Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

After Roger fled the chamber, Owen asked Ravenser about his earlier comment about John Holand.

‘Twice he has grabbed Alisoun and frightened her. This time she pulled a dagger on him.’ Ravenser sighed. ‘Two daggers drawn in the palace this day by women, one so tragically, one so appropriately. But young Alisoun was frightened beyond anything that wretched man could have imagined. I had forgotten that she’d lost her family to the pestilence, that she’d been out on that farm defending herself for days. Apparently a man had threatened her. It was that memory that Sir John’s aggression brought back to the young woman. Princess Joan comforted her. It did my heart good to see.’

‘I am not so delighted by Princess Joan as you are,’ said Owen, needing to vent some of his frustration. ‘Had she warned us of Lambert’s mission when his servant died, or at least when we discovered the theft of the documents, I might have prevented one death.’

‘Alexander Neville. God rot him. You blame the wrong person, Archer. Curse the devil himself, not those whom he has thrown into confusion. I would not have expected Her Grace to tell us of this until she deemed it the proper time. They are different from us, Archer, the nobles, particularly the family of the king. I learned that when I was part of Queen Philippa’s household.’

‘Of course they are different — they wield the power over all.’

‘Can you possibly imagine the responsibility they carry?’ said Ravenser. ‘The fate of the realm is in their hands. Their choices rule the fates of so many, not just themselves, their families, their friends.’

‘Princess Joan’s marriage to Prince Edward did nothing for the realm, Sir Richard.’

Ravenser grunted. ‘I’ll say no more of that. Young Alisoun would speak with you about Lady Eleanor’s visit to my cousin Clarice. She is with the nuns in the small chamber next to Her Grace.’

They parted in the corridor; Ravenser headed for the hall, Owen for the solar.

Alisoun opened the door to Owen, stepping out and closing it behind her to recount to him Eleanor’s tale.

‘I am so sorry for her,’ said Alisoun, ‘and yet not. I understand her, but what she did righted nothing.’

Owen said little, numbed for the moment by all that had happened. But, at least by the time he left Alisoun and headed for the chapel, he felt he had most of the pieces to the puzzle of the murders. He would pray a while with Gilbert. Thoresby had ordered his execution at dawn — another tragedy to survive. Owen knew it was what any judge would decree — Gilbert had strangled Dom Lambert and then strung him up, and attacked Brother Michaelo and left him in the woods, where he might have died. But it was hard to condemn a man who had been loyal so long. Very hard.

Towards evening, Magda returned to Thoresby’s chamber, and he knew by a heaviness in her that Lady Eleanor was dead.

‘How could she go so quickly,’ he wondered, ‘when an old wretch like me lingers so long?’

‘She wished to die,’ Magda said, ‘and, without the will to heal, the flesh succumbs. Her lover held her close. May he find some peace in that.’

‘Would you have saved her if you could?’ Thoresby asked.

‘Thou shouldst know better than to ask that,’ said Magda. ‘There is no place for pride in healing. She did not wish to live. But thou shouldst know, the poor woman was with child. Barely, but Magda thinks that she knew.’

Thoresby crossed himself. ‘Not her husband’s.’

Magda shook her head. ‘There was no joy in her future. No peace.’

Thoresby lay back against his cushions and said a prayer for the lost soul just released from its earthly form. Perhaps Lady Eleanor repented at the end, perhaps she would eventually rise from her penance and dwell in God’s grace.

They sat quietly, saying little, sipping spiced wine from jewelled mazers, until Brother Michaelo announced Dame Clarice.

Magda patted Thoresby’s hand and rose. ‘Time for a walk beneath the sky for Magda. Embrace thy daughter, Old Crow, make thy peace with her.’

Alisoun had been glad when Dame Clarice asked her to walk with her to His Grace’s chamber. Though she and the two nuns had been shifted back to the small chamber, the sounds of grief over Lady Eleanor’s deathbed and the heavy stench of blood permeated the little room, weighing heavily on all three of them. The memories conjured earlier by Sir John had gnawed at Alisoun, and the sounds of mourning had pulled her even farther into that horrible time, as, one by one, her family succumbed to the pestilence. She had been too young to understand how completely unprotected she would be without her parents, how silent the world could be, how suddenly crowded with threats. When Clarice said she wished to speak with her father, Alisoun had jumped at the chance to escape her memories.

She did not know what to expect when she entered Thoresby’s chamber. She had seen poor Lady Eleanor, had seen the man who had been her lover crumple in despair, had heard that the handsome Gilbert was condemned to death. Such tragedy would surely taint a room, echo and haunt any who walked there for a long while. But the room seemed as peaceful and inviting as it had before. It seemed wrong to Alisoun.

Magda left her seat next to the great bed, where Thoresby sat up, holding a jewelled mazer in his beringed hands. Alisoun had wondered whether his condition would deteriorate with the dramas that had played out around his bed earlier in the day, but, from this distance, he seemed undiminished. Dame Clarice would have a chance to speak with him.

To the nun she said, ‘I shall sit here by the door. Go to him.’

As Clarice walked slowly over to the great bed, Alisoun tried not to watch.

‘I would go to the chapel and pray with Gilbert,’ said Michaelo. ‘Would you stay here until I return?’

‘I would be glad to,’ she said, ‘but have you already forgiven him? After all he’s done?’

‘I will not judge him,’ the monk said, his long face drawn with grief but lacking any sign of anger.

Magda came to Alisoun and kissed her forehead. ‘Thou hast come far, Alisoun, and Magda is proud to call thee her apprentice.’

As Alisoun settled in the chair by the door, her heart felt lighter than it had in a long while. She smiled on the tableau before her, Dame Clarice leaning over the great bed to kiss her father’s hand, and being invited to sit.

Thursday Evening Through Monday

WITH SOME TREPIDATION, Thoresby observed the tall nun with the deep-set eyes and his mother’s broad brow as she approached his bed. He was uncertain how he should behave. He had received letters from his daughter Idonea, but he had never met her. His only experience with children was with godchildren, most recently Archer’s young ones, and his wards, who had usually been young men.

Clarice’s steps slowed as she neared, her expression uncertain. Though her pale Cistercian robe and plain wimple suggested a spiritual maturity, her face was unlined and youthful, and Thoresby reminded himself that, to her, he was the powerful Archbishop of York, someone to whom to bow in obeisance, not approach as friend, as kin. How strange that she was flesh of his flesh, yet, until the previous day, he had been unaware of her existence. Not so for her — all her life she had probably wondered about him. So they were both ill at ease.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, hesitating a few steps from the bed. ‘I humbly beg your forgiveness for my trespass.’

‘Come closer,’ he said, holding out his hand.

She stepped forward and bent to kiss his ring. He placed his hand on her head and whispered a blessing.