by Candace Robb
‘I am, my lady.’
‘My companion, Lady Sybilla, told me of your bitterness regarding your lot in life,’ said Eleanor to Clarice, ‘and I thought I might be able to ease your unhappiness by telling you something of the life you were spared.’
Clarice did not mirror Eleanor’s gentle smile.
‘What would you know of how I feel? How can you know what it is like to be shut away with so many unhappy, unwanted women?’ Clarice grimaced and looked away. ‘You said you would tell me tales of court.’
‘And so I shall, at least one tale. It is of a young woman sent to court to find a husband. By tragic happenstance, the handsome young man to whom she lost her heart was her first cousin, and the family laughed at their request to pay the pope for a dispensation.’
‘Is this your own story?’ asked Clarice.
Again the sad smile. ‘You have guessed so quickly. Yes, this is my story, more bitter for me for the example of what might have been my joy had I been born to a nobler family.’
‘Prettier gowns?’ Clarice snipped.
Eleanor looked at the woman lying on the pallet as a mother might look on a stubbornly erring child, with a smile reflecting empathy. But still there was the sorrow in her eyes.
Alisoun realised she was holding her breath, that something about Lady Eleanor made her expect some unpleasantness.
‘I am in the household of a woman, Princess Joan, who married her nephew, the son of her father’s brother’s grandson, a marriage that required several dispensations – the barriers melted away with money and alliances. But our marriage promised no great alliance, nor were we clever enough to bed before asking permission.’
‘At least you have had such a love. I’ve never had the chance.’
‘The chance to have your heart torn from your breast, Dame Clarice? To see your love wed to a pretty woman he likes well enough who has given him healthy sons and daughters? To be forced to sleep with a husband old and infirm, scarred and ever stinking of wine? And then to be pushed aside when you had borne the required son, in favour of his former mistress? To give your youth to someone who cared nothing for it? You have no idea how fortunate you are.’
‘Did you never find another man you might love?’
‘Oh yes, I did. Several. But – they do not love as we do.’
‘I find it difficult to pity you. You have had the experience of love, something that has been denied me.’
‘I doubt that you would ever have been given a choice in your fate,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know that you are the daughter of a man of the Church.’
Clarice reddened. ‘You stole the documents from Dom Lambert,’ she accused in a tight voice, her expression gradually shifting from anger to fear. ‘You read them, didn’t you?’
Alisoun was puzzled. Had the documents concerned the identity of Clarice’s father? It seemed a trifle, to have caused such pain.
‘You believe that being his daughter should have brought you great privilege, more choice in your life, don’t you? But, at his rank, from such a family, he would never have openly supported you.’
‘So my life is wasted so that he might rise to such heights and I’m to be content with that?’ Clarice snapped. ‘Is that your message, Lady Eleanor?’
‘I am trying to explain by my example, Clarice, that, as a woman, you were never destined to have choice in your role in life. Except perhaps a woman such as my lady, Princess Joan, with great beauty, with the blood of kings bringing the blush to her cheeks, with extensive lands in her name and a power over men that have led some to whisper.’
‘I wanted to know who he is,’ said Clarice. ‘I wanted to see the man who’d fathered me. I did not expect a frail old man who treasures a love letter from a woman who died long ago.’ Her deep-set eyes had cooled into a puzzled melancholy.
‘When Alexander Neville becomes Archbishop of York, you will see what an honourable man your father was in comparison,’ said Eleanor. ‘But then you know how devious Neville is, how ruthless.’
Dame Clarice was staring at Lady Eleanor. ‘Did you kill Dom Lambert and his servant?’
With a shrug, Lady Eleanor dismissed the question. ‘Princess Joan has sought His Grace’s counsel because he knows many of the most important men in the realm and is a man whose judgement she trusts. I would be proud of such a father.’
Alisoun covered her mouth as a gasp rose up. They spoke of Archbishop Thoresby.
‘And if he were not proud of you?’ Clarice retorted.
‘A father proud of his daughter?’ Eleanor’s eyes were cold, her smile cruel. ‘You are a fool.’
While trying to remain silent and invisible, Alisoun wondered whether her sense of danger in the woman suggested that she was capable of committing murder.
‘You have a child of your own, Lady Eleanor,’ Clarice reminded her.
The statement brought tears to the lady’s eyes and a hand to her waist, as if remembering her pregnancy. ‘A son.’
‘You are fortunate.’
‘Yes, I was, for a while, happy with him. But he is not mine, he is his father’s heir, and I have not seen him in a long while.’
No wonder she bowed her head and wept.
Clarice reached out for the lady’s hand and, taking it, whispered an apology.
Nine
DESPAIR
Thursday Afternoon/Evening
A STRAINED SILENCE closed round the four men when Princess Joan left the chamber, as if she had accidentally caught the air necessary for speech in her silken train and swept it from the chamber.
Richard Ravenser stood staring out of the window, his silken robes reflecting the shifting light as the tree outside bent with the wind and rain, suggesting movement though he remained still. He clasped his hands so firmly behind his back that the blood could not wash across his knuckles; it was as if he forbade himself either prayer or labour. Owen imagined he was considering what it might mean to him, that Dame Clarice was his cousin; he seemed to find some significance in it.
Brother Michaelo still knelt at his prayers, now and then beating his breast. This news changed nothing for him, accorded him no grace.
Thoresby sat back against his cushions studying the canopy overhead, his hands behind his head; Owen could not recall ever having seen him in such a casual posture when he was aware that others were present. But then he had surprised Owen in many ways of late, most significantly with his choice of Magda Digby as his physician in his final illness. He thought perhaps Thoresby welcomed the news of another daughter, and one with whom he might share some of his final days.
For his part, Owen was agitated by what he’d heard and was trying to keep his temper and clear his mind by pacing the chamber. He had known of Thoresby’s provision for one daughter in his will, so he was not scandalised by the revelation that the archbishop had another child. What made him restive was trying to connect the theft of the documents and the murders of Lambert and his servant with Clarice’s bungled search. He cursed Wykeham for his gross negligence in choosing such a weak emissary as Dom Lambert. The Bishop of Winchester had created a crisis that was robbing Thoresby of peace in his illness, confirming Owen’s long-held impression that Wykeham was a most self-absorbed man, a stranger to compassion. It seemed a profound lack in a priest. Princess Joan he also blamed, for her arrogant silence that had prolonged the search for Lambert’s murderer, costing valuable time.
Thoresby interrupted Owen’s angry thoughts.
‘I wonder whether I sired only daughters? I think I might have a better chance of gaining the respect of a son, eh?’
Owen turned to find the archbishop smiling.
Ravenser had unclasped his hands, breaking his self-imposed bonds, and settled in one of the chairs by the bed. ‘I agree. It would be easier to provide a good living for a son than to arrange a satisfying life for a woman. Women do not seem to consider it an honour to reside in nunneries. They feel they’ve been tucked away in an unused storeroom so that they might be forgotten. Thoug
h your daughter Idonea has expressed contentment in her life at Hampole.’
‘True, Idonea has been a comfort, and for that I thank God, though I chide myself for having been so negligent in communicating with her. Which reminds me of Wykeham’s emissary.’ Thoresby lifted the leather case that Joan had brought. ‘I would have Brother Michaelo read these aloud now.’
At the mention of his name, Michaelo bowed his head and crossed himself, and, without a word, moved to the chair Joan had vacated, taking the pack of documents from His Grace.
‘I would like to stay,’ said Owen.
‘Of course,’ said Thoresby. ‘I want both you and Richard to hear what Wykeham went to so much trouble to tell me.’
‘And failed,’ Owen said beneath his breath, as he settled onto the stool towards the foot of the bed.
Ravenser settled across from him. Thoresby lay back against his cushions, eyes closed, his hands lying at ease on his lap. Brother Michaelo began with the letter in which Wykeham explained what the other documents would reveal. It contained no surprises.
The temper of the remaining documents was clear. Alexander Neville inquired as to the nature of the family’s agreement with the Thoresby family, Euphemia and her family expressed outrage over the implications and the intrusion into their private lives, and the Bishop of Exeter assured the family that their secret was safe with him and that his respect for John Thoresby was undiminished. He advised them to keep their copies of this correspondence secure, should they need to make use of them in future.
Owen mumbled a curse and added more clearly, ‘For this two men have been murdered.’
‘It does seem a great fuss has been made in an attempt at petty accusations,’ said Ravenser. ‘As her Grace pointed out, Neville behaved as if he were dealing with guild members or schoolmasters, not an archbishop.’
‘I would be alone for a while,’ Thoresby said, with a great weariness.
Owen was relieved. He’d heard enough and was anxious to question Dame Clarice. He and Ravenser left the room, but did not go far. Sir Lewis and Geoffrey were pacing in the corridor, the former with an expression at once grim and anxious, the latter plainly concerned for his friend.
‘What has happened?’ Owen asked.
‘Lady Eleanor has been with Dame Clarice for a long while,’ said Lewis. ‘She has avoided me the past few days when it has been obvious that she has been much troubled in her mind. I come to you, Captain, because I suspect she has trespassed in some way with one of your guards. Gilbert. Several times I’ve come upon them in heated conversation and each time they’ve broken off at once and pretended they were not together. And now, this trouble with – I know who Dame Clarice is, Captain, but Lady Eleanor should not.’
‘You need say no more. I would have you find my second, Alfred, and tell him to bring Gilbert to His Grace’s chamber under close guard. I will bring Lady Eleanor there as well.’ It was time to confront them. His conversation with Clarice must wait – indeed, it might prove unnecessary. ‘Sir Richard, I would have you ask Princess Joan to allow Alisoun and the nuns to withdraw to her chamber for a short while, at least until I have escorted Lady Eleanor from there.’
‘Have you a task for me?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘If you would accompany Sir Lewis, my friend, in case Alfred needs advice.’
With a nod, Geoffrey withdrew with Lewis Clifford.
‘My uncle is weary,’ Ravenser reminded Owen.
‘He wants answers,’ said Owen, ‘and, with God’s grace, we may this day deliver some.’
As Jehannes had risen from the table in Bess’s kitchen, he’d wondered aloud where to begin. Bess had suggested that he save time by talking to his summoner, Colin; he’d felt a little foolish for not having thought of that himself. It was a summoner’s duty to keep abreast of the faithful, which involved sifting through the gossip that ran through the city. Colin was an unassuming, quiet, ordinary-looking man around whom people talked with ease, often failing to notice his presence. At this time of the morning he could usually be found kneeling in the minster near the chapter house to catch the gossip as the canons drifted out of the chapter meeting. Jehannes was not disappointed.
Grey-garbed and grey-haired, Colin often seemed a shadow or a reflection, not a flesh-and-blood being, but his conversation was full of the colours and textures of his observations of folk, great or humble, young or old; he had a gift for divining the subtleties of temper and a true affection for his fellow man. His pale eyes lit up at Jehannes’s approach, and he rose at once to join his master in a quiet spot.
His head bowed to give his full attention to Jehannes’s description, Colin nodded several times during the explanation and query.
‘Yes, God be praised, I can help you with this, Dom Jehannes,’ he said at last. ‘The bearer of the brooch has been the topic of much gossip in the liberty and amongst the goldsmiths on Stonegate. A Neville he is, though he did not divulge that to the goldsmiths. He claimed the bauble was no longer of use to him for his sweetheart had turned her gaze elsewhere.’ He chuckled, his dimples showing.
‘A Neville? You are certain of this?’
‘Oh yes. He’s also busied himself entertaining the canons while singing the praises of his cousin, Alexander Neville. Why, this shall be the centre of God’s earthly kingdom when Alexander becomes archbishop.’ Colin’s eyes were merry with his own wit.
‘Did he name his sweetheart?’
‘No, he is quite discreet, even going so far as to vary his manner of dress when on his own business.’
‘Was he able to sell the brooch?’
‘Oh, yes. It was a pretty piece.’ Colin nodded decisively. Then he asked, ‘Is it true that the princess’s party is confined to the palace because a murderer is loose?’ Before Jehannes could think how to respond, Colin added, ‘It must be exciting to be there, in the midst of all that.’
‘Dangerous would be a more appropriate description,’ said Jehannes.
‘So it is true?’
Rather than answering the question, Jehannes asked instead for the name of the goldsmith to whom the man had sold the brooch, and, once he had his answer, rose in haste, thanking Colin and departing before he could ask more.
The goldsmith seemed to corroborate Colin’s opinion of the clever Neville, for the man had apparently been quite convincing in his tale of wishing to gather enough money that he might go into self-imposed exile and heal his broken heart. The brooch was beautiful, and the goldsmith already had a buyer in mind.
Jehannes was grateful that he had plenty to report to Owen, for it was time to return to the barge. He regretted that he could not spare the time to tell Lucie and Bess what he had learned, but he must hurry in case something in his report might help Owen prevent another death.
In the days leading up to Princess Joan’s arrival, Thoresby had focused on regaining some strength, which had left him little time to anticipate how the visit might unfold. Certainly, he had never dreamed that he might meet a daughter of his own. But now, lying in his great bed absorbing the news, he thought it a most appropriate revelation to receive as folk came to pay their last respects. It was, after all, his child’s last chance to speak with him. Though, apparently, she had not come with that purpose, but rather to spy on him.
He tried to recall Euphemia of Lincoln, Clarice’s mother. He’d often travelled to Lincoln, a lovely city. He set his mind the task of remembering his time there, perhaps twenty years ago. Feasts and processions passed before him, the steep pitch of the streets always making the latter a challenge. Twenty years ago that would have been nothing to him. He had kept his strength and energy long into old age. Twenty years.
John Gynwell was bishop there then, a man who had left little impression on Thoresby – on anyone, he suspected. Gradually a voice came to him, a strident voice, an attitude dressed in vibrant colours. Ah yes. A coolly confident, manipulative woman with a fierce sexual appetite who danced with a mischievous grin and teased him with her eyes. After one night
of lively lovemaking, she’d apparently had enough of him and had assiduously avoided him. She was the only woman who had so painfully bruised his pride. But, other than that grin, those eyes, the energy and fire, he could remember little else. Perhaps her hair had been red.
Thoresby shifted in the bed. That a child had resulted from that coupling saddened him. A daughter born of lust, not love – not even affection. No wonder the young woman had grown up bitter and cold. He and Marguerite should have had a child. Such a one, from such deep, abiding love, could not help but be an exquisite, compassionate soul.
He grew melancholy. That was not a good thing when he was trapped in bed. He fingered the pack of documents beside him, the worn and creased leather representing the active life he had left behind. His life was now confined to blankets and cushions, physicks and watered wine. He wished he could stir up a healthy rage about Alexander Neville, but he was too weary. Perhaps after a nap.
A strange sort of quiet had settled on the room. Dame Clarice lay with eyes closed, her breath uneven, as if silently weeping; Lady Eleanor stood with a cup of wine in her hands but not drinking, seeming somehow undecided about whether to return to her seat or depart. Alisoun itched to seek out the captain and inform him of what she’d heard, but he had placed Clarice in her care, both to guard and to nurse.
She went to her patient, touching the back of her hand to the nun’s brow.
‘You are feverish.’ She truly was, eliminating Alisoun’s need to lie. ‘Let me fetch Dame Magda’s powder for a fever.’
Clarice’s eyelids fluttered, but she did not open her eyes, merely reaching up with one trembling hand to press Alisoun’s.
‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to die.’
‘She said you were feverish, not dying,’ said Eleanor. ‘You have the benefit of several healers in the palace. Where are the midwife’s powders?’
‘In His Grace’s chamber,’ said Alisoun.
‘Send the guard posted at the doorway for them.’
