Candace Robb: A Vigil of Spies

‘You know that I have.’ He smiled as he closed his eyes, but opened them with one more request. ‘Ask her to bring her adopted son as well, young Jasper. He is an admirable lad.’

‘Magda will include Jasper.’

Strange old crow , Magda thought, as she glanced around the chamber. Silken hangings and bed coverings, embroidered cushions and finely carved chairs, the finest wines, broths made with the best ingredients — and Magda in her gown of multi-coloured rags in charge. She chuckled to herself. John Thoresby had proven to be an unexpectedly complex man of quiet wisdom, surprisingly inspiring love. She was honoured that he trusted her to care for him — she had not expected to feel so. She would mourn his passing.

Plumes of vapour floated just above the roadbed as the hot afternoon sun shone down on the mud from a week of rain. September had begun with a touch of autumn, but it now seemed like high summer again, except for the cool evenings. Though they stood their posts, well aware of their captain’s watchfulness, the archbishop’s guards squinted against the glare when the steam shifted.

No one was more aware of the glare than Captain Owen Archer, who disliked anything that caused his one good eye to tear, effectively blinding him. Those with two functioning eyes could not appreciate their immense gift — he had not when so blessed. He sent his lieutenant, Alfred, to admonish those whose attention wandered from the road. He wanted no missteps in the plan for his men to encircle the company of the Princess of Wales as they entered Bishopthorpe, ensuring that they and only they entered the yard of Archbishop Thoresby’s palace.

Owen heard the travelling party before they rode out of the woods. Horses and wagons, clopping and creaking. The herald sounded his horn as he came within sight of Owen and his men, armed and mounted and commanding the road. Owen bowed and sheathed his sword, signalling his men to begin closing in around the last of the princess’s party as it halted. Knights, soldiers, clerics, a nun and a lady were on horseback, accompanied by several carts. From the cart in the centre hung with gaily-painted fabric, a heavily veiled head emerged and then quickly withdrew. The two knights dismounted — one was much younger than the other. As Owen dismounted, he noticed the usual apprehension on their faces as the knights took in his scars, the patch over his left eye.

‘Captain Archer.’ The older knight bowed. ‘Sir Lewis Clifford. And this is Sir John Holand.’

‘Sir Lewis. Sir John.’ Owen was especially interested in the younger knight, Princess Joan’s son by her first husband, Thomas Holand. Joan’s marital history had been the talk of the realm on several occasions. As a girl of twelve, being raised in the household of the Earl of Salisbury, she had been secretly betrothed to the young Thomas Holand. But, when he was away, making his name and fortune in Prussia, her guardian had married her to his son and heir, William Montague. On returning to England Thomas Holand had petitioned the pope to overturn her marriage to William Montague in favour of her earlier secret, but still legitimate, marriage to him, and eventually won her back. In widow-hood, she had won the heart of Prince Edward and, once again, entered into a clandestine marriage. Upon discovering it, King Edward had been furious, having intended to use his heir’s marriage for a political alliance outside the realm. But, in the end, he settled for dissolving the vows made in secret and solemnising the marriage with a more official, traditional, public ceremony. Joan’s sons by Thomas Holand would never be kings, but her son by Prince Edward would, in his turn, be heir to the throne; Owen was curious how that sat with the half-brother, whether he harboured any resentment, any ambitions beyond his station.

‘I am relieved to see a seasoned soldier in charge.’ Sir Lewis looked Owen in his good eye; his own were red and tired, and the dust of the road picked out the lines of fatigue on his square, tanned face. ‘I had heard you were wounded in the service of Henry of Grosmont.’

‘It was my great honour to serve him.’ Grosmont had been Duke of Lancaster, a duchy now held by Princess Joan’s brother-in-law, John of Gaunt, the second-oldest living son of King Edward III.

‘I have heard you had risen to the rank of captain of archers in Lancaster’s service. You were much honoured by a noble commander,’ said young Sir John.

Though he did not speak it, Owen heard in that last comment Sir John’s incredulity that a Welshman had been so trusted. Once again he wondered whether the young man felt shoved aside, one who feels outside the honoured circle being more keenly aware of another outsider.

Someone in the knights’ company cut short a chuckle by coughing. Owen glanced up and met the amused eyes of Geoffrey Chaucer. His stomach knotted. Geoffrey’s presence was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. The man had a penchant for uninvited interference and a passion for gossip. The latter was of concern to Owen not only for what might transpire at Bishopthorpe but also for what had happened in the past. Geoffrey and Owen had once travelled together to Wales in the service of John of Gaunt, the current Duke of Lancaster. Geoffrey knew that Owen, a Welshman, resented the treatment of his people by the English, and he might know that Owen had been approached to stay to help his people. He was also well aware of how Holand’s implied comment would rankle.

‘God’s grace was upon me,’ said Owen, returning his attention to the knights. ‘Sir Lewis, Sir John, His Grace the Archbishop of York is honoured to welcome Her Grace the Princess of Wales to his palace of Bishopthorpe. Your travelling party is now in his protection.’ In truth, the troop of Owen’s guards led by Gilbert, his second most trusted man, had shadowed the company since noon, but the escort was now visible and solidly surrounding it. The safety of the beloved wife of Prince Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Lord of Aquitaine, was worth Owen’s life and that of all his men.

‘We’ve had a tragic loss this day,’ said Sir Lewis. ‘A servant fell from his horse, his neck broken. His body is in one of the carts.’

Here began the trouble Owen had dreaded. He crossed himself. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘We’ve no cause to think otherwise,’ said Sir Lewis, but his eyes belied his words.

Owen’s scarred and blinded eye prickled and ached with foreboding. ‘We will arrange for his burial, if you wish,’ he said. He would examine the body, see what he might glean. A long journey without accident, and then a death at the approach to Bishopthorpe meant further danger, Owen was certain.

The knights bowed again and stepped back beside Princess Joan’s cart.

Composing himself, Owen greeted Geoffrey Chaucer, who looked plumper and more prosperous than when last they had met. He had regular features and was a well-built man, but for his short legs. It was his eyes one noticed, alert and amused, taking in the world and giving little back. He dismounted with a happy grin.

‘Welcome,’ said Owen. ‘I’d not thought to see you here.’ Not that it was inappropriate, as Geoffrey was in the household of the king, Joan’s father-in-law, but he had not been included in the description of the travelling party.

‘I was fortunate to hear about this journey in time to promote my services — my acquaintance with the archbishop’s personal secretary and his captain of guard,’ said Geoffrey, with glee in his voice. He was here to revel in gossip and high drama, Owen guessed. ‘It is good to see you again, Owen. I pray I have the opportunity to call on your family in York.’

Although they had worked together on several occasions, they had never met each other’s families, except for Owen’s late father-in-law, who had travelled with them into Wales. Owen’s wife, Lucie, had long been curious about Geoffrey. ‘I would like that,’ he said.