by Candace Robb
‘I’m not certain of him,’ said Owen. ‘His curiosity makes me uneasy. And I’m even less certain of the princess’s ladies.’
‘I agree about the ladies. I have a vague memory that one of them is a Neville,’ said Ravenser.
‘Lady Sybilla,’ said Owen.
Ravenser raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds right. How did you know?’
‘Brother Michaelo told me.’
‘Will we send a messenger to Winchester?’ Jehannes asked.
‘Of course,’ said Thoresby, from the bed. ‘Richard will arrange it. But we’ll not tell that fool.’ The effort to raise his voice enough to be heard caused a coughing fit.
‘God protect him,’ Jehannes murmured, crossing himself.
‘Even Lambert might have been bought,’ said Ravenser. ‘I agree that we should not tell him.’
Owen was glad of that. ‘So, we’ve only the two knights and the princess in our confidence. Good. Have you any idea what Wykeham had wished His Grace to know?’
Ravenser shook his head. ‘Only that it involves His Grace – a personal issue.’
‘God help us,’ Owen said.
‘Amen,’ Ravenser whispered.
Michaelo looked deeply troubled. Owen had heard him and Lambert whispering at the door, a fast, urgent exchange as the latter was departing. He did not like it.
Three
A TRIFLE
Late Tuesday
AS OWEN WAS passing through the great hall in late afternoon, he noticed a fair young man napping on a bench against a wall. Despite wavier hair and a slighter frame, the lad reminded Owen of his adopted son, Jasper, and, for an irrational moment, his heart raced with the possibility that the lad had come to summon him, that there was trouble at home. He’d absentmindedly taken a few steps towards the bench when the sleeper shifted and revealed himself as Master Walter. Owen said a silent prayer of thanks that he had not made a fool of himself and insulted the middle-aged physician in the process. The man must be accustomed to overcompensating for his less-than-inspiring appearance.
Diminutive men like Master Walter were often consumed with anger, and therefore difficult, if not dangerous. Owen wondered why Princess Joan had chosen him, what she knew of the physician. As he understood it, Walter was not her personal physician, but someone who had been recommended to her when she had inquired about physicians near York – though Owen did not consider Lincoln to be so very near. He wondered who had recommended Master Walter, and whether he might possibly have a reason to discourage any hope of Thoresby’s recovery. Owen could not afford to trust anyone at the moment.
Turning his attention back to the hall, he caught Geoffrey Chaucer’s eye and, though he looked away at once, he knew the damage was done and he would soon have the questionable pleasure of his company. He felt impatient with the crowded conditions that were going to make it difficult to manage private conversations, much less prevent interruptions. He was exhausted and frustrated before he’d even begun to question the company, and he cursed the regal size of the princess’s entourage. How was he to protect her while distracted by an investigation involving so many? He could place Alfred in charge of guarding the princess, but he was already depending on his second to coordinate the protection of the entire company, both the household and the guests, and he and Gilbert were working well as a team. Of course Sir Lewis and Sir John considered themselves the protectors of Princess Joan, but they were strangers here, unfamiliar with the area.
‘What is wrong?’ Geoffrey asked, joining Owen just as the latter had resolved to search for the knights to confer with them regarding Joan’s safety. ‘Your visage inspires thoughts of thunderclaps.’ He nodded towards Master Walter. ‘Ah, the good physician, or perhaps I should say the disappointing physician? I’ve heard he has washed his hands of His Grace.’
Owen noticed the physician’s eyelids flickering and led Geoffrey by the elbow to a spot farther away. ‘Who told you he’s washed his hands of His Grace?’
‘No one came to me with the news, but I have ears.’
‘I believe yours might be the busiest ears in the kingdom.’
Geoffrey chuckled. ‘About that you are quite wrong. Mine are for idle eavesdropping. You yourself are part of a wide-reaching spy web continually spun by the ambitious and the anxious. I am nothing compared with all of you.’ His smile was sly, and not entirely friendly. ‘So am I right? Does Master Walter hold out no hope for His Grace’s recovery?’
Owen groaned inwardly with the effort to sidestep Geoffrey’s insatiable curiosity. He would have liked to think that Geoffrey took information in but did not divulge it, but his own experience disproved that. He chose his words with care. ‘Master Walter looks to me like a man who considers his task completed. Have you any idea who suggested him to the princess?’
Shaking his head, Geoffrey said, ‘His home in Lincoln is elegant. I don’t think he is a fraud, if that is what you are wondering.’
It was not, but Owen did not want to ask such a telling question as whether a Neville had recommended him. Or a Percy – another great northern family who might have a favourite candidate to push forward as the next Archbishop of York. ‘How did Master Walter behave when the servant fell?’ he asked instead.
‘He was one of the first to reach the poor man. He’d cried out when the servant’s horse began to bolt, and it was Master Walter who declared him dead.’
‘Bolted? The servant’s horse suddenly went into a gallop?’
Geoffrey cocked his head and nodded, looking smug. ‘So you do suspect the fall was no accident. What grudge do you think someone had against Dom Lambert’s servant?’
‘I cannot imagine why anyone would risk taking vengeance on a mere servant while in the midst of a group of people. But you said the horse bolted. Only his horse?’
‘Yes. I imagined a bee had stung it.’ Geoffrey had opened his slightly owlish eyes so wide as to be comical.
‘Now you are playing the fool,’ Owen said with irritation.
‘I thought to lighten your mood, but I see I’ve soured it instead. In faith, I did at first think of a bee sting, but somehow, with such a grim result, it seemed too absurd that a bee would cause a man’s death. You are very right to question the nature of the incident, I think. I don’t know what happened, and no one I’ve talked to seems to have seen any more than I did. Which is, of course, very suspect, don’t you think?’ Geoffrey appeared to be holding his breath, waiting for information.
The more Geoffrey talked about the incident, the more interested Owen grew in his opinion. ‘Why do you say that is suspect? Do you think someone’s lying to you?’
Geoffrey made a wry face. ‘You are so cautious with me. More has happened, I can feel it. Had someone tampered with the horse? Or perhaps the saddle?’
‘Had you?’ Owen asked, thinking he might as well.
But Geoffrey’s attention had wandered. ‘Heavenly Mother, forgive my lust,’ he murmured, as Lady Sybilla approached them, speaking to a servant with much fluttering of her long, silk sleeves, her colour high. ‘My lady,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘Whatever is amiss, we shall put it right.’
She looked startled, then blushed prettily. ‘Master Geoffrey, I would not burden you with a trifle.’ Small eyes and an unfortunately wide nose, as well as a slightly overripe plumpness, might have condemned Sybilla to invisibility, but what she lacked in beauty she compensated for with attitude and energy, managing to attract men’s eyes and invite them to linger.
‘It is not a trifle if it troubles you,’ Geoffrey crooned.
‘It is but a lost brooch. I am certain my maid will find it if she opens her eyes wide enough.’ Sybilla waved the woman on.
‘Is the brooch of value?’ Owen asked.
She blushed again and dropped her gaze to her hands, smiling as if suddenly shy. ‘It is of value to me, Captain Archer. But it is a simple trinket, and I cannot think it worth risking someone’s life to steal, if that is what you are asking.’
‘I pray that your maid f
inds it and eases your distress,’ said Geoffrey, sounding most courteous.
Her companion, Lady Eleanor, joined them. Owen was again struck by the subtle change in her dark-eyed beauty.
‘Is something amiss?’ Eleanor asked. She glanced at Owen, then quickly averted her eyes.
‘Trouble with my maid,’ said Sybilla, who then excused herself and hurried off after the much maligned servant.
‘Her maid is dim of wit and has caused chaos throughout this journey. Master Geoffrey, Captain.’ Eleanor nodded to them without ever making eye contact and swept away.
Geoffrey turned to watch her depart. ‘Did I sense something between you and Lady Eleanor?’ he asked.
‘It was that plain?’ Owen did not like that.
‘To me, yes.’ Geoffrey smiled at the air and rocked on his heels. ‘How delicious.’
With more serious issues to hide from Geoffrey, Owen thought he might be wise to admit to this one. ‘We spent an afternoon together long ago after a week of stolen kisses. A very pleasant afternoon that I am not comfortable to remember now – and it would appear that she is also ill at ease about it.’
Geoffrey chuckled. ‘And I thought Sybilla the one to watch.’
‘She certainly watches all the men.’
Sir John and Sir Lewis now approached. ‘Forgive me,’ said Owen, ‘but I must have a private word with them.’
‘Tread carefully with Holand,’ said Geoffrey, and then, much to Owen’s surprise, he simply bowed and added, ‘I am off in search of food.’
Owen greeted the knights and asked if he might talk with them out in the yard.
‘You sent Master Geoffrey away,’ said Sir Lewis, as they moved through the crowd in the hall. ‘You do not trust him, Captain?’
‘His curiosity worries me,’ said Owen.
‘It is my experience that he gossips only with his muse,’ said Lewis. ‘In fact, I was surprised that he knows you. He’s never spoken of you.’
Once out in the yard and away from the curious, Owen told them of the lost documents. While he listened, John Holand grew increasingly irritated, frowning, shaking his head, and muttering under his breath. One discernible word was ‘knave’. Owen noticed that Lewis tried to catch the young man’s attention several times.
‘Do you think Dom Lambert a knave?’ Owen asked John.
‘How can you ask that when you’ve just told us he failed in his mission?’ the young knight said with impatience. ‘Such a simple mission – deliver some letters to the archbishop. Do I think him a knave?’ He sniffed. ‘A fool would be more to the point.’
‘Sir John,’ his older companion said, softly, but in a warning tone.
John shrugged and avoided eye contact with Lewis. He had his mother’s features, but sharpened, colder.
‘Did you note anything about Dom Lambert on the journey that might help me understand what happened to the documents?’ Owen asked.
‘I paid him little heed,’ John said with a shrug.
‘He kept to himself,’ said Lewis. ‘He was courteous and helpful when needed, but quiet otherwise. Do you distrust him, Captain?’
‘I find it best to begin an investigation by distrusting all,’ said Owen.
‘Even us?’ Lewis asked, with a wary smile.
‘The Princess of Wales and her knights excepted, of course,’ said Owen. ‘What of the princess’s ladies?’
‘Is it ever wise to trust women?’ John’s grin was unpleasant.
His manner surprised Owen. He had seemed reasonably pleasant till now.
‘I would advise you to ask the princess about her women,’ said Lewis. ‘And, if you like, I will question my own men. Perhaps someone will have noticed something they’d not thought to report to me.’
‘I would be most grateful for your help,’ said Owen. ‘I had wondered whether your men had been in your service long enough for you to be confident of their loyalty.’
Lewis frowned down at his shoes for a moment. ‘Long enough, I pray. My esquire is the most recently added and he’s been in my service for almost a year.’
Unfortunately, John had coloured at that question and now exploded with, ‘Are you accusing us of jeopardizing my mother’s life with my choice of men?’
‘Sir John, the captain is merely doing his job,’ Lewis said, again in the stern but soft voice. He seemed ever ready to calm the young Holand.
Owen tried smiling at the young man. ‘I told you, I begin an investigation by distrusting all. Most find that reassuring.’
To Owen’s surprise, the young John Holand responded by turning on his heels and heading back to the hall without a word. Lewis scowled and muttered something unintelligible.
‘Is he stormy by nature?’ Owen asked.
Lewis shaded his eyes from the sun as he faced Owen. He looked as weary as when he’d arrived. ‘That is a more polite description of his behaviour than the pup deserves. He takes care to show only his courteous side to his betters, but the rest of his fellows see smiles one moment, foul temper the next.’
‘Is it possible—’
‘You wonder whether he knew Dom Lambert before the man joined our company.’ Lewis shook his head. ‘I am as certain as I can be that he did not.’
Thank God for that. ‘Can he be trusted to say nothing about what I’ve just told you?’
Owen did not like that Lewis hesitated, however briefly, before nodding. But he refrained from questioning it aloud, for he needed the knight’s help. He explained to him his concern for the princess’s safety.
‘My lady was aware that this journey might invite danger, which is why she chose me as her escort. She is my sole concern, Captain. My men and I have vowed to protect her with our lives.’
His voice was thick with pride and devotion, and the speech made Owen easier in his mind about Sir Lewis.
‘God go with you, Sir Lewis. I’ll be grateful for any information gleaned from your men.’ And, with no more ado, Owen headed for the chapel in search of Lambert, though his mind was caught up in the unpleasantness of John Holand. He wondered how well Lewis knew the young man, and how frank he was being about him. He was not easy in his mind about Holand.
He found Lambert lying prostrate before the altar and cursed his luck. He’d hoped that, in private, the cleric might have more to say. As Owen was about to withdraw into the corridor, Brother Michaelo stepped through the doorway and stopped so suddenly it was as if he’d been forcibly halted. He gazed on Lambert with such a haunted expression that Owen felt quite certain that he’d been right earlier to wonder what had passed between the two churchmen. Michaelo’s face was not merely the mask of grief that he’d worn of late; he looked secretive and afraid.
Owen drew Michaelo out into the passageway. ‘What is troubling you?’
The monk blinked at Owen, looking confused, as if he’d just awakened. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here when His Grace needs me. I cannot comfort every waif who comes along. I should return to his chamber.’
‘If prayer feeds your spirit, it is good that you are here. You need not engage with Dom Lambert.’
‘No, of course not. But I feel that His Grace needs me,’ said Michaelo. ‘My mind is not at ease. I cannot pray like this. I must go.’ He hurried away down the corridor, his dark robes blending him into the shadows.
A day ago Owen would not have doubted that Michaelo was obsessed with being at Thoresby’s side, but he felt in his gut that something else tormented the archbishop’s secretary this day, and it had to do with Lambert. Owen returned to the chapel and knelt at a prie-dieu, intending to pray until Lambert rose from his devotions. But, like Michaelo, Owen was plagued by a nagging sense that he should be elsewhere. He found himself obsessively reviewing his orders to Alfred and Gilbert, fearing that he’d omitted a crucial item. He closed his eye and tried to calm his mind by whispering Hail Marys.
‘Captain?’
Owen must have drowsed, for he found Dom Lambert kneeling beside him. Prayer would not have preven
ted him from sensing the man’s presence.
‘Thank you for waking me,’ said Owen. ‘I hoped to speak with you away from the others.’
‘I guessed that was the reason for your presence. I have questions for you as well. Might we sit rather than kneel?’
They withdrew to a bench near the doorway, on which Owen positioned himself so that he could see anyone approaching. He hoped that Lambert would confide more than others should hear.
The emissary smoothed his robes with trembling hands. ‘Have they sent a messenger to Bishop William?’ he asked, looking towards the altar, not at Owen. ‘To inform him of my disgrace?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘My concern is the safety of all in the palace. What can you tell me of the company in which you travelled?’
‘I know little about any in the company,’ said Lambert. ‘What do you wish to know?’
‘I would have thought it needed no explanation. Did anyone disturb you, ask too many questions, watch you too closely?’
‘Geoffrey Chaucer asks too many questions,’ said Lambert, with a little laugh. ‘Everyone seems to find him too curious.’
Owen did not doubt that, but it was of no use – he might find Geoffrey irritating, but he did not suspect him of theft or murder. ‘I think you know what I am asking. You are the emissary of William Wykeham, so recently Lord Chancellor, a controversial man who has been a favourite of our king. You must have been prepared for the likelihood that there would be some in your company of travellers who would be concerned about the nature of your mission, fearing that Wykeham might subvert some of their plans. Did anyone try too hard to befriend you?’
Lambert licked his lips and shook his head. ‘I took care to keep to myself. It seemed the safest approach.’
‘That must have been difficult, resisting their companionship. I would have thought you might delight in such company. The Princess of Wales is considered by all to be most gracious.’
Lambert drew in his shoulders and tucked in his chin, turtle-like. ‘It was not difficult to remain aloof, for I did not feel worthy.’
‘Who made you think that?’
