Candace Robb: A Vigil of Spies

Owen could not think what to say, too busy wondering whether it was Thoresby or the old duke who had spoken of this to her and amazed that either would divulge his role, which depended on secrecy.

‘You are taken aback,’ she said, with no attempt to hide her amusement. ‘We all have eyes and ears in our service, Captain, and make it our business to know those of our peers.’

He’d prided himself on being inconspicuous. He felt shamed. Slighted. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘I am honoured to be known to you.’ He felt mute and awkward; in addition to the unexpected topic with its unpleasant revelation, he found it difficult to hear and be heard across the table and over the cacophony of music, voices, barking dogs. ‘Your safety is my only concern at present.’

She bowed her head. ‘I am confident that I am in good hands.’

Thoresby nodded him away. As Owen returned to his seat, his head cleared enough for him to wonder whether he had been recommended to join the princess’s service after Thoresby’s death. Though it would, of course, be a great honour, it was nothing he wished for. Yet, how could he refuse the woman who might be his future queen, if God spared her husband? He only half heard the rest of Geoffrey’s gossip as he filled his belly, trying to focus on the excellent fare rather than his worries about the future. When he could eat no more, and long before he could drink no more, he departed to check on his guardsmen.

When Thoresby wished to rise from the table, he found, as often happened of late, that his feet seemed curled and twisted and quite impossible to set flat enough on the ground to gain purchase. God played with him, allowing him the ease to come to the feast but not to leave it on his own two feet.

‘Who would you have assist you, my lord?’ asked Joan, in a perfectly composed tone of voice, as if she were asking his preference in the dishes set before them. He wondered whether she was practised in this from seeing to her husband, whose illness must colour their marriage in all ways.

‘Archdeacon Jehannes, if you would be so kind as to catch his attention,’ he said.

As the Archdeacon of York was seated just beyond Sir John on the princess’s other side, it was a request Thoresby felt easy making. He heard Jehannes send a servant for Brother Michaelo. He was grateful, for he would need a man at either elbow.

God’s blood, but he was exhausted. The effort required to sit upright was becoming too great and he might fail at any moment. And yet he felt it had been worth it, to sit here in his hall sharing a meal with the beautiful and gracious Joan of Kent. She was already queenly, and he regretted that he would not live long enough to see her husband crowned.

It was a clear night, cool but not unpleasant, the moon a barely discernible slice. Gazing up at the stars, Owen felt a wave of melancholy. All in all, his life had improved during his time in Thoresby’s service. He’d married Lucie, they’d been blessed with children, and he had a place in the community of York, a respectable place. Now an uneasy change was in the air, and it saddened him. The feast had conjured memories of his life before York, when he served the old duke, Henry of Grosmont, at his palace of Kenilworth, and that, too, had brought on melancholy — or perhaps the melancholy was actually caused by the presence of death, that of Will the servant, and the imminent death of the archbishop.

Owen sat outside the barracks with a tankard of ale ready to share with Alfred when he appeared, to refresh them as they reviewed the first day of this ordeal.

From the moment he’d learned of the princess’s visit, Owen had disliked the timing. He understood that Thoresby’s failing health was all to the purpose, that the princess wished to consult with the archbishop, while she still might, about whom she could trust in the north should Prince Edward die and her young son become king — evidently a very real possibility. She was right to hurry, as Geoffrey had noticed — only days before her letter arrived, Thoresby had called in his kinsmen to witness his will. But surely a letter might have sufficed, delivered by someone implicitly trusted?

Thoresby had noted Owen’s disapproval and grimly asked what better time he might propose. The news had seemed to buoy the archbishop’s spirits — some colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes had sparkled when he spoke of Princess Joan.

In an unusually companionable moment, Thoresby had confided to Owen that he had not originally approved of the marriage of Edward and Joan, that he’d believed Prince Edward had shown a lack of the stuff that kings must be made of in secretly marrying his father’s cousin. The heir to the throne was expected to make a strategic alliance with his marriage; he should not marry for love. That had been reason enough to disapprove of the marriage, but it was all the worse for the scandal of Joan’s first marriage, which had also been secret, and she so young she’d not had the courage to admit to it when her guardians had arranged another marriage — the annulment had been the occasion of much gossip.

But Thoresby had said he’d come to admire Joan of Kent, despite her romantically irresponsible marriages, and he was pleased that she would seek him out for advice. Owen prayed it did not prove Thoresby’s undoing, that his end might arrive in a more peaceful moment.

Brother Michaelo sauntered over to where Owen sat. ‘Might I join you for a moment?’ he asked. ‘The air is deliciously cool and abundant.’

Owen slid over to make room for Michaelo. ‘How goes His Grace?’

‘He is abed. Jehannes and I practically carried him he was so exhausted.’

‘Stubborn to the end,’ said Owen.

Michaelo sank down with an air of exhaustion and sorrow, allowing his shoulders to slump for a moment before catching himself and straightening. In that brief collapse was manifest the monk’s sincere grief over his master’s illness. ‘What do you make of the servant’s death?’ he asked, with false briskness.

‘I don’t know,’ said Owen. ‘I want a messenger to take the dead man’s pack and wineskin to my wife.’

‘I’m to send a messenger by barge to Dame Magda in the morning, after Master Walter the physician has conferred with His Grace. I understand the Riverwoman is at your home. You might use the messenger for your purpose as well, if that will suit you.’

‘That would serve me very well.’ Owen rose. ‘Thank you. I’ll bring them to you.’

‘Not tonight. I cannot predict who will assail me when I return to the hall. They’ll be safer with you until morning.’ After a pause, Michaelo asked, ‘So you doubt that the servant simply fell off the horse?’

Owen considered telling Michaelo of the cut strap, but there was no need. ‘Had he been anyone else’s servant, I might believe it was an accident, but the servant of Wykeham’s emissary?’ Owen shook his head. That seemed sufficient information for Michaelo.

‘You never did trust Wykeham.’

‘Can you recommend that I should?’

It was Michaelo’s turn to shake his head. ‘I thought he would never leave that autumn when he retreated to York to lick his wounds after being coerced to step down as Lord Chancellor. His Grace would clench his teeth and forget to breathe when the bishop was in the room. And, in the end, his ingratitude!’ Michaelo took a deep breath and sharply exhaled, as if blowing the memory away. Then he sighed again. ‘The handsome Dom Lambert is without a personal servant now. I’ve asked Jehannes’s man to assist him.’

So he had noticed the emissary. Owen smiled as he settled back down on the bench. ‘You are a most excellent host,’ he said.

‘All must go smoothly while the Princess of Wales is here. Sweet Jesu, is she not a vision of beauty and grace?’