Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

‘She is indeed beautiful,’ said Owen. ‘Prince Edward is a most fortunate man in his marriage. Would that his health were better.’

‘Do you believe the rumours that Lancaster has his eyes on the throne?’

‘Whether or not I believe them is of no importance. It worries me that the clerics all around me believe them. If they did not, why would anyone care whether Alexander Neville is the next Archbishop of York? They dislike him because he is Lancaster’s man.’

Michaelo coughed. ‘There is more beneath their displeasure, Archer. I read the letters when Alexander Neville was fighting for the Archdeaconry of Cornwall. I witnessed the king’s fury over what Neville was doing in Avignon, whispering in the pope’s ear against our king’s choices, presenting petitions listing his complaints without the king’s permission — well, of course, since he knew full well that in all things he was going counter to the king’s interests.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘I intend to be far from York if Alexander Neville is chosen.’ Michaelo softly moaned. ‘God help us, Archer. That he is considered now is a sign of the king’s disinterest in his duty, God forgive me for my disrespect in saying so.’ He crossed himself.

‘I’ll not hand you over to the sheriff,’ Owen teased, ‘though you’ve added to the worry that’s burning my gut.’

‘You are worried about having a murderer among us.’

‘I am, and you’ve just pointed out to me afresh what an unsettled time this is. I did my best to enforce peace by convincing His Grace to send away his kin and the clerics from York Minster.’ Owen trusted the two who remained — Thoresby’s nephew, Richard Ravenser, because he knew Princess Joan; and Thoresby’s former personal secretary, Archdeacon Jehannes, because the archbishop found him a comforting presence in the wee hours, when he would read scripture to distract him from his wakefulness. ‘Most of the guards have served under me in the archbishop’s household for at least a year. And the few I added for this occasion I chose with care.’ He said nothing for a while, looking up at the stars. It had been a tense day, and now, with the spectre of trouble in the crowded palace and the rich food, he needed to move about in the night air before he might sleep with ease. He rose. ‘I need to walk. I’ve waited for Alfred long enough. Would you care to join me?’

Brother Michaelo shook his head as he rose. ‘I must see to the guests. Bring the items to His Grace’s chamber when you wake. And please, Archer, do not blame yourself for any troubles here. You have done all you could to keep the peace, and I have all confidence that you will continue to do so. His Grace could not ask for a more loyal captain and steward. It is the circumstance that is to blame. The death of the second most powerful churchman in the realm must needs be a time of strife, as everyone tries to influence the chapter at York Minster. Wykeham would have done better to send an emissary to the dean at the minster rather than the archbishop.’

‘You believe Wykeham sent Dom Lambert with information to sway the choice of Thoresby’s successor?’ Owen asked.

‘What else could it be?’

‘But quite ineffectual?’

Michaelo shrugged. ‘His Grace has washed his hands of it.’

‘Can he truly be indifferent?’

‘Now that his effort on the behalf of Sir Richard has failed? Yes, he can. He has made his peace with God, each breath requires painful, exhausting effort-’ Michaelo’s voice trembled. ‘His Grace is now beyond caring who succeeds him, though none keen on influencing the choice of his successor believe that. In the past he would have tried again, indignation spurring him to stronger measures, and they know that.’ He turned away from Owen, dabbing his eyes. Then, with forced gaiety, he said, ‘Ah. One of the princess’s ladies is abroad seeking the fresh night air. Lady Eleanor. Did you know that the other, Lady Sybilla, is a Neville by birth?’

‘No, I did not. Do you think she cares who succeeds John Thoresby?’

‘A cub out of that ambitious den of foxes? I’ve little doubt her family campaigned for her presence on this journey. Lady Eleanor, however, is said to be one of the princess’s favourites.’

‘Geoffrey Chaucer said all in the company find her agreeable.’

‘Your friend Geoffrey. He is retained by both the king and the Duke of Lancaster. Have a care what you share with him,’ said Michaelo.

‘I always do,’ said Owen.

‘I pray you sleep well,’ said Michaelo, and with a little bow, he swept away.

Owen stood for a moment watching Lady Eleanor stroll back and forth beyond the hall door. Something about her was so familiar. He had a fleeting memory of a chase through the gardens at Kenilworth, a bedchamber deserted in the middle of the afternoon, lavender scented sheets, a tinkling laughter that seemed ethereal. He’d yet to hear Lady Eleanor’s laugh. How solemn she was, how beautiful. Now she cocked her head, a sweet, graceful gesture, and he knew for certain it was the woman he had pursued for days, obsessed with her, and finally bedded, oh so long ago. The next day she had been spirited away. With a sigh, he headed away from the palace. He had enough troubles with a murderer loose in the palace.

Tuesday

The birdsong woke Owen at dawn. He lay with his eye still closed thinking that, for the birds to sound so loud, he must have forgotten to close the shutters before coming to bed. He should rise and close them or Lucie and the baby would be chilled. As he fought his way out of the fog of sleep, he became aware of a continuo of snores and sighs closer than the birdsong, and, gradually, he remembered he was not at home in York but in the archbishop’s stables at Bishopthorpe in the company of his men and some of the household servants. He need not worry about a shutter being ajar; he was not responsible for the comfort of all these folk. With that thought, he turned over to settle back into sleep, but a familiar tension in his neck and jaw reminded him that he’d gone to bed worried. In a few heartbeats, he remembered the death of Dom Lambert’s servant, the cut strap, and the items that he wanted Lucie and Magda to examine.

‘Awake at last,’ someone said.

That was sufficient to bring Owen fully awake. He propped himself up on one arm and discovered Geoffrey Chaucer sitting at the foot of his pallet looking quite recovered from his journey and last night’s wine. He wore no hat and his wet hair still held the marks of his comb. His clothing was finely made but drably coloured, as was his custom — a jester and poet in a magistrate’s costume.

‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked, dreading more bad news.

‘I am curious whether you believe Lambert’s servant’s death an accident.’

Remembering how irritating he’d found Geoffrey’s awkward attempts to help his investigations in Wales, Owen had no intention of confiding in him. He groaned. He’d had too little sleep, and it was too soon upon waking to have to work at avoiding a conversation. He felt round on the floor for his boots, which were not where he usually put them.

‘Do you see-’ he glanced up.

Geoffrey was dangling the boots at arm’s length. With an impish grin, he handed them to Owen. ‘I’ll wait here while you empty your bladder.’

‘That’s a comfort to me,’ Owen muttered. The man’s early-morning good humour irritated him.

Outside, Owen found few but the birds and several servants stirring. The sunrise washed the sky in watery blues and pinks but had not yet lit up the ground, which was vague with the mist of the dew rising. In the short time it took to relieve himself, Owen felt the damp seeping into his leggings. His joints creaked in complaint as he walked back to the barracks and his mind churned through insults and slights that might inspire Geoffrey to leave him alone.