Candace Robb - A Vigil of Spies

Geoffrey still sat on Owen’s pallet with his chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. But he looked up as soon as Owen was a few strides away.

‘So you don’t believe it was an accident?’ Owen asked, as he continued to dress, strapping on his belt, tugging a comb through his hair.

‘Had it been anyone else’s servant, perhaps. But Dom Lambert is the awkward addition to the company, someone who might have unpleasant business with the archbishop.’

He’d expressed Owen’s thoughts precisely. Perhaps Geoffrey could be of help. ‘Has he been treated differently from the others?’

‘On the journey he kept his counsel and removed himself for quiet prayer when we halted.’ Geoffrey screwed up his face. ‘Now that I consider it, he was often out of sight of the group.’

‘Did anyone accompany him?’

‘I wish I’d had the sense to notice.’

‘Did his servant, Will, go with him?’

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘No. He stayed with the other servants.’

‘It was the servant, not Dom Lambert, who fell,’ Owen pointed out. ‘You say you can imagine why the master might have been killed, but what about the servant?’

‘I’m assuming Lambert bears letters from Wykeham, and perhaps someone thought the servant carried them.’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘But that would explain a theft, not a servant’s death.’

‘Men do fall off their mounts, Geoffrey.’ Owen picked up his own pack in which he’d stuffed the smaller bag containing the servant’s belongings, having removed the damaged strap from the saddle before he’d gone to sleep. ‘I must attend His Grace. You are welcome to nap on my pallet.’

But, of course, Geoffrey fell in step with him. ‘I know the guests. You don’t.’

‘And what are we going to ask them — why did you push poor Will off his horse?’

Geoffrey laughed. ‘Why not? The question might startle someone to confess.’

Owen laughed as well. He’d forgotten what an agreeable companion Geoffrey could be, and the irresistible laugh the man had, as if mirth bubbled up in him from a deep, deep well.

More servants were moving about now out in the yard, and a heavyset nun, one of the two from the princess’s party, stood outside with the physician, Master Walter. She had her head bowed as she listened to him, nodding now and then. The physician spoke with a frowning earnestness, punctuating his words with grand gestures that took up a great deal more space than his short, slender, almost childish body would in repose. Owen and Geoffrey greeted the pair as they passed. Once in the hall, Owen bid his companion a good morning — whispering, for most still slept on the pallets lining the floor. This time Geoffrey said nothing, merely continuing on down the aisle that led to the fire.

Weak and often slight of breath, Thoresby had arranged to have his bedchamber moved from the solar above to his parlour beyond the great hall. Owen skirted the sleeping guests and found a cluster of servants outside the chamber door listening to instructions from the second nun. Tall, slender, with an authoritative air tempered by a melodious voice, she seemed absolutely in command. Brother Michaelo answered to Owen’s knock and drew him into the room, hastily closing the door.

‘Dame Clarice will be my undoing. She is contradicting all our arrangements, and inspiring me to extreme measures to silence her,’ Michaelo hissed, a tensely held bundle of righteous indignation. ‘If you wish to speak to His Grace, you must be quick; Master Walter will be here in a few moments.’

‘How is His Grace?’

Michaelo lowered his eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘As you see.’ Without the animation of his irritation, the monk’s exhausted state was more obvious, lines extending from inner eye to chin on either side of his mouth, shoulders sagging.

‘I need not bother him,’ said Owen. ‘I have the items we spoke of.’ Owen opened his pack and handed Michaelo the smaller one. ‘If I could have writing material, I’ll write a message for Lucie.’

‘Is that Archer?’ This morning Thoresby’s voice was hardly more than a frail wheeze.

Owen crossed himself and then tried to shake off any posture of grief, swallowing his emotion as he strode over to the bed. ‘It is, Your Grace.’

Richard Ravenser sat in a chair beside the archbishop, balancing rolls of parchment on his elegantly draped lap.

‘Good morning, Captain.’ Ravenser did not smile. He was a younger version of his uncle and looked this morning as the archbishop had when Owen had first met him — having them side by side emphasised for Owen how frail the old man who lay just beyond Ravenser was. Thoresby’s grizzled head propped on pillows, his watery eyes, the burst blood vessels on his cheeks from his frequent coughing — all this immeasurably saddened Owen.

‘Sir Richard.’ Owen bowed his head to Ravenser, then forced himself to make eye contact with Thoresby. ‘Your Grace.’

‘We know about Dom Lambert’s loss,’ said Ravenser, clearly hoping to cut Owen short.

But Owen had his duty. ‘His servant, yes. His saddle was weakened, Your Grace, the girth cut partway through.’

The emotion that passed across Ravenser’s face made it clear he’d no idea that Will’s death had not been an accident. ‘God help us,’ he said. ‘This is troubling news.’

‘It need not lead to more trouble,’ said Thoresby, speaking softly, ‘now that the company is here, surrounded by my guard.’

‘It was likely someone in the company who fixed the saddle,’ Owen said.

‘Then you have a heavy responsibility, Archer,’ said Thoresby, his voice a little stronger.

Of course he would say that. ‘I am sending his pack and wineskin to Lucie. If there is anything else unusual, my wife will find it.’

‘Good,’ said Thoresby. ‘We shall tell Lambert when we see him later.’

Without hesitation Owen shook his head.

‘We should not tell him?’ Thoresby seemed to perk up even more. No matter how ill he was, he did not like to be contradicted.

‘I advise keeping this to ourselves,’ said Owen. ‘I would rather the company knew nothing of this until I have something to tell them.’

‘I’ll consider this.’ Thoresby looked and sounded annoyed.

Owen wished he might insist that it be kept from the visitors, but, of course, he could not, having no right to do so. But he could plant seeds of doubt. ‘As for Lambert, there is always the possibility — though it might seem unlikely at present — that he is guilty.’

Thoresby began to cough and Ravenser leaned over with a cup of something — Owen guessed honeyed water.

‘Uncle?’ Ravenser straightened with a surprised expression that softened into a bemused smile. ‘He’s laughing,’ he said to Owen.

‘The pretty Dom Lambert arranging for his servant to fall off his horse,’ Thoresby gasped.

Ravenser grinned. ‘It does paint an improbable picture.’ He grew more serious. ‘But what if he asks for his servant’s possessions?’

‘With all the guests and extra staff, it is difficult to find anything at present. Make that excuse until we are at ease with telling him what we did with them or a messenger returns them.’

Ravenser nodded, looking relieved.

Owen was, for the most part, gratified that Thoresby and Ravenser seemed comfortable with his suggestion. He excused himself to write a message to Lucie, and afterwards departed.

A low stone wall warmed by a hot sun, lavender spears moving in a breeze so subtle he would not be aware of it were it not for the bobbing of the bloom-laden stalks. Thoresby fought to remain in the memory of his garden in York, but someone kept calling to him.

‘God’s blood, what do you want?’ he growled, opening his eyes to a stranger with very blond nose hairs. He’d never seen such fair nose hair. ‘Who are you?’