Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

‘Now sit and talk to me, child.’

She took a seat on the high-backed chair beside him, primly, hands in lap, back straight, eyes on Thoresby’s hands, not his face.

‘I see much of my blood in you, Clarice,’ he said. ‘My daughter.’

She dared to meet his eyes, blushed, and quickly dropped her gaze. ‘I do not deserve your kindness.’

‘You are my daughter, Clarice, flesh of my flesh. You deserve more than kindness, you deserve my love, my guidance. I regret that I had no opportunity to share your life.’

She frowned, his words obviously not what she had expected. ‘I feel responsible for what happened here. Dom Lambert’s emissary concerned my birth-’

‘No more of that. I would celebrate your existence, not seek cause to regret it.’

‘I have been an ungrateful wretch, Your Grace.’

‘Perhaps you’ve had some cause.’

‘Lady Eleanor tried to help me see how good my life is, how much freer I am than she has been. But I envied her — her lovers, her beauty, her silks and jewels.’ She lifted tear-filled eyes to his. ‘She cannot be evil. She reached out to me, to teach me how to be grateful for my life.’

‘She spoke to you?’ He saw in his mind’s eye the proud face framed with raven-black hair, the defiant carriage, and then the self-inflicted wound, the blood. ‘Then she gave you a precious gift, and I pray that God was listening when she did so. Now, Clarice, let us talk of happier things. I would not waste my last days dwelling on Lady Eleanor’s self-destruction. How goes your mother?’

‘She is well, Your Grace, and will be most curious to hear of our meeting.’ Clarice blotted her eyes and cheeks with a prettily embroidered cloth.

Thoresby smiled at the little vanity. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘Do you remember my mother?’

‘A little.’ Thoresby described dancing with her, the mischievous grin and teasing words and gestures that had stirred him. ‘But I am confused. Princess Joan said she was sent away to give birth, so as not to ruin marriage negotiations, but I remember a more mature woman-’ It seemed a better choice than ‘not a virgin’.

‘She was a widow at the time,’ said Clarice.

‘Ah. Yes, that fits my memory.’

They grew more comfortable with one another as they talked, and Thoresby tried to ignore the weakness that hoarsened his voice and prevented him from lifting his mazer. He was both sorry and relieved when Dame Clarice noticed that he was having difficulty breathing. She called out for Alisoun’s help.

‘A soothing tisane, Your Grace,’ said Alisoun, helping him to drink. ‘You must rest now.’

Working together, Clarice and Alisoun shifted his cushions so that he lay back with more ease, added covers and placed a warm stone at his feet.

‘Rest, Father,’ Clarice whispered, kissing him on the forehead.

For a moment Thoresby thought his heart would break, to feel her warm lips, her breath on his face. He did not want her to leave, he felt a surge of regret to have known her for such a brief time.

‘If it please Your Grace, I would sit with you a while,’ said Clarice, as if she had read his thoughts.

He felt a warm rush of peace and contentment. ‘Yes, it would please me.’

He might never have met her, never have spoken to her, never have seen her hatred turn to love — or at least affection. God’s grace was upon him.

The pain and unhealthy cold in his knees eventually convinced Owen to rise from his prayers for the souls of Lady Eleanor, Gilbert, Dom Lambert and his servant, Will, Brother Michaelo, Thoresby — his list had no end. As he lifted his head, his gaze rested on Gilbert lying prostrate before the altar, arms outspread in a mirror of the crucifixion, with several of his fellow guards from the night watch surrounding him, kneeling on the stone floor with heads bowed. Gilbert had begged Owen’s forgiveness. Seeing the shame in the man’s eyes, witnessing his torment, Owen had forgiven him and promised to pray for his soul. In truth, he felt responsible for having failed to notice Gilbert’s discontentment. But Gilbert said he’d not been discontented but greedy and anxious about the future. He’d steadfastly refused to name those who had cooperated with his betrayal, insisting that he had lied to them and tricked them into disobeying Owen’s orders. Nor were any guilty of murder.

‘I take full blame, Captain,’ Gilbert had insisted. ‘You can trust the others without me to lead them astray.’

Owen was not entirely comfortable with that logic, having thought he’d chosen men for the guard who could be trusted to reject any orders contrary to what they’d heard from either Owen or Alfred, but he had given Gilbert more responsibility of late. He knew that, with Alfred’s help, he could pick out the unreliable ones. Not that it would matter for long. The archbishop was dying, and, with him, the composition of the archbishop’s guard.

‘Had Sir Lewis anything to do with it?’ Owen had asked. ‘Did he assist Lady Eleanor in any way?’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘No.’

Owen thought Geoffrey would be glad of that.

Leaving the chapel, Owen walked out into a gentle rain and the dim light of early evening. He tried to recall all that had happened since he’d given up on sleep and talked to Jehannes in the chapel very early that morning, but his thoughts spun out of reach. He needed food and rest, but he had no appetite and could not imagine quieting his mind enough to sleep. He thought of returning to the hall to ask after Lady Eleanor’s condition, but he did not have the heart.

He headed, instead, towards the stables. As he passed the kennels, the happy sounds of the romping dogs reminded him of Lady Sybilla, and he turned in that direction, thinking it possible he might find her there, that it was a likely place in which she might seek solace. Owen had yet to talk to her about Dame Clarice and Thoresby’s letter, having had no heart for it after what had come to pass in His Grace’s chamber. He did not think that Sybilla would react with such violence, but he had not imagined for a moment that Eleanor would take her own life. Strange, he had understood why Dom Lambert might try to end his own life, he had understood the humiliation that the man had suffered in Thoresby’s chambers, but he could not quite sound the depths of Lady Eleanor’s humiliation or despair. That she had murdered, and had that on her conscience, he understood. But she had implied a much deeper despair.

On a bench in the little shed that housed the kennels sat Lady Sybilla, her gaily coloured clothes subdued in the light of a solitary torch. Two dogs sat at her feet, their attention riveted on her. She stared down at them, but did not seem to be watching them.

Owen stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for her to notice him. But, when moments went by and the dogs began to whine, he said, ‘My lady, are you unwell?’

As if waking from a dream, she turned her head slowly towards the sound of his voice, not focusing on him at first. He stepped into the light. Now she blinked and gave a slight start, concentrating her gaze on him.

‘Captain Archer. Have you heard? They could not save Eleanor.’ Her voice was flat, without life.

‘God have mercy on her soul.’ Owen bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘I had not heard. I’ve been long in the chapel.’

Sybilla nodded, a jerky, graceless gesture.

‘You were a good friend to her,’ he said, moving closer and crouching to pet the two dogs.

‘Not good enough. I had promised her I would say nothing of Roger Neville. Would that I had been more frank with you about my concerns, that I had broken my ill-considered promise.’ She lifted her face, tear-streaked and swollen. He realised she must have wept a long while. ‘You were there, Captain. Do you understand? What drove her to such despair? Was it the child?’