by Candace Robb
To his surprise, Lucie had encouraged this mission. She would know all of it that she might. And then be done with it. She would not be done with it, though. He recognised the haunted look in her eyes. Archdeacon Jehannes must speak to her, shrive her.
The gaol was not as clean as the one in St David’s, nor as dry. The men sat on filthy straw mattresses.
‘Where are the others?’ Owen asked the gaoler.
‘Up above. These are the two to watch. The others are just greedy fools.’
‘Captain Archer,’ one of the men said. He had dirty bandages on a leg and a hand. ‘I never thought to see you.’
‘That is Joseph, Captain,’ the gaoler said. ‘T’other is Jenkyn, a thatcher.’ He withdrew, but just to the doorway.
‘You never thought to live so long as to meet me?’ Owen asked.
‘A Welshman. I thought you would be fighting with the prince of your people.’
Owen shook his head. ‘It is you I have to thank for that rumour?’
‘It so pleased Alice Baker. I could not have found a better gossip.’
Owen liked the feel of his knuckles against the man’s jaw. Neat, quick, just enough. Not to kill him. Why waste a hanging?
‘Forgive me,’ Owen said to the gaoler, who had turned the other way, feigning ignorance. He was not bad with his left fist.
‘Now, Jenkyn, as your friend is nursing his jaw, you can tell me all about this plan gone wrong.’
The two men blamed it all on Harold Galfrey, claimed he had thought to make money selling the letter to Alderman Bolton. Joseph had heard that once Phillippa had hidden something in the tapestry and often she paused to touch it, he had seen that. Long ago he had stolen the treasury key and had it copied by a discreet smithy. Galfrey had seen his opportunity when asked to accompany Lucie. He arranged the attack, with enough damage caused and the steward injured, that Lucie would have need of him. But they could not say how Galfrey had learned of the letter, or why he was so confident Bolton would buy it. Owen detected a larger presence behind the plan. Galfrey’s acquaintance with Lucie had depended on Roger Moreton and his friend Gisburne.
‘And what of Colby, Gisburne’s servant?’ Thoresby asked. ‘He is involved. I know that Gisburne is involved.’
He had summoned Lucie and Owen, Dame Phillippa, Jasper, Brother Michaelo and Roger Moreton to the palace. Not Alfred and the other retainers – they need not know Phillippa and Douglas Sutton’s roles. Owen had not wished to come, but Lucie reminded him of the extent of Thoresby’s help.
And so Owen sat there, in the palace hall, watching with growing discomfort the familiarity between Roger Moreton and Lucie, how frequently they spoke to one another and on each other’s behalf.
‘What will be done with the letter?’ Lucie asked. ‘It is proof of treason against King Edward. Robert the Bruce was his greatest enemy.’
Thoresby picked it up, studied the seal, his deep-set eyes unreadable. ‘Treason indeed. And cowardice. But many in the North sought to save themselves in such wise. I should think it best burned.’
‘But what of Alderman Bolton?’ asked Roger. ‘Would it not be a kindness to deliver it up to him?’
‘Mistress Wilton and Mistress Sutton have surely suffered enough from your advice, Master Moreton,’ Thoresby said.
‘He has done all he could to make recompense,’ Lucie countered.
How could she be so forgiving? God’s blood, what was she about?
Thoresby greeted her comment with a slight shrug. ‘Still, of what use would it be? Neither the king nor Bolton have need of it. Robert the Bruce is long dead. Bolton is respected in the city. And we shall not mention it, any of us, ever, shall we? So the secret is safe.’
‘And what of Gisburne?’ asked Owen. ‘You say there is no proof. What of those who saw Colby at Freythorpe?’
‘He might have been there for the purpose he states,’ said Michaelo. ‘To warn the household that Joseph was about.’
‘But Henry Gisburne knew of the letter,’ Phillippa said timidly. ‘And his wife.’
‘Do we wish to make this public knowledge, Mistress Sutton?’ Thoresby asked. ‘Have you not suffered enough?’ He said it kindly, gently.
‘I –’ Phillippa glanced at Lucie, seemingly confused.
Lucie took her aunt’s hand, pressed it. ‘Let them rest in peace, Aunt.’
Dame Phillippa’s eyes turned to a space beside Owen. Her lips moved, but he could not understand, she spoke so softly.
Lucie rose. ‘Your Grace, my aunt grows tired. I should take her home.’
Owen rose. ‘Shall I come?’ He did not yet understand these fits the old woman had.
Lucie gave him a little smile, shook her head. ‘No need.’ She led the frail Phillippa from the room.
Owen glanced over at Roger Moreton, saw the concern on his face. He did not like it.
Tom Merchet brought out a special ale for Owen’s farewell drink with Jared, Edmund, Sam and Tom.
‘We shall be off to France soon, I trow,’ young Tom said proudly.
They spoke of past adventures, plied Owen for tales of his time in France. It was a long, boisterous evening. The men went stumbling off to their lodgings in the minster close when Tom could keep the tavern open no longer. Curfew was curfew, even for the duke’s men. Owen lingered, helping his friend lock the doors.
In the kitchen, Tom poured cups of ale for both of them and sat down with a sigh. ‘I grow old, my friend. The evenings seem to stretch on too long of late.’
Bess appeared. ‘Is this men’s business, or am I invited?’
‘You are most welcome, gentle Bess,’ Owen said and realised he had drunk more than he had thought.
Bess chuckled as she poured herself a cup of brandywine. Settling beside Tom, she nuzzled his neck with her nose.
‘Now, that is a lovely sight,’ said Owen.
‘I am sure such awaits you at home and more,’ said Bess with a wink.
‘I do not like the way Roger Moreton looks at Lucie,’ Owen burst out. He had meant to lead up to this. His mind was a muddle.
‘He was a good friend to your family in your absence,’ Tom said. ‘You would complain of it?’
‘In my absence. That is the point, is it not?’
Bess sniffed. ‘Tom is right. Be grateful for such a good neighbour. Though he has much to answer for with Harold Galfrey.’
‘Aye. And what of this Harold Galfrey? How was Lucie fooled by him?’
Bess downed her drink and rose. ‘I am to bed. Do not stay too long.’ She pecked Tom on the head and withdrew.
‘What did I say?’ Owen asked.
Tom shook his head. ‘I do not try to understand her. There were rumours about Lucie and Roger – better you hear it from me.’
‘And no wonder, the way he looks at her. And you should have heard her today, defending him, forgiving him all.’
‘She is a gentle woman, a good wife and true,’ Tom said. ‘Alice Baker is behind the rumours, all of them.’ He chuckled. ‘Bess has brought charges against her, as a scold. Is that not grand?’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Alice will be ordered to make a public apology, a confession of her mischief.’
Owen did not laugh. He feared that as the rumours about him held some truth, so did those about Lucie. Though not about the jaundice. ‘I do not know what to think of all this,’ he muttered.
‘Think nothing of it. Forget it.’
‘I shall never leave her alone again. I swear it.’
‘You are drunk, my friend. But it is a good beginning. Now go home to your wife.’
Lucie waited for him in the hall, sitting by an open shutter, watching the garden. As always, she had tripped over her temper. Not that Owen had not provoked it. And his confession – that he had thought to fight for Lawgoch. She must not think of that.
She wished to make amends, have a proper homecoming. But the later it grew, the more she wondered whether he was ready to settle back into his life. It grew chilly. She wore only her shift. Sh
e should have brought a blanket. Where was he? Had he not missed her at all?
She rose when she heard the door and called to him.
He stepped into the hall. ‘What is it? Why do you wake?’
‘I waited for you. It is such a night. We have not sat out in the garden at night in so long.’
‘I had too much to drink,’ he muttered.
‘You will miss the four of them? Do they remind you of your old comrades – Bertold, Lief, Gaspare, Ned?’
‘No, never them. These were but lads, not true soldiers. But they will be. After France.’
He grew melancholy. That would not do.
‘Come out to the garden, my love.’
‘Am I?’ He swayed ever so slightly as he stood there in the moonlight.
‘The cool air will clear your head. Come.’ She took his arm.
‘Am I your love?’ he demanded as he followed her, stumbling over one of the children’s toys.
Lucie steadied him. ‘Of course you are. How can you doubt it?’
Out in the garden, she led him to a bench beneath the linden, his favourite spot.
‘What of Roger Moreton?’ he demanded as he sat.
Sweet Heaven, not that! Hold your temper. Say nothing.
Lucie took his head in her hands, kissed him hard.
‘Why do you not answer?’
She kissed him again. ‘Is that not an answer?’
She slipped his linen shirt from his belt, explored his chest – what was not bandaged – with her hands. He began to fumble with the lace to her shift. She untied it for him, stood to let it drop on the grass beside the path.
‘Lucie,’ he whispered.
She shivered as he ran his hands over her body.
‘I dreamed of you,’ he whispered.
‘And I you, my love. Come.’ She coaxed him down on to the grass.
He was not so drunk after all.
EPILOGUE
‘Such a coarse, common woman,’ Brother Michaelo was saying, ‘why folk paid heed to her imaginings I cannot think.’
John Thoresby smiled to hear of Alice Baker’s humbling. ‘She has deserved the brand of scold for many a year, I have no doubt. I am glad of the alewife’s action.’
‘Which reminds me, we must order a barrel of her husband’s fine ale. The duke’s men consumed the last of what we had.’
A servant knocked, peered round the door. ‘Your Grace, Master Gisburne has arrived.’
Ah. Thoresby had invited John Gisburne to the palace, luring him with its planned refurbishment.
Michaelo smiled. ‘I have my pen and paper ready.’
He was to walk behind them, making note of those items Gisburne agreed to procure.
‘Then let us proceed.’ Thoresby drained his cup and rose, shaking out the wrinkles in his formal robes. The city grew unpleasant, too humid for his tastes. He would leave for Bishopthorpe in the morning.
Gisburne bowed low, sweeping a bejewelled hand to his heart, then kissed Thoresby’s ring. He smelled of lavender and roses. What a fussy man. But better than smelling of sweat.
The three strolled through the palace, Gisburne keeping up a steady commentary – what was needed, how he might acquire it for the archbishop, Michaelo making notes. Thoresby had known the man was a merchant in the broadest sense, with his hand in many commodities. But he had not been aware of quite how far Gisburne cast his net. Still, Thoresby recognised the nervous chatter of someone hoping to control the conversation.
When they had completed the tour, Thoresby invited Gisburne into the hall for some wine. Michaelo withdrew.
‘My purpose in inviting you was not only business. Or rather, not merely the matter of refurbishing this palace,’ Thoresby began. ‘I have learned of your father’s partnership with Douglas Sutton.’ He drew the long-lost letter from beneath a pile of documents on the table beside him, enjoyed watching dread sour his guest’s expression.
Gisburne said nothing, though his jaw had dropped.
‘I understand you were most accommodating to the thief Harold Galfrey.’
‘Of what are you accusing me?’ Gisburne asked.
‘It is said you would be mayor. You, who could not hold on to the office of bailiff. Alderman Bolton’s support is what you hoped to buy, is it not?’
Gisburne suddenly grabbed for the parchment.
Thoresby moved it out of his reach. This was more like it. ‘From whom did you learn of the letter? Your mother?’
Gisburne glowered. ‘I admit nothing.’
‘Many men wrote such letters at the time. Even churchmen. Abbots. But people have forgotten that. One of these days you will be caught in your web of deceit, Gisburne.’ Thoresby stared at the merchant a good, long while. ‘But for now, you are a wealthy man with a great sin on your conscience. And I am an old one, with a tomb to build. This is the matter I wish to discuss. If you are generous enough, I might even see my way to allowing you to present Bolton with the letter.’ He smiled as a medley of emotions flickered across the merchant’s face. He had him where he wanted him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I set out to tell a York story while Owen was yet in Wales I did not think what a burden I was placing on Lucie’s shoulders. But I quickly realised that she would feel she had to protect Freythorpe Hadden without neglecting her apothecary, her reputation, her children, her ailing aunt and her home in the city. She did all this by employing a network of assistants. Unfortunately, not all proved trustworthy.
Still, I found the political situation in Wales and Owen’s response to it too intriguing to hurry him home. Alas for Lucie.
Hywel is a fictional character, born from my understanding of the type of tyrant who often begins with the best intentions but falls victim to his own ambitious and violent nature. Owain Lawgoch, however, is a historic figure, as are Archdeacons Rokelyn and Baldwin, Bishop Houghton and John Gisburne.
I provided some background regarding Owain Lawgoch in the notes for A Gift of Sanctuary. As Martin Wirthir tells Owen in this book, Owain Lawgoch returned to Wales to claim his inheritance after his father’s death, then returned to France, where it is believed he joined the free companies (bands of mercenaries of mixed nationalities). In French chronicles he is known as Yvain de Galles, a hero, respected by the great commander Bertrand du Guesclin. But Owain’s place in Welsh tradition is based not on his exploits, but on what the people hoped he would do. In Welsh tradition as well as the traditions of many cultures, there is a legendary redeemer-hero, who E.R. Henken defines as ‘one who has never really died, but who, either in sleep or in a distant land, awaits the time when his people will need him, when he will return and restore the land to its former glory.’ (National Hero, p.31). Over the centuries eight such heroes have been believed to be the redeemer of Wales: Hiriell, Cynan, Cadwaladr, Arthur, Owain (oddly generic, never specified), Owain Lawgoch, Owain Glyndwr and Henry Tudor (p. 32). I was fortunate to have Owain Lawgoch fall in the period I am chronicling through Owen Archer. The coming of the hero was the subject of many songs and poems. The bards prepared the people for Lawgoch; many men readied themselves with horses and arms in preparation for the coming battle. Owain did set off for Wales in December, 1370, commanding French ships, but a storm forced him back at Guernsey. It was a costly and futile expedition. Perhaps that is why King Charles kept Owain occupied in France for the next eight years. In 1378, while Owain commanded the siege of Mortagne on the Gironde estuary, he was approached by a man bringing news from Wales and offering his service. The man, John Lamb, became Owain’s chamberlain, one of his most trusted men. One morning, when the two sat alone watching the castle under siege, Lamb stabbed Owain through the heart. Lamb received 100 francs from the English government in appreciation for his murder of ‘a rebel and enemy of the King in France’. There is no clear evidence that Lamb acted on orders from the English government. In the Anonimalle Chronicle of St Mary’s Abbey, York, in an entry under 1378, it says: ‘At this time was killed a great enemy of England ca
lled Uwayn of the Red Hand and he was of Wales, the heritage of which he demanded of the crown of England and he was the chief warrior, after the Marshal of France, at the siege of the castle of Mortagne’. Interestingly, A.D. Carr suggests that the ‘order for his elimination must have come from a very high level and the name of John of Gaunt [Duke of Lancaster], [then] the regent for the young Richard II, comes to mind …’ (Owen of Wales, p.54).
We do not know much about the various archdeacons in St David’s at the time, but I used their actual names. Bishop Houghton became Lord Chancellor of England in 1377, probably thanks to the influence of John of Gaunt. He died in 1389 and was buried in the chapel of his college of St Mary in St David’s – unfortunately his tomb no longer exists. Nor does the stained glass that tradition has it depicted a story about Houghton that I heard in St David’s. It is said that the bishop was excommunicated by Pope Clement VI, and that Houghton excommunicated the pope in return. The story as given is chronologically impossible, but if the anti-pope Clement VII (1378-94) is intended, it is possible, though not probable. Still, a good story.
That the outlaws who attack Freythorpe Hadden have been hired by a wealthy man is in keeping with the times. Consider the case of Bishop Thomas de Lisle, who was accused of supporting ‘a number of criminals, including his own brother, his cousins, manorial officials, and even beneficed priests …’ They were often indicted for ‘crimes ranging from petty theft and extortion to kidnapping, arson, assault, and murder… [his] men were said to have looted and burned people’s houses, breaking and entering at night while the occupants were asleep’ (Criminal Churchmen, introduction). Although John Gisburne’s activities in A Spy for the Redeemer are fictional, he was accused later in his career of harbouring criminals, some of whom were accused of a murder in 1372. As mayor of York in 1371 and again in 1381, he will return as a prominent character in future adventures of Owen Archer.
For further reading about Owain Lawgoch, see Owen of Wales: The End of the House of Gwynedd by A. D. Carr (University of Wales Press, 1991) and ‘Owain Lawgoch – Yeuain De Galles: Some Facts and Suggestions’ by Edward Owen in Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrododorion, Session 1899-1900, pp.19-105. For the redeemer-hero, see National Redeemer: Owain Glyndwr in Welsh Tradition by Elissa P. Henken (University of Wales Press, 1996). For further reading about the merchant class and its clashes in York, see Medieval Merchants: York, Beverley and Hull in the Later Middle Ages by Jenny Kermode (Cambridge University Press, 1998) and ‘The Risings in York, Beverley and Scarborough, 1380-1381’ by R. B. Dobson in The English Rising of 1381, eds. R. H. Hilton and T. H. Aston (Cambridge University Press, 1984) pp.90-142. For Bishop De Lisle, see Criminal Churchmen in the Age of Edward III by John Aberth (Penn State University Press, 1996). May McKisack notes Robert the Bruce’s harrowing of Yorkshire in The Fourteenth Century 1307-1399 (Oxford Clarendon Press, 1959), p.65. A more extended discussion of the Bruce’s strategy can be found in The Wars of the Bruces: Scotland, England and Ireland, 1306-1328 by Colm McNamee (Tuckwell Press, 1997).
