A Vigil of Spies (Owen Archer Book 10)

by Candace Robb

  Ravenser nodded to Lewis and moved aside with Owen. He looked haggard and uncomfortable in the moderate glare of the weak sun, as if he had not slept or was unwell. ‘Dom Lambert’s death. Brother Michaelo’s presence. This is very bad, Archer.’

  ‘I consider it worse than “very bad”, my lord. In this crowd, with the future queen and a dying archbishop here, it is a dangerous situation. I have ordered the guards to allow no one to leave the manor. But, of course, I do not know whether the murderer is still here, or whether there is a murderer – or more than one. And, if Michaelo is innocent, I’ve no idea who the murderer might be, or, indeed, who might be the next victim. If Michaelo witnessed something, then he might be in danger.’ Owen stopped, realising he was only heightening Ravenser’s anxiety when what was most needed were calm heads. ‘Who is with His Grace now? With Brother Michaelo indisposed …?’

  Ravenser pressed the heel of his hand to one eye and softly groaned.

  ‘One of your headaches?’

  ‘God’s blood, I’ve no time for this affliction.’

  ‘Do you have the physick you need?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ravenser took a deep breath and forced himself to open both eyes, blinking rapidly. ‘You asked— One of the sisters is with my uncle. I’d not seen Brother Michaelo yet this morning – of course, now I know why, and Dom Jehannes was called away, so it fell to me to read to him. Pray God Dame Magda returns soon. His Grace is tired but unable to rest quietly. Only she is able to comfort him when he is so agitated.’

  ‘God willing, she will be here before nightfall,’ said Owen. ‘Does His Grace know of this latest death?’

  ‘No. I heard of it only when I came out for some air.’ Ravenser shaded his eyes with his hands. ‘Brother Michaelo. Do you think he—?’

  Owen glanced around to check that he could not be overheard, and, when he was satisfied, he said, ‘I doubt that he is guilty, and I pray that I am right. But I will pretend to suspect him. Do not be surprised to hear it.’

  ‘Why the pretence?’

  ‘For Michaelo’s safety.’

  He seemed to understand. ‘My uncle took him as his secretary for reasons other than fondness,’ said Ravenser, ‘but, over time, I believe he’s come to have a deep affection for him. It appears he symbolises for my uncle the power of penance, renunciation of sins, redemption. I fear my uncle’s reaction to this news.’

  Owen had much the same concern. ‘I’ll go to His Grace after I’ve seen Michaelo. Rest, my lord. His Grace needs you whole and healthy. I will tell him what happened, and I’ll make sure someone he trusts is with him at all times until Dame Magda arrives.’

  ‘God be thanked that my uncle has such a loyal and worthy captain.’ Ravenser pressed Owen’s arm. ‘God go with you. I’ll be in my chamber if you have need of me.’

  Owen bowed. Ravenser departed with a little groan.

  Five

  FALSE INDULGENCES

  Wednesday

  IT WAS ONLY mid-morning, but Lucie found herself oddly clumsy in the workshop, as if she were pushing on past a reasonable time to cease her labours for the day. She found her thoughts straying too often to the farewells in the gloomy dawn. While her neighbours in Davygate had yet slept, or perhaps groggily stoked their fires, she and Jasper had stood in the quiet street helping Alisoun and Magda secure their packs on the horses the messenger had brought for their short journey to the staithe from which the archbishop’s barge would take them to Bishopthorpe.

  Her face still creased from sleep and her voice a little hoarse, Magda had said, ‘Be ready for thy summons. Old Crow will not linger once the princess departs.’

  ‘May God grant His Grace the time to bid farewell to those he loves,’ said Lucie.

  ‘John Thoresby will not die until he has seen the children,’ said Magda. She had taken Lucie’s hands and held her gaze for a long while, as if passing strength and comfort to her. ‘Nor will thy family fall apart upon the death of Old Crow. Thou knowest that for a false fear.’

  Did she? Late last night, when the rest of the household had been long abed, Lucie had confided in Magda, telling her of her dread of the changes to come with Thoresby’s death. After she’d laid bare her heart, she’d waited for Magda to comment, but instead her friend had silently watched the fire.

  ‘My fear is selfish,’ Lucie had finally said, thinking she had made a fool of herself.

  Magda had put an arm around her and smiled into her eyes. ‘Old Crow has given thee much, but thy happy family has a life of its own.’

  When looking into Magda’s eyes, Lucie could see the folly in her fear. But now, hours later and without her friend’s inspirational presence, she found the fear creeping back up to hang over her shoulders and weight every gesture with dread.

  Owen entered the palace by the door leading from the kitchen into the hall, hoping to reach Michaelo’s small chamber without further encounters with the guests. Sir Lewis and Geoffrey stood just beyond Thoresby’s chamber door with their backs to Owen, but they did not turn around when he quietly lifted the tapestry being used for the door to Michaelo’s makeshift chamber and let it drop behind him. Michaelo sat on his cot, his hands pressed together in prayer, and Jehannes broke from his prayers to nod at Owen.

  ‘Benedicite, Owen.’

  ‘Benedicite, Jehannes, Michaelo.’ At his name, the monk lifted his eyes to Owen. A sudden thought, almost discarded, begged to be acknowledged. Michaelo might not have the strength to have lifted Lambert himself, but he might have helped Lambert commit suicide. Owen would be remiss to rule out that unwelcome possibility. ‘You must tell me what you remember, Michaelo.’

  The monk took a deep breath, trembling as he exhaled. ‘I don’t deserve your trust.’

  ‘I do not need your humility, Michaelo. What I need is for you to tell me whatever you can remember.’

  Nodding, Michaelo closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment, covering his mouth, as if to force it to pause for thought. After a while, he straightened and faced Owen. ‘Lambert was distraught, desperate for a place to hide. I meant merely to hold him, nothing more. It was compassion that moved me.’

  Owen could see from Michaelo’s blush that it had become more. Too much more? He thought it best not to interrupt him to press for a confession. Patience would best serve his purpose. He would hear all in time. For now he had less delicate questions.

  ‘Think, Michaelo, did anyone see the two of you together? Might someone have waited for him? Followed him from your room?’ Since Thoresby had moved to the ground floor, Michaelo had been sleeping in this screened area beside His Grace’s room on the farthest side, near the corridor to the buttery and pantry. Normally it would be a quiet place at night, but, with so many guests and their servants to accommodate, pallets were set up in the pantry and the corridor after the evening meal. Someone would be noticed if they stood about, but a clever lurker could make it seem as though he had been assigned to sleep there.

  Michaelo looked distraught. ‘May God forgive me. I was concerned only for Lambert. I thought we were discreet, but how can I know?’ He glanced at Jehannes and back at Owen, as if seeking reassurance. ‘I can’t bear the thought of his having left my bed, and then, in agony, searching for the rope.’ Tears fell down the monk’s cheeks unheeded. ‘He’d been humiliated by losing the documents, he carried a heavy guilt about trading horse and saddle with Will because the horse was testy, and then he lay with me – a man, a monk …’ Michaelo shook his head slowly and moaned again, his face a mask of remorse.

  ‘The compassion became passion?’ Owen softly asked.

  ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ Michaelo moaned, beating his breast.

  Owen caught Michaelo’s hand and waited until he had his attention. ‘You take too much of the burden on your own shoulders. Lambert was a grown man. You have not suggested that you forced him.’

  Michaelo opened his eyes wide. ‘Forced? Of course not.’

  ‘Then he shared the blame with you. He c
hose, just as you did. You must calm yourself.’

  ‘Calm myself?’ Michaelo’s voice cracked.

  ‘Lambert’s servant was murdered, Michaelo, I have no doubt of that. And, now, what I’ve just learned from you is that Lambert and Will switched horse and saddle. It was meant for Lambert to die. I think it much more likely that, far from taking his own life last night, Lambert was murdered – the intended victim was finally dispatched. His murderers want us to believe, as you do, that he took his own life. They made it look that way.’

  ‘Pretty words, Captain, and, if I had any faith in them, I would thank you. But I’ll never forget that Lambert wept after we lay together. He wept.’

  ‘He might as well do so about the tenth time as the first. Did you think of that? Perhaps, like you, he had promised himself never to sin again – and then did. What then? Is it then all on your conscience?’

  Michaelo finally looked up, his expression one of disdain. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you exonerating me?’

  Why, indeed, was he comforting a sinner? For a selfish reason – Thoresby needed Michaelo. But Owen was saying nothing that he did not believe – Lambert could have refused Michaelo.

  ‘His Grace needs you, Michaelo. You must not desert him now.’

  ‘He has Dame Magda and that solemn young woman.’

  ‘You are his ballast and his comfort.’ Owen let that sink in for a moment.

  ‘You believe Lambert was the intended victim all along, Captain?’

  ‘Now that I know of the switch, I’ve no doubt he was. Help me, Michaelo. What woke you?’

  ‘His being gone.’

  ‘How long? Was the bed warm or cold?’

  ‘I’d heard him weeping, and I pulled the covers over my head.’ Michaelo spoke slowly, hesitantly, as if horribly weary. ‘I must have slept again, for the bed was cold where he had lain.’

  ‘I ask you again. What woke you?’

  Owen watched as Michaelo tried to think back to his waking, then realised what the question implied.

  ‘Someone wanted me to wake then,’ he whispered.

  Owen nodded. ‘And then what happened?’

  Michaelo passed a hand over his eyes, as if to conjure the scene. ‘I hurried from the palace and heard something at the stables. It was quiet, all the company asleep. I don’t recall seeing any guards. And then I saw Lambert and a woman slipping from the stables with a horse.’

  ‘Just as you stepped into the yard?’

  Michaelo slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I see. You think they appeared on my arrival. The woman was dressed in the finery of the princess’s ladies.’

  ‘You were meant to see Lambert – or someone dressed like him. Are you certain it was Lambert you saw? And what of the lady?’

  Michaelo looked down, rubbing his forehead, slowly shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I could swear as to whom I saw. It was too dark.’ He shook his head. ‘Too dark.’ Curling his long-fingered hands into fists, he angrily punched the pallet to either side of him. ‘May they rot in hell, whoever they are,’ he groaned.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Owen, ‘but who are they?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I followed them, but lost my way in a copse, then followed sounds. By then – dear God, Lambert was hanging.’ Michaelo covered his face with his hands.

  ‘And you were struck from behind?’

  Michaelo did not respond, and Owen waited for him to regain his composure.

  ‘He has been through a difficult night,’ said Jehannes, who had been sitting with head bowed, his lips moving in prayer.

  Michaelo raised his head. ‘It is no more than I deserve. As for your question, Captain, yes, I was struck from behind and knew nothing until you found me. Do you think I’m in danger?’

  He had certainly been so last night, Owen thought. ‘I think it likely, and the worst of it is that you do not know who your enemy is. Nor do I. I don’t trust Holand. Or the women – I trust Princess Joan, for the most part. She would not need to come all this way to kill Lambert. As for my men, I’m not sure I can trust any of them.’

  ‘Surely you can trust Alfred,’ said Jehannes. ‘And you’ve come to entrust more to Gilbert.’

  Owen almost argued for distrusting even Alfred and Gilbert, but his heart refused. ‘Yes, Alfred and Gilbert I can trust.’ He thanked God for that. ‘Here is how you must behave, Michaelo. Play silent and torn with guilt. Stay away from the company as much as you can. Indeed, you would do best to remain in His Grace’s chamber.’

  Michaelo shook his head. ‘I cannot hide, Captain. The household needs me. But I will behave as one shamed – it will be no performance.’

  Jehannes spoke up. ‘That will be painful, Brother Michaelo, for surely you will feel their anger. From what I’ve seen of him, John Holand might well express his contempt without discretion.’

  Michaelo gave Jehannes a weak smile. ‘It does not matter. Truly. I will offer it up as my penance. And, when His Grace has passed on, I’ll hie to Normandy and spend the rest of my days in penance.’

  Owen did not choose to argue, knowing how stubborn Michaelo could be. Instead, he instructed both to be ready to move Michaelo’s pallet into Thoresby’s chamber when he sent word, which would be soon.

  The corridor was fairly quiet when Owen crossed the short distance to Thoresby’s chamber and silently opened the door and slipped in. God must have guided him in his stealthy entrance, for he found something he might not otherwise have witnessed.

  Thoresby’s breathing was, at first, all he noticed, loud despite the bed curtains being pulled shut. He must be asleep, because, when awake, the archbishop preferred the curtains open – he said he’d have sufficient privacy very soon. Owen was angry that the archbishop was unattended and was about to go fetch Michaelo when a sound farther in the room caught his attention, a rustling of cloth. Holding his breath, Owen moved towards the sound. Just beyond the bed, the lid of a large trunk stood open and one of the nuns, black veil and pale habit identifying her, was sitting on the floor, legs crossed beneath her, leaning against the trunk, a lamp beside her, and was frowning down into a book on her lap. If she was a thief, she was inexperienced, allowing herself to become so absorbed in reading that she did not notice his approach. He could not imagine that she might need any items stored in the trunk, but he would not have thought she would require a book. Moving closer yet, he saw the book was a breviary or prayer book, with annotations scrawled along the margins.

  ‘Have you His Grace’s permission to read that?’ he asked in a quiet voice, so as not to startle her.

  But she did startle, and, in scrambling to her feet, she dropped the book and brought the lid of the chest down on her hand.

  ‘Who goes there?’ Thoresby cried out from within the bed.

  ‘Dame Clarice needs my help with one of the trunks, Your Grace,’ Owen said. ‘I pray you, rest easy.’ He picked up the book and noticed that the marginal notes were in Thoresby’s hand. ‘What right have you to read this?’ he demanded of the nun, keeping his voice low.

  Standing beside the chest, Dame Clarice was ministering to her hand, rubbing it, flexing it and moving it about. ‘Nothing seems to be broken.’ She glared up at Owen. ‘What right have you to sneak up on me?’ Her words challenged but, when she saw Owen’s anger, she backed up a few steps and dropped her gaze.

  ‘I’ve every right, as the archbishop’s captain of guard.’ He shut the chest, but placed the book on top, intending to look at it more closely after he’d seen her out of the chamber.

  She smoothed her gown and felt about to make sure her veil was secure. Her habit was tidy and tailored for her tall, thin frame. Owen realised she was a handsome woman, but for thin lips and sunken eyes, and to fuss with her appearance in such circumstances suggested vanity – the Brother Michaelo of her convent.

  ‘It’s a mere prayer book,’ she said, with a sullen, wounded expression.

  Thoresby peered through the bed curtains. ‘What has she done?’

  ‘It is pointless to p
lay the fool with me,’ Owen said to the nun, ‘I cannot believe you would be of such feeble wit as not to realise that the belongings of the Archbishop of York are not yours to explore at your whim.’

  ‘A spy,’ Thoresby said with disgust.

  ‘No!’ Clarice cried. ‘I thought to find something inspiring to read …’

  ‘Get out of my chamber, you pathetic liar.’ Thoresby frowned and then withdrew.

  ‘I’m no thief. I was merely reading,’ Dame Clarice whined.

  Someone knocked once and entered the room. Owen groaned to see Geoffrey Chaucer.

  ‘I’d hoped to find you here,’ said Geoffrey.

  Owen shook his head at him, hoping he would withdraw, but the man merely looked with interest towards the nun.

  ‘His Grace ordered you to leave,’ Owen said to her.

  ‘Who is to attend His Grace if I leave?’ she demanded. ‘I was sent here to sit with him.’ She’d assumed a defiant posture and her facial expression and voice were alive with righteous indignation.

  ‘I ordered you out of here,’ Thoresby said from behind the curtains. The effort caused him to cough.

  ‘His Grace is my concern,’ said Owen. He took Clarice’s elbow and escorted her to the door, shutting it tight behind her.

  He considered doing the same with Geoffrey, but distracted himself from his irritation by busying himself with checking that Thoresby had honey water within reach. Opening the bed curtain, he found the archbishop lying back against his pillows.

  Thoresby waved Owen away. ‘I need to catch my breath.’ He held a cup to his lips as he closed the bed curtains.

  Owen withdrew, calmer now.

  ‘That did not seem a friendly exchange with Dame Clarice,’ said Geoffrey, when Owen turned to him.

  Patience, he coached himself. ‘I can’t say that I’m feeling any friendlier towards you than I did towards her. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Forgive me, but, with Archdeacon Jehannes seeing to Brother Michaelo and Sir Richard Ravenser abed with a headache, I thought perhaps you might need someone to sit with His Grace. And, from what I just witnessed, you do.’