Candace Robb: A Vigil of Spies

There was no pleasing him. Owen might have saved his time and effort — but he reminded himself that he’d done it for Thoresby, not his pompous secretary.

‘God go with you,’ Owen muttered.

As Geoffrey shifted on the bench to make room for Owen, Michaelo motioned for a server to fill a tankard for him.

‘Brother Michaelo has not aged a day in the four years since we met,’ said Geoffrey.

‘He has not aged a day since I met him ten years ago,’ said Owen. ‘I have wondered whether he made a pact with the devil.’

Owen and Geoffrey toasted one another and exchanged insults about their respective changes. Then Geoffrey grew serious.

‘I see we come not a moment too soon. John Thoresby is much diminished in flesh.’

Owen nodded. ‘I had not expected to see him in the hall again. The effort is a gift of great price for the pleasure and honour of Princess Joan.’

‘You can see that the princess is well aware of that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Look how she bends to hear him, offers him food.’

Owen watched for a few moments and saw indeed how she bowed her head close to Thoresby to listen, lifting her veil to do so, and then offered a titbit of food at the end of a jewelled knife as she replied. Her expression was that of quiet joy, neither silly nor smotheringly concerned. Thoresby’s eyes seemed brighter than Owen had seen them in a long while.

‘It appears he finds it worth the sacrifice,’ said Owen, his heart lightening a little. His changed feelings towards Thoresby kept surprising him. He’d spent most of his time in Thoresby’s service wishing he served elsewhere, but, now that the archbishop was dying, Owen’s heart felt heavy with grief. He did not wish to think about that. ‘Since you and I last met, Geoffrey, I have been blessed with a second daughter. My family thrives. How go your son and wife?’

‘They are well, God be praised. Though neither of them are as delighted by our new quarters over Aldgate as I am. Pippa is accustomed to the spacious palaces of the royal family. She is not fond of London.’ He skewered a piece of meat.

Owen chewed a mouthful of tender coney spiced with just the right amount of ginger, washing it down with wine of a quality he was not often served. He could not deny that, as far as the dining, there was much to recommend this visitation. He tried not to see Will’s corpse in front of him.

Needing a distraction, he lowered his voice to ask, ‘What can you tell me about the members of your company? What of Lewis Clifford?’

Geoffrey chuckled. ‘He composes dreadful poetry, but is otherwise an upstanding member of Prince Edward’s circle.’ He, too, spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the background clamour of a crowd feasting but soft enough to avoid being overheard by the others at the table. ‘You met the princess’s son, John Holand, who struts about as if unaware he’s an untried youth. He is most attentive to Lady Sybilla, one of his mother’s ladies. The one with the gurgling laugh.’

Owen had noticed her, a plump woman with inviting lips and bold eyes — the one who had ridden in the cart with the princess. ‘Isn’t she a married woman?’

‘Yes, poor man, elderly, surely cuckolded. The other lady is Eleanor, quick-witted and practical. Everyone in the company seems at ease with her.’

She was a petite, attractive woman, with compelling eyes and a graceful carriage. She seemed familiar. Owen had a vague memory of flirting with a woman much like her long ago, and yet not like her, for this woman’s eyes bespoke suffering and his memory conjured a merry woman, free of cares.

‘She has a tragic air about her,’ said Owen.

‘Which is perhaps what puts all at ease — suffering invites confidence, eh?’ Geoffrey chuckled. ‘As you see, Princess Joan surrounds herself with people pleasing to look on. I was not her choice!’

When Owen had first met Geoffrey, he’d found his habit of self-deprecation annoying, as he was pleasant-looking enough — there was nothing about him that Owen found silly except that he enjoyed belittling himself. He glanced back at Lady Eleanor, trying to decide whether she was old enough for him to have bedded her perhaps fifteen years earlier. It might be she, grown subtle with the years, more beautiful, burnished by time … He shook himself out of the memory.

‘What can you tell me of the sisters?’ Owen asked.

‘Dames Katherine and Clarice, Cistercians — but, of course, you see that in their pale habits — from Nun Appleton. They are to assist Master Walter, the physician, in the archbishop’s sickroom. Be wary of Walter, for he is quite the gossip.’

Owen noticed that the cleric sitting beside Geoffrey had grown quiet, as if straining to hear their whispered conversation. He’d wondered about him when he’d taken his seat, a striking man, large dark eyes, well-defined lips, high cheekbones and a long, elegant nose, pale hair curling about his tonsure, all his features well proportioned and pleasing. A mature angel was what had come to Owen’s mind, and he’d been surprised that Brother Michaelo paid him no attention, handsome men being his weakness. Owen looked at Geoffrey as he nodded towards the man.

Geoffrey understood at once and, leaning back so that the man and Owen might make eye contact, said, ‘Dom Lambert, allow me to introduce you to His Grace’s Captain of Guard, Owen Archer.’

So this was the murdered man’s master. Owen bowed to the cleric, whose expression was coolly polite, allowing a mere hint of a smile.

‘Dom Lambert comes with an embassy from William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Captain Archer.’ Lambert bowed his head. ‘Bishop William has spoken of your brave efforts on his behalf.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Owen, though he imagined that much of what Wykeham had said was the opposite of complimentary. They were not friends. ‘My condolences on the death of your servant.’

The handsome face softened a little. ‘May Will rest in peace,’ he murmured, crossing himself.

Owen was trying to think of a tactful way to ask whether Lambert thought the servant’s death an accident when Brother Michaelo swirled to a halt across the table.

‘His Grace requests your presence, Captain Archer. For a moment only.’

‘Fortunate man,’ Geoffrey whispered. ‘You are to be introduced to Princess Joan.’

As Owen rose, he lifted his cap and raked a hand through his hair, a subconscious reaction to being presented to a great lady.

‘Approach him as I have approached you, from the opposite side of the table.’ The servants’ side, Michaelo meant. Owen cursed — like Thoresby, Michaelo behaved as if Owen had no experience of courtly manners.

Sir Lewis sat to one side of Thoresby and Princess Joan to the other. Beside her was her son, Sir John, beside Sir Lewis was Lady Sybilla of the gurgling laugh, fair hair caught up beneath a veil almost as translucent as the princess’s. She looked interested in Owen as he approached, one hand fluttering over her low-cut bodice. He forced his attention back to His Grace, who had just noticed him.

‘Archer. Come.’ Thoresby waved him closer. ‘I would introduce you to my esteemed guest, the Princess of Wales.’

The archbishop’s voice was faint, his eyes slightly unfocused. Owen wanted time to reverse. He wanted his overbearing, devious archbishop back. He wanted to resent this man, not pity him, especially not mourn him.

Thoresby was saying something to Princess Joan about her need for a sergeant of the household, and, as she smiled sweetly, she was closely studying Owen.

‘I understand,’ she said, ‘that you rose to captain of archers in Henry of Grosmont’s service, and that, when you were blinded, he educated you so that you might serve as his spy. So that he might be in two places at once.’ She paused with her head tilted to one side, awaiting a response.