The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  ‘So you did find her body?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Frank stood up as some men approached. ‘Gentlemen, I shall be with you shortly. You are welcome to go sit in my office.’ The two men nodded and, with curious glances at the strangers, walked on into the warehouse.

  ‘She drowned in the autumn?’ Owen asked.

  Frank nodded. ‘Just before Martinmas. She walked out, though the day promised rain and her nurse warned her that she was not up to it. Mother said she was restless, wanted to feel the wind on her face. There was no reasoning with her when she was determined. A Boulain trait. She slipped, got tangled in the river weeds.’ Frank wiped his brow. ‘Had she been stronger, I do not think she would have drowned. We found her right there beneath the bank. It took two of us to cut her out of the weeds.’

  ‘And your father decided he had not seen it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank dabbed his upper lip. ‘God’s blood, how could anyone forget it?’ He pressed a hand to his gut. ‘My father is not mad, just determined not to remember how she looked, strangled by the weeds, bloated by the water.’ He shivered, as if the image had crept up from behind and surprised him. ‘My father found it more bearable to remember her as she had been in life. But he often spends a day – from sunrise to sunset – kneeling by her stone in the parish church, praying for her soul.’

  So much for the idea that the mother and daughter shared an urge to walk away from their lives. Or had met up somewhere.

  ‘One more question, if you would.’

  Frank shrugged.

  ‘Your father said your mother turned against Joanna and Hugh. Do you know why?’

  Frank glanced round at the warehouse, then turned back to Owen. ‘There’s a lot of foolishness spoken about my mother’s family, the Boulains. Hugh and Joanna look like them. They were difficult to discipline. So mother thought they carried the Boulain curse.’

  ‘What was the curse?’

  ‘Madness.’ Frank chuckled. ‘But in the end it is old Matthew Calverley who acts out the madman, playing gardener, waiting for his dead wife to stroll up from the river.’

  ‘You feel neither Hugh nor Joanna is mad?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Hugh is a soldier born. As far as I know, we do not consider such a convenient passion madness. Joanna – her head has ever been silly with stories of handsome knights and princes. And, to be blunt, she discovered the pleasures of lovemaking too early to discipline her body. She was foolish to run from her betrothal to the convent. She was too fond of men to make that work. As a wife she might have found some satisfaction. Father says you told him Joanna ran away from St Clement’s, then came back.’

  ‘With an elaborate ruse to cover her tracks.’

  ‘When she made such a fuss about the convent, I thought she had found herself a man of the cloth who satisfied her and wished to be near him.’ Frank sat with head bowed, studying his hands. ‘Perhaps she wearied of him, went out into the world, found that men out here are no more exciting, and decided to go back to him.’

  Louth spoke for the first time. ‘The priest at St Clement’s is bald, portly, and knobby with age.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Unless my sister is much changed, such a man would not lead her into sin. But convents hire men to do the heavy work. Joanna has an imagination and a way with men. Who knows what she might have got into and then run from? You’ll find a man at the end of it, that’s all I can tell you.’

  Louth turned in his saddle and hailed Owen to come ride beside him. Owen wished for peace and quiet, but he could not be so discourteous as to ignore the man. He joined him.

  ‘So Mistress Anne Calverley drowned and her body lies beneath the stone floor of the parish church.’

  ‘Aye. Sharing a roof with St Hardulph of Breedon.’

  Louth nodded. ‘My lord Thoresby will be pleased by your thoroughness. But what does it tell you? What did you learn by it?’

  ‘In truth, I did it for myself. I could not understand how someone who claimed to love so well could accept not knowing what had happened.’

  Louth studied Owen’s solemn face. ‘You are an odd one, Owen Archer.’

  Owen shrugged.

  ‘How do you get on with Thoresby?’

  ‘Well enough.’ Owen leaned down and took a wineskin from his pack, took a drink. They had ridden hard to arrive on time at Pontefract.

  ‘So it was for your own curiosity that you spoke with Frank Calverley? There was nothing in the question about his mother that helped you?’

  ‘Of course it helped.’

  ‘But you just said you did not do it for Thoresby.’

  Owen groaned inwardly. How to explain that Thoresby began the process, but once Owen’s mind was engaged on the problem it was his own gut pushing him forward? Owen glanced at Louth, the fat thighs, the chubby hands, the bouncing double chin. The man did not want to know Owen’s thoughts, he wanted to learn how Owen pleased Thoresby so that he might do it himself. Owen relaxed.

  ‘It was an inconsistency that might have led me to suspect Matthew Calverley, indeed the entire family, was hiding something.’ Owen shrugged. ‘So it was my dissatisfaction that led me to question Frank. I see now the sad truth – that Matthew Calverley seeks to deceive himself.’

  Louth nodded. ‘There is a knack to all this that I fear may have more to do with character than method.’ He shook his head. ‘I fear I am too much a clerk, good at doing another’s bidding, not thinking on my own.’

  A difficult thing to admit of oneself. ‘I should like to think less than I do, truth be told.’

  ‘We are what God makes us.’ Louth’s face was sad. He fell silent then for a long while, leaving Owen to ponder the things he had learned in Leeds.

  The whitewashed walls of the great castle of Pontefract rose high above the town walls, which were partially obscured by the tents and cooking fires of the markets of West Cheap. The markets were abustle as Owen, Louth, and company rode through to the city gates. There were some in the company tempted to linger, but Owen was anxious to complete his business and be off, so the word went out to ride on.

  The castle was long and high. Even the revetments around three sides of the motte were whitewashed, the effect so brilliant in the sunlight it seemed a heavenly city. The height of the keep made Owen stare in wonder, though he’d seen many a castle in his life on the march.

  Lief and Gaspare saw them riding into the yard and came out to greet Owen, who dismounted without the assistance of the grooms who had came running out behind his friends.

  ‘My lord Duke is pleased with the archers,’ Lief said with a big grin and a slap on Owen’s back, ‘so he has invited you to sit at the high table with Sir Nicholas this even.’

  Owen was glad the Duke was satisfied. That meant he could soon return to York. But he did not look forward to sitting at the high table. ‘I am honoured indeed. But where’s the fun in it, I ask you? I came to visit my old friends.’

  Gaspare cuffed Owen’s head in approval. ‘I see no need for you to be cleaning yourself up for supper right now. Come with us to the stables and wash down the road’s dust with a bit of our humble ale.’

  Louth had by now been assisted in dismounting. He gave Owen a little bow. ‘I look forward to further enlightenment at the high table this evening, Captain Archer.’ He nodded to Lief and Gaspare and turned to the castle.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Gaspare said.

  On a milking stool by the stable doors sat a handsome man dressed as a minor lord, wearing a deep, vibrant blue houppelande cut to the knees and belted in heavy silver and copper. His face was clean shaven, his hair trimmed just below his ears and curled under, a fringe covering his forehead. It was the soft brown doe-eyes that identified him.

  ‘Ned!’ Owen shouted, striding up to him. ‘God’s blood, but you’ve grown grand!’ Like Gaspare and Lief, Ned had been one of Owen’s archers in the old Duke’s retinue. The talker.

  Ned jumped up and strutted around good-naturedly. ‘Grand indeed, my favourite
Welshman. And when is your speech going to roughen up to suit your scarred face? You still speak with the tongue of bards.’ He clasped Owen’s hand. ‘We miss you.’

  Owen cocked his head to one side. ‘You cannot mean for me to think you are still an archer in those clothes.’

  ‘Nay. Bertold cuffed me on the head once too often and I took up the Duke’s offer to serve as one of Master Geoffrey Chaucer’s escorts to Spain this winter.’

  ‘Spain?’

  Ned noted his friend’s sudden interest. ‘We will speak of that by and by with my lord Duke. Now we must fill our tankards and toast to old friendships.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Owen was escorted to the high table as promised, seated between Louth and a little round man with lively, alert eyes that seemed to take in everything round him.

  ‘Geoffrey Chaucer,’ the man said lifting his cup of wine to Owen in greeting. His dull dress did not fit his cheerful demeanour.

  ‘Chaucer? Lancaster’s ambassador to Spain?’

  A laughing bow. ‘And I know something of you, Owen Archer.’ He chuckled at Owen’s surprise. ‘There are few well-spoken Welshmen with eye patches at the high table this evening, Captain.’

  ‘Sometimes there are several?’

  Chaucer feigned surprise at the question. ‘Why, quite frequently, to be sure.’

  Owen wondered whether the man was silly on wine or his own wit, but he liked him. He played with conversation like a Welshman.

  ‘I know that you were blinded in that eye by the leman of a Breton jongleur whose life you had saved. Such a poetic blinding, but I can see you do not share my view.’

  ‘How can I, with but one eye?’

  Chaucer clapped. ‘Splendid.’

  ‘Tell me, Master Chaucer, have you any Welsh blood?’

  ‘Alas, no. A terrible lack for a poet, but it is my unfortunate lot. I must work all the harder.’

  Owen looked more closely at the man. The bards and poets he had met usually looked more imposing. ‘You are a poet?’

  Chaucer shrugged. ‘I play with words. It helps me while away the dull hours envoys spend on benches at the edges of great halls, awaiting audiences.’

  ‘You have an intriguing variety of skills. I should think it hard to compose poetry while sitting amidst the courtiers who clamour for attention.’

  Chaucer nodded. ‘But a dabbler must live. And a wife must have money to set up a household.’

  ‘You are newly married?’

  Chaucer nodded, but his eyes were on the tapestries behind the high table. The company in the hall fell silent as the duke came through them and took the centre seat at the high table. John of Gaunt looked much as he had when Owen had last seen him, at his grand castle of Kenilworth. Lancaster was in his mid-twenties, tall, broad in the chest, with a forked beard and full lips, a Plantagenet in his regal bearing, his height, his fair colouring. Owen wondered whether his temper was also true Plantagenet, quick to laugh, quick to take offense.

  ‘Now there is a man blissfully married to the most beautiful woman in God’s creation,’ Chaucer murmured, his voice full of yearning.

  Owen looked at the poet with interest. A complex little man.

  Lancaster did not linger over his food. He was the last to arrive at table, the first to leave. Owen, Chaucer, and Louth were soon summoned. They were led up a flight of stone stairs to a parlour. The Duke of Lancaster stood at a table, studying maps.

  ‘Come, gentlemen,’ he called, beckoning them close. With a silver knife he pointed to the west coast of France. ‘Gascony, gentlemen, where Don Pedro is at present a guest of my brother, Prince Edward.’ Moving the knife to the right, he stopped at Castile. ‘Castile, where he should sit enthroned.’ The Duke snapped his fingers and a servant took up the map and backed away into the shadows. Another servant brought forth a chair. Lancaster sat, tucking the knife into a jewelled sheath at his waist. Three more chairs appeared. His guests sat.

  ‘Sir Nicholas,’ Lancaster said, nodding to Louth, ‘it is good to see you. If you are able to tie up your concerns in Beverley by autumn, the Prince wishes you to sail with me.’

  ‘I hope that I may do so, my lord Duke.’ Louth gestured towards Owen. ‘Captain Archer accompanied me to Leeds at my lord Thoresby’s request. We spoke with Matthew Calverley, the father of the woman who has concerned us, Dame Joanna of St Clement’s Priory. Owen is a skilful questioner.’

  Lancaster studied Owen closely. ‘You are a man of many talents, Owen Archer. You have done well by me – the archers you trained hit the mark every time. Your service to me will not go unrewarded.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Owen said with a little bow. ‘You have two able men in Gaspare and Lief.’

  Lancaster nodded. ‘Indeed. It was you who trained them … But now I would hear you and Sir Nicholas on your visit to Leeds. Master Chaucer attends because I believe his business with me touches on this. He has read your letters, Nicholas, you need not begin from the beginning.’

  As Louth recounted the interviews with Matthew and Frank Calverley, Owen noticed an exchange of looks between Lancaster and Chaucer at the mention of the seal of St Sebastian. When Louth was finished, Lancaster said nothing, but sat quietly, elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together, his brows drawn down in thought. At last he said, ‘Now, Master Chaucer, tell them of your mission.’

  Chaucer looked surprised. He smiled apologetically. ‘I pray your patience, gentlemen. As one who is more at ease writing down his thoughts and then worrying them into a digestible form, I feel ill-prepared.’ He paused, studied his hands momentarily. ‘Shortly after the festivities of the Christmas court, I received orders to sail to Gascony and thence to Navarre. You know how King Charles, desperate to find an occupation for the ever growing Free Companies, was using them to support Enrique de Trastamare’s claim to the throne of Castile. What you may not know is that five Englishmen of renown were said to be planning to march with King Charles – or rather with Bertrand du Guesclin – against Don Pedro. It was a matter of misguided chivalry. They protested Don Pedro’s rumoured cruelty. In December, King Edward sent letters to these men warning them that they would be punished if they proceeded. The letters failed to reach them. Hence was I sent to win the King of Navarre over to Don Pedro’s cause, obtain from him a safe conduct, and travel into the mountains to intercept the Englishmen.’

  ‘A dangerous mission for a poet,’ Owen said.

  Chaucer smiled. ‘Dangerous for any man, Captain. The mountains themselves are unfriendly in winter, and the soldiers who had hidden in them were ravenous and wild, full ready to march into Castile and slaughter Don Pedro’s men.

  ‘But God was with me. I found four of the five English captains and delivered the letters. They were not eager to give up the fight, but when I assured them that there would be fighting aplenty on our side, with Prince Edward at their head in his glorious black armour, they agreed. Well, two of the captains agreed only when the prospect was sweetened with gold …

  ‘But the fifth captain had disappeared. Three of his fellows believed him to be in France, conferring with du Guesclin. One thought he had returned to England for more men. This fifth captain is the one called Sebastian.’

  Owen leaned forward. ‘Sebastian?’

  Lancaster gave a lazy smile.

  Chaucer nodded. ‘Sebastian and Will Longford fought together under the Prince at once time, before Longford lost his leg. Sebastian uses his patron saint on his seal. About the time Longford returned to England, Sebastian joined du Guesclin’s company of routiers.’

  Owen rubbed the scar under his patch. ‘Longford was of low rank, too low for the Crown to pay his passage home in peacetime. Having lost a leg and become unfit for soldiering, what are the odds that he suddenly had the money to return to England and establish a comfortable home in Beverley?’

  ‘You have a good mind, Archer,’ Lancaster said. He paced the room, hands behind his back. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s the letter with du Gu
esclin’s seal that Louth found in Longford’s house. And earlier, the Percies learned that a Frenchman had been carrying one of Sebastian’s seals to someone in Beverley.’

  Chaucer sat back, content. ‘Longford will lead us to Captain Sebastian.’

  Louth and Owen shook their heads. ‘Longford is missing.’

  ‘Surely you will find him?’ Chaucer looked naïvely confident. But was he actually baiting them?

  Owen did not like it. ‘I was not aware that was our task.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Louth said. ‘What does Dame Joanna have to do with all this talk of routiers?’

  Lancaster turned on his heels, stopped in front of Louth. ‘Come now, surely you see the tie.’

  Louth shook his head. But Owen saw it. ‘Longford must have remembered her, remembered Hugh Calverley, perhaps knew that Calverley was in Scarborough working for the Percies, a family seeking to stop the English soldiers from sailing out of Scarborough to du Guesclin. He used her to get to her brother?’

  The lazy smiled reappeared. ‘Enough for tonight, gentlemen. We shall talk more tomorrow.’

  Owen did not like that. ‘Forgive me, my lord Duke, but I planned to leave for York early tomorrow.’

  ‘You are not to leave quite yet, Captain Archer. I have further need of you.’

  *

  The next morning, bristling with impatience, Owen sat on the bottom of the steps to one of the outer towers, glumly nursing the fist he’d put to a post in the stables. He had meant the pain to distract him from thoughts of Lucie’s silken hair, the curve of her hips, her white breasts. It was not working. He was ready to put the other fist into someone’s face.

  ‘I should not like to cause such a dark look on so obvious a fighter,’ a voice said.

  Owen focused his good eye on the approaching man, backlit by the sun. He recognised the short, round figure before he could clearly see the face. ‘Master Chaucer.’