A Vigil of Spies (Owen Archer Book 10)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Prickly in my arms, bitter in my belly, scratchy in my throat. My eyes burn and everything aches. My head pounded when I tried to sit up just now.’

  ‘But you can feel all your limbs?’

  Alisoun was sorry she’d asked that, for the fear in Dame Clarice’s eyes intensified a hundredfold as she shoved the cup back at Alisoun and proceeded to poke and shake and pinch her arms, legs, fingers, shoulders. But it had been necessary to ask or Alisoun would need to prick her and observe her responses.

  ‘It’s all painful,’ Clarice concluded. ‘I trust that is good?’

  ‘Yes. I am sorry I frightened you.’

  ‘I wasn’t frightened.’

  Alisoun did not argue, seeing the stubborn set to the nun’s shoulders despite her illness. ‘Master Walter left a draught that he said would ease the discomfort. Would you like me to mix some in your honey water?’

  ‘I have two healers – the physician and the midwife?’

  ‘I told you they’d made a fuss.’ Alisoun smiled again.

  ‘I would like some of the draught.’

  For a while, Clarice lay quietly, her face almost peaceful. But suddenly she asked, ‘Did I say anything while I slept?’

  That was a question to report to Captain Archer, Alisoun thought.

  ‘Not while I’ve been with you. You’ve been far quieter than Dame Katherine.’ Her snoring had grown louder, as if attempting to drown out their voices.

  At last Clarice looked about to smile. ‘She’s a pig. Can you imagine travelling with her all this way?’

  ‘Nun Appleton is not so far, I think.’

  ‘Far enough in such company.’

  Lady Sybilla, a plump, fair-haired woman not much taller than Magda herself but far younger, barred Magda’s entrance to the princess’s chamber, suggesting that later would be better for a conversation with Princess Joan. But her mistress disagreed, inviting Magda to enter, and Magda saw at once that the princess was still in pain from her over-indulgence of the previous day.

  Fortunately, she had brought with her an unguent that would be useful. ‘Wouldst thou allow Magda to rub some warmth into thy afflicted foot, Thy Grace?’

  She showed her the unguent and urged her to smell it, for the scent was pleasant, unlike the unguents that most mixed for gout. Joan hesitantly bowed her elegantly coiffed and delicately veiled head towards the small pot, plainly ready to pull away as quickly as possible. Her brow smoothed as she sniffed a second time.

  ‘It is fragrant enough to wear as perfume,’ she marvelled. ‘Eleanor, come, smell this. It will remind you of your garden.’

  The quieter lady had sat on the bed holding the princess’s monkey while trying to be discreet about studying Magda. Now she leaned over and smelled the pot.

  ‘I think perhaps there is some germander, and rosemary, and – a drop of rosewater?’

  Magda nodded. ‘Thou hast some knowledge of scents.’

  ‘A garden can be a source of deep comfort,’ said Eleanor. She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were dark with trouble.

  ‘I thought the stench was part of the healing property of a salve,’ said the princess.

  Magda laughed. ‘A mountebank would tell thee so.’

  Joan sighed and sank back against her cushions, a forearm to her forehead. ‘I would fain stay in bed all the day, but I think you would advise that I move about, perhaps walk around the hall?’

  ‘Surely not!’ the fair-haired doorkeeper exclaimed, fluttering towards the bed.

  ‘You may go amuse yourself, Sybilla,’ said Joan. ‘I am safe with Dame Magda watching over me.’ She waved away the protesting attendant. ‘She is a sweet, lovely woman,’ Joan said, as Sybilla stepped out of the chamber, ‘but too clever to trust at present. I yearn to complete this journey and return to Berkhampstead.’ She turned to Eleanor. ‘You may leave as well. Just put Gaspar in his basket.’

  The animal squealed with indignation as he was shut away. With a whisper of silk, Eleanor bowed and departed the chamber.

  ‘Thou hast promised a meeting with His Grace concerning Dame Clarice,’ said Magda. ‘Walking from thy chamber down to his would begin to move thy blood through thy limbs and prepare thee for thy journey home.’

  ‘I am not well enough for such a visitation this morning, Dame Magda,’ the princess said, in a petulant tone.

  She pretended to be a pampered pet like the angry Gaspar, but Magda knew that the behaviour masked a pride that did not easily bend to the desires of others. Yet Magda must try.

  ‘Thou hast a grave responsibility and, with some preparation, thou canst indeed fulfil thy promise this morning, Thy Grace.’ She sought the woman’s eyes. ‘Unless thou wouldst prefer to have the archbishop and Owen Archer attend thee here.’

  The servant standing near the bed sucked in her breath at Magda’s boldness. But Princess Joan merely frowned and seemed to consider the idea.

  ‘I would be relieved to shift this burden to their shoulders,’ she said, as if weighing the benefit. ‘But I would not be so unkind as to ask His Grace to attend me here – his infirmity is far worse than mine. Can your salve ease me enough to sit in grace and dignity in his chamber long enough to tell the tale?’ She fixed Magda with her clear blue-grey eyes.

  ‘It will. Wilt thou permit Magda to apply it?’

  ‘Dame Clarice is in danger?’

  ‘Owen Archer believes she may be, and he is seldom wrong, Thy Grace.’

  Princess Joan lay back on her cushions. ‘My servant will assist you with my slipper.’

  Apparently Princess Joan was not satisfied to wait until Thoresby summoned her. He was sorry for that, for he was not satisfied that he had any advice that might be of use to her. ‘My dear Princess.’

  ‘Your Grace. I have something important – and difficult – to tell you.’

  Hearing the strain in her voice, he looked more closely and saw that she was not smiling and that she hesitated to look him in the eye, as if she were uncertain she wished to engage with him, despite her words. Today she wore a gown of deep blue, a colour that Thoresby associated with the Blessed Virgin. He wondered whether she intended the association, perhaps to reassure him.

  ‘You are not here for my advice?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Your Grace, I am here to tell you something that you must know, that it is your right to know.’

  That struck him as an ominous promise. He glanced down, seeing Ravenser and Archer seated below and to either side of the great bed. Archer looked grim but leaned towards Thoresby and Joan, as if determined not to miss a word. Ravenser looked officious, as if prepared to advise, and weary – he carried a double burden these days, his duties and Thoresby’s. Behind Joan stood Magda Digby in her gown of many colours, a calm figure in a room busy with tension. Looking beyond them, he noticed the day was grey and damp. He wondered what he would be doing were he well.

  ‘Your Grace?’ Joan was apparently awaiting a signal to proceed.

  ‘Has Dame Magda counselled you in this visitation?’ he asked.

  ‘She has.’ Joan glanced back at the wizened healer and her voice softened. ‘She has shown me my duty, Your Grace. Might I sit beside you?’

  Though he was not at all sure that he welcomed this dutiful telling of something that it was his right to hear, Thoresby thought it best that he accept it.

  ‘I would be honoured, my lady.’

  He noticed with what care Joan folded herself onto the chair beside him. He’d not considered that she might be unwell, but he was comforted by the knowledge that Magda would do her best to ease whatever might be afflicting her. He noticed also that she clutched a leather pack such as a courier might use – indeed, very like the one in which Lambert had carried his blank rolls.

  ‘Have you found the documents stolen from Dom Lambert? Wykeham’s documents?’

  ‘Alas, no. I had my men fetch the copies held at Nun Appleton, Your Grace.’

  This was indeed something he had a right to read. He held out hi
s hand. ‘I would see them.’

  She did not move to hand them over. He could imagine her using on her son John the maternal look she now bestowed on him – a gentle but firm warning that he must abide by her terms. ‘I would rather prepare you with some information.’

  ‘You say these are copies held at Nun Appleton. That is whence came the sisters in your company, one of whom stole something from me. Who is she?’

  ‘Do you remember Euphemia of Lincoln, Your Grace?’

  ‘Of course I do not,’ he snapped, growing irritated with her stubborn delay. ‘Who is she and what does she have to do with all this?’

  ‘Dame Clarice is her daughter by you, Your Grace.’ Joan said it gently and a little breathlessly, as if expecting an ungentle response.

  Of all the revelations Thoresby might have imagined, this was so far from what he’d expected that he asked, ‘Do I understand you to say that Dame Clarice is my daughter?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘Clarice. My daughter.’ He tasted the idea. It was not so dark a thing, though neither was it immediately pleasing.

  He looked down the bed at his nephew, who was looking startled, having just learned of a cousin he’d not guessed existed. And so soon after learning of his cousin Idonea in the convent at Hampole. Then Thoresby looked at Archer. He could see his mind working, comparing two faces, Thoresby’s and Clarice’s. He guessed that because one look at his nephew, who was so much a mirror of him years ago, and he’d realised the resemblance. He’d noticed her deep-set eyes, but other families had similar features.

  ‘Yes, I can see the family resemblance around the eyes,’ he said. He sensed Joan’s relief. ‘Did you expect me to deny this? Euphemia of Lincoln.’ He shook his head. ‘I still do not recall her, but, though it be sad to say, I have no doubt that I sired a number of children about whom I was never informed. This Euphemia must have been of noble birth, or at least did not need financial support from me?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. The family tucked her away to give birth so that she might yet make a good marriage, which she did.’

  ‘Does Dame Clarice know who I am?’

  Princess Joan nodded.

  ‘Why did she not say anything to me?’

  ‘She believes that you were informed of her birth and denied her, Your Grace, but I thought it unlikely that you’d been told. Considering the family, they would not have wanted to risk informing any more people than necessary, particularly you, the father, as you were in no position to wed Euphemia.’

  ‘So my daughter hates me.’

  Joan sighed and wagged her head. ‘That is a stronger word than I would have chosen, but she is bitter, yes. She resents being given no choice as to her station, no alternative to religious vows. In truth, I do not believe she is suited for the convent, but few are.’

  Women’s talk. He had no patience for such chatter. ‘But what does this have to do with the Bishop of Winchester? Was Euphemia his kinswoman?’

  ‘No. He learned of this from Thomas Brantingham, who showed him papers left to him by his predecessor as Bishop of Exeter. They documented Alexander Neville’s campaign to gather information against you in case you seemed to lean towards rejecting his claim to the Archdeaconry of Cornwall.’

  ‘He thought to force my support by threatening to expose my sin if I ruled against him?’

  Joan sighed. ‘He thinks more like a merchant than a noble. Brantingham expressed dismay that such a man might become archbishop.’

  ‘This is just the sort of petty nastiness I would expect from Alexander Neville,’ Ravenser said, breaking his silence.

  Princess Joan handed Thoresby the pack. ‘Euphemia was harassed by Neville’s men and her family sent a report and copies of Neville’s letters to the Bishop of Exeter to warn him of the man’s low character. These are the originals, which they kept at Nun Appleton in case of future need to defend themselves against Neville. As for Clarice, she believes that you knew of Neville’s treatment of her mother but refused to help. That, I think, is the source of her deepest anger. As to her search of your chamber, she merely wished to know more about her father. I do not think you can deny that a powerful temptation.’

  ‘And so she stole a letter from one of my other mistresses,’ Thoresby said.

  ‘Sweet heaven!’ Joan exclaimed.

  ‘She learned little from that. So who scraped or stole Lambert’s documents?’

  ‘I do not know. I wish I could tell you.’

  Thoresby closed his eyes, his head swimming.

  ‘Might I ask a question, Your Grace?’ Owen inquired.

  Thoresby had almost forgotten Archer’s presence. ‘Of me or Princess Joan?’

  ‘Of Her Grace,’ said Owen.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ said Thoresby. ‘I need a moment to collect my thoughts.’

  ‘Your Grace, why did you wait so long to tell us this?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I’m curious as well,’ said Ravenser. ‘Had we known the content of Wykeham’s documents, we might have known to protect the young woman.’

  ‘I’ve had my men watching her,’ said Joan. ‘The captain knows this.’

  ‘And you’ve had Lady Sybilla watching her as well?’ Owen asked.

  Thoresby opened his eyes, curious as to how Joan would respond to this questioning. At the moment her lovely eyes were fastened on Archer.

  ‘Sybilla watching her? No. Who told you that?’

  ‘Lady Sybilla.’

  Thoresby saw that this gravely disturbed the princess. He also noticed a look pass between Archer and Magda.

  ‘Who knows what you’ve come to tell His Grace?’ Owen asked. ‘Do either of your ladies know that you are here with him now?’

  ‘I doubt there is anyone in the palace who does not know that I am here,’ said Joan. ‘But, as to the contents of the documents I’ve given His Grace, only Sir Lewis knows.’

  ‘Not your son? Or either of your ladies?’ Thoresby asked.

  ‘No. As to why I did not tell you of this when Lambert was murdered – I wanted the documents safely here before anyone knew of their contents. I saw no connection between the emissary’s death and the theft of the documents – I was certain he’d taken his own life. I still believe I made the right choice.’

  Thoresby could see that neither Archer nor his nephew concurred, but he was not certain he disagreed with her. He opened the pack on his lap, saw several rolls, and set it aside, suddenly reluctant to read them. It was not from lack of curiosity – after all this, he wanted very much to see what the fuss had been all about. But he sensed that all in the room expected him to do something about the documents, and that was the problem. He did not care to go after Alexander Neville, he had not the energy, and his attempts to suggest a man more worthy than Neville to succeed him at York had failed. His family’s influence waned in the north. It was the time of the Nevilles and the Percies.

  ‘I shall read them later. What is your concern about Lady Sybilla, Archer?’

  Before his captain could respond, Princess Joan struggled to her feet. Magda was there at once to inquire whether she was in pain. The princess gave a weary nod and, sighing, made her excuses to Thoresby.

  ‘I have delivered what I’d intended, the documents and the news that Dame Clarice is your daughter. I trust you to decide what use you will make of the former, and whether you will attempt to make your peace with the latter. If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I am in some pain and would lie down to rest.’

  ‘Of course, my lady. God go with you, and bless you for bringing these to me.’ He patted the pack. ‘As for Dame Clarice, we shall see.’

  Magda guided the princess from the room, bowing as she caught Thoresby’s eye.

  They would have much to discuss later, he thought.

  When Alisoun saw the elegant woman on the threshold, she had to fight for the confidence to assert her authority.

  ‘This is a sickroom, my lady. If you bear a message, you may entrust it to me.’

  He
r words seemed to confuse the woman for a moment. Her dark eyes searched what was visible of the room behind Alisoun, which was very little, then returned to look directly at Alisoun. Her expression brightened and softened.

  ‘I am Lady Eleanor. Who are you?’

  ‘Alisoun Ffulford, apprentice to the healer Dame Magda, who is here at His Grace’s request. I’ve been charged with the care of Dame Clarice.’

  The lady seemed more comfortable now, smiling as if hoping to put Alisoun at ease.

  ‘As my lady the Princess Joan has no need of me this morning, I thought to sit with Dame Clarice, entertain her with tales of the court. Perhaps you would enjoy a walk in the garden or some pleasant respite from your duty here, Alisoun?’

  ‘I have been ordered to stay, my lady.’

  Indecision played across the lady’s face as she swayed away and then back.

  Clarice spoke up softly from her bed. ‘Do sit with us a while.’

  ‘You may rest assured your tales are safe with me,’ said Alisoun. ‘You need not send me away. I am not a gossip, my lady.’

  The lady had the courtesy to blush.

  Stepping aside, Alisoun welcomed her into the room. Dame Katherine gave up her place on the bench beside Clarice’s pallet and offered the guest some wine, which she declined.

  ‘What about you?’ Lady Eleanor asked Katherine. ‘Might I entice you to find some pleasant exercise in the hall or out on the porch? This is such a tiny chamber for four of us.’

  Alisoun busied herself with adjusting Clarice’s cushions while Dame Katherine fussed about her responsibility and then, at last, bent to Lady Eleanor’s will and withdrew in a cloud of disappointment.

  Lady Eleanor settled on the seat beside Clarice’s pallet, and Alisoun set her own little bench in the shadows. She was most curious about the lady’s visitation, a courtesy she could not imagine was totally selfless. Eleanor’s dark eyes and hair and the deep greens and golds of her beautiful clothing – the vision of elegance momentarily choked Alisoun with envy until she met the woman’s eyes and recognised a deep abiding unhappiness.

  ‘I pray you are feeling better this morning,’ Eleanor said to Clarice.