Candace Robb: A Vigil of Spies

‘I’ve invited no one to ride with me.’

‘He says that you need the company. He’s to cheer you.’

Slinging a pack over his shoulder, Owen stepped out into the yard. Leaning against a second horse was Geoffrey Chaucer.

‘You were not on the barge this morning?’

‘Apparently not.’ Geoffrey grinned. ‘I look forward to more of Tom Merchet’s finest ale. And I want to confer with your wife Lucie about what I might use to clean the ink from my fingers — and clothes. My Pippa would be most grateful.’

To his surprise, Owen felt a little better about the journey. ‘Then let us be off to York.’

For their journey by barge to Bishopthorpe, Lucie’s family was blessed with a crisp autumn day, the foliage along the riverbank bright with colour, the garden through which they approached the palace a delight to Gwenllian and Hugh, with leaves to kick and toss. Lucie had dreaded this journey, but the weather and their companion had cheered everyone. She liked Geoffrey Chaucer the moment she set eyes on him, and she did not change her mind with longer acquaintance. His expressive face was almost always lit with amusement, even when of a sardonic flavour, his short legs and arms seemed always in motion, and his conversation always surprised her with perceptions that challenged her own. The children loved him, and he kept a close watch on Owen, yanking him out of his moods with japes or challenges that rarely failed.

She knew that the tragedy of Lady Eleanor and Gilbert’s execution had shaken Owen to the core. In their lovemaking he had clung to her as if to a lifeline; she wished that he could weep and cleanse himself. Her own dreams had been haunted by memories of her mother’s unhappiness, so like Lady Eleanor’s. Both had met bloody, tragic endings, powerless to help themselves.

In the doorway to the palace stood Brother Michaelo, drawn and subdued. But he brightened on seeing them, warmly welcoming them, and he escorted them at once to the chamber next to the great hall where Thoresby held audience from a great bed with bright silk hangings and cushions. For a moment she caught her breath and could not breathe out, shocked at the sight of the diminished John Thoresby propped against a pile of cushions. But his smile was a benediction, and so was Magda Digby’s open-armed greeting. Gwenllian was soon sitting on the bed beside her godfather, and Hugh at his feet, telling him about the wondrous barge journey.

Owen stood near the window, his back to it, with a fond smile on his face. Magda stood beside him, her arm round his waist. Alisoun sat on a chair beside Thoresby, Emma asleep in her arms. Jasper stood shyly next to Lucie on the opposite side of the bed, uncertain of his role. Geoffrey had stayed in the hall.

Thoresby had just announced to Gwenllian and Hugh that they were to have some hawks at Freythorpe Hadden, and that there was a young one that his falconer was training especially for Hugh. Lucie felt Jasper stir beside her, and, when Gwenllian slipped off the bed to grab his hands and repeat the news to him, he seemed as excited as she was.

Hugh turned questioning eyes towards Lucie. ‘Can I play with a hawk?’

Lucie laughed. ‘Jasper, why don’t you ask Alisoun to escort the three of you to the mews to see the birds?’

It took little more urging. When the room was quiet once more, Lucie sat on the bed, taking Thoresby’s bony hand.

‘You are so good to our children, Your Grace.’

‘It has been a great pleasure for me to watch them grow, Lucie. No doubt you have heard that I gained a daughter of late. You shall meet her at supper in the hall. She will leave soon to return to her convent. I shall miss her.’ He paused for breath. ‘Your stepson, Jasper — I would like to give him something that would please him. You must look around in the next few days and choose an object — perhaps you might note what catches his eye? I regret that I’ve not accorded him the attention I have my godchildren.’

Lucie’s emotions overwhelmed her at that request, and she lay her head on Thoresby’s shoulder and wept, while he held her close to him.

‘Sweet Lucie. You have repaid me a hundredfold for my patronage of you regarding your guild status. Your marriage, your family — thinking of you has comforted me in the darkest hours.’ He lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Blessings on you and all your family. I ask only that you think of me now and then, and pray for my soul’s redemption.’

Behind her she heard Owen clear his throat, but did not turn to him, allowing him the privacy to weep if his pride allowed him to do so.

After supper, Owen was summoned to Thoresby’s chamber. They sipped wine while talking of Owen’s family and Alisoun’s maturing, and then they grew quiet for a while.

‘You’ve often sat in judgement over me,’ Thoresby said, breaking the silence. He lifted a trembling hand to stop Owen’s protests. ‘I’ve no doubt that it was your righteous anger that protected you from those who would have kept you in Wales, that and your devotion to Lucie and your children.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I never regretted recruiting you, Archer. In faith, I never doubted your loyalty, no matter how much my orders chafed.’

‘Your Grace.’ Owen bowed his head, fighting for composure.

‘How fitting for Wykeham to rake us through the coals one last time, eh, Archer?’

Owen heard the smile in Thoresby’s voice and felt safe raising his head. ‘One last time for you, perhaps,’ he managed to say, in a steady voice.

Thoresby chuckled weakly. ‘I’ve written to him, and sent a copy of the letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, strongly advising Wykeham to reward you for your efforts on his part, on these several occasions, with a manor that abuts some of the Freythorpe fields. I seem to recall he has land there, and, if not, he is the man to arrange it.’

‘Your Grace!’ Freythorpe Hadden was Lucie’s inheritance from her father, which would pass on to their son Hugh. Owen owned no land.

‘I think you would like having property of your own to leave to your children. Not that I imagine you retiring to your country estate. Your conscience is too strong — it will overrule your desire for peace. Princess Joan favours you, and I am certain the city of York will ask you to stand as bailiff. My successor will no doubt try to coerce you into being his captain — Gilbert was a fool to think Neville would prefer him to you. Even Wykeham might expect something in return for the land. You will have no peace. But you will thrive, Archer, you and your lovely family.’ His breath had deteriorated into a pitiful wheeze.

‘You leave me with a mixed blessing, Your Grace,’ said Owen.

‘You expected me to do otherwise?’ Thoresby managed a weak smile.

‘It has been an honour to serve you, Your Grace,’ said Owen. He dared say no more.

‘God go with you, Owen Archer.’

St Leonard’s Day, Sunday, 6 November 1373

Magda, Michaelo and Ravenser sat by Thoresby’s great bed. The archbishop had been dozing for a while when, suddenly, he opened his eyes and requested a little wine to wet his mouth. Ravenser did the honour, gently lifting his uncle’s head and holding the cup to his lips.

When Thoresby lay back against the cushions, he reached for Magda’s hand.

‘Have you thought of what I might leave to you, my friend?’

‘The memory of thy friendship will be most precious to Magda,’ she said. But, seeing his gathering frown, she added, ‘Sir Richard suggested an ass and cart from thy stables, and Magda agreed that she and Alisoun might make good use of that.’

Thoresby nodded and, turning his gaze on Ravenser, said, ‘See that it is done.’ He looked on all three of them with a trembling smile. ‘God go with you, my dear friends.’ And after a last shuddering breath, he was still.