by Candace Robb
‘Magda, I am more relieved to see you than I can say.’
‘It would not be fitting to say Magda is delighted by thy greeting,’ she said, with a concerned tilt of her head. ‘Thou’rt in need.’ She moved aside to allow Alisoun to step forward and deliver into Owen’s hands the pack he had sent with them.
‘I am glad to see you as well, Alisoun.’ To his surprise, Owen meant it. As often happened, Magda’s naming of his state made him more aware of it. He was glad to have these two allies present.
Never reticent, Alisoun asked outright, ‘What has happened here, Captain? As we passed through the hall, we heard whisperings of another death. A hanging.’
He settled the pack on his lap as he considered how much she might need to know, but realised that she must know enough to be safe and to recognise information that might be useful to him. ‘You heard rightly. We found the Bishop of Winchester’s emissary hanging from a tree in the archbishop’s woods this morning. He might have taken his own life, or someone might have gone to some trouble to make me think so.’
‘May he rest in God’s grace,’ whispered Alisoun, as she bowed her head and crossed herself.
She had grown up in Magda’s company, Owen thought. Although she looked as gangly and sharp-edged as ever, her slender neck seeming too fragile for her adult-sized head, there was a quiet about her now that invited one closer than before.
‘I count on you to pass on to me anything you hear that might help me discover what happened,’ said Owen. ‘His name was Dom Lambert. It was his servant who died when his saddle failed the day the company arrived.’
Alisoun looked him in the eye and nodded once. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Captain.’
Magda smiled to herself, but Owen saw it. Then she grew solemn, studying Owen’s face, shaking her head. ‘Thou art weary of heart, Bird-eye. To blame thyself will help no one.’ She settled down beside him and took his hand in both of hers.
The simple gesture brought him great warmth. He realised he’d been feeling deathly cold.
Glancing up at Alisoun, who was blinking against the drizzle, Magda said, ‘Hie thee to His Grace’s chamber, and have a servant fetch thee some food and wine. Sit close to the brazier and dry thyself. Magda will have need of thee in the days to come. Thou must not catch a chill.’
As Alisoun moved to obey, Owen made one more request.
‘There are two sisters here, in pale habits and black veils. I do not want them alone in His Grace’s chamber at any time, for any reason, particularly the younger one, Dame Clarice. If either should question your refusal to leave them alone with His Grace, send them to me.’
Alisoun frowned, but did not ask why. She simply nodded, then bobbed to them and hurried off.
‘She is maturing in your service,’ said Owen.
‘She is,’ said Magda, a smile in her voice. ‘She is a lesson in trusting thy gut about someone. Magda doubted up here,’ she tapped her head, ‘but believed down here,’ she pressed her stomach. ‘She was patient when Magda stopped to help an injured man on the way to the barge. She uttered not a word of complaint.’
Owen found it almost beyond belief, but said nothing.
A gust of wind shook the tree overhead, sending down a shower of moisture, but Owen did not find it unpleasant enough to warrant moving, and, apparently, neither did Magda.
‘The nuns are not to be trusted?’ Magda asked, after a comfortable silence.
‘No.’ Owen told her about Dame Clarice’s disturbing behaviour and how she might have stolen something – so he distrusted her and yet at the same time could not rule out the possibility that she might be the next victim, if someone wanted what she’d taken and chose to silence her after relieving her of it. ‘It comes down to trusting few in the visiting company. Even fewer of my men – I fear they may have fallen prey to greed, money offered to them to betray His Grace and help those who hope their man will replace him as archbishop. Money and indulgences as well, I’ve just learned.’
Magda’s barking laughter rang out, but she did not smile. ‘Blessings for betrayals. Thy religion can be sadly amusing, Bird-eye. But, in truth, thou dost deserve better from thy men. Thou’rt loyal and good to them. Magda is sorry to hear of their falseness. What of the physician?’
‘I have no cause to distrust him, but neither do I have proof that I can trust him, so I prefer to be cautious.’
‘Perhaps the physician and the nuns will leave now that Magda and Alisoun have returned?’
‘No. I’m allowing no one to leave. Until I have found the murderer, I cannot risk that.’
Magda stretched out her legs and yawned. ‘Magda will nap for a short while, then sit with His Grace through the night.’ She squeezed Owen’s hand. ‘Thou wast right to think this visit from the Princess of Wales ill-advised. Two dead, and at least one of those deaths was hastened by someone.’
‘You found poison in the wine?’
She tapped the pack on Owen’s lap. ‘Magda and Lucie found that the wineskin holds a sleeping potion – poppy, mandrake and water germander. A strong potion, though not a poison.’
‘I doubt he had chosen such a drink for travel,’ said Owen. As ever, the proof that someone had arranged a mortal accident angered him. Poison was the coward’s way to rid himself – or herself – of an inconvenient person.
‘Nay,’ said Magda, ‘thou hast a murderer here at the palace. The germander could be thy most helpful clue, for it is most often used for gout.’
‘Gout?’ Owen was surprised. ‘I’ve seen no one I would guess was so afflicted. Perhaps you might observe the guests, Magda.’
She patted his hand once more and shifted on the seat with a little groan. ‘Magda prefers making a journey on her own two feet.’
Owen realised she’d said nothing about her time at his home. ‘My family is well?’
Her blue eyes brightened. ‘All but for missing thee, and Lucie grieves Old Crow’s imminent passing. For all his sins, he is well loved by thy family, eh, Bird-eye?’
‘Much to my surprise,’ Owen agreed. ‘I wish Lucie were here. I worry that I’m too angry to observe with the care I should. She calmly listens and advises me when I am so.’
‘Anger can cloud thy vision,’ said Magda, nodding. ‘Remember that violence rises out of fear and pain. Remember as well that Magda is here if thou shouldst need her.’
‘I depend on you.’
‘Thy family will come by and by, sooner than thou wouldst like, but not so soon as to help thee with the murderous guest.’
As always, Owen felt that, in her words, she hid a knowing that went beyond observant common sense. Yet he knew she would deny any gift of prescience.
He told her in greater detail about Lambert’s death, the evidence of strangling, and Michaelo’s involvement. He also told her about Sybilla and the brooch, curious what she might make of the woman’s behaviour. ‘Did she seek to distract me from my investigation, or am I seeing guilty behaviour where there is none?’
‘Magda hast not yet met this young woman, but, from what thou sayest, she might be honest in her concern about a friend, fearing the woman might trade this small treasure for trouble.’
‘Why did she tell me of it but not tell me all?’ Owen wondered.
‘She told thee of her promise. And yet she broke it, little by little. Have a care – thou might be wise to doubt her explanation.’
‘And the nun, Clarice – though I warned Alisoun against her, I cannot discount the possibility that she might have taken something that the murderer or murderers might want.’
‘Old Crow wants peace and he is instead surrounded by the fearful and the desperate. Thou hast a heavy burden, Bird-eye.’ Magda rose and stretched her arms up towards the darkening sky. ‘That cloud is about to open. Magda is off to nap. Thou art surrounded by friends as well as foes.’
Owen thought it a frustratingly vague encouragement. But he had no time to sulk. Going to the great hall in search of Lady Eleanor, he discovered her seate
d at a little distance from Sybilla and Joan, a piece of needlework forgotten on her lap. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.
‘My lady,’ he said, bowing to her.
Eleanor’s lovely face with its high cheekbones, large, dark eyes and wide, expressive mouth glowed for a moment as she gazed up at him. Then, as if catching herself, she glanced down to fuss with her embroidery.
‘The light is too dim now for stitching, my lady.’ He sat down near her. ‘Have you recovered from this morning’s darksome fears?’
When she looked up, her eyes shimmered with tears. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Captain Archer? Owen?’ She whispered the last.
‘Remember you? Sweet lady, of course I remember you. I thought surely you would not remember me – or would not wish to.’ He smiled gently and her embarrassment dissolved.
Still a little tearful, she said, ‘I hear you are happily wed to an apothecary.’
Owen nodded. ‘I came north in despair after the death of my lord and, to my surprise, I found a blessed new life. We have three children of our own and a foster son.’
‘I am happy for you, Owen. I have a son as well, a bonny boy.’ Though she smiled, tears fell down her cheeks. ‘But now that I’ve done my duty …’ She looked away, delicately dabbing at her eyes with the edge of a long sleeve. ‘Forgive me. I’ll say no more.’ She took a deep breath and turned back to smile on him. ‘In your presence, I fear no harm, Captain. Would that we might have walked away from Kenilworth hand in hand.’
‘Your life is so unsatisfying?’
‘Worse than that. Far worse than that. But you asked whether I’d recovered from this morning’s despair. I am sorry that you witnessed me in such a state. My husband loses patience with me when I fall into my dark moods. He lectures me on trusting in God’s grace.’
‘What causes them, my lady?’
‘I pray you, call me by my Christian name.’
‘Eleanor,’ Owen whispered.
She looked long into his eye. ‘I recall the story of your blinding. When we were together, you were so angry, your wounds so fresh. I’ve often wondered whence came the woman’s anger, what more there had been to her story.’
Owen had been wounded by the mistress of a Breton prisoner he’d protected and released. Catching the man when he’d returned, sneaking through the camp to slit the throats of the valuable prisoners, Owen had attacked him in a rage at his ingratitude and his own poor judgement, and the woman had come to her lover’s aid, slicing Owen’s eye.
‘Whence came her anger?’ he said. ‘I was part of the invading army, my lady. We were at war. I’d attacked her love. That all seems plain enough.’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘As for my story, I trust no one in my household but my son. There is no one on whom I might depend. That is the bleak truth of my life, Owen.’
‘You’ve no one?’
She must have caught a gesture from Princess Joan, for she bowed to her mistress and said to Owen, ‘I forget myself. My lady wishes you to attend her after the evening meal.’
Owen turned to the princess and bowed. ‘I will be there,’ he said to Eleanor. ‘Have you confided in the princess?’
‘She is aware of my unhappy state. To my shame, most of my travelling companions have witnessed my despair. I am heavy company.’ She forced a smile. ‘And now you must go, or we shall provide the gossip for the evening.’
He took his leave of Eleanor then, having no heart to ask about the brooch. He’d thought of another aspect of Sybilla’s concern about the piece of jewellery – that she might think it had been given as a bribe or payment, and could have been sold in York. He considered whom he might trust to take the barge to York in the morning and talk to the goldsmiths, who might hear of such a transaction. It might be useful, in general, to listen for any rumours of the events at Bishopthorpe. The person who came to mind was Archdeacon Jehannes, to whom all felt safe in confiding. He found him meditating in his chamber and apologised for interrupting him, but he soon discovered that his friend was eager to learn of Owen’s progress in the investigation. After telling him all he’d learned, Owen proposed to Jehannes the trip to York.
Even a man as ready to do anything for His Grace and all his friends as Jehannes baulked at the thought of a river journey in the autumn damp. ‘Not tonight, surely?’
‘This is not meant as a severe penance, of course I meant in the morning. You might begin at the York Tavern with a comforting tankard of Tom Merchet’s ale and Bess Merchet’s memory of people’s conversations the past few days.’
Jehannes’s eyes brightened and he smiled. ‘Indeed, this begins to sound like a blessed respite from this besieged place.’
Anticipating that the presence of the Princess of Wales would insinuate itself in some marvellous way throughout the palace of Bishopthorpe, Alisoun was disappointed to find the archbishop’s chamber unchanged. It was still overheated, dark, and tinged with the smell of the sickroom, though the latter only faintly, for Brother Michaelo was skilled in tempering the odour with fragrant fires and aromatic oils.
Brother Michaelo, however, seemed alarmingly changed. Wilted. Hollow-eyed.
‘Benedicite, Alisoun,’ he said, rising from his seat beside the archbishop’s great bed, his smile oddly sad, as if she reminded him of happier times now gone.
‘Benedicite, Brother Michaelo,’ she said. ‘Dame Magda is with Captain Archer. She sent me to arrange her things.’
‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’
She nodded. ‘Dame Magda told me to have a servant bring food.’ She glanced at the servant who stood ready at the door.
‘Yes,’ Michaelo nodded to him, ‘some food for this young woman. And for Dame Magda?’
‘She said she would nap a while, and then attend His Grace,’ said Alisoun.
Michaelo motioned for the servant to see to it, then led Alisoun away from the sleeping archbishop to review with her His Grace’s condition during her absence. Alisoun wondered whether the archbishop had surrendered to his fate with the physician’s diagnosis, but Michaelo did not allude to that and she was not comfortable asking him. When she had eaten a little and arranged Magda’s trunk of physicks, she offered to sit by His Grace.
Michaelo seemed most grateful. ‘I will leave you, then, and go make certain the servants are seeing to the evening meal. With so many guests, they are easily confused.’
He stopped in a far corner to drop something on a cot that had not been there before. She wondered whether that was a sign that the archbishop needed more constant attention.
A quiet time ensued, interrupted only by one of the sisters the captain had warned her about inquiring whether Alisoun would like some company. It was the older one, Dame Katherine, and Alisoun saw no harm in her presence as long as she was not left alone in the chamber. They sat quietly for a long while, the nun praying, Alisoun spinning. When Thoresby woke and asked for some wine, the sister departed, having exhibited no suspicious behaviour. The archbishop seemed genuinely glad to see Alisoun. She did not find him at all diminished by the gloomy prognosis of the princess’s physician. In fact, he seemed as calm and matter-of-fact as before, though he sought to reassure her that she need not feel threatened by the deaths of Dom Lambert and his servant. She appreciated that he treated her as a responsible adult.
When Magda arrived in Thoresby’s chamber, she told Alisoun that she was free to do as she wished until dawn.
‘Magda has rested. She looks forward to a quiet night in His Grace’s company.’
Alisoun had grown accustomed to the friendship between Magda and Thoresby, and understood when she was in the way. But it was difficult, despite her admiration for Magda, to believe that the elderly woman could remain awake all through the dark, quiet, uneventful hours.
‘I do not mind returning earlier.’
‘There is no need. Thou couldst dine in the great hall with the company,’ Magda suggested.
Alisoun knew she was welcome in the hall. But, once out of the chamber, she w
as drawn out into the evening. Hastening out of the door to the kitchen yard, she turned towards the river gardens. She was making her way beneath the eaves when someone grabbed her arm. She turned towards a man who stood so close she could smell the wine on his breath.
‘What a pretty poppet. Where have you been hiding?’
By his elegant dress, she guessed that he was one of the knights in the company. He thought her easy prey.
‘I am no poppet,’ she hissed, yanking her arm from his grasp. ‘I am apprentice to Dame Magda Digby and of the household of Captain Archer.’
He took a step backward and swept her a mocking bow. ‘Sir John Holand, stepson of Prince Edward.’ Then, lunging for her, he grabbed her round the waist and pulled her close.
Her heart pounding, she said, ‘You have had too much to drink, sir, and will regret this behaviour. Go now.’ She was about to bring her knee up into his groin when she heard voices just ahead.
He must have heard them as well, for he suddenly released her and, with a chuckle, moved back towards the kitchens.
Alisoun hurried on.
‘It is I who should leave, being the one who has given offence, however unwittingly. I pray you, stay and rest awhile.’
Two women stood in the shadows of a lovely porch facing the gardens, one of them a nun. Alisoun did not think it was Dame Katherine, but it was difficult to be certain and she did not wish to stare. The speaker wore elegant attire. She sounded as if she were trying to lighten her companion’s mood – there was a hint of teasing affability in her tone.
Welcoming the refreshing coolness of the gentle rain on her face and in no hurry to return to the palace, where she might encounter Sir John, Alisoun moved on through the gate and into the autumn gardens. She found just enough shelter on a stone bench beneath a tree and was calming down when footsteps on the gravel path set her heart pounding once more. She shrank into the shadow and apparently succeeded in becoming invisible, because a woman in the habit of a Cistercian nun rushed passed her without so much as a glance or a hesitation. The drizzly twilight did little to illuminate the nun’s face, but her sobs were enough to make Alisoun curious, particularly after having heard the sweet consolation in the lady’s voice in the porch. If this was Dame Katherine, Alisoun wondered what had happened to her in the short while since they’d parted in the archbishop’s chamber. If it was Dame Clarice, she was even more anxious to discover what was wrong, considering Captain Archer’s warning about her.
