by Candace Robb
‘I knew nothing of that. Why should that endanger her?’
‘I hoped you might know, Your Grace.’
‘What do you think she took?’
‘A personal letter.’
Joan bowed her head and touched the scarf to her forehead, effectively hiding her expression from Owen. ‘If you like, I’ll send for her and see what I can discover.’
‘I would be grateful for that, Your Grace.’
‘Meanwhile, Dame Clarice should not cause you any more trouble.’
‘At the moment, I’m more concerned about what you just said – that she might be in danger, Your Grace. I pray you, tell me what I need to know about her.’
He could see at once that he’d pushed too hard, and he silently cursed himself.
‘You forget yourself, Captain Archer.’ She was suddenly stern and imperious. ‘The welfare of the people of this realm tempers all that I do, for I am the wife and mother of your future kings. I know what is best here. I have told you all that you need to know. I will order her to return anything that is not hers, and I shall see that you are present when I reveal the reason for her presence here in the palace.’ She softened her tone. ‘For now, I am reassured by your sense of duty, and you may rest assured that she is watched by one of my men. May God watch over you and bless you for coming to see me.’ She bowed her head and called for a servant, who was slow in responding because he was distracted by a messenger who’d just arrived.
‘He has returned from Nun Appleton, Your Grace,’ said the servant.
‘Excellent.’ Joan saw Owen watching with interest. ‘You shall know all tomorrow, Captain. You are dismissed.’
Owen quietly withdrew, though beneath his calm he was in danger of exploding with the frustration of dealing with the princess. Imperious, petty, enjoying her little mystery – damnable woman.
The nuns. God had been guiding him in his stealth when he’d come upon Dame Clarice in Thoresby’s chamber. Owen crossed himself.
‘Captain?’
He turned as Alisoun stepped into the dim light from the sconce by the chamber door.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You look worried. And wet.’
Her veil was limp with damp and the scent of wet grass and soil rose from her hem.
‘The sister, Dame Clarice, fainted out in the fields. One of Princess Joan’s servants carried her back to the palace. She was struggling for breath. Master Walter has given her something to calm her.’
‘Out in the fields? How did you both come to be out in the fields at this time of day?’
‘I was in the garden as she rushed through, seeming very upset. I did not think she should run off like that alone. And I remembered what you had said about the sisters.’
‘Was there anyone else? A servant?’
‘The man in the princess’s livery came rushing forward to assist Clarice as soon as she fell. He must have followed her.’
Owen nodded. ‘I’ll put a guard by her door.’ One of his own men. ‘Thank you, Alisoun. You have been very helpful.’
With the ghost of a smile, she turned away, but suddenly turned back. ‘Stay a moment, Captain. I’d forgotten the porch. I saw her first on the porch that faces the gardens. She was with a woman in elegant dress, and—’ She stopped, shaking her head. ‘I think it was Clarice on the porch – it was one of the sisters.’
‘Tell me what you can.’
‘The lady was comforting the nun – she suggested that she stay and rest a while.’
‘This lady – was she dark or fair?’
Alisoun shrugged, and he could read the frustration in her brown eyes, her furrowed brow. ‘I could not see her clearly.’
‘Slender or stout?’
‘Not slender, I think – but her clothes – just as with the nun, I can’t be certain.’
‘I am most grateful to you, Alisoun.’
‘Really?’ Despite the tears of frustration in her eyes, she almost smiled. ‘I did not wish to interrupt you with Her Grace, but I wanted to tell you as soon as I might.’
‘God go with you,’ said Owen. ‘Go dry your clothes by the kitchen fire and ask Maeve for something warm to heat you within.’
Alisoun bobbed her head and walked slowly away down the corridor, leaving a trail of wet boot prints.
Owen fought down anger – he should have had one of his men follow Clarice. But whom could he trust? For a long moment he considered returning to the princess with this latest news of the mysterious Dame Clarice, but, in the end, he desisted, admitting to himself that his sole motivation for doing so right now would be to shock the princess into revealing all she knew about the nun, and he was fairly certain that it would fail. Princess Joan had a strong will and she’d already made it quite plain that she believed she knew what was best. He feared it would also cost him too dearly – that she would not cooperate with him again.
Outside Thoresby’s chamber, Gilbert caught up with Owen. ‘Captain, I’ve something to tell you.’
‘You’ve found a guard who saw something,’ Owen guessed.
‘I have. Fiddler John says that he saw Dom Lambert leave the stable with a horse, and with him was Lady Eleanor.’
Owen’s heart sank. The voice in the kitchen yard – had it been Eleanor out for one of her walks in the night air? ‘Is he certain that it was the princess’s lady?’
Gilbert nodded. ‘The dark-eyed one.’
It was a most unwelcome report. ‘Send him to me in the stables later.’ Owen took a step towards the archbishop’s door, then turned back. ‘No one else had anything to tell you? Only Fiddler John?’
Gilbert shook his head. ‘He’s the only one who said aught to me. Perhaps they are waiting for you to settle for the night, and then they’ll come to you.’
‘When they’re least welcome,’ Owen said with a curse. They’d had ample opportunity when he’d gone back to the stable while the guests dined in the hall and only Ned and Ann had come. ‘But I thank you. Well done, Gilbert.’
The guard withdrew.
Owen entered the archbishop’s chamber. Michaelo lay on the cot, apparently asleep. Magda and Thoresby were quietly talking, but broke off and looked towards him with interest, making space for him near the great bed. He told Magda of his meeting with Princess Joan, and that she’d agreed to have Magda attend her in the morning.
‘I am glad she has agreed,’ said Thoresby.
Owen told them of Dame Clarice’s faint, and that Master Walter had given the nun something to help her sleep.
‘I am uneasy,’ he added. ‘For her to be overcome so soon after searching this chamber, my mind misgives. Did someone poison her so they might search her?’
Magda frowned thoughtfully. ‘Not all poisons are meant to kill. Magda will look in on her in the morning.’
‘I would be grateful,’ said Thoresby. ‘Despite her transgression, I would not have her suffer in such wise. We’ve had enough death in this palace.’ He turned to Owen. ‘But how would anyone know she might have stolen something – I’m assuming that’s why they would wish to search her?’
Owen described his glimpse of the altercation between Clarice and the princess in the garden. ‘It is possible that someone overheard them.’
Thoresby groaned. ‘Too many people. Why did she bring such a large company?’
‘There is more.’ Owen told them of Lady Eleanor’s prostration in the chapel, the sightings of Lambert in the corridor, the woman’s voice in the kitchen yard, Michaelo’s walk in the fields before dawn, and Dom Lambert departing the stable with a woman, with one guard naming her as Lady Eleanor. He regretted upsetting Thoresby, but it was his duty to inform him. ‘What I do not yet understand is how, if they left together and Michaelo followed, even losing his way, how did they manage it so quickly before he reached them?’ Owen suddenly felt a great weariness.
As if she read his mind, Magda said, ‘Thou hast a body that demands food and rest, Bird-eye. See to thyself. Magda will see to the young nun in the morni
ng. Thou hast done enough for one day.’
Owen was only too happy to leave the two of them to their nocturnal musings.
Out in the kitchen, he discovered a consolation gift in the presence of Master Walter. The physician was enjoying one of Maeve’s meat pies as she smiled on him. She was always grateful to satisfy a good appetite. As soon as she saw Owen, she rose to assemble a meal for him.
‘I just heard about Dame Clarice,’ Owen said, as he sat down beside Walter.
Walter nodded to him in greeting, washed his food down with some ale, and then said, ‘She will sleep through the night.’
‘God grant that she wakes in the morning,’ said Owen.
Halting the pie halfway to his mouth, the physician eyed Owen with alarm. ‘That she wakes? I saw no sign of poisoning. Is that what you fear? Have you cause to believe she’d been poisoned?’
‘I am relieved that you believe her to be in no danger,’ said Owen.
‘Who would poison one of the sisters?’
‘We must all pray that I can soon answer that, Master Walter. To whom do you entrust the physicks that you carry?’
‘My physicks? Why, my manservant Jonah carries them.’
Owen had noticed the servant, at least as old as Walter and at least twice his size, with the look of a soldier rather than a manservant. ‘He has been in your service a long while, has he?’
Walter nodded. ‘I know him better than I do my own children. He’s not only a loyal and hardworking servant, but his mere presence frightens would-be attackers and convinces clients to honour their bills.’ He laughed, but it was nervous laughter. ‘Why do you ask? Do you think someone would steal from me? Or has?’
Owen was glad that Maeve and her kitchen maid were having a loud conversation by the crackling fire as they worked, for he did not want anyone but Walter to hear what he was about to ask. ‘Do you carry poppy, mandrake and water germander?’
‘Of course I do. All physicians do.’ Walter grunted as he turned a little on the bench – though his diminutive build made him look boyish, he was not, and he moved with the stiffness of his age. ‘Now you’ve confused me. I might guess that you believe Lambert’s servant had been slipped a strong dose of poppy and mandrake that made him too languorous to sit his horse. But the germander? Bloating? Gout? He did not seem one to suffer from that. It is a rich man’s disease, not that of the servant of a bishop’s clerk—’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘Though I have treated a disappointingly large number of monks for it. And the occasional manservant of a wealthy master.’
Maeve set a tankard of ale and a meat pie before Owen, returning at once to her maid and commencing her loud discourse. Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for her discretion. Walter seemed lost in thought at the moment, and Owen took the opportunity to bite into the pie. The aroma had awakened his stomach juices, and he was not disappointed. It was manna from heaven – hot, spicy, rich, the meat cooked to a tenderness that melted on his tongue. He wished he were alone to savour this.
‘Maeve, you work miracles every day,’ he called to her.
She glanced over her shoulder, beaming.
‘We were talking of gout,’ Walter said.
‘We were talking of poppy, mandrake and water germander,’ Owen said. ‘My wife and Dame Magda detected all three ingredients in the remaining wine in Will’s wineskin.’
‘In his— God in heaven. How unlike me not to notice he suffered from gout. How did I fail to notice that?’
‘I do not mean to suggest that Will suffered from gout, Master Walter. Even if he did, and he also had trouble sleeping, he would not carry such a mixture to drink while riding, eh?’
Owen chewed as he watched understanding dawn on Walter’s face.
‘Oh, yes, I see.’ The physician wiped his forehead. ‘I am weary and not thinking as clearly as I might.’
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you at your meal,’ said Owen.
They ate companionably for a moment.
‘Would you permit Dame Magda to look at your physicks?’ Owen asked.
Walter wiped his mouth with a cloth. ‘I’d heard she’d returned.’ When Owen said nothing, Walter went on. ‘To what end would you have her look at my supplies? I do not mix anything until it is needed. She could see that I have poppy, mandrake, and water germander, but I have already told you that I do.’
‘I see. And you trust that your servant, Jonah, would be aware of anyone attempting to take anything?’
‘Oh yes. He is proud of my trust. He believes that it raises him to a position quite superior to other servants.’ Walter smiled with affection. ‘I thank God for Jonah.’ He was quiet again for a while, eating a little more. But, suddenly, he turned to Owen. ‘If Will’s wine was made to cause his accident, does that mean that Dom Lambert’s supposed suicide was murder, that I was right about the bruising on his neck?’
‘What do you think?’
‘That it would so follow.’
Owen nodded. ‘So do I, despite the horse in the villager’s field.’
‘Which would mean that not all of your guards are honest,’ said Walter, lowering his voice.
Meeting the physician’s searching gaze, Owen said simply, ‘Not at present.’
‘God help us.’ Walter crossed himself. Fear was writ plainly on his face.
‘Amen,’ said Owen. He fought the urge to soften what he’d just admitted, a strange compulsion, for the situation was as serious as Walter seemed to have just realised.
The physician had been staring into his cup. ‘I’ve lost the thread of our conversation. You are concerned about Dame Clarice? That she might have been poisoned like Will?’
‘I have the word of someone I trust that Dame Clarice may be in danger, and Alisoun’s description of the nun’s fall suggested to me that she’d suddenly become ill.’
‘I will request samples of her urine as soon as she wakes,’ said Walter, pushing the remaining piece of pie aside. ‘And I’ll bleed her on the morrow for good measure. God help me if I did not pay enough heed to her condition, if I gave her something that will help the poison along.’
‘How could you know if Alisoun did not describe it clearly?’
He guessed that Walter thought some of the blame might be his. Certainly, Owen’s words did not seem to calm the physician, who rose with a nervous energy and bade him good evening, then thanked Maeve for her excellent pie. ‘I’ll sit with the young sister tonight,’ Walter mumbled as he crossed the room. ‘I want to be there if there is a change.’
When the door closed behind the physician, Maeve left her maid and settled her large body across from Owen. Reaching for Walter’s abandoned tankard, she tilted back her head and drained it of ale.
Owen did likewise with his tankard.
‘Did the sisters from Nun Appleton take their meals in the hall today, Maeve, or in here?’
‘I’ve no idea where they dined midday,’ she said, ‘but they favour a cold, light repast in the evening, which I give them in here.’ Her broad, pleasant face creased with concern. ‘Has one taken ill? Is that what you and the physician were discussing?’
‘Yes. Dame Clarice.’
‘Poor soul! But I cannot think of anything she had of me that would sicken her.’ Maeve had straightened and tucked in her chin, refusing responsibility.
‘You were here all the time? No one else might have slipped something into the food?’
Maeve bristled. ‘I cannot think how.’
Owen held up his tankard. ‘Join me in another?’
Maeve hesitated, but soon relaxed. ‘It is late enough. Everything else can wait until dawn.’ She called to the kitchen maid to come fill their tankards.
Quiet had settled on the palace. If he strained his ears, Thoresby could hear the water lapping at the river landing, the shriek of a coney as an owl swooped down on it in the orchard, the cats settling by the mouse holes, watchful, ready to pounce. Most of his life he had treasured this time of night if he found himself awake, rarely annoye
d by any break in his sleep. But tonight his mind kept turning to the scene he’d imagined over and over, the handsome Dom Lambert, a rope already draped round his shoulders, climbing a tree and methodically testing for a branch that would hold his weight long enough to crush his windpipe. Because he had not sufficiently guarded Wykeham’s letters and someone had stolen them? He had not thought Lambert so distraught over the loss that he would commit the ultimate act of despair. Considering the servant’s death, Thoresby thought it more likely that Lambert had been murdered – that someone had murdered him in a way that would look like suicide.
But perhaps, with a little too much wine clouding his thoughts, Lambert had been unable to imagine standing up before William Wykeham and admitting his failure. Perhaps Lambert had put all his hope in the esteem he might garner by completing this mission. Perhaps Wykeham had promised him a promotion on his return. Thoresby wondered how it would be to serve Wykeham, a man so ambitious who had so recently been bitterly disappointed and was now so determined to win back the heart and confidence of the king. He would be impatient with failure, perhaps worse than impatient.
Thoresby returned to the image of the man with the rope draped around his shoulders, perhaps weeping as he drunkenly scrambled into the tree, the wine igniting his imagination, convincing him that death would be far easier than facing his master. What must it feel like to lose all hope? Thoresby’s stomach clenched. He knew what it felt like, for he felt it now. Master Walter held out no hope for him, suggested no remedy for his failing body. His heart raced and the blood pounded in his head. He gasped for breath.
The lamp had been moved near the doorway and his bed curtains were closed. He lay in darkness like the grave and he did not find it at all comfortable.
‘Dame Magda?’
‘Magda is here.’
He found it interesting how she responded as if another were reporting her presence.
Thoresby tugged at the curtains. ‘I would have some light.’
Without fuss or argument, the small, elderly woman drew aside the curtain, standing on tiptoes to tug it wide, then brought the lamp closer, setting it on a table near the stool on which she sat her night watch. She helped him sit up, then adjusted his pillows to support him in a more upright position. She smelled of smoke, spices and earth, a not unpleasant combination.
