A Vigil of Spies

By Candace Robb

Will the Archbishop of York's final days be spent in peace? As the race to be his successor gathers pace, Owen must catch a determined killer who dwells among the archbishop's guests at Bishopthorpe Palace.

York, 1373: While the Archbishop of York, John Thorseby, lies gravely ill, the Princess of Wales visits him at Bishopthorpe Palace with an entourage from the royal household.

A GATHERING TO DIE FOR.

Princess Joan's presence in York gives the king's enemies an opportunity to strike, but it seems that danger lies closer to home when one of her servants is discovered dead. Was it an accident, or does a murderer lurk among the guests?

THE STAKES COULDN'T BE HIGHER . . .

As Owen investigates the other members of the princess's travelling party, a heinous act is discovered in the palace woods. Someone is determined to influence the choice of Thoresby's successor . . . Can Owen Archer catch the culprit and ensure that the archbishop's final days are spent in peace?

THE OWEN ARCHER MYSTERIES
1. The Apothecary Rose
2. The Lady Chapel
3. The Nun's Tale
4. The King's Bishop
5. The Riddle of St. Leonard's
6. The Gift of Sanctuary
7. A Spy for the Redeemer
8. The Cross-Legged Knight
9. The Guilt of Innocents
10. A Vigil of Spies
11. A Conspiracy of Wolves
12. A Choir of Crows
13. The Riverwoman's Dragon
14. A Fox in the Fold

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781448313334

Candace Robb

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of eleven previous Owen Archer mysteries and three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries.

Book preview

Contents

Cover

Also by Candace Robb from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Map

Epigraph

Prologue

1. A Goodly Company

2. Whom to Trust?

3. A Trifle

4. Into the Woods

5. False Indulgences

6. Mission to Nun Appleton

7. Missed Opportunities

8. A Woman’s Woe

9. Despair

10. Welcomes and Farewells

Epilogue

Author’s Note

For Further Reading

Read on for an extract of A Conspiracy of Wolves

Also by Candace Robb from Severn House

The Owen Archer mysteries

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 CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT

THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS

A VIGIL OF SPIES

A CONSPIRACY OF WOLVES

A CHOIR OF CROWS

THE RIVERWOMAN’S DRAGON

A FOX IN THE FOLD

A VIGIL OF SPIES

Candace Robb

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This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in the UK in 2008 by Century,

An imprint of Penguin Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Rd, London SW1V 2SA.

This eBook edition first published in the USA in 2023 by Severn House,

an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

severnhouse.com

Copyright © Candace Robb, 2008

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1340-2 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1333-4 (e-book)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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To all those with the courage to open their hearts.

Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries

Robb reinforces her place among the top writers of medieval historicals

Publishers Weekly Starred Review

Recommended for fans of other historical writers such as C.J. Sansom, Ellis Peters, and Sharon Kay Penman

Library Journal

As full of intrigue as a Deighton or a Le Carré

The Guardian

Gripping and believable … you can almost smell the streets of 14th-century York

Prima

A superb medieval mystery, thoroughly grounded in historical fact

Booklist

Meticulously researched, authentic and gripping

Yorkshire Evening Post

An utterly delightful jaunt!

Historical Novels Review

Robb puts the history back into the historical mystery

Kirkus Reviews

About the author

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of the Owen Archer mystery series, three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries, the Margaret Kerr trilogy and two historical novels written as Emma Campion.

candacerobbbooks.com

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Anthony Goodman for his insights into Joan of Kent, shared over a long, happily drawn out lunch on a warm afternoon in the courtyard of St William’s College, York; Carolyn Collette for generously sharing her research on Joan; Laura Hodges for her expertise in the clothing of the period; Lorraine Stock for tracking down an obscure but important article about Alexander Neville; Laurel Broughton for finding just the right epigraph from Geoffrey’s pen; Barbara Johnson for asking the right question about what Thoresby means to me. My friends on Chaucernet have been sources of ideas and information for the character of Geoffrey Chaucer and details of the age. I wish to thank Georgina Hawtrey-Woore and Patrick Walsh for early input on the manuscript, and Joyce Gibb for a thorough reading of the complete draft. I am, as ever, grateful to my husband Charlie for his support behind the scenes.

Glossary

coney: rabbit

cotehardie: a tight tunic for men, a long tight-fitting gown for women

girth: cinch on a western saddle

jupon: a tight tunic, usually without sleeves

Order of the Garter: a society of lay knights founded by Edward III in 1348-9, dedicated to St George, its device a blue garter; the first group including 26 knights

scrip: a small bag, wallet, or satchel

solar: private room or rooms on an upper level of a house

staithe: wharf

surcoat: an outer coat, or garment, usually of rich material; if wearing armour, this would be worn over the armour, whereas the jupon would be worn under the armour

map_VS

…certeinly a man hath moost honour

To dyen in his excellence and flour,

Whan he is siker of his goode name;

Thanne hath he doon his freend, ne hym, no shame.

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Knight’s Tale

Oh! what a tangled web we weave

When first we practice to deceive!

Sir Walter Scott

Prologue

Bishopthorpe Palace, late September 1373

Archbishop Thoresby held up his hand to silence Brother Michaelo’s arguments. ‘God’s will does not align with ours, Michaelo. We tried and failed. The chapter will not choose my nephew Richard to succeed me. It is finished.’

Though His Grace’s voice was weak, his personal secretary heard in it the clear resolve. He reminded himself of the fourth step of humility in St Benedict’s rule, To go even further than [simple obedience] by readily accepting in patient and silent endurance, without thought of giving up or avoiding the issue, any hard and demanding things that may come our way in the course of that obedience…We are encouraged to such patience by the words of scripture: Whoever perseveres to the very end will be saved. Bowing, Michaelo began to back away from the great bed.

‘I had not realized how much you had set your heart on Richard succeeding me,’ said Thoresby. ‘Why, Michaelo?’

In his mind’s eye Michaelo was back at the wretched day ten years earlier when he lay at the entrance to the abbey oratory, his forehead pressed to the cold, indifferently cleaned tiles, while his brethren shuffled past him. A few stumbled on his robes, one grazed his foot, another kicked his right hand. Then came a long silence in which his attempts to pray that this prostration might signal his repentance and his humility were overridden by his self-loathing. He could not believe that God wished to hear him. Ten years in Thoresby’s service had restored his belief, his ability to pray. He’d believed that in the service of Richard Ravenser he would yet be safe from himself.

‘I cannot return to St Mary’s Abbey, Your Grace.’

‘That choice passed with Abbot Campion’s death. We spoke of a modest priory in Normandy where you might retreat into silent prayer. My nephew will see to that.’

A small priory in his native Normandy, near his kin, in perpetual retreat. Michaelo knew it to be a wise choice, and yet he doubted his ability to surrender to it. He was but thirty-five, too young to die to the world. He doubted that years of silent prayer and mortification of the flesh could protect him from the inevitable encounter with a young monk who stirred his desire. This was the devil undermining his courage. The devil who knew him.

‘God go with you, Your Grace,’ Michaelo murmured, then turned and withdrew from the sickroom. Alone in the corridor he slumped against the wall and prayed for the strength to remain by His Grace’s side to the end, for the fortitude to resist the terror that bade him flee before despair overcame him. As the archbishop’s personal secretary Michaelo had found his way to grace as if residing in the presence of a man of grace had transformed him. But he feared for his strength once Thoresby died, and his death was imminent. The archbishop would not live to see another Christmas, so predicted the healer Magda Digby. Brother Michaelo felt the devil hovering over his left shoulder, whispering darksome thoughts in quiet moments.

His only hope had been in His Grace’s winning the dean and chapter’s support for his nephew Sir Richard Ravenser to succeed him as archbishop of York. Ravenser had asked Michaelo to serve him as his personal secretary if he won the election. But except for a few of the Thoresby/Ravenser kin in the chapter and their old friend Nicholas Louth, the canons supported Alexander Neville, for King Edward apparently approved of him, or so claimed the Neville family in their aggressive campaign.

Michaelo rubbed his left shoulder. Already it ached with hellish cold.

1

A Goodly Company

Monday

Captain Owen Archer stood in a shaft of sunlight with his lieutenants Alfred and Gilbert, his scarred but handsome face grim as he spoke to them. As Brother Michaelo rushed about, overseeing the preparations for the large and grand company of guests expected to arrive by midafternoon, he caught snippets of the captain’s commands. The fair Gilbert was to ride out with a group of guards to surround the company as it approached, and the lanky, balding Alfred was in charge of the guard protecting the perimeter of the manor of Bishopthorpe. Noticing a deep shadow beneath Archer’s good eye and how he wearily rubbed the scar beneath his leather eye patch, Michaelo remember their conversation the previous evening.

Archer had reluctantly admitted that he would miss Archbishop Thoresby, and that he resented the danger Princess Joan’s visit presented. With King Edward and his heir and namesake both ailing and the Archbishop of York on his deathbed, the Scots might anticipate sufficient disarray in the northern defences that they could easily seize Prince Edward’s wife as she travelled so far north. The French had no love for Prince Edward, who had proven his military prowess on their soil all too frequently, and the new King Robert II of Scotland, having renewed the Scots-French alliance, might enjoy handing Edward’s wife to the French king to prove his worth.

‘His Grace should have peace in his final days and not be worrying about the possibility of such a disaster,’ Archer had said, smacking the table with his hand. ‘I would have it so.’

His voice broke with the last words—that was when Michaelo plumbed the depths of the captain’s affection for the archbishop. It surprised him. Archer had spent a decade resenting His Grace. Michaelo wondered at this change.

‘They say the fair Princess Joan has ever been headstrong. Pray she suddenly changes her mind and rides south,’ Archer had added.

But Michaelo welcomed the distraction of a royal guest in the palace. In his opinion it would cheer them all. Though he admitted to himself that the captain and his lieutenants hardly looked cheered.

Breath. I’m fighting my own body for breath. My flesh wants to cease this struggle, but my spirit is not ready. I will soon meet St Peter at Heaven’s gate. But not yet, dear Lord, not yet.

John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and sometime Lord Chancellor of England, reminded himself of this when tempted to complain about how weary he was, how frustrated he was with his struggle for full, satisfying breaths. He was still alive, choosing to blow on the dying embers to tease out more life, and every moment was precious.

Never in all his long life had he felt so keenly the separation of mind and body. He was a little forgetful, but for the most part his mind was still robust. He felt betrayed by the weakness of his body, which trembled now with fatigue as he adjusted his legs, trying to stretch out a cramp without attracting the attention of the healer Magda Digby, who watched so discreetly from her seat beside the foot of the bed that he sometimes forgot she was there.

‘Thou art cramping.’ She rose and reached beneath the covers, exploring his calves, then pressing and pulling just the right muscle, showing it how to relax.

Despite his attempt to hide his discomfort from her Thoresby was grateful for her ministrations. ‘God bless you,’ he murmured.

She made a quiet, chuckling sound.

‘He will bless you if my prayers are worth anything,’ said Thoresby. Their playful interaction lifted his spirits.

‘Thy god may do as he pleases,’ said Magda. Clear blue eyes in a wizened face, the wrinkles exaggerated by the smile that engaged all—eyes, mouth, cheeks—she held his gaze for a moment, her expression affectionate, kind, and teasing. Then she nodded, satisfied, and returned to her chair—a stool, actually. But as she was a tiny woman, her spine still straight and strong, she preferred it to the cushioned chair the archbishop’s personal secretary, Brother Michaelo, kept offering her, which would leave her feet dangling in the air.

Thoresby had grown fond of Magda. It was such an unlikely friendship that he smiled to himself thinking about it, a pagan healer and an archbishop. Magda Digby was a pagan as far as Thoresby could decipher, always quick to reject his prayers for her, though she gave of herself in a most Christian way. She was a midwife and healer, preferring to work among those who could not afford to pay her. She lived outside the city walls close to the ramshackle huts of the poor on a rock that was an island when the tide rolled upriver—many called her the Riverwoman. Owen Archer and his wife, the apothecary Lucie Wilton, had worked hard to convince Magda to come to Thoresby at Bishopthorpe. She had argued that he had the wealth to hire the best physicians in the realm. But Thoresby had observed firsthand her skill as she worked with a badly burned man a few years earlier, and the experience had opened his eyes to her profound work as a healer among the folk of York and the shire. He had decided he wanted none other caring for him at the end. He also knew she would not fuss, nor would she lie in an attempt to cheer him. There was a time when he’d condemned her, for he knew she helped women prevent unwanted births, tended some people with injuries they wished to hide from authorities, and performed other questionable services for those who could afford it in order to finance her work among the poor. But Thoresby had come to believe that her good works far outweighed those he must disapprove of as a leader of the Church.

All must come to understand Magda Digby for themselves. She was unique.

Unfortunately, his peaceful time in her care was soon to be interrupted. Later this day Joan, Princess of Wales, wife of Edward, the present King Edward’s eldest son and thus the future king of England, was coming to Bishopthorpe, bringing with her a highly recommended physician as an offering. Thoresby did not wish to see the physician, but to refuse him might cause too much official interest in Magda Digby’s presence. Some might consider her a heretic and oppose her presence or wish her harm, and he would be sorry to cause any discomfort to his newfound friend.

He knew Princess Joan was bringing the physician as compensation for the advice she sought from him. In her letter proposing the visit she had mentioned how the late Queen Phillippa had sought Thoresby’s advice in both matters of state and personal issues, and had advised Joan to place her trust in him. Indeed, she had written, he was widely respected for his sage counsel. She need not have bribed him with compliments, for such a journey was not lightly undertaken, and he knew the seriousness of her situation. Her father-in-law the king was aged and vague, her husband Prince Edward had been suffering a wasting sickness for several years, her eldest son had died two years earlier and she feared her son Richard might be called to the throne too soon, being but six years old. Thoresby’s goddaughter Gwenllian Archer was that age, and he could not imagine saddling her with adult cares. She was so young, so unformed, so vulnerable. He understood why the princess worried.

Take the boy and your ailing husband and return to Bordeaux, where you were happy, Thoresby was tempted to advise. But Joan was the granddaughter of Edward Longshanks, the present king’s grandfather, the daughter of Edmund of Woodstock who had given his life for his brother, and she had been wed to two members of the Order of the Garter. She was not a woman who would run from her duty.

Nor would Thoresby neglect his duty despite Magda’s advice to refuse any visitations. In one of his first conversations with Magda he’d realised she had no idea of his status. She was unaware of the extent of his power as Archbishop of York, and hence the fierce competition among the various court and Church parties to have their representative chosen as his successor. Nor did she grasp the weight of his responsibility toward the Church and the government of the realm. No wonder she treated him as an equal, he’d thought, somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t a sign of a strong sense of her own personal worth. But when her behaviour did not change after he’d explained his standing to her he was strangely delighted.

‘You realise that the Church of Rome is more powerful than any individual kingdom?’ Thoresby asked her.

‘Magda is aware that churchmen use fear of terrible suffering after death to control most of her countrymen. That has been sufficient understanding of thy power for Magda’s purpose.’

Thoresby did not for a moment believe that to be the true extent of her knowledge, but he’d proceeded to explain that his See, or archbishopric, included half of the souls of the realm, and that he controlled an immense wealth as well as the spiritual conscience of half the kingdom. ‘And as former Lord Chancellor I have considerable knowledge of the powerful families in the realm, their alliances, their ambitions—these same families expect me to use my influence to guide the dean and chapter of York Minster in their choice of my successor.’ Although the selection of the next archbishop of York would affect not only the Church in the realm but also the political climate, it was the duty of a small group of men, the canons and the dean of York Minster, to choose Thoresby’s successor. ‘I’ve no doubt that they’ve spies everywhere trying to discover my intentions, whether or not I’ll push harder for votes for my nephew, so that they might know whether to support or undermine me.’

‘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 but 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 widowhood, 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 solemnizing 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 Duke of Lancaster. Geoffrey knew that Owen, a Welshman, resented the treatment of his countrymen 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 incident, 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,