The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8) Read online

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  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781446439296

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2002

  5 7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © Candace Robb 2002

  Candace Robb has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by

  William Heinemann

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099278306

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise

  About the Author

  Also by Candace Robb

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1. The Bishop’s Dread

  2. A Fire in Petergate

  3. Painful Remedies

  4. Rumination

  5. The Ruined Girdle

  6. Intrusions

  7. Undercurrents

  8. A Contradiction

  9. A Raging Grief

  10. The Stonemasons’ Tale

  11. Night Thoughts

  12. Troubling Discoveries

  13. A Lady’s Composure

  14. The Devil’s Sport

  15. Shambles

  16. An Unyielding Man

  17. A Change of Heart

  18. Physicks

  19. Revelations

  20. Compassion and Greed

  21 The Devious One

  22. Resolutions

  23. Departures

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  DEDICATION

  In memory of two dear men lost to me this year, Dad (Benjamin Chestochowski, 9 March 1920–12 August 2001) and Uncle John (John Wojak, 7 August 1925–3 January 2001).

  Acclaim for Candace Robb:

  ‘Ellis Peters has a cohort of pretenders snapping at her heels … most impressive of the bunch is Candace Robb. A definite tip for tomorrow.’ Time Out

  ‘Robb deftly interweaves a complex story of love, passion and murder into the troubled and tangled fabric of Welsh history, fashioning a rich and satisfying novel’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘A superb medieval mystery, thoroughly grounded in historical fact’ Booklist

  ‘Gripping and believable … you can almost smell the streets of 14th-century York as you delve deeper into an engrossing plot’ Prima

  ‘Meticulously researched, authentic and gripping’ Yorkshire Post

  ‘Hugely, but subtly, detailed … complex, ambiguous and gripping. The resolution had me guessing almost to the very end’ Historical Novels Review

  THE CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT

  Candace Robb studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. The Owen Archer series grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous 14th century; the first in the series, The Apothecary Rose, was published in 1994, at which point she began to write full-time. In addition to the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada and America, her novels are published in France, Germany, Spain, Denmark, Italy and Holland, and she is also available in the UK on audiobook and in large print.

  In addition to the Owen Archer novels, she is the author of three Margaret Kerr Mysteries, set in Scotland at the time of Robert the Bruce.

  The Cross-Legged Knight is the eighth Owen Archer novel.

  Also by Candace Robb

  THE APOTHECARY ROSE

  THE LADY CHAPEL

  THE NUN’S TALE

  THE KING’S BISHOP

  THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S

  A GIFT OF SANCTUARY

  A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER

  THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS

  A VIGIL OF SPIES

  The Margaret Kerr Mysteries

  A TRUST BETRAYED

  THE FIRE IN THE FLINT

  A CRUEL COURTSHIP

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to Ed Robb for bringing to bear his 35 years of expertise in research at Shriners Children’s Hospital, a pediatric hospital for burns, in answering my many questions about burns and the healing methods available to Magda Digby; to Charlie Robb for all his support, particularly in mapping the city of York, describing the archbishop’s palace, and brainstorming on the plot; to Lynne Drew, Sara Ann Freed, Evan Marshall, and Patrick Walsh for patience and sympathetic support during a difficult year; to Joyce Gibb, Laura Hodges, and my generous colleagues on Chaucernet, Medfem, and Mediev-1 for advice and comraderie throughout this project; and to Jacqui, Mark, Nathaniel and Emily Weberding for their boundless love and compassion.

  PROLOGUE

  October 1371

  William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester and late Lord Chancellor of England, sat in the mottled shade of Archbishop Thoresby’s rose arbour wiping his irritated eyes and cursing all that had brought him riding to York four days ago. The horses’ hooves had stirred up summer’s dust and the mould from the autumn leaves. He and his entourage had ridden with cloths covering their faces from their chins to the bridges of their noses. Wykeham might have pampered himself within the curtains of a litter, but he had not wished anyone to misconstrue such a nicety, spread word that he had hidden from the curious along the way, or, worse yet, that he was ill, weak. So he had ridden north on the King’s Highway with his men, regretting that the rains of autumn had held off for his journey to York.

  They had stopped frequently and broken their journey early in the evenings. Wykeham would have preferred a brisker pace, but now that the chain of lord chancellor no longer weighed down his neck, he did not push his men, for they, too, as his household, had lost stature this past year. It was not as fine to be the household officers of the Bishop of Winchester as it had been to be the officers of the lord chancellor of the realm. Wykeham wanted them content. His enemies would be only too happy to make alliances with his staff.

  He had used the time to pick at his wounded dignity. God knew he could have found better occupation for his hours in the saddle, but he was weak, too proud, he knew that of himself.

  Their small wagon had creaked and groaned over the ruts in the road, its cargo the heart of a York knight who had gone in his dotage to France as a spy and had been caught and imprisoned, dying there while Wykeham was negotiating his ransom. The Pagnell
family were making much of what they considered Wykeham’s failure, though he was of the opinion that Sir Ranulf Pagnell had simply been a foolish old man. However, as the family was influential in Lancastrian circles Wykeham had tried to appease them by escorting Sir Ranulf’s remains to York, the heart that he had coaxed from the French king with his own money. The Pagnells did not think even this sufficient retribution. For all his efforts, Wykeham was not to preside at the knight’s requiem. Indeed, he had not even been invited to attend.

  As Wykeham sat in the archbishop’s garden, miserable in his self-pity, a shadow fell across him and the scent of lavender drew him from his thoughts. He squinted up, his eyes watering in the light. Brother Michaelo, the archbishop’s elegant secretary, stood before him.

  Wykeham assumed the monk had come to deliver a message. ‘What news from Lady Pagnell?’

  Michaelo bowed his head slightly. ‘The lady sends her apologies, but she cannot meet with you until her departed husband’s month’s mind.’

  Wykeham bristled. ‘How can there be a one-month mass for Sir Ranulf when we know not the date of his death?’

  ‘She means a month from his burial, My Lord Bishop, a month from tomorrow.’

  Lady Pagnell and her son and heir, Stephen, were being guided in this shunning of him by their Lancastrian friends, Wykeham was sure of it. But to press her would merely inspire accusations of cruelty to the widow in her mourning. He could ill afford to make himself more unpopular in the city than he already was.

  Brother Michaelo held up to him a glass vial. ‘If I might suggest, My Lord Bishop, a soothing wash for your eyes? This is from Captain Archer’s wife. She is as skilled as any apothecary you might have in Winchester.’

  Wykeham grunted. ‘I am in your debt. Take it to my servant. I shall try it later.’

  ‘I could assist you in applying a few drops now, My Lord Bishop.’

  And make him look a fool, with the liquid staining his face, his silk clothing. ‘To my servant, Brother Michaelo.’

  The monk bowed and withdrew.

  Wykeham fell back into his dudgeon. Ungrateful family, the Pagnells. But they would see, he would not idle away the rest of his life waiting on the likes of Lady Pagnell. The king would have him back.

  He shaded his eyes and gazed upon the great minster across the garden. A building project would be to his liking right now. As he rode north he had thought about the ruined church of All Saints in Laughton-en-le-Morthen. Though it was no longer his prebend, he meant to rebuild it. He rose with a thought to observe the work on the minster lady chapel, a better occupation than wallowing in self-pity.

  Wishing to be truly free for a little while, Wykeham watched the household guards for a chance to depart unescorted. He felt like a truant schoolboy as he hurried through the gate and towards the minster. Winded and silently laughing at his foolishness, he almost forgot the grit in his eyes, but soon the burning began anew. He caught his breath and dabbed at his eyes, determined to enjoy this moment alone.

  To his left the south side of the minster nave soared above him, to his right St Michael-le-Belfrey cast a late-afternoon shadow. As he rounded the south transept his view of the construction was blocked by a huge mound of stones and tiles butted up against what had been the far south-east corner of the minster before work on the lady chapel began. The church of St Mary ad Valvas had been dismantled to create room for the construction, and the stones and tiles were being reused, though much of them merely for rubble within the walls. Skirting the mound Wykeham saw two men chiselling stones in the mason’s lodge. As he considered whether to interrupt their work a shout startled him.

  ‘My Lord, drop down and cover your head!’

  He did as he was told, and just in time. A heavy clay tile thudded on to the path a hand’s breadth short of him, cracking on impact. He curled into himself so tightly he had difficulty breathing. But he would not lift his head; he dared not. He did not mean to play Saint Thomas Becket to the Duke of Lancaster’s Henry II. He would not be so easily murdered.

  One

  THE BISHOP’S

  DREAD

  Owen Archer feared the worst as he crouched beside the unmoving figure. ‘My Lord, are you injured?’

  As he was searching for a pulse the bishop stirred beneath him. Slowly Wykeham raised his head. ‘Archer, I do not think I am injured.’ He was very pale and his breathing shallow.

  By now masons and soldiers crowded round the kneeling pair, and Alain, one of the bishop’s clerks, assisted Owen in helping Wykeham to stand.

  ‘My Lord –’ Alain shook debris from his master’s robes.

  Once on his feet Wykeham held himself erect. ‘I must remove myself from the danger,’ he said, stumbling.

  The clerk caught his arm. Excellent reflexes for a man who looked to Owen a pampered noble. The crowd parted for Wykeham and Alain. Owen followed close behind.

  Halfway through the palace garden the bishop’s other clerk accosted Owen. ‘Your men were to guard Bishop William,’ Guy said, shielding his eyes and squinting at Owen. He had the ruined sight and stained fingers of a scholar.

  ‘Your master has much experience on building sites,’ Owen said. ‘He knows they are unsafe, that he must have a care.’

  ‘Are you calling him careless?’ Guy demanded.

  One of Thoresby’s servants saved Owen, summoning him to the archbishop’s parlour.

  ‘I shall see to Bishop William,’ Brother Michaelo assured him.

  As Owen entered Thoresby’s parlour the ageing archbishop reached down to a fist-sized clump of something on the table before him and poked idly at it, making it flake and finally crumble.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Owen said.

  Thoresby did not look up. ‘Crushed stone,’ he said. ‘Better than a crushed skull, that is what you are thinking.’ Now the archbishop raised his head, fixed his deep-set eyes on Owen. ‘But you must do much better than that, Archer. Wykeham’s enemies must not find him easy prey while he is a guest in my household.’ Aged he might be, but when Thoresby spoke in such a quiet voice it raised the hackles on Owen’s neck as it always had.

  ‘It might have been an accident, Your Grace.’

  ‘He must not have accidents while here.’

  ‘He would have been safe had he not slipped away.’

  ‘It is your duty to ensure his safety with or without his co-operation.’

  A curse rose in Owen’s throat, but he swallowed it back.

  ‘How did this happen, Archer?’

  ‘He chafes at such close guard, Your Grace.’

  ‘Chafes,’ Thoresby growled, turning away. ‘Has there ever lived a being more dangerous to himself than this obstinate and contradictory bishop? He swallows his pride to appease friends of Lancaster, but rides openly across the country to prove he is not afraid of the duke, belatedly worries about his safety and demands a constant guard, then escapes his guard to prove – what? Damn him.’ The archbishop turned back, his bony face twisted in temper. ‘He won’t be caught here in York, Archer, I won’t have it!’ He pounded the table, flattening the pile of crushed stone.

  Owen knew his best defence was silence.

  Thoresby pressed his temples and muttered a prayer, composing himself. ‘Perhaps he realizes he has overestimated his importance to Lancaster.’

  Owen judged it safe to speak. ‘I do wonder about this issue with the duke. He is sailing home with his new wife, aye, and will be closer to Wykeham than he has been in a long while. But he comes to plot his acquisition of the crown of Castile and León, does he not?’ Lancaster had recently wed Constance, the daughter of the late King Pedro of Castile. ‘He has far more important things to consider than his irritation with the bishop.’

  ‘Lancaster’s net is wide, his coffers deep, and the number of his retainers greater than that of any man in the realm save his father the king. Wykeham is right to fear him. But I do not understand this chafing you speak of. He asked for my protection. Indeed, he asked for you by name. Have you of
fended him, Archer?’

  ‘If I have, I know not how.’ Owen did not like the way Thoresby was studying him.

  ‘He has asked many questions about your time in Wales. You were working for Lancaster – I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘On your orders, Your Grace.’ Owen did not believe Thoresby had forgotten that. He had recommended Owen to the duke. Owen had not gone willingly. The inducement had been the opportunity to accompany his father-in-law Sir Robert on a pilgrimage to the holy city of St David’s, fulfilling a dream that Owen could not deny the elderly man. Owen’s assistance had been Thoresby’s gift to Lancaster to ensure his continuing favour now that Thoresby and the king were at odds.

  ‘You returned long after the work for which Lancaster said he needed you had been completed.’ Thoresby’s expression grew cold. ‘Perhaps Wykeham knows something I do not, is that it? I did not ask enough questions about that time? Did Lancaster give you any instructions to which I was not privy?’

  This was a twist Owen had not anticipated, that Wykeham mistrusted his Lancastrian connections. He prayed Thoresby could not see the twitching of his blind eye beneath the patch. ‘He did not speak of the Bishop of Winchester.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘He spoke only of the missions you know of.’ It was ludicrous for Thoresby to question Owen so. ‘I chose to serve you rather than the Duke of Lancaster.’

  ‘That was many years ago. A man can change his mind. What did you do in St David’s?’

  ‘Your Grace, you know that I remained on the orders of the Archdeacon of St David’s.’

  ‘I know some of the tale, but I do not believe I know all.’

  And Owen did not wish him to know more. For in Wales Owen had been indiscreet – to the point of treason. But it had to do with the desire of his Welsh countrymen to thrust off the yoke of England, not with Lancaster’s machinations. It was quite possible that Wykeham knew of Owen’s flirtation with treason, having been Lord Chancellor at the time. Owen had thought himself safe. It was over a year ago that he had returned and in that time no one had confronted him about it. Perhaps there had simply been no need to use the information until now.