A Vigil of Spies (Owen Archer Book 10) Read online

  ‘This does not sound spiritual to Magda.’

  ‘No. If the pope and his archbishops and bishops are carrying out their duties, they have little time for the spiritual life.’ He dropped his gaze, embarrassed by this admission. In boasting of his temporal power, he’d emphasised his spiritual poverty. It was then that he’d realised that he’d sought out Magda not just as a healer but also as a spiritual guide, sensing in her a depth of soul that he no longer found in himself.

  ‘And the princess?’ Magda had asked. ‘What is her purpose in disturbing thee?’

  Something in her voice suggested that she sensed his discomfort and meant to change the subject. Thoresby was grateful.

  ‘Princess Joan might also wish to influence the chapter’s vote, but her main purpose is to hear my thoughts on whom she might trust to support her young son if his father dies betimes.’

  ‘These are heavy matters for thy sickbed,’ said Magda.

  ‘Ah, but there is a promise of blue sky behind the impending clouds – Princess Joan is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever encountered, fair of face and figure, gentle and kind. She will light up this pathetic sickroom. That is a measure of God’s grace.’

  Magda had found that amusing.

  ‘You leave shortly, Dame Magda?’ he asked now, though as he spoke the words he heard them echo in his mind and knew that he’d asked this already, her response lost in his sometimes muddled mind.

  ‘In a little while, Thy Grace,’ she said. ‘Magda and Alisoun will go to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary for physicks and a rest, and then return in a few days, when thy royal visitor is not so likely to take note of common healers.’

  She looked him in the eyes as she spoke, not alarmed that he’d forgotten her plans, steady in her resolve, in all things a comfort to him.

  A few days. He prayed that he lived so long and was still awake and aware upon her return.

  ‘You will remind Dame Lucie to bring my godchildren?’ Gwenllian, Hugh and Emma Archer, the children of Lucie Wilton and Owen Archer, his captain of the guard, were his godchildren, and he was very fond of them.

  Magda nodded. ‘They will kiss thy brow before thou dost take thy leave, if Magda can make that possible. Thou mightst pray to thy god for that as well.’

  ‘You know that I have.’ He smiled as he closed his eyes, but opened them with one more request. ‘Ask her to bring her adopted son as well, young Jasper. He is an admirable lad.’

  ‘Magda will include Jasper.’

  Strange old crow, Magda thought, as she glanced around the chamber. Silken hangings and bed coverings, embroidered cushions and finely carved chairs, the finest wines, broths made with the best ingredients – and Magda in her gown of multi-coloured rags in charge. She chuckled to herself. John Thoresby had proven to be an unexpectedly complex man of quiet wisdom, surprisingly inspiring love. She was honoured that he trusted her to care for him – she had not expected to feel so. She would mourn his passing.

  Plumes of vapour floated just above the roadbed as the hot afternoon sun shone down on the mud from a week of rain. September had begun with a touch of autumn, but it now seemed like high summer again, except for the cool evenings. Though they stood their posts, well aware of their captain’s watchfulness, the archbishop’s guards squinted against the glare when the steam shifted.

  No one was more aware of the glare than Captain Owen Archer, who disliked anything that caused his one good eye to tear, effectively blinding him. Those with two functioning eyes could not appreciate their immense gift – he had not when so blessed. He sent his lieutenant, Alfred, to admonish those whose attention wandered from the road. He wanted no missteps in the plan for his men to encircle the company of the Princess of Wales as they entered Bishopthorpe, ensuring that they and only they entered the yard of Archbishop Thoresby’s palace.

  Owen heard the travelling party before they rode out of the woods. Horses and wagons, clopping and creaking. The herald sounded his horn as he came within sight of Owen and his men, armed and mounted and commanding the road. Owen bowed and sheathed his sword, signalling his men to begin closing in around the last of the princess’s party as it halted. Knights, soldiers, clerics, a nun and a lady were on horseback, accompanied by several carts. From the cart in the centre hung with gaily-painted fabric, a heavily veiled head emerged and then quickly withdrew. The two knights dismounted – one was much younger than the other. As Owen dismounted, he noticed the usual apprehension on their faces as the knights took in his scars, the patch over his left eye.

  ‘Captain Archer.’ The older knight bowed. ‘Sir Lewis Clifford. And this is Sir John Holand.’

  ‘Sir Lewis. Sir John.’ Owen was especially interested in the younger knight, Princess Joan’s son by her first husband, Thomas Holand. Joan’s marital history had been the talk of the realm on several occasions. As a girl of twelve, being raised in the household of the Earl of Salisbury, she had been secretly betrothed to the young Thomas Holand. But, when he was away, making his name and fortune in Prussia, her guardian had married her to his son and heir, William Montague. On returning to England Thomas Holand had petitioned the pope to overturn her marriage to William Montague in favour of her earlier secret, but still legitimate, marriage to him, and eventually won her back. In widow-hood, she had won the heart of Prince Edward and, once again, entered into a clandestine marriage. Upon discovering it, King Edward had been furious, having intended to use his heir’s marriage for a political alliance outside the realm. But, in the end, he settled for dissolving the vows made in secret and solemnising the marriage with a more official, traditional, public ceremony. Joan’s sons by Thomas Holand would never be kings, but her son by Prince Edward would, in his turn, be heir to the throne; Owen was curious how that sat with the half-brother, whether he harboured any resentment, any ambitions beyond his station.

  ‘I am relieved to see a seasoned soldier in charge.’ Sir Lewis looked Owen in his good eye; his own were red and tired, and the dust of the road picked out the lines of fatigue on his square, tanned face. ‘I had heard you were wounded in the service of Henry of Grosmont.’

  ‘It was my great honour to serve him.’ Grosmont had been Duke of Lancaster, a duchy now held by Princess Joan’s brother-in-law, John of Gaunt, the second-oldest living son of King Edward III.

  ‘I have heard you had risen to the rank of captain of archers in Lancaster’s service. You were much honoured by a noble commander,’ said young Sir John.

  Though he did not speak it, Owen heard in that last comment Sir John’s incredulity that a Welshman had been so trusted. Once again he wondered whether the young man felt shoved aside, one who feels outside the honoured circle being more keenly aware of another outsider.

  Someone in the knights’ company cut short a chuckle by coughing. Owen glanced up and met the amused eyes of Geoffrey Chaucer. His stomach knotted. Geoffrey’s presence was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. The man had a penchant for uninvited interference and a passion for gossip. The latter was of concern to Owen not only for what might transpire at Bishopthorpe but also for what had happened in the past. Geoffrey and Owen had once travelled together to Wales in the service of John of Gaunt, the current Duke of Lancaster. Geoffrey knew that Owen, a Welshman, resented the treatment of his people by the English, and he might know that Owen had been approached to stay to help his people. He was also well aware of how Holand’s implied comment would rankle.

  ‘God’s grace was upon me,’ said Owen, returning his attention to the knights. ‘Sir Lewis, Sir John, His Grace the Archbishop of York is honoured to welcome Her Grace the Princess of Wales to his palace of Bishopthorpe. Your travelling party is now in his protection.’ In truth, the troop of Owen’s guards led by Gilbert, his second most trusted man, had shadowed the company since noon, but the escort was now visible and solidly surrounding it. The safety of the beloved wife of Prince Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Lord of Aquitaine, was worth Owen’s life and that of all his men.
/>   ‘We’ve had a tragic loss this day,’ said Sir Lewis. ‘A servant fell from his horse, his neck broken. His body is in one of the carts.’

  Here began the trouble Owen had dreaded. He crossed himself. ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘We’ve no cause to think otherwise,’ said Sir Lewis, but his eyes belied his words.

  Owen’s scarred and blinded eye prickled and ached with foreboding. ‘We will arrange for his burial, if you wish,’ he said. He would examine the body, see what he might glean. A long journey without accident, and then a death at the approach to Bishopthorpe meant further danger, Owen was certain.

  The knights bowed again and stepped back beside Princess Joan’s cart.

  Composing himself, Owen greeted Geoffrey Chaucer, who looked plumper and more prosperous than when last they had met. He had regular features and was a well-built man, but for his short legs. It was his eyes one noticed, alert and amused, taking in the world and giving little back. He dismounted with a happy grin.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Owen. ‘I’d not thought to see you here.’ Not that it was inappropriate, as Geoffrey was in the household of the king, Joan’s father-in-law, but he had not been included in the description of the travelling party.

  ‘I was fortunate to hear about this journey in time to promote my services – my acquaintance with the archbishop’s personal secretary and his captain of guard,’ said Geoffrey, with glee in his voice. He was here to revel in gossip and high drama, Owen guessed. ‘It is good to see you again, Owen. I pray I have the opportunity to call on your family in York.’

  Although they had worked together on several occasions, they had never met each other’s families, except for Owen’s late father-in-law, who had travelled with them into Wales. Owen’s wife, Lucie, had long been curious about Geoffrey. ‘I would like that,’ he said.

  ‘Good. So would I.’ Geoffrey gave Owen a little bow and returned to his horse.

  With very mixed feelings – relief, anticipation, anxiety – Owen led the company into the yard of Bishopthorpe. The procession moved along smoothly and they were whisked within into the expert hands of Brother Michaelo while Bishopthorpe’s grooms and pages helped those of the princess’s party see to the beasts and carts.

  Owen watched as a noblewoman, blessed with the vitality and grace of youth, climbed down from the largest cart and offered her arm to one who followed, the one he’d glimpsed veiled and cloaked against the dust of the road. White veil, green cloak – the colours of Prince Edward. Sir Lewis rushed forward and lifted Princess Joan out of the cart and onto solid ground. Owen observed the exquisite fluidity of the veils, the green cloak, and the woman’s lyrical gait as she approached, and he remembered thinking of Princess Joan as moving with the grace of a willow when he’d seen her at court and at Kenilworth, when he was in the old duke’s household. He’d not thought about Kenilworth in a long while, resisting the memories that quickly rose of lost friends.

  ‘She is a vision, is she not?’

  Archdeacon Jehannes must have been standing beside Owen for several seconds. His youthful face and his apparent excitement gave him a boyish air. Owen felt a momentary resentment – Jehannes was able to enjoy the moment because, as Archdeacon of York, he was too valuable to the next archbishop to be anxious about his future. But the feeling passed, for Jehannes deserved all the good that came his way.

  ‘The Princess of Wales is pleasing to look on, but her presence is troublesome in the circumstances,’ said Owen.

  ‘I agree.’ Jehannes grew serious, shaking his head as he watched the approaching group. ‘I do not entirely understand why His Grace agreed to this excitement. He has sought calm and equanimity in our evening conversations and in the Bible passages he chooses for me to read. Perhaps he welcomes a fair distraction, eh? It is not my place to judge – nor did he ask for my opinion.’ Jehannes smiled. ‘He desires me to escort Princess Joan to his chamber that he might greet her. Pray that all goes smoothly.’

  When the princess lifted her veil to receive Jehannes’s greeting, Owen noticed the lines around her mouth and eyes and a slackening of the flesh – the little that showed within the confines of the wimple. She was Owen’s age or more, in her forties. Yet her eyes, her complexion, the grace, the smile that lit up her face – even now she was, indeed, most fair.

  Once she, Jehannes and her ladies passed – one of them carrying a squawking pet monkey secured by a jewelled leash – Owen moved to the body that had been lifted from a cart and placed on the ground. It was wrapped in a heavy cloth. Gesturing towards two squires looking on, Owen ordered them to carry the body to the stables beyond the palace.

  ‘And bring whatever he’d carried on the horse, including the saddle,’ he said.

  To be powerful is to be isolated from most of one’s fellow men – this had been the unhappiest discovery of Thoresby’s career. As Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, he’d learned that few people approached him in sincere friendship, few gestures were uncalculated. Even his long friendship with the king had changed with his higher status; eventually they could no longer agree to disagree.

  In his long life in the Church and at court, Thoresby had gathered around him a few people he implicitly trusted. For the rest, he maintained a healthy and self-protecting doubt. Few people were who they would have him believe they were. So it followed that he harboured no illusions about the princess’s visit, nor did he imagine that those who accompanied her were there without purpose.

  ‘A vigil of spies,’ he muttered.

  ‘What, Uncle?’ Richard Ravenser said, startled from a doze in the chair beside Thoresby’s bed. ‘Spies?’ Ravenser was Master of St Leonard’s Hospital in York and a canon of York Minster, as well as a prebend of Beverley Minster, and, until Queen Philippa’s death, her receiver. Despite his extensive responsibilities, he’d been most attentive to his uncle in his illness, clearly out of sincere affection. Though Thoresby often chided his nephew for being a peacock in dress, he trusted him implicitly and believed he would have been a good choice for the next Archbishop of York. Ravenser had said little about his lost opportunity, though his disappointment was plain in his subdued manner – and his chronic headaches had increased in frequency.

  ‘I was reminding myself of what we discussed earlier. We must keep our counsel and pray that the company bides here in peace and then departs in peace.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Ravenser.

  They both looked towards the door as voices crowded the hall outside.

  ‘It begins,’ said Thoresby.

  The stables were the temporary quarters for Owen’s men and those palace servants who’d been shifted to provide space for the guests. Most slept above in the hay, though Owen and a few others would set up their cots on the main floor in the workroom. It was there he’d had them place the body.

  Alfred, Owen’s second in command, had appeared, having a good nose for trouble. The balding, gangly man already looked weary. When they were alone, Owen told him what he knew.

  ‘You doubt it is a simple matter of a clumsy rider,’ said Alfred.

  ‘Were it anyone else’s servant, I might find it easier to believe, but he was the servant of the emissary from the Bishop of Winchester.’

  They exchanged an uncomfortable look. William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, had drawn trouble to himself a few years earlier on a visit to York. When he’d been Lord Chancellor and a favourite of King Edward, he had made many enemies, most importantly the powerful John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.

  ‘Ah, trouble indeed.’ Alfred nodded as he touched the wineskin the dead man had carried on his saddle. ‘Perhaps he was drunk?’

  ‘Then someone will have noticed it,’ said Owen. ‘I hope I am wrong. Come. Let’s see what else we might learn.’

  In silence, they unwrapped the body. There was little to see. Bruises on his face, and his head and right arm at odd angles.

  ‘Pulled his shoulder out of joint,’ said Owen.

  They drew off the man’s tunic.
r />   Alfred nodded. ‘If he was not already dead, that must have hurt like the devil.’ He lifted the man’s right hand. ‘See the palm?’

  ‘Burned by the reins. He held on tightly, eh? I might be wrong, but I would think that a man falling asleep in the saddle would loosen his grip on the reins before falling. Now, if he’d died astride …’

  ‘Do you mean his heart stopped?’ Alfred considered the corpse. ‘In truth, he was not so young, but not that old.’ Gently, with the back of his hand, he touched the man’s cheek. ‘I’ll be him one day. I don’t like to think of that. Do we have a name for him?’

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Poor Will.’ Alfred touched the discoloured neck. ‘We mean no disrespect.’

  Owen wondered what event in Alfred’s life had brought on this mood, for he’d often seen dead men before without musing on his own end. It was not like him. ‘What of the saddle?’ he asked, wanting to draw his second back to the world of the living.

  Alfred shrugged his shoulders hard and shook out his hands, as if waking himself, and then hoisted the saddle up onto the table. It was worn but quite serviceable, well maintained, the leather supple, with a pouch for a wineskin and a strap that secured a scabbard – though the latter was empty. ‘Look.’ He’d turned over the girth where it had come apart.

  ‘Perhaps it snapped from his weight as he fell.’

  ‘Look again,’ said Alfred, holding it to Owen’s good eye.

  Owen brought the lamp closer and saw what Alfred saw. Underneath, the strap had been cleanly cut partway through by a sharp blade.

  ‘Will fell as it snapped,’ said Alfred.