by Candace Robb
‘Just enough to know it was not hers,’ said Katherine, shrugging her shoulders forward as if to protect her heart. But—’ She bit her lip and frowned at the letter. Her hands were rough and her nails caked with dirt. She was not a pampered nun.
‘I pray you, trust me, Dame Katherine. My purpose is the safety of all this company.’
Shyly, she seemed to force herself to look him in the eye. ‘I did not find it on her when I first removed her wet gown. It was not until later – after all the fuss had quieted down and we were alone – that I found it tucked into the sleeve of the gown I’d hung over a stool by the brazier to dry.’
He was grateful that she had decided to trust him. ‘Who was in here?’
‘Master Walter, one of the princess’s retainers – the one who had carried her from the garden – and one of the princess’s ladies – she seemed to know the man, a maidservant who accompanied the lady, and a kitchen servant … I believe that is all.’
‘Which of the princess’s ladies?’
‘The fair-haired one – not the pretty one. Sybilla? I think that is what they called her – Master Walter and the retainer.’
‘And the man’s name?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He was fair as well.’
It would be easy enough to find out who had brought her into the palace. ‘Could you describe the maidservant?’
‘She was very ordinary, Captain.’
‘And the kitchen servant?’
‘A young man, with a tooth missing right here.’ She tapped the spot in which one of Maeve’s long-time helpers was missing a tooth.
‘So you think one of them brought in the letter?’
‘They must have. I removed the gown and draped it over the stool, arranging the sleeves so they would dry. I would have seen it then.’
‘I am most grateful for your help.’ He took the letter from her and, as if it had been all that was holding her up, she slumped down onto a stool.
‘I’ve never known her to faint after one of her fits.’ She spoke softly, glancing behind her as if gauging how loudly she might speak without waking Clarice. ‘I was frightened when she was carried in, so pale and lifeless. And, when Master Walter returned after he had given her the sleeping potion, wanting to listen to her heartbeat, I feared he knew of some mischief that had befallen her, something that the pagan healer’s girl had not thought to tell me. This morning he means to bleed her and wants a sample of her urine. But he says I’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Did he seem concerned after listening to her heart?’
She nodded and crossed herself. ‘Everyone is worried because of the letter, isn’t that it?’
‘She was foolish to steal something from the Archbishop of York,’ said Owen. As Katherine began to sputter something, he changed the subject. ‘You say that she often has fits of temper. Do you know the cause of her anger?’
Her rosebud lips pursed, Katherine considered her response. ‘It is hardly worth speaking of. She resents the fact that she was not given a choice in her vocation, that she was sent to the convent so young she remembers no other life. This journey has certainly not appeased her in any way. Quite the contrary, in fact. I fear that being here and seeing the princess and her ladies has filled Clarice with impossible yearnings.’
Owen could imagine how that might be – the luxurious clothing of the princess’s entourage, their pretty language, the sumptuous feast, the gorgeous tapestries and fittings of the palace. She would see nothing so elegant in the nunnery. ‘I am sorry for her.’
Katherine did not look moved. She sniffed. ‘There is nothing out of the ordinary about it, Captain. Except that three of you have been troubled enough to inquire about her in the middle of the night. Is there more to it? Did something happen to her last night? Was it not her usual fit of temper? Did someone try to kill her for the letter?’
‘I know no more than you, Dame Katherine. I think it likely that the deaths of Dom Lambert and his servant have touched us all in different ways. Perhaps healers see omens in unusual faints such as hers. I am charged with the safety of all here, so I respond to unusual behaviour. The letter disappearing and then reappearing is admittedly cause for grave concern.’
She crossed herself. ‘Deus juva me.’
‘I do not know your abbess, but I question her judgment in sending a woman prone to fits of anger on such a mission, to attend a dying archbishop in the company of the Princess of Wales.’
‘My abbess is a good and noble woman, Captain. It is not my place to question her decisions.’
The tight-lipped reply was no more than he’d expected. She was naturally, and perhaps admirably, guarded in her criticisms of her superiors.
She tried but was unable to suppress a yawn. ‘I would sleep a while. Master Walter said he will be back this morning to bleed Clarice.’ She took a step backward and reached for the door handle.
‘Then I shall leave you to rest a little before he returns,’ said Owen. ‘I will send Alisoun Ffulford to you, the young woman—’
‘I know who she is, Captain. I assure you, I can care for my fellow sister.’
‘I’ve no doubt you could in the peace and safety of your nunnery, Dame Katherine, but this palace is neither peaceful nor safe at present.’
The woman looked almost amused. ‘And that girl can protect me?’
‘She is an expert archer, Dame Katherine, and skilled with a dagger as well. I’ll see that she has a dagger – her bow would be of no use in this small space.’
‘Ask her to be quiet,’ the nun snapped, as she closed the door behind him.
As Owen moved away, he tried to remember whether he’d seen Sybilla in Joan’s chamber when he was leaving the room the previous evening, but his irritation with the princess must have blinded him to anything else, for he could not recall any but the returned guard and the servant who had announced him. She’d been there earlier, but it was quite possible that, while he spoke to Her Grace, Sybilla had slipped away to return the letter after reading it.
In the kitchen, a sleepy Maeve handed him a bit of cheese and a small, crusty loaf of bread.
‘Would you like cider or ale?’ she asked.
He felt blessed by this abundance, having expected to find the kitchen help still asleep and nothing more at hand than perhaps a cup of water and, if lucky, a crust of bread. ‘I think cider this morning. I’d not thought to find you at work so early. We shared that ale late last night.’
She looked at him askance. ‘I would sleep late when I’ve such a company of folk to feed? I’m lucky to rest at all.’ With a nod to him, she added, ‘Should I worry that both you and Dame Magda are up betimes? I pray there is no more trouble.’
‘Not so far, but I’ve trouble enough.’
With a knowing nod, she went about her work.
Now Owen saw Magda sitting near the fire, a bowl of cider on her lap. She seemed to be drowsing. He settled beside her and, while he ate, watched Maeve and several kitchen helpers move about in what seemed a well-rehearsed dance between ovens, cauldrons, and tables, organising the ingredients for the day’s meals. It was a comforting performance and the chills of the night receded a little despite all the nagging questions that remained. The warm bread and cider helped as well.
Remembering the letter, he opened it and skimmed it, smiling at the sweet, affectionate tone. The writing was a clumsy scrawl – of course Marguerite would not have dictated to her chaplain or secretary such an intimate letter to Thoresby, already a bishop. He wondered whether Thoresby was yet awake. He wanted to place the letter in his hands.
A quiet voice said, ‘Dame Clarice will recover.’ Magda was now sitting upright, regarding him with her clear blue eyes.
‘God be thanked,’ said Owen. ‘Is His Grace sleeping?’
Magda nodded.
Owen tucked the letter beneath his tunic. ‘Would you walk with me in the garden a while?’
Without a word, she rose and accompanied him out into the
yard.
The damp of the previous evening was held close to the ground by low clouds, though it was not raining. Owen had thought it would feel good to pace off some energy in the garden while waiting for the household to awaken, perversely regretting that another hawk hunt had not been arranged for the morning. He would have welcomed the distracting activity.
Once they were well away from the buildings, he asked Magda what she had noted about Clarice.
‘Magda saw her whilst she slept the sleep of Master Walter’s physick. It was as if seeing her through a thick veil – of little worth. But there was no poison in her breath, and no hint of it in her eyes – Magda lifted the lids, and looked at her fingernails, her tongue, her feet.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Thou hast witnessed men fall ill from a drink that would simply help most sleep, eh, Bird-eye? Magda thinks Clarice was meant to drowse, but the drink made her ill. She might have taken it willingly.’
Owen told her about the letter Clarice had taken and its mysterious reappearance.
‘She was to sleep in the garden while someone read it?’ Magda shook her head. ‘Clumsy, but possible.’
‘I’ve told Dame Katherine that I would send Alisoun to attend Dame Clarice, to nurse and to guard. I thought Brother Michaelo could sit with His Grace when you are resting.’
‘Magda is glad thou art giving him such responsibility for his master. His devotion will keep him safely in the chamber. He slipped out last night, Magda does not know for how long, making his bed look as if he was tucked up beneath the blankets.’
‘Damn him. What was he doing?’
‘Magda knows not.’ She looked grave.
‘I’ll talk to him when I return the letter to His Grace. I’ll go now.’
He cursed Michaelo as he headed back down the path to the palace. What aggravated and enervated him was a sense of missed opportunities and time rushing on – towards another ‘accident’? He wished he’d watched Michaelo more closely. He wished he’d questioned Dame Clarice more when he’d found her alone in Thoresby’s chamber. He wondered what she’d done to anger Princess Joan, and whether it was the princess’s anger that had brought on her own temper in turn. Clarice was angry that her family had sent her to the convent while still a child. If Dame Katherine knew that, then most likely so did her abbess, and she’d made a grave error in choosing such an embittered young woman for a mission on which she would be exposed to a palace and a princess, the trappings of a life any dissatisfied young woman might yearn for. He wondered whether Dame Clarice had approached Princess Joan about leaving the convent, or had, perhaps, set her heart on one of the young men here at the palace. As for Michaelo, he prayed that the monk had merely been praying in the chapel.
A few pallets remained in the corridor, not yet stacked in the corner for the day. Owen could hear the servants and squires moving about in the hall. In Thoresby’s chamber, Michaelo knelt at a prie-dieu near his pallet, and Alisoun sat with some sewing near a window, glancing up to nod a silent greeting. The curtains of the great bed were still closed. Owen drew a stool up beside her and explained what he and Magda had agreed, that Alisoun would go to the sisters. He watched the light dim in her eyes, her jaw tighten.
‘Why me?’ she asked, softly, so as not to wake Thoresby, but her irritation was plain.
Owen knew that he had but one chance to convince Alisoun of his sincerity. Once she’d taken offence, she would not be stirred. ‘I need you there because you are both a healer and a warrior, and I trust you,’ he said.
Her usually wary eyes widened in surprise, and she blushed, dropping her gaze to her embroidery, as if to hide her confusion.
Praying for the right words, Owen leaned closer and said so softly that he saw her strain a little to hear, ‘I’ve precious few I can trust at present. And, being a woman, you can remain in the chamber. Will you help me, Alisoun?’
For a moment he thought he’d failed. But, at last, without looking up, she nodded. She stayed very still for a few more heartbeats, and, when she raised her head on her so-slender neck, her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I will be honoured to be of service, Captain.’ A tremulous smile lit her face, and, for the first time, Owen saw the beauty in her that his son Jasper saw.
‘If you need help, if you encounter something that you think I must know at once, use the guard – he is just without in the corridor. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I could not forgive myself if anything happened to you.’
She nodded once. ‘Shall I go now?’
‘Yes. Go softly. Dame Katherine’s sleep was disturbed throughout the night and she is resting until Master Walter returns. Do you need assistance? Have you much to carry?’
‘No, I can manage.’ She ducked her head in confusion as he helped her gather her sewing and spinning. He walked with her to the door, and, just outside, asked, ‘Has Brother Michaelo been in there all the while?’
Her eyes now met his. ‘Yes. Do you not trust him? Even Brother Michaelo?’
‘I trust his devotion to His Grace,’ said Owen.
‘He was asleep when I relieved Dame Magda, and, since waking, he has been as you saw him.’
‘Good. Ask the servants for anything you need, Alisoun. My mind is much eased knowing you’ll be up there with the sisters.’
She was smiling as she made her way down the corridor. Owen prayed she would be safe.
Back in the chamber, Michaelo rose from his devotions and greeted Owen.
‘I am glad to find other souls awake and about at this hour, for I weary of my own company,’ said Owen.
‘You’ll soon tire of my company,’ Michaelo said. His tone was uneven, as if his throat threatened to close around his words. ‘I should not burden you.’ He took the seat Alisoun had vacated, shrugging and fussing with the drape of his habit, the peace of his prayer gone, already ill at ease. ‘I heard a little of what you said and was pleased for young Alisoun.’
‘It was not an easy decision to send her. I meant all I said about her being most suited for the task, but it means that you must be here whenever Magda is away.’ Owen observed Michaelo’s increasing agitation. ‘You see my dilemma.’
‘You can trust me to ensure that His Grace is attended at all times,’ said Michaelo. ‘I worry about the household, but so be it. Soon none of that will matter.’
‘There is more on your mind. Tell me.’
Michaelo closed his eyes and shook his head, his face constricting as if he were in great pain. ‘I am accursed and so ashamed. I am the devil’s plaything. How can I possibly believe Our Lord will hear my prayers? And how can I look His Grace in the eye? He made possible my redemption and, now, after all this time, I have betrayed his trust.’ Michaelo shivered and hugged himself, and would not meet Owen’s gaze.
It was his refusal to look him in the eye that reminded Owen to be on his guard. It was not an attitude from which to offer comfort, but then Michaelo did not inspire such an impulse, he who sneered at the slightest shortcomings in others. Even now, though Michaelo was apparently wretched with humiliation and despair, Owen was too aware of that other side of him. Indeed, Michaelo fussed with his habit as if disgusted with himself. Like the guards, Michaelo might succumb to a bribe – he’d been disappointed in the chapter’s indifference towards Ravenser. It was possible he’d back a Neville.
‘What was the nature of your betrayal?’ Owen asked.
‘I have already told you,’ Michaelo moaned. He stilled his hands by crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his sleeves. ‘I knew by Lambert’s looks that he shared my passion, but he did not speak it. Nor did I. I must have thought to fool myself and him by suggesting a cup of wine and a chance to unburden his heart, to speak of his failed mission. But our flesh overcame our chaste intentions. Dear God.’ He dropped his chin and took a sobbing breath, though his crossed arms held him rigid.
Owen waited.
Michaelo groaned. ‘I have undone all I’d achieved with my penances for my former si
ns. I have thrown away my salvation for a night of passion. I cannot believe it now. I prayed when I woke that it had been a dream – a beautiful, passionate dream, but only a dream. But I would not then have been lying in the wood. I would do anything to undo it.’
The pain in his voice moved Owen. ‘I’ve yet another reason to curse William of Wykeham’s part in this.’
‘No. I am the one to blame. But bless you for listening and not judging me.’
‘You may yet regret confiding in me. More questions.’
Michaelo nodded. ‘I will answer all I can.’ Still he held himself rigidly with his crossed arms like a corset about his torso.
‘Was Lambert worried that night? Frightened?’
‘Yes, yes, and tormented by his clumsiness as Wykeham’s emissary – he believed his career was ended, that Bishop William would never trust him again with anything of consequence. But that night he also felt haunted by his servant, Will.’
‘You said he had traded horse and saddle with Will because his horse was agitated?’
Michaelo bowed his head for a moment, as if thinking how best to present Lambert’s deed. ‘He was embarrassed. He suffered sores – haemorrhoids – and the horse’s fidgeting caused him much agony. I believe that his humiliation over his affliction blinded him to the need to examine the horse. And then the beast threw Will. Fear, self-loathing – they warred in Lambert. He seemed beset by devils, buffeted by storms, cursed by his own stupidity. I would not have been surprised had he taken his own life.’
Michaelo painted a pathetic man, and Owen realised how little he’d taken into account all that Lambert had suffered in so short a time. ‘Were you worried when you woke to find him gone?’
‘Worried? No. God help me, I was relieved. I prayed he was as ashamed as I was.’ Michaelo paused, meeting Owen’s gaze, his face haggard, so unlike the self-possessed man he’d seemed in Thoresby’s service. ‘Did I drive him to his murderer? He said that you had told him to stay at the palace, not to risk venturing into the fields. Why did he go out there that night? Who was the woman? Dear God. Oh dear God, I’ll never know, I’ll never know.’ His breath caught and the moan that followed deeply affected Owen.
