by Candace Robb
He wanted to believe Michaelo’s pain, his remorse, his innocence of anything but lust.
‘I want you to remain here, in this chamber, as much as possible. I have enough to contend with without Sir John or someone else attacking you. I need you here, do you understand?’
Michaelo’s eyes searched Owen’s face with a growing expression of panic. ‘You think it possible that I am guilty of Lambert’s death.’
‘In truth, I cannot think how. But, until I have solved his murder and that of his servant, and know whether Dame Clarice fell ill by someone’s agency, I will not allow myself to believe anything that I cannot prove. I am sorry, Brother Michaelo, but that is how it must be.’
The great bed creaked, and Thoresby peered out from the curtains scowling, his face puffy and wrinkled from sleep. ‘In God’s name, confess to murdering Lambert and let us all feel safe in our beds, Michaelo.’
The monk blanched and bowed his head. ‘I would confess if I were guilty, Your Grace, I swear to you that I would. But, though I am guilty of much, I had no hand in the murder of Dom Lambert.’
Thoresby stared at his secretary for a long while, a weariness in his face, as if he were revisiting concerns he’d thought he’d moved past, and finally nodded as if satisfied, his expression clearing. ‘This is no time for reverie, Archer,’ he suddenly barked. ‘Ask young Alisoun to help me with my cushions. Has something happened to the nun?’
‘I’ve sent Alisoun to sit with Dame Clarice,’ said Owen. ‘But I can assist you.’
Leaving Michaelo, Owen opened the curtain wider. As Thoresby’s energy fluctuated, it was difficult to know how much help to offer and when, but Owen thought he would attempt to assist him in easing his position. Michaelo joined him, and together they adjusted Thoresby’s cushions until he pushed them away, impatient with their fussing. Only then did Owen hand him the letter. After a quick glance at the contents, Thoresby pressed the parchment to his heart.
‘God bless you for finding this and returning it to me, Archer.’ The tender relief on his face softened his entire visage. But it was only a momentary mood. ‘The nun had taken it?’ he asked sharply.
‘She did, much to her misfortune.’ Owen described Dame Clarice’s condition, Dame Katherine’s story, and Magda’s assessment. ‘I asked Alisoun to act both as healer and guard.’
Pressing his long, bony fingertips to his temples, Thoresby sighed. ‘What foolish sentiment tempted me to keep this letter from a woman so long dead? The nun had no right to take it, but, had it not been there, she would not have been tempted.’
‘No one placed the book into her hands, Your Grace. I am more concerned about whether someone ordered her to search your chamber, and what she was looking for.’
‘I am too close to death to care about much, Archer.’
‘But she found the one thing you held dear,’ Owen said. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘You don’t think Alice Perrers is behind this?’
Owen almost laughed at that, Thoresby’s fixation on the king’s mistress, as if all that went wrong in his life could be traced to her. ‘I have heard nothing to connect her with the choice of your successor, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘I merely meant that I fear Clarice might have been instructed in her search by someone who knows you well.’
‘Nevilles, you mean.’ Thoresby closed his eyes. ‘Perhaps I should simply write a letter to the chapter supporting Alexander Neville as my successor, and ask Brother Michaelo to read it out at supper. It might save lives.’
‘And ruin others once you’ve passed on,’ said Michaelo.
Thoresby grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘That is not my concern.’
Never in all her years had Magda Digby imagined conversing with someone as close to the king as Princess Joan. But here she sat, holding the delicately fleshed hands of a woman who had lived her life with others’ hands doing her work, her only scars the genteel results of threads and needles and the beaks of falcons, as this so-alien woman allowed fear, anger, pride, hurt, an abundance of emotions to flash to life, rage about her being and subside. Magda had merely shown the princess that, in the small trunk in which she carried her physicks about on her progresses, there were two powders that might quite easily have been combined to create the sleeping potion mixed with water germander that she and Lucie had detected in Lambert’s servant’s wineskin. It was Joan herself who quickly connected that with a fear she confessed to having fought hard to ignore – that one of her women, either one of her ladies or a maid, had withdrawn her loyalty.
‘I’ve felt a dangerous chill draught in the cocoon spun round me,’ she said, ‘but I’ve turned my back to it, as if I could protect myself in such wise. I’ve refused to acknowledge it, to speak its name and make it true.’ She had spoken with deep, yet quiet emotion, without self-pity or any apparent hope of engaging Magda’s sympathy.
Magda sensed the tremendous burden this woman carried, wife of the king’s eldest son and mother of a future king. ‘Thou art a great lady who rises to thy duties without resentment and with fierce courage. To catch a traitor will be painful for thee, but thou hast the heart for it.’
Joan looked into Magda’s eyes for a long while, then took a deep breath. ‘I have not felt such comfort in a long while, Dame Magda. To be in your presence is to feel the solace of sanctuary. I’d heard you were a pagan, but I feel Divine Grace in you.’
Grace could be interpreted many ways. God was another matter. Magda accepted the compliment.
‘What would you have me do about my doubts?’ Joan asked.
‘Watch thy people and tell Owen Archer of anything thou canst not explain.’
Again, Joan quietly studied Magda for a dozen heartbeats before responding. ‘So many here place their trust in the handsome Captain Archer. You do as well?’
It was Magda’s turn to consider an impression she received as the princess asked that question, that Joan meant to invite Owen into her household. Magda doubted that such a position would sit easily with him and considered saying something to ward off the princess, but, of course, it was not her decision to make.
She merely nodded. ‘Magda trusts him.’
‘My son, John, does not like Captain Archer, and I teased him that he sees his father in him, still resenting his efforts to discipline his temper. My first husband, Tom, lost an eye in battle. Faith, I wondered whether I trusted Captain Archer so quickly because of his resemblance to Tom. But you and the archbishop – truly everyone here speaks so highly of him. I fear my son is a poor judge of men. In truth, I fear for him in all ways. I should have taken better care in choosing his companions as he was growing up.’
‘A child will find his own way.’
‘Have you any children?’
‘Two. Magda’s son is dead, and her daughter found her own path.’
‘I lost a son as well. But I still have three, and the youngest will someday be king. I must be strong for all three of them, and for my husband, Edward.’
‘A woman’s strength is a fearsome thing, eh? Thy gout. Dost thou knowest that walking, dancing, riding, all these pleasures, will go far to take away thy pain?’
The princess’s cream complexion bloomed with roses and she was suddenly shy, dropping her gaze. ‘I do. I’ve allowed the weight of my husband’s illness and my fears for the future to send me to my bed, where I drink sweet wine and mead and eat far too much. My physician says that I have unbalanced my humours.’
‘Magda is glad to hear thou hast a wise physician.’ She pressed the princess’s hands before releasing them.
‘Would you come to see my husband?’ Joan impulsively asked. ‘You could return with me.’
Though the thought of such a journey amused Magda, she did not laugh. ‘Magda appreciates the honour such an invitation carries, but she is needed here, amongst those who cannot send for the finest physicians. Thou hast no need of a country midwife.’
Joan looked stricken. ‘You are no country midwife, Dame Magda.’
&n
bsp; ‘Fear not. Thou hast strength and grace in thee.’ Magda bowed and took her leave.
Richard Ravenser invited Owen to join him by the fire in the hall while breaking his fast. Though Owen had already eaten, he took the opportunity to eat a little more while reviewing with the archbishop’s nephew all that he knew. Ravenser was so busy seeing to his uncle’s archiepiscopal duties that they’d had little chance to talk.
He flicked breadcrumbs from his chest and fussed with an elegant silk sleeve as he listened. ‘You’ve learned precious little of use,’ he muttered. ‘You must have Her Grace’s men snapping at your heels.’
‘No, except for an outburst from John Holand when he escorted me to his mother’s chamber, I’ve been left alone. I should count myself fortunate that I’ve not seen more of Holand.’ As soon as he’d said that, Owen realised that it was strange. ‘Though he was attentive on the day he arrived. Why would he avoid me?’
‘Curious,’ said Ravenser. ‘That is curious. I would have expected him to follow you about demanding satisfaction.’
Owen noticed Master Walter enter the hall and excused himself to go and talk to him. The physician nodded when he saw Owen approaching.
‘I hoped to find you here,’ said Walter. ‘I wanted to tell you that there is a scent and a discoloration in Dame Clarice’s urine which I cannot identify. I don’t know whether it is poison or she merely consumed something that sickened her. I do not believe her life is in danger, but I took the precaution of bleeding her.’
‘So she seems better this morning?’
‘I did not say that. She is silent, unmoving, and her breathing is too quiet. I had another thought – that these are the signs of one in a trance or, if you believe such things, under the influence of a spell.’
‘Do you believe such things?’
‘When nothing else makes sense, I find myself wondering.’ Walter removed his hat and patted his forehead, then ran a hand through his fair hair before covering it again. ‘Though I would deny it to my patrons.’
‘Dame Magda also observed Clarice, and she proposed that something had been put in the sister’s food or drink to make her drowsy, but, for her, it was too much, or it was something that would not sicken others but did her. In short, that it was not another attempt at murder.’
‘God be praised, if she is right,’ said Walter. ‘She is a clever woman, the midwife. That does indeed sound quite possible and is a comfort – of sorts.’ He rubbed his cheeks, as if to revive himself.
‘You look as if you need to find a place for a nap,’ said Owen. ‘The barracks are quiet as the men take turns sleeping. I trust you could find an empty pallet.’
Walter’s face smoothed out with relief. ‘Bless you, Captain. That is just what I need.’
‘I am headed there myself,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll walk with you.’ He meant to talk to Fiddler John himself concerning his report to Gilbert about the two he’d seen leaving the stables.
Breath had never seemed so precious as it did now, and Thoresby thanked God for each one. He also thanked God for each awakening. He had made his peace, but he wished to live long enough to see Princess Joan on her way and to welcome his godchildren in turn. It was much to ask. He doubted now the wisdom of having agreed to Joan’s visitation. Had he known that she sought advice regarding her fear that her family’s ills were the result of divine retribution for the slaying of her father and uncle, he might have been more honest with himself, admitted that he was too weak and exhausted to summon the wisdom that she sought. But he’d proudly agreed to advise her, and now found himself with little to say, which weighed heavily on his conscience, considering how, through his self-deceit, he’d put his household and her company in grave danger.
He particularly blamed himself for putting Brother Michaelo in harm’s way, albeit inadvertently. He’d known his secretary was weak in spirit, but here, again, Thoresby’s own pride had betrayed him, had convinced him that Michaelo would not dare sin while he who had given him a chance to redeem himself yet lived.
His intentions had been generous, charitable. He sympathised with Joan’s situation, the wife of an ailing prince and an under-aged princeling. But it was all going so wrong. He’d disliked his painful and humiliating sense of vulnerability when he’d awakened and found Archer with Dame Clarice, the cold sister from Nun Appleton, the one who had watched him with disturbing intensity. When Archer had said he’d caught her reading his breviary, Thoresby had felt helpless. Now he’d proof that she’d done more than that – she’d stolen the love letter he’d hidden in it. He shivered and pulled the mound of covers up under his chin. Perhaps he should place more of the blame on Princess Joan for having included in her company those who were almost strangers to her.
Owen and Walter were walking past Thoresby’s chamber when Magda stepped into the corridor. Already tiring of flitting from one person to another this morning, Owen once again excused himself. Fiddler John could wait, and Walter was only too happy to withdraw to the barracks alone. Magda nodded to Owen and gestured to him to walk with her.
Out in the garden, she raised her arms overhead and took a deep breath.
‘It is unpleasantly hot in His Grace’s chamber,’ Owen said, settling down on a bench.
‘The fire in his body cools,’ she said. ‘Magda would rather walk than sit, Bird-eye. Come along.’ She did not wait for his opinion.
But her stride was short enough that it cost him no breath to fall into step beside her. ‘Did you talk to Princess Joan?’
Magda nodded as she considered a fork in the paths. She chose the river walk, which seemed the choice of most walkers. Perhaps in winter one would choose to move inland, away from the icy river.
‘The Princess of Wales is a most gracious lady. Magda found powders that might have been added to the dead servant’s wine with little fuss, and, without further prompting, the princess admitted that she has sensed a traitor amongst her ladies and servants, but knows not who it might be. She has promised to watch and tell thee aught that seems amiss to her.’
Owen had not expected so much. ‘I am glad that she said so, and grateful that you saw her.’ He found it dissatisfying to talk to Magda in motion, unable to watch her expression, note the subtle sounds and see the gestures as she considered his words. Reaching a bench, he said, ‘I hope you’ve cooled off enough to agree to sit for a moment.’
She had walked on, but paused now, and seemed to sniff at the air before she turned back to him. ‘Thou hast something darksome on thy mind.’
‘Yes.’
Looking back at the palace, she shook her head, a sad shake, as if regretting her thought. ‘Darksome is a subtle current beneath the surface of this company, Bird-eye.’
Owen reflexively crossed himself.
‘Aye, beware,’ she nodded. ‘Come. Magda has the strength to listen to one more tale before she finds a place to rest.’ She led him to a stone wall at the edge of the rose garden. ‘Tell Magda thy trouble.’
He told her of Lady Eleanor, being more honest with her about their past than he had been earlier, and that she might have been with Lambert when he took the horse from the stables. ‘I don’t want to believe she murdered Dom Lambert.’
She turned to him on the bench, her wrinkled face set in a thoughtful frown. ‘Thou hast a difficult role, Bird-eye. Magda has ever sensed the weight of it on thy broad shoulders. Magda has not met her, but, as Lady Sybilla expressed, loyalties can be terrible burdens. Magda senses thou’rt sad about Michaelo as well.’ Before he could speak, she held a finger to his mouth. ‘No, Magda understands. Thou dost fear that he is not the redeemed soul thou hast believed him to be.’ She took his hand, looking down at it, smoothing the skin on the back. ‘Hast thou ever thought that what Black Swan feels for men is simply his nature? Nothing to punish him for?’
‘God condemned sodomy.’
‘Men wrote thy bible. Men lead thy church. Men create unnatural laws that cripple their fellow men so that they might control those they do not
understand. Thy church has made many such laws, and good men who serve thy church suffer for no good cause.’
‘Are we still talking only of Michaelo?’ Owen heard more emotion in her voice than he would have guessed she would have for the monk.
Magda said nothing, but, letting go of his hand, she turned away from him, towards the river. ‘How different might Black Swan’s life have been if he had been permitted his love for men, Magda does not know. She does not know him well. The sin that brought him to Old Crow’s attention was about far more than carnal love. He had given his power to a man who was consumed by hate.’ She looked back at Owen. ‘Hast thou looked into thy heart and judged him so harshly? Or her, this woman thou didst once embrace? Or dost thou merely fear thou wilt not be happy when thou dost discover the murderer?’
‘My heart?’
She placed a palm on his eye patch. Her body heat relaxed the muscles beneath his patch.
‘Thy wounding forced thee to look within. Magda has seen thy hand fly up to thy wounded eye as if it has suddenly spoken to thee with a pain that has no source that thou canst detect.’
He often felt a shower of tiny pains like hundreds of pin pricks over his eyelid and the scarred socket. He’d interpreted it as dread, which he supposed might be a kind of knowing.
‘I do feel something. But what does that have to do with Brother Michaelo’s confession? Or Lady Eleanor’s possible guilt?’
‘Didst thou sense a lie in their words?’
He’d felt there was much that Eleanor was not saying. And Michaelo – he felt the man was telling him more than was necessary, which made him suspect that he meant to distract Owen. But Magda seemed to be suggesting that he try to open his heart to Michaelo’s suffering. It was difficult, for he kept seeing him lying beneath the tree on which Lambert had been hanged.
‘I am sad for Michaelo, but I cannot afford to believe that he is entirely innocent and will cause no more trouble. I pray that he is true in all things but his sin with Lambert. But I cannot let down my guard with him. As for Lady Eleanor, I don’t know what to think about her. I must have a doubt, else why would I be sitting here worried that she might be a murderer? There is a desperate yearning in her behaviour towards me, making too much of an afternoon long ago.’
