Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

‘She has.’

‘I do not understand. What need have you of extra guards for such a meeting? What trouble do you expect?’

‘If the Lancastrians are behind all that has befallen me of late — the worst of it murder in my townhouse — and if they believe Lady Pagnell means to make peace with me, they may make a move tomorrow.’

The bishop’s fears became more convoluted by the day. ‘What would be their purpose?’

‘They mean to keep me from the king, to prevent my ever resuming the chancellorship.’ Wykeham’s voice was high with tension.

‘It seems a matter for diplomats, My Lord, not soldiers.’

Wykeham moved closer, his jaw thrust towards Owen, eyes wide with indignation. ‘Do you serve Lancaster or Lawgoch?’

For a moment Owen froze. ‘Neither, My Lord,’ he managed to say at last. ‘I serve His Grace and King Edward.’

‘Do you?’

‘Aye, My Lord. And you while you reside here. My men and I shall be ready for whatever befalls.’

Kneeling in the chapel, Thoresby thought about Sir Ranulf and prayed for guidance in how he might best bring peace to his household — or whether peace was the wrong state to wish for towards the end of one’s life. For several years before offering his services to the king, Sir Ranulf had been a shadow of himself, handing over to his son Stephen all business of the manor while suffering from a lethargy that weakened him in body and in soul. But as the preparations for his mission for the king had begun, the years had fallen away. During his last days in York, Ranulf had spoken in a freshly vibrant voice, his eyes had cleared and lit on everything with interest, his steps lengthened, his back straightened, his memory sharpened. Of Ranulf’s last days in France Thoresby knew nothing. He wondered what had gone wrong. A slip in his persona witnessed by someone already suspicious? Had his memory faltered? The latter is what Thoresby suspected, yet he had nothing on which to base that. Perhaps the youthful moment had been merely that, a passing moment, a teasing improvement before the end. He wondered what his own end would be like. He had done nothing of late that would suggest he had still some great achievement ahead of him, the crowning glory of his considerable career. He had not wielded a weapon since helping Archer against a murderer years ago. He had participated in no significant councils — indeed, had not even been invited to the council in Winchester to advise the new lord chancellor. It felt a paltry life, without purpose. Perhaps he should seek out a quest, as Ranulf had done.

He groaned at the thought. Aches in all his joints, difficulties with sleep, failing sight, a suspicion that he did not hear as well as he had only last year, all these were signs of a body that was incapable of derring-do. But that did not mean he could not produce something of worth. The lady chapel would be a fine monument to his archbishopric. And it was almost complete. Within the year he could move his predecessors to their new tombs and work on his own would begin. And then what? He must do more. He must move back into the realm of action, use his power for the good of mankind. Perhaps he should ride to Westminster, or wherever King Edward might be, and offer his service as Ranulf had done.

The thought exhausted him and he was easing himself up when Owen entered the chapel, knelt beside Thoresby, crossed himself, bowed his head. Thoresby settled back down on his knees, but his feet were beginning to tingle, which was a sign they would soon be numb. ‘When you have finished your prayer, come along to my parlour. I would speak with you, Archer.’ He rose and retreated to his high-backed chair to wait.

Owen did not keep him waiting long. Thoresby noted as his captain and steward joined him that he looked as if he had not slept in several days. He had never seen Owen so haggard. Together they walked in silence down the corridor to the screens passage.

‘You do not look well this morning, Archer,’ Thoresby said when they stepped into the daylight from the high windows in the hall.

‘Awaking to the bailiff’s accusations was unpleasant, Your Grace. I am worried about Lucie, and I have not yet broken my fast. I’ve no doubt I am not at my best.’

Thoresby clapped for a servant, who came in his own good time, damn him. He ordered food and ale brought to his parlour for Archer. ‘It appears I feed my servants too well,’ he said so that the servant might hear, ‘and they grow lazy.’

Owen said nothing.

In one corner of the hall the sun shone on Wykeham’s colourful chess pieces. ‘I see the Fitzbaldrics have abandoned their game,’ Thoresby noted as they passed it.

‘They have access to the bishop’s house.’

‘Ah. Yes.’

Owen resumed his silent walk through the great hall.

Thoresby followed. ‘I sat with the Fitzbaldric manservant for a while last night.’

That sparked an interest. Owen paused on the first step, his hawk eye on Thoresby. ‘You sat with Poins and the Riverwoman?’

‘Mistress Digby had been called away late in the afternoon. I took the opportunity. I have never seen such injuries outside of battle. The man is in great agony.’

‘Aye. What made you …’ Owen began, but cut himself off. ‘Did he speak to you?’

‘He asked for my blessing.’ Thoresby could see that Owen was surprised. ‘Guy and the Fitzbaldrics’ cook were also puzzled that he spoke to me. But when I asked him what he remembered of the fire he turned away from me.’

‘So he is concerned for his soul.’

‘Does that give you pause?’

‘No. With his injuries, it is fitting.’

There was an autumn chill in the air, a dampness that did not suit Thoresby’s joints. ‘Your food has doubtless preceded you to my parlour.’ He led the way across the porch. He hoped a meal would revive Owen.

A small table had been set beside one of the comfortable chairs, spread with cold meats, cheese, bread and fruit. A jug of ale and a cup sat to one side.

‘Maeve is in a generous mood,’ Owen said. ‘But I should not eat in front of you.’

‘I sent for it and you will eat it. While you do, we shall talk.’

Thoresby was glad when Owen took a seat, slipped his knife from its sheath and stabbed a piece of meat. Settling nearby, he poured himself a cup of equal parts hot water and wine.

‘You spoke of Guy,’ Owen said. ‘He was present at Poins’s bedside?’

Thoresby could see by Owen’s frown that this disturbed him.

‘He has offered to sit with Poins when neither the Riverwoman nor Bolton the cook is able to do so. I thought it strange, such a sullen man, to be so charitable. But Wykeham says he has a kind heart.’

‘I’ve seen no sign of it till now.’

That did not require a response. ‘The bailiff overstepped his duties. But I am concerned whether there is any connection between the thief’s murder and the midwife’s.’

‘Would that I knew, Your Grace.’

Thoresby wondered at the weariness in his captain’s voice but forgot that as Owen drew a pair of women’s gloves from his scrip. They were pretty things, or had been before being stained and stiffened.

‘Lucie was carrying these. She had found them hidden behind Cisotta’s potions. She believes it was no accident that the thief chose her.’

‘But the recovery of the gloves is surely a sign that neither the thief nor his murderer was after them.’

‘Lucie would argue with that.’

‘Why?’

Owen paused, elbow on the table, a piece of bread in his hand. ‘Much of what she says is against reason of late.’

Thoresby knew that Owen depended on his wife’s good sense. To have her lacking it must seem a great void. ‘Mistress Wilton has suffered much. Perhaps when she regains her health she will regain her wit also. Tell me what you know of the incident.’