Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

He tried to recall Euphemia of Lincoln, Clarice’s mother. He’d often travelled to Lincoln, a lovely city. He set his mind the task of remembering his time there, perhaps twenty years ago. Feasts and processions passed before him, the steep pitch of the streets always making the latter a challenge. Twenty years ago that would have been nothing to him. He had kept his strength and energy long into old age. Twenty years.

John Gynwell was bishop there then, a man who had left little impression on Thoresby — on anyone, he suspected. Gradually a voice came to him, a strident voice, an attitude dressed in vibrant colours. Ah yes. A coolly confident, manipulative woman with a fierce sexual appetite who danced with a mischievous grin and teased him with her eyes. After one night of lively lovemaking, she’d apparently had enough of him and had assiduously avoided him. She was the only woman who had so painfully bruised his pride. But, other than that grin, those eyes, the energy and fire, he could remember little else. Perhaps her hair had been red.

Thoresby shifted in the bed. That a child had resulted from that coupling saddened him. A daughter born of lust, not love — not even affection. No wonder the young woman had grown up bitter and cold. He and Marguerite should have had a child. Such a one, from such deep, abiding love, could not help but be an exquisite, compassionate soul.

He grew melancholy. That was not a good thing when he was trapped in bed. He fingered the pack of documents beside him, the worn and creased leather representing the active life he had left behind. His life was now confined to blankets and cushions, physicks and watered wine. He wished he could stir up a healthy rage about Alexander Neville, but he was too weary. Perhaps after a nap.

A strange sort of quiet had settled on the room. Dame Clarice lay with eyes closed, her breath uneven, as if silently weeping; Lady Eleanor stood with a cup of wine in her hands but not drinking, seeming somehow undecided about whether to return to her seat or depart. Alisoun itched to seek out the captain and inform him of what she’d heard, but he had placed Clarice in her care, both to guard and to nurse.

She went to her patient, touching the back of her hand to the nun’s brow.

‘You are feverish.’ She truly was, eliminating Alisoun’s need to lie. ‘Let me fetch Dame Magda’s powder for a fever.’

Clarice’s eyelids fluttered, but she did not open her eyes, merely reaching up with one trembling hand to press Alisoun’s.

‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘She said you were feverish, not dying,’ said Eleanor. ‘You have the benefit of several healers in the palace. Where are the midwife’s powders?’

‘In His Grace’s chamber,’ said Alisoun.

‘Send the guard posted at the doorway for them.’

‘He would not know what to fetch.’

Eleanor set down the cup and bent to Clarice to check Alisoun’s report, nodding as she straightened. ‘She is feverish, poor woman.’ She stepped close to Alisoun, looked straight into her eyes. ‘You will not gossip about what I’ve told Dame Clarice?’

In normal circumstances, Alisoun would be insulted, but she understood why Eleanor did not wish her to repeat what she’d heard. Others would easily read into the recitation the possibility of her being involved in Dom Lambert’s death. ‘I have already assured you that I am not a gossip, my lady.’ To report to the captain was not gossiping.

Eleanor nodded. ‘I shall stay with Dame Clarice until you return.’

Alisoun stepped out of the room and into the arms of Captain Archer. She almost cried out, but smothered her impulse with a hand to her mouth.

‘I would go in,’ he whispered.

‘Dame Clarice is dressed and presentable, Captain.’ She kept her voice as low as possible as well, though it was difficult to judge the volume over the loud pounding of her heart. She’d initially merely been startled, but the grim expression on his scarred face now frightened her. ‘What has happened?’

‘See to the fever powder,’ he said. She realised he must have been listening. ‘I am moving Dame Clarice to Princess Joan’s chamber. Bring the physick there.’ He let her go. She hurried away.

As Alisoun reached the stairway, she realised that the main meal of the day was being served in the hall. She’d not noticed that the morning had already passed. To her dismay, Sir John Holand was standing in a small group at the edge of the hall and straightened with a grin as he noticed her. She’d had a disturbing dream about him the previous night and now, seeing him, she could feel the heat rising in her face. She hurried to Thoresby’s chamber. She was surprised to find Magda there, sitting by the great bed, her hands folded on her lap, watching His Grace with a faint smile as he softly spoke. Alisoun thought she heard the words ‘Clarice’ and ‘daughter’. So he knew. Magda rose when Brother Michaelo ushered Alisoun in, and assisted her in choosing the appropriate powder. She suggested that Alisoun also take some sprigs of rosemary to scent the water for a cool compress for Clarice’s forehead.

When Alisoun stepped out into the corridor once more, she experienced a frisson of fear that it was deserted. She chided herself for making much of nothing, for surely Sir John would not approach her again. But suddenly he was there, and, in a few strides, he was beside her.

‘Shall we walk in the garden, Mistress Alisoun?’ He slid his arm across the small of her back and pulled her close.

‘I cannot, Sir,’ she whispered, finding little air for speech. ‘I must attend Dame Clarice. I’ve just fetched a powder for her fever.’ She glanced around, desperate to catch someone’s eye, but they were alone in the corridor.

He grabbed her free hand and kissed the back of it. He smelled of leather, horses and wine, a not unpleasant medley of scents, and he had his mother’s beautiful blue-grey eyes with thick lashes, but Alisoun could not breathe, for she could not believe that he meant her no harm. As if he’d read her mind, he tightened his grip.

Alisoun gasped. ‘Why do you want to hurt me?’

It was not what she’d intended to say, but it caught him off guard and he eased his grip round her waist just enough for her to spin away and pull out the dagger that Captain Archer had given her. She pointed it at Sir John’s face as she backed towards the hall.

Throwing up his hands, Sir John asked with a laugh, ‘What is this?’

‘It is my protection, Sir.’

He laughed again. ‘Why not just scream?’

‘I did not wish to embarrass you or myself.’

‘Embarrass you ? You dim-witted, ungrateful girl. You should be honoured by my attention.’

Alisoun turned and fled up the stairs, sheathing the dagger as she reached the top. When the guard admitted her to Princess Joan’s chamber, she stood for a moment, uncertain which way to turn.

‘Child, what has happened?’ asked Ravenser, who stood near the high-backed chair on which the princess was seated.

Alisoun humiliated herself by bursting into tears.

With the assistance of Dame Katherine, Ravenser had moved Clarice to the princess’s chamber. Now Owen faced Eleanor alone in the small room, which was now so quiet that he noticed how loudly his heart was beating and wondered how Eleanor did not comment on it. She was a study in the beauty of earth tones and woodland sunlight, her deep gold gown, dark green surcoat, and delicate deep gold veil rich against her dark hair and pale, luminescent skin. With a whisper of silk, she stepped so close he could smell the rosewater in her hair.

‘How everyone obeys you here,’ she said with a teasing smile as she reached up and touched his scarred cheek. ‘But is this not too bold, even for you? There will be talk about us, my love. What if your apothecary wife should hear of our being alone together in a bedchamber?’