Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

Her words momentarily silenced Owen, invoking the woman who had blinded him. But he could not allow himself to be played by her. ‘You are confessing to his murder?’ he asked.

His question seemed to chill her. ‘Once I bore my husband a son, he wished to have no more to do with me. For my part, I was much relieved, for I had no joy of him. He returned to his mistress and I felt free to give myself to-’

‘Eleanor, no!’ Roger said, rising from his chair.

Eleanor grimaced as she turned to him. ‘What a fool I’ve been in my affections. Much joy I’ve had of you.’ She turned to Thoresby, and, with anger strengthening her voice and quieting her tremors, she continued. ‘When my husband learned that Roger was my lover, he beat me and locked me away. Roger was frightened for me and informed his lord, and the family came to my rescue. Indeed, they brought my case to the court of the Bishop of Lincoln, where my husband was ordered to mend his ways. I had been in Princess Joan’s service for a brief time before my marriage, and they arranged for me to rejoin her household to give my husband and me time to think how we might best come together, what it was that caused our disaffection.’ She paused, and, almost too softly to be heard, she said, ‘As if it might be easily mended.’ More loudly, she resumed, ‘From time to time, someone would ask me to find out this or that. Small things. Until this journey. When we learned that the Bishop of Winchester was sending an emissary with our party, I was told that I would be working with Roger, who would be following us at a discreet distance, to steal the documents Dom Lambert carried.’ She turned back to Roger, who had been ordered to resume his seat by Geoffrey. ‘You never loved me. You sold my brooch to cover your expenses.’

‘That is not true! I sold it-’ he caught himself and dropped his eyes.

‘I’ll be well rid of you,’ Eleanor moaned.

‘So it was you and Gilbert who hanged Dom Lambert,’ Owen said to Eleanor.

She gave him a curt nod. She’d separated her hands into angry fists.

‘What of Brother Michaelo?’

‘The fool followed,’ said Eleanor.

‘I take responsibility for that,’ said Gilbert. ‘I hit him and left him there.’

‘But you take no responsibility for the death of Dom Lambert?’ Thoresby asked, in a cold voice. ‘Or for betraying me?’

If Gilbert could have hidden beneath his chair, he would have. He cringed and hugged himself and hung his head so heavily Owen thought his neck might snap.

Yet another knock on the door distracted Owen for a moment — with tragic results. He’d not thought to check Eleanor for a dagger. He was so close to her, but it took a second too long for him to understand her cry of ‘Enough!’, Roger’s shout, Gilbert’s shriek, Ravenser’s ‘No!’

Blood pumped from her stomach onto hands that still clutched the hilt of the dagger and pressed sideways. Agony and terror twisted her face, but no sound came from her open mouth. Owen did not know what to grab — her hands, all of her? It was Roger who knelt before her and quieted her hands, sobbing as he lifted her and took her to the pallet to which Michaelo and Magda guided him.

Jehannes stood just within the doorway. ‘I am come too late,’ he said, staring at the horror of the bloodstained woman.

‘Pray over her, Jehannes. Pray over her,’ Owen whispered. Sinking down onto a bench, he buried his head in his hands and stayed there for a long, long while, at first trying to stop his mind from its futile search for ways he might have saved Eleanor, later merely praying for God’s grace for all of them. He was drawn out of himself by Magda’s warm hands on his shoulders.

‘Thou hast done all in thy power, Bird-eye, and thou hast eased Old Crow’s mind, there should be no more murders here. Speak with Jehannes now. He saw thy wife in York this day. That will comfort thee.’

She handed him a cup of wine.

‘Have you added anything to it?’

She shook her head. ‘Thou hast more to do this day.’

Now he was able to listen to Jehannes’s report that the brooch had been sold in York, and, best of all, that Lucie and all his family were well.

Much later, Owen and Ravenser questioned Roger further. It had been difficult to wrest him from Eleanor’s bedside, and they had to promise him that he could return. It pained Owen to see the noble Sir Lewis kneel in Roger’s place, and, lifting Eleanor’s hand, gently press his lips to the inside of her palm. How many had loved her, he wondered, and she could not trust their love.

They withdrew with Roger to the small chamber that Brother Michaelo had been using. Oblivious to the blood caked on his hands, sleeves, the front of his gown, Roger sat cross-legged on the bed, his eyes staring sightlessly until they convinced him to drink some wine.

‘We will not keep you long, I promise,’ said Owen.

Roger finally focused on Owen and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are the Nevilles responsible for these murders?’ Ravenser asked.

Roger hesitated for only a moment, as if his mind were catching up with the words. ‘No, they had condemned Eleanor for going beyond their orders. They said she had ruined everything by killing Dom Lambert and his servant. They had shifted their sympathy to her husband, saying they now saw he’d had good cause to discipline her. You did not see her with her lip split, her face swollen and discoloured, and so thin. He’d been starving her.’ His voice broke, and he bowed his head for a moment before he continued. ‘I sold the brooch so that we might buy passage across the Channel. But she was so angry and we fought, and I did not have a chance to explain that she was wrong, that I meant to rescue her. I thought I had time. Time.’ He whispered the last word, staring down at his hands. Owen wondered whether he had yet fully realised that it was Eleanor’s blood that stained them.

‘She must have believed that she had time to make amends, to perform penance to save her from eternal damnation,’ said Ravenser. ‘I will ask all in the palace to pray for her, that she has time and grace to make her peace with her Lord before she dies.’

Roger moaned. ‘There are two healers here — what good are they if they cannot save her?’

Owen had seen how certainly Eleanor had ensured injury beyond repair. ‘She does not wish to live, Roger.’ Had he not trapped her into a confession with so many witnesses who could save themselves only by condemning her, would she have managed to escape with Roger, he wondered. Could she have found any joy with two deaths on her conscience?

‘You are certain that the Nevilles had not called for Lambert’s death?’ Ravenser asked.

‘If I could blame them for this tragedy, I would, Sir Richard,’ said Roger. ‘I would. But they had no part in this.’

No part. Owen would not have chosen those words. But he was convinced that the Nevilles had condemned the murders. It was the poison in Eleanor’s heart that had led to this.

‘I should have stopped her. I should have taken her away as soon as she spoke of her fear. I can’t remember now why I did nothing.’ Roger stared at Owen, as if expecting him to say something to comfort him.

‘I have no words of comfort for you,’ Owen said. ‘I feel guilty as well. I should have thought she might have a dagger. I should have seen her reach for it and prevented her from wounding herself.’

‘You will both drive yourselves mad with such self-flagellation,’ said Ravenser. ‘For pity’s sake, accept that a beautiful woman for whom you both cared has been destroyed by her own demons.’ He put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Come. Let this poor man go to his lady.’ To Roger, he said, ‘I am certain that Princess Joan will let you sit with Lady Eleanor.’ They had moved Eleanor to Joan’s chamber where they could keep her warm by the brazier and away from the draughts and the noise of the hall.