read what my eyes permit,’ he said.

  Almost at once, Michaelo delivered his spectacles and brought a lamp closer, then untied the roll for him.

  ‘Bless you, Michaelo,’ Thoresby murmured, as he adjusted the frame on his nose and looked over the letter. ‘Ah, he recommends the Bishop of Exeter – Thomas Brantingham – as Archbishop of York,’ he said, as he began to read. ‘A good choice, but that he is only recently bishop. Still, he is a Yorkshireman.’ Thoresby silently read further. Wykeham wanted to ensure that he knew of all the nastiness connected with Alexander Neville’s insistence on taking his seat at the Archdeaconry of Cornwall. Thoresby thought it strange that Wykeham should think he did not know about it, having been commanded by the king to handle the case. Wykeham had sent additional documents that provided detail and proof of Neville’s unacceptable behaviour, particularly regarding something that involved Thoresby’s family, a pointless but vicious effort. His own family. He could not imagine what that might be. He glanced up at Lambert. ‘You have further documents?’

  The emissary nodded towards the case, and Thoresby noticed several rolls.

  ‘Do you know the contents?’

  ‘I do not, Your Grace.’

  Thoresby nodded and continued the letter. Wykeham pointed out how the king’s sudden approval of Neville as archbishop suggested a complete change of heart regarding the man, and such a turnaround was very unlike the king. Wykeham thought it was rather another instance of Lancaster’s power, and that of Alice Perrers, the king’s mistress. ‘Perrers,’ Thoresby groaned, apparently aloud, for Michaelo muttered a curse and Jehannes crossed himself. He laid the letter on his lap, took off the spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Bishop William sounds troubled, and presses me to see to this with some urgency. Of course, it might simply be that he fears I’ll die before advising the king.’ He lay back on the pillows. ‘Brantingham. I do like the man. What do you know of him, Dom Lambert?’

  The emissary actually blushed to be asked, which made Thoresby wonder at Wykeham’s choice of this man for the mission. He was young, too pretty for his own good, and apparently well aware of and embarrassed by his lack of experience.

  ‘Your Grace, the bishop has been a guest at Bishop William’s palace in Winchester a few times, but I know little of him. I can only say that Bishop William consults with him on issues regarding his part of the country, and clearly respects his opinion.’

  ‘So you are part of Wykeham’s household?’ When Lambert nodded, Thoresby added, ‘Tell me – what is your position?’

  ‘I assist his personal secretary, Your Grace. Purely a minor deity.’ His smile was disarming.

  Thoresby chuckled, glad that he had found a way to relax the man. Dom Lambert’s position in Wykeham’s household meant that he was deemed trustworthy. He nodded towards Jehannes. ‘Let me hear these supporting papers. He writes of something personally disturbing.’ He looked at each man in turn as he said, ‘Whatever the matter, word of this does not leave this chamber.’ All three nodded, and Michaelo ushered the servant out of the room.

  Lambert held out the case to Jehannes. The archdeacon asked whether there was an order in which they should be read. ‘They were placed in here as you see,’ said Lambert. ‘The bishop’s secretary is an orderly man, so it is most likely that he placed them in order.’ He touched the one beside the letter he’d already presented. ‘I believe this would be next.’

  Jehannes thanked Lambert in his kind way, and then lifted the roll, untied it, and gave an uncharacteristic grunt as he unrolled the document. ‘There is nothing here but hints of words – it has been scraped.’ He held up the parchment for all to see. ‘Do you know if the secretary had reused parchment?’

  ‘Certainly, he would have. But these were not documents he created. They had been given to Bishop William by Bishop Thomas of Exeter.’

  ‘Perhaps he sent along a blank parchment,’ Jehannes murmured, not convinced. He lifted out the next roll, untied it, unrolled it, and held up yet another blank parchment. ‘Is this some sort of jape?’

  Lambert blanched. ‘How can that be?’ He reached for the unrolled parchments, handling them as if they might spit at him, turning them this way and that. ‘I don’t understand. Your Grace, Archdeacon, Brother— I cannot— The case was ever on my saddle during the day, in my bed with me at night.’ His voice trembled.

  ‘Is it possible you picked up the wrong case?’ Jehannes gently queried.

  ‘No. I watched the secretary place them in here. And the letter – Bishop William’s letter was in here. No. This can be no accident.’

  ‘Unlike your servant’s fall,’ murmured Thoresby.

  Lambert looked him in the eyes and apparently disliked what he saw, for he dropped his gaze to the blank parchments. ‘Do you think …? Deus juva me, if someone wanted these … But how someone could make him fall while riding amidst all the others … No one has said they noticed anything.’ His pretty face shone with sweat.

  Thoresby tired of him. ‘Pity we’ve no idea when the documents were switched or scraped.’

  ‘You’ve not looked at these documents while travelling?’ Jehannes asked, a trace of incredulity in his tone, unusually blunt for the gentle archdeacon. He, too, must find Lambert tiring.

  Lambert shook his head, his fair curls bobbing, though those that touched his forehead and temple soon stuck to his sweat-slicked skin.

  Thoresby closed his eyes. ‘Michaelo, bring Owen Archer to me. Jehannes, Lambert, you will stay here.’ As Michaelo departed, Thoresby opened one eye and asked Lambert, ‘Have you no natural curiosity? You never once attempted to peek at the documents? You asked no questions?’

  Lambert did not blush now. All the blood seemed drained from him, and his paleness was quite unearthly. ‘No, Your Grace. To peek would have been dishonest, to ask – it was not my place to ask.’

  Thoresby wondered what Wykeham had been thinking to use an idiot as an emissary.

  Owen was conversing with Sir John and Sir Lewis in the hall, recounting his days in the service of Henry of Grosmont and enjoying it far more than he would have imagined possible, for Sir Lewis proved congenial and curious, and Sir John seemed interested, despite his superior air. He’d intended to speak to all in the party, one by one, about Lambert’s servant, in the hopes of easing his mind about the incident, though he could not imagine what would make him comfortable about the cut strap. But he’d not made it past the two knights. In fact, he’d yet to ask t
hem about the incident.

  The moment he noticed Brother Michaelo’s elegant figure winding through the crowd, his face frozen in a polite smile, Owen knew something untoward had happened. He said a silent prayer that it would not have to do with Wykeham’s emissary. He turned back to his companions and tried to pick up his train of thought, but Michaelo was already at his side, touching his arm.

  ‘Sir John, Sir Lewis, I fear I must deprive you of your companion. Captain, His Grace would see you at once in his chamber.’ Michaelo’s eyes were anxious, his speech clipped with agitation.

  Fearing Thoresby was in danger, Owen immediately took his leave of the knights, and, as they walked, he asked Michaelo the details of the trouble. He’d placed a guard outside the archbishop’s chamber window and another at his door, but he worried that was not enough.

  ‘Important documents have been stolen. Bishop William chose a fool for an emissary. A beautiful fool, but a fool for all that.’

  Owen cursed under his breath. First a dead servant, now missing documents – though he’d feared worse. ‘Who is with His Grace?’

  ‘Dom Lambert and Archdeacon Jehannes.’

  ‘I think Sir Richard should be present as well.’ Ravenser was his uncle’s proxy when Thoresby’s strength flagged.

  ‘I’ll find him. You know the way.’ Michaelo turned back into the crowded hall.

  Owen slipped into the archbishop’s chamber, then paused a moment, listening to Thoresby’s laboured breathing. Jehannes and the emissary quietly sat by the great bed, heads bowed as if in communal prayer. The door behind him opened, and Ravenser and Michaelo joined him. Now Jehannes and Lambert noticed the arrivals.

  ‘Thank you for thinking to include me, Archer,’ said Ravenser.

  ‘Come. Let us see what we can learn,’ said Owen, approaching the bed. ‘Your Grace.’ He bowed. ‘Archdeacon, Dom Lambert. I’ve asked Sir Richard to join us.’ Thoresby looked suddenly dreadful, exhausted by the day’s visitations. ‘Perhaps we should first allow you some rest, my lord.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Time enough for that soon. Jehannes, show Archer.’

  The archdeacon opened a case that sat on the bedside table and drew out a parchment roll which he handed to Owen. ‘Open it,’ he said.

  Unrolling it, Owen thought for a moment that he’d somehow turned it about, but, flipping it over, found that both sides were blank. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It should have been a document from the Bishop of Exeter, revealing something about Alexander Neville that would convince His Grace that the man should not be the next Archbishop of York,’ said Jehannes, his expression unreadable, and, by that, Owen knew how troubled he was, for he’d always been able to read his friend the archdeacon, even in the chilly days of their first acquaintance when he was Thoresby’s personal secretary.

  Owen looked at Lambert, who had been watching him but now quickly averted his eyes with a self-betraying blush. ‘When did this happen, Dom Lambert?’ Owen asked.

  The man shook his head. Merely shook his head. Thoresby cleared his throat, and when Owen looked up, he motioned him closer.

  ‘He does not know what the documents contained, but I smell the Nevilles behind this incident. You must resolve it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Your Grace.’ Owen straightened and looked around at the others looking at him. ‘We should send a messenger to Winchester. It will take time, but we must know what the documents contained.’

  ‘No!’ Lambert cried, rising from his chair. ‘I beg you!’

  ‘What do you propose we do instead?’ Ravenser asked, sounding like his uncle in better days, his tone so biting and cold that Lambert flinched. ‘Wykeham will learn what happened in any case, and we must know what he wished to convey to His Grace.’

  Lambert clutched some of the fabric of his clerical gown as he looked at each of them in turn, his expression that of desperation. ‘Then send me, I beg you.’

  ‘You?’ Ravenser turned the one syllable into an insult.

  ‘No, Dom Lambert,’ said Owen. ‘You have been compromised, and we cannot risk trusting you a second time.’ He looked to Thoresby for approval.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Lambert moaned, stepping close to the archbishop’s bed.

  Owen could not help but pity the man, even though he had brought such trouble. He imagined Dom Lambert had expected this mission to make his career, not humiliate him – and possibly be the death of him.

  ‘I shall consider this, Lambert,’ Thoresby said, in little more than a whisper. ‘Now, you must assist Archer in any way you can. He will need to know all that you can tell him.’

  ‘Captain Archer is in charge now,’ agreed Ravenser. ‘He has our complete trust.’

  ‘You need not fear him, Dom Lambert,’ added Jehannes. ‘Captain Archer is a fair man, a believer in the supremacy of truth.’

  Owen found their praise at once gratifying and embarrassing – and he also knew their confidence in him might be withdrawn at once should he uncover something they did not wish to acknowledge. He had been in the archbishop’s service too long to expect otherwise.

  The emissary seemed at last to understand that he had no recourse but to acquiesce. He bobbed his head towards Owen. ‘I am yours to command, Captain.’ He sank back down on the stool and pressed his sleeve to his sweaty brow. Michaelo brought him a cup of wine. ‘You are kind. Bless you,’ said Lambert, taking a good long drink.

  Owen noticed that the emissary and the secretary had avoided looking at one another – even as Michaelo poured the wine, his eyes did not wander to Lambert, and Lambert never glanced at Michaelo. Owen also caught Thoresby and Ravenser exchanging a look.

  Ravenser said, ‘His Grace is weary. Dom Lambert, perhaps you would care to withdraw to the chapel to pray and recover from your unpleasant discovery.’

  Lambert rose, looking relieved.

  Understanding that they wanted to be free to discuss the situation, Owen grabbed at the moment to ask, before the cleric left, ‘Dom Lambert, did you and your servant have your own saddles? Did you and he ever trade them? Trade horses?’

  Looking at first puzzled, then frightened, Lambert shook his head. ‘I rode the same horse all the journey, and I am almost certain the same saddle, though ours were much alike. Very much alike. It is possible that Will confused them. Do you think his fall was arranged? Do you think that I was the one who was to fall?’ His beautiful eyes were huge with fear and his face so pale Owen half expected him to faint. But he wondered whether it was fear that he’d almost died or fear of being found out. It was the vigorous head-shaking and rushed denial that bothered Owen.

  ‘I do not know, Dom Lambert. I must consider every possibility.’

  Lambert crossed himself. ‘I wish I could be certain.’

  ‘As you say, your servant might have accidentally switched them,’ said Owen, closely watching Lambert. But the man bowed his head and so hid his eyes. ‘You should be quite safe in this household. I would ask you not to walk about the fields.’

  ‘No. I will stay with the company,’ Lambert said, in a soft, frightened voice.

  Once Lambert had departed, Jehannes asked, ‘What did you discover about the servant’s saddle?’ He’d leaned forward, his forearms on his lap, his eyes fixed on Owen’s eye. ‘Had it been tampered with?’

  ‘It had.’ Owen explained. ‘Would that the Bishop of Winchester had not sent Lambert, but had kept his own counsel.’

  Thoresby chuckled weakly. ‘He is your nemesis, eh, Archer?’ But he quickly grew serious. ‘Richard, you must inform the Princess of Wales of this trouble. And her son and Sir Lewis.’

  Ravenser opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He glanced at Owen, frowning in what seemed to be an attempt to communicate something, but said nothing, dropping his gaze to his elegantly sleeved forearms, toying with the buttons.

  Owen guessed that he did not wish to be the one to question the princess’s trustworthiness – not in the presence of his uncle. But someone
needed to voice this; it must at least be considered. Owen felt a responsibility.

  ‘Your Grace, is it wise to move so quickly?’ he asked. ‘Can you be so certain that Princess Joan had no part in the theft? Would it not be understandable for her to wish to know what Wykeham had sent you?’

  Ravenser’s face relaxed. ‘I am reassured by Captain Archer’s clear thinking.’

  ‘I had not considered that,’ said Jehannes.

  Thoresby growled – softly, but it was an unmistakable growl – from the depths of his great bed. ‘Princess Joan told you she has spies, Archer. She’s no need to steal or damage the documents.’

  ‘What if all other attempts to discover the matter had failed?’ Owen asked.

  ‘We cannot keep this from her,’ said Thoresby. ‘She will know soon enough. I prefer to inform her.’

  ‘I merely ask because, if another person dies, we might regret having moved with too much haste,’ said Owen, aware that he had already lost the argument, but feeling compelled to emphasise the gravity of the situation.

  Thoresby grunted and weakly waved them on. ‘I must rest.’

  Owen bowed to him, as did Ravenser, and, with Jehannes, moved away from the bed. Michaelo moved towards the bed, inquiring what the archbishop needed.

  ‘Apparently you trust Sir John and Sir Lewis,’ said Owen to the other two.

  ‘Certainly what the princess hears, they will soon hear,’ said Ravenser, looking uncomfortable. ‘I would not say it is necessarily a matter of trust.’

  ‘Who else in the company do you think might be trusted?’ Owen asked. He must speak with everyone. He must decide beforehand how to approach them, what to say, what to avoid.

  ‘I was about to ask you about Geoffrey Chaucer, Captain,’ said Ravenser. ‘You’ve dealt with him before.’