Candace Robb: A Vigil of Spies

‘Look again,’ said Alfred, holding it to Owen’s good eye.

Owen brought the lamp closer and saw what Alfred saw. Underneath, the strap had been cleanly cut partway through by a sharp blade.

‘Will fell as it snapped,’ said Alfred.

Their eyes met. They had no need to voice what they both thought. Murder . Someone in the company had wanted this man injured or dead. That was unsettling in itself, but when it was the company in which the Princess of Wales was travelling, that was more than unsettling. The palace was now crowded with high-born guests as impossible to herd as cats, and as opaque.

‘Cursed be the day Wykeham was born,’ Owen muttered.

‘I doubt he cut the strap,’ said Alfred, with a half-hearted chuckle. ‘But now we know we have trouble.’

‘We do,’ Owen agreed. ‘And we don’t know whether Will was the intended victim.’

‘The emissary?’

‘Wykeham’s man, Dom Lambert? It’s possible. Perhaps, once we know the purpose of his inclusion in the party, we’ll have a better idea whether that might be so. We will also need to find out whether they always used the same saddle.’

‘The emissary is more likely to have enemies than his servant.’

‘We don’t know that.’

Alfred slowly shook his head as he gazed on the corpse. ‘Poor man. But truly, who would care about a servant?’

‘Say nothing to anyone about this.’

‘You know that I won’t, Captain.’

‘I do, but I feel better for saying it.’ Owen coaxed a smile out of his companion. ‘Let us see what else we might learn about him.’

In Will’s pack were paternoster beads, part of someone’s castaway comb, a clean shift and soft-soled shoes. Nothing to distinguish him as a potential murder victim. But he was from Wykeham’s household.

‘Put his things in the trunk by my pallet,’ said Owen, handing Alfred a key. ‘Including the saddle. And take care to lock it.’ Alfred was again frowning down at the corpse. ‘Jehannes will say a mass for him, Alfred.’

‘I find myself hoping he was murdered for some crime he committed. I don’t like to think he died because he served a servant of Wykeham.’

‘You’re beginning to think too much. Like me.’

Alfred gravely nodded as he took the key. ‘I feared it would come to this.’ He broke into a grin, and then bent to collect Will’s belongings.

That was more like Alfred.

They moved away from the corpse, telling a servant to ask Archdeacon Jehannes to arrange for the mass and preparation of the body.

‘I pray there is no one waiting for Will to return,’ said Alfred.

Owen thought it best not to comment, instead attempting to distract Alfred with the business at hand, reviewing the details of the watches. While they talked, a servant shook the dust from Owen’s jupon. Thoresby had insulted Owen, instructing him that, while the guests were present, he was to present himself as a minor noble — clean, polite, not sullen — as if he were not in the habit of conducting himself in such wise. He cursed to think of it now as he washed his face and hands before donning the clean jupon.

In his days as captain of archers, Owen had enjoyed feasts, drinking with his men, and then catching the eye of a pretty woman to bed afterwards. Surely those days had not been as carefree as they appeared now in his memory, but he sometimes had to work at recalling the bad times. It was not that he chafed at his present life; he loved his wife, Lucie, and his children beyond anything he might have imagined. And when with Lucie he still enjoyed such celebrations, proud to show her off — her beauty, her quick wit, her grace — and he was always glad to snuggle in bed with her afterwards sharing his impressions, amazed by how much more she had observed than he had. But now, being responsible for the safety of the feasters, and with a corpse in the stables and murder in the air, he looked forward with little joy to dining with them. Even more than was his habit, he must watch how much he drank, he must watch his tongue, he must be ready to move if anyone misbehaved.

The two nuns in the princess’s company appeared with two servants — they were to take charge of the body. Owen thanked them and headed to the hall.

When he entered Bishopthorpe’s great hall, he was amazed that, within a few hours of the arrival of so many guests, most of them were already seated and feasting. The guests were seated facing inward at trestle tables arranged in a U, the servants bustling about within filling tankards and delivering trenchers and platters of meat. Owen’s stomach growled as he turned his head slowly, sweeping the crowd with his half-vision, seeking Brother Michaelo, who was adamant about the order of guests. Owen did not intend to cause a fuss by taking a seat on the wrong bench, an argument with a frenetic Michaelo not worth the time saved. His gaze came to rest on Thoresby at the high table on the dais beside Princess Joan and he wondered whether the archbishop had heard of the servant’s death.

Archbishop Thoresby looked pale, and his deep-set eyes were over-large in his illness-ravaged face. His elegant robes provided some heft and colour to his otherwise skeletal frame, but he was funereal beside Princess Joan’s magnificence. Her cotehardie was of a costly blue silk, the neckline low, exposing plump, milk-white shoulders, and her surcoat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, was ermine-lined despite the early autumn warmth. Delicate gold brooches secured her sleeves, and a gold circlet held her gossamer veil. Who would not be beautiful in such attire? Owen wondered. Her features were even and her eyes expressive, her hair a honey-gold that was doubtless enhanced, in the Italian fashion, with lemon and exposure to the sun. He’d once argued with Geoffrey Chaucer about her reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, and Geoffrey had insisted that Owen had only to speak to the princess to understand the claim, for she surpassed all but Blanche of Lancaster in grace. Owen looked forward to testing that theory. For now, he was relieved that she had been safely delivered into the hands of Michaelo.

And suddenly there he was, Brother Michaelo, elegant in the Benedictine robes tailored for him in his native Normandy, standing beside Owen with an air of having alighted on the spot for but a heartbeat. ‘All is well, Captain?’

‘At present,’ Owen lied. ‘The hall looks crowded — this great hall!’ He would never have believed it.

‘Even so, you have a seat at the second table. His Grace insists I treat you as a knight.’ The monk’s tone made it clear that he considered it a mistake.

‘I would that Lucie might be here,’ said Owen. His wife was a knight’s daughter, and he often wondered whether she regretted marrying beneath her, forsaking such honours.

‘Dame Lucie would grace the gathering,’ said Michaelo. ‘But I’ve no time to rue what might have been. Another time. Come.’

Owen cursed as he realised he was being guided to Geoffrey Chaucer’s bench.

Michaelo paused to say, ‘Master Geoffrey requested that I seat you by him. As it was at the very table to which I’d assigned you, I accommodated him. I apologise if you find it uncomfortable. I know that the two of you had your differences in Wales.’

Brother Michaelo had accompanied them on that journey, though Owen had not thought his relationship with Geoffrey had become uncomfortable until after the monk and Owen’s father-in-law had been left at St David’s.

‘I’m honoured that Geoffrey sought my company,’ Owen lied, as there was nothing to be done. ‘By meal’s end, I’ll have a head full of gossip concerning all in the company.’ It might prove helpful.

Michaelo’s long, expressive nose quivered. ‘I pray you will share what you learn, in gratitude for my making it possible. And for seating you despite the dust on your surcoat and mud on your boots.’ He sniffed as he backed away.