A Vigil of Spies (Owen Archer Book 10)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Gifts, skills, talents – they torment folk with riddles. Thou must learn through practice, as thou didst learn to be an archer.’ Magda cupped his chin in her hands. ‘Thou’rt a good man, Bird-eye. Courageous, true, and gifted with inward sight.’ She dropped her hand and gave him a coy smile that forced a smile from him. ‘And, if Magda had met thee when she was young, she would have done anything to share thy bed.’ She barked again as she rose. ‘And now Magda must sleep.’

  As she hurried away, Owen realised that she had flirted with him to distract him at the last moment, preventing more questions that would delay her rest. The flirtation reminded him of Sybilla.

  In the hall, he found Sybilla discussing the day’s plans with one of Her Grace’s servants. Although he stood near her being rudely obvious about waiting to talk to her, she ignored him until she was finished, and then turned to him with the sweetest of smiles.

  ‘Captain Archer. What do you think? His Grace has said he is pleased to grant me the puppy.’

  How skilfully she lightened the mood around her, Owen thought, like a musician plucking out a cheery tune that tickled one into a jig. But he could use her topic to woo her out into the yard. ‘Shall we bid your new friend good morning?’ he asked, crooking his arm.

  She took his arm and stepped lightly through the milling guests and out into the yard.

  ‘Sir John made a fool of himself last night, did you hear him?’ she asked, rather loudly, as they passed him berating his squire for a stain on his boots.

  ‘I am partially blind, not deaf – though I would have been glad of the latter last night. I wondered why he’d found his drink so irresistible as to let it take command of his senses, if yesterday’s events so disturbed him.’

  ‘He needs no excuse, Captain.’ Sybilla nodded at Sir Lewis, who was talking to one of the grooms.

  ‘I understand that you sat with Dame Clarice out on the porch last evening shortly before she fell ill,’ said Owen. ‘Had she also been drinking too much?’

  Sybilla fought hard to mask her surprise with laughter. ‘Now that would be an intriguing pairing – Clarice and John.’ She made a comical face and rolled her eyes. ‘They’re both champion complainers. But, to answer your question, Captain, no, the poor woman was drinking her own bile. She is a tragically bitter young woman. I thought she needed a friendly ear, but I found, to my discomfort, that it was not my friendship she wanted. My finery, my very station in Her Grace’s company offends her, but not morally. She resents having been sent to the convent by her mother and her unknown father rather than having been set up in a noble household. So much for a life of prayer bequeathing grace and beatific joy.’

  She sniffed and flipped her skirts, stepping directly in front of Owen and facing him, forcing him to stop. ‘I did not think that you sought me out to ask about the dogs,’ she said, no longer smiling. She’d manoeuvred them to an empty part of the yard. ‘Princess Joan asked me to watch Dame Clarice, and so I did as I was told, bearing her insults so long I wanted to scream. But I did not poison her in retaliation for the poison of her words, Captain.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that. What of her complaints? Were they only of you?’

  ‘She complained of her fate in general, Captain. She did not name her poisoner, if that is your question.’

  ‘Why do you speak of poison, my lady? I said nothing of that.’

  He saw by the tightening of her silk-clad shoulders that she realised she’d stepped into a trap.

  ‘Master Walter and Dame Magda both believe she fell ill by eating or drinking something that sickened her quite by chance,’ he said. ‘Did she seem ill when you talked?’

  Sybilla shook her head. ‘No. But she did suddenly quit the porch. I confess I was relieved to see her go.’

  ‘And she did not eat or drink while you were there?’

  ‘To be honest, I cannot remember.’

  ‘Why has Princess Joan asked you to watch Dame Clarice?’

  ‘I am reliable. Now come, Captain, we’ve been serious quite long enough and it’s time to see my charming puppy.’ She took his arm and tried to pull him in the direction of the kennels.

  But Owen did not move. ‘You misunderstood my question. I’ve no doubt you were an excellent choice, but why is the princess concerned about Dame Clarice?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I did not think to ask.’

  ‘Do you know why she sent messengers to Nun Appleton yesterday?’

  ‘You must ask her, Captain. Neither Eleanor nor I were privy to what she told them.’ Prettily pouting, she tugged on his arm.

  ‘I’ve also learned that you went to Clarice’s chamber when she was carried in from the fields. Why?’

  Sybilla, still pouting, tilted her head as if trying to see him from a better angle. ‘What is this, Captain? Do you think me heartless? I was concerned for her.’

  ‘You’ve just told me that you lost patience with her insults.’

  Shrugging, she toed a pebble. ‘She is a bore, Captain, but I sympathise with her complaint, her fate being one I narrowly escaped.’

  ‘Do you know who carried Dame Clarice into the palace last night?’

  ‘It was Douglas, one of John Holand’s men. He’s been favoured by Princess Joan on this journey. I do not think he’ll be long in her son’s household.’ With a sigh, she tugged again on his hand. ‘Come now.’

  ‘Go on, my lady. I am not good company today.’

  She dropped his hand. ‘You disappoint me, Captain.’

  ‘I pray you will forgive me for that, my lady.’

  He bowed to her and headed back to the palace. He must talk to the guard who had been following Clarice and discover why Princess Joan had both Sybilla and a guard following the nun. It was a simple matter to have him pointed out.

  ‘Of course I noticed Lady Sybilla, Captain. I’ve not the strength to not notice her,’ said Douglas. They laughed companionably. ‘But Her Grace had not mentioned that she, too, was watching Dame Clarice. I am not, in truth, of that household.’

  ‘I understand that. But Princess Joan finds you useful.’

  ‘My master has little need of me while we are here, and does not like his men idle.’

  Owen sensed a hint of resentment in the man’s tone. ‘Could you describe exactly what you witnessed last night?’

  Douglas’s description of the event was very like Alisoun’s.

  ‘Did you notice a parchment? Perhaps in her hands? Did she drop anything as you carried her?’

  Douglas shook his head.

  ‘Did anyone approach you? Did you stop? Talk to anyone who might have touched her?’

  ‘As I passed my master, he taunted me for ravishing a nun. I cannot recall whether he touched her.’

  John Holand. That was an uncomfortable possibility. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘As I walked, she grew heavier and heavier, and I did not notice much beside putting one foot before the other.’

  The night watch had already bedded down for sleep, but, as Owen stood at the top of the loft ladder allowing his good eye to adjust to the dimness, he noticed two men talking quietly on the nearest pallet. They sneaked glances at him several times, and then one rose and approached him.

  Duncan was one of the older guards, a pious widower who had told Owen that he considered guarding the archbishop a form of worship. He asked whether Owen had a moment to talk to him.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said Owen, ‘in the hope that someone will come forward with some detail – a sound, a movement, anything – that might help me understand what happened the night Dom Lambert died.’

  ‘Stephen and I were just talking.’ Duncan gestured for his companion to join them and put his arm round the younger man, as if determined to hold him there. ‘We were beyond the place where the poor man died that night, out towards the village, and so we thought anything we might have witnessed would be of no use to you. But Stephen told me about the villager finding the horse.’

  ‘You hadn’t known?’


  ‘When I sleep, I sleep soundly, Captain. Nothing wakes me, not even a horse.’ He grinned.

  Owen sank down on a bench and folded his arms, signalling that he was ready to listen. ‘Tell me.’

  Duncan nodded to Stephen to go first.

  ‘I heard a man and a woman arguing about something she’d given him. She wanted to know what he’d done with it and was none too pleased when he said he’d sold it in York. ‘For to pay for all this. What did you think I would do with it?’ he spat at her, and she hissed back something I couldn’t make out. But they did not part friends, I can tell you.’

  Owen, of course, thought of the brooch. ‘Did you hear what the item was?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘Nor could I see them. And they talked in whispers – loud whispers, but, all the same, I don’t think I’d know them if they spoke plainly.’

  ‘Thank you, Stephen. Was this towards morning?’

  ‘Aye. Still dark, but I could hear the birds shifting.’

  He wanted to ask why in God’s name the man had not come forward with this yesterday, but held his tongue. He’d spoken up now, and he should not be punished for that.

  ‘And you, Duncan?’

  The older man glanced round, then stepped closer and leaned towards Owen’s ear. ‘I swear I heard your second lieutenant, Gilbert, say something, and a woman answer him. It was a fleeting thing. I think she moved on past me towards the village, and he moved towards the palace. But it’s troubled me. I’d swear it was him.’

  ‘What were they saying?’

  ‘He said something like “they’ll find him there and think the worst”. And she said, “Poor man.”’

  ‘But you saw nothing?’

  ‘Nay.’

  This time Owen could not keep himself from asking in frustration, ‘Why did you wait till now to tell me?’

  ‘I did not like to think it of him, Captain. Gilbert is a good man, and I reckoned, since you hold him second only to Alfred, you trust him.’ Duncan shrugged.

  He had, that was true, and this accusation was difficult to accept. But Owen pushed that aside. ‘Good man, Duncan. Never keep anything from me you think I should know. I will not betray you.’

  Duncan nodded. ‘I told Stephen as much, that you would protect us if we did our duty. God go with you, Captain.’

  ‘And you and Stephen,’ said Owen.

  He rose, but, for a moment, he stood woodenly, unsure what to do next. Gilbert. He did not want to think right now about the significance of Gilbert being a traitor.

  ‘Do you know which pallet is Fiddler John’s?’

  Stephen pointed to one at the far end.

  ‘One more thing. When Gilbert spoke to you after we found Lambert – did he not urge you to come forward with anything you might have noticed?’

  Stephen looked puzzled. ‘He said nothing to me, Captain.’

  Owen turned to Duncan, who shook his head.

  Cursing beneath his breath, Owen headed over to Fiddler John’s pallet and a little too impatiently shook the man, made even angrier by the stench of ale that the man gave off. As Fiddler John woke and opened his mouth, Owen clamped a hand over it.

  ‘Come downstairs with me.’

  The man struggled.

  Owen’s anger had made him clumsy. He whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s your captain. I don’t mean to harm you. I need to hear what you told Gilbert – in your own words.’ He was grateful to feel the man relax a little. ‘Follow me away from your fellows. I would not wake them.’

  John nodded, then scrambled up with the brittle energy the ale still in his belly provided, and stumbled after Owen, awkwardly climbing down the ladder and joining him in an empty area near a side door.

  ‘You gave me a start,’ he mumbled, rubbing his face.

  Turning a little to spare himself John’s noxious breath, Owen was not inclined to soothe the man. ‘What did you see the night of Lambert’s death?’

  ‘A man and woman leave the stables with a horse, Captain.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  John hung his head. ‘The man, he looked to be dressed like Lambert. The woman was very fine.’

  ‘Could you see her face?’ John shook his head. ‘Her hair colour?’ Another shake. ‘What of him?’ Another shake. ‘So all you saw was a man dressed like Lambert, and a finely dressed woman?’

  ‘That’s all I could swear to, Captain.’

  ‘Is that all that you told Gilbert?’

  John nodded.

  ‘You’re drinking too much, John. Be careful of that. But I thank you for your report. Go on, back up to your pallet. Sleep the sleep of the virtuous.’

  With a curse, Owen strode out of the barracks part of the stable and sat down on his own pallet to piece together what he’d learned. Gilbert. Eleanor. Sybilla. Clarice. Michaelo. He felt a growing panic that he was too tired, pulled in too many directions, and was not seeing what was right before him. If only he had Lucie here to talk this over with him. He wished he’d gone upriver this morning in Jehannes’s place, but, of course, his absence was out of the question. Today, Princess Joan would explain why she’d sent to Nun Appleton and he intended to be in Thoresby’s chamber when she did so.

  Though weary to the bone, he could not lie still. He needed to pace, and to talk. When he’d left Sybilla, he’d noticed Geoffrey talking to Sir Lewis out in the yard. Perhaps he’d learned something about Lady Eleanor. He splashed his face with cool water before he headed back to the palace.

  Eight

  A WOMAN’S WOE

  Thursday Morning

  IDLY OBSERVING THE gardens of Bishopthorpe lining the riverbank as his journey upriver began, Jehannes noticed a pair of servants cutting back the branches of a broad shrub in order to access a breach in the retaining wall. Their clothes already hung heavy with moisture wicked up from the morning mist and the dripping foliage, and their shoes sank into the soft, shifting soil that had allowed the wall to crumble. It seemed an inspired theme for a sermon, and Jehannes toyed with appropriate lessons as the landscape changed, the gardens giving way to fields and woodland.

  Composing sermons calmed him, drawing him into contemplation of God’s laws and Christ’s teachings, the ordering of society and the path to inner peace. He was particularly fond of Christ’s Sermon on the Mount, a reminder of the rewards awaiting the good, the gentle blessings of a virtuous life. A crumbling foundation – a lack of the cohesive qualities of loving one another, compassion. The corrosive quality of pride, which precluded this compassion, prevented the binding of cooperation and sharing. Alexander Neville’s overweening pride that had perhaps tempted Owen’s good men away from the bond that had worked well these many years. He’d sensed Owen’s pain and prayed that balance might somehow be restored. But, with John Thoresby dying, the men were, understandably, looking out for themselves, feeling their future prosperity threatened, and someone like Neville knew how to feed that sense of vulnerability and offer false security.

  This exercise in composition was not cheering Jehannes this morning. He turned to his servant and asked him to join him in prayer. Praying for the suffering and the spiritually floundering was never a waste of time.

  Alfred shook his head in disbelief. ‘Gilbert? They cannot be right, Captain. Someone sounding like him, surely. God help us, they cannot be right. And he was the one you’d sent to talk to the men – do you think he did as you ordered?’

  ‘No. It was only after I talked to them that a few came to me. We must act on the possibility that they are right about Gilbert. Tell him nothing, Alfred, and set someone to watch him.’

  Bowing his head, Alfred groaned. ‘I would it were not so.’

  ‘I feel the same. We cannot trust him and heaven knows who else. I am working hard not to curse Princess Joan for coming here.’

  Alfred cursed for him. ‘And may Gilbert rot in hell if he’s betrayed us.’

  ‘I pray he’s done all the damage he means to do,’ said Owen.

  Alfre
d crossed himself. ‘Soon I won’t be able to sleep for worry about who’s guarding my back.’

  Owen could not reassure him.

  Lucie woke to a misty morning, chilly and lonely in the big bed. She hugged a cushion as she prayed that Owen would soon be sleeping beside her again. She ignored the prick of conscience that her prayer was selfish, that his return would happen only on Thoresby’s death. This morning she wanted her husband, yearned for his strong, warm body beside her, his sweet kisses, the fire he kindled in her.

  On rising, she had no peace in the hall – the weather bored Gwenllian and Hugh. They loudly challenged their nurse, Maud, for insisting that they play in the house rather than kick through the fallen leaves in the garden, and their crankiness – not to mention their shrill young voices – agitated their Great Aunt Phillippa. Lucie had hastened to her workshop behind the apothecary intending to accomplish a long list of chopping, pounding, mixing and potting. Her apprentice, Edric, had helped her set up the materials on a large table, and she’d settled down with a sense of quiet contentment to the repetitive work, which freed her mind to meander where it would. She missed Alisoun, who would have managed the restlessness of Gwenllian and Hugh with songs and games. Maud was good with the infant Emma, but she was easily overwhelmed by the older children. As usual these days, Lucie’s thoughts turned towards the future, considering alternative careers for Owen once Thoresby died – in truth, worrying about them. He might serve the new archbishop, or become more engaged in the management of Freythorpe Hadden, or perhaps become an alderman in the city, or perhaps first a bailiff.

  She lifted her head as she heard Edric greet one of Bess Merchet’s servants. Concerned that his appearance meant an illness at the York Tavern, Lucie set about tidying her work space in case she needed to rush to her neighbour, closing the jars she had been filling so that Jasper’s cat, Crowder, would not track powders about on his paws or an errant draught would not send them all over the workroom. Her first thought was of Tom Merchet – he had complained of pains in his chest lately but refused to take something to strengthen his heart and quicken his blood. Bess had threatened to slip something into his next batch of ale, but Tom had called her bluff, knowing that she would not risk losing business by sickening her customers.