'I must tell you that the new Duke of Lancaster is interested in you. You might do well with Gaunt. It would be a secure future — more so than with me. Mine are elected positions; he is the son of the King, and Duke of Lancaster for life. I tell you this because you might have cause to speak with him. The second knight in this matter was one of Gaunt's men’
Owen considered this wrinkle. Gaunt was dangerous, noted for his treachery. Owen could well imagine the sort of work Gaunt would give him. To serve him would be an honour, but it would not be honourable. Not to Owen. Surely God had not raised him up from the ashes for such work.
'I am flattered that two such powerful men offer me employment, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity to choose. But I prefer to serve the Arch shy;bishop and Lord Chancellor. I am better suited to your service.'
Thoresby cocked his head to one side. 'Not ambi shy;tious, I see. You are a freak in the circles in which you dance at present. Beware.' His look was serious, almost concerned.
A shower of pain rushed across Owen's blind eye, hundreds of needle pricks, hot and sharp. He'd taken to accepting these attacks as warnings, someone walking on his grave. 'I am a cautious man who knows his place, my lord.'
'I think you are, Owen Archer. Indeed.' Thoresby rose, poked the fire for a moment, returned to his seat.
Owen put down the wine. He wanted a clear head.
Thoresby, too, set aside his cup. 'The puzzle begins thus. Sir Geoffrey Montaigne, late of the Black Prince's retinue, makes a pilgrimage to York to atone for some past sin. We do not know what sin, for while in the service of the Prince, Montaigne's behaviour was beyond reproach. Something in his past, perhaps. Before joining the Prince's army he fought under Sir Robert D'Arby of Freythorpe Hadden, a short ride from York. Montaigne's choice of St. Mary's at York for his pilgrimage suggests that his sin was linked to his time in D'Arby's service. So. He arrives in York shortly before Christmas and within a few weeks falls ill of camp fever — the ride north jarred open an old wound, which weakened him, causing a recurrence of the fever he'd suffered in France — all this according to the abbey Infirmarian, Broth shy;er Wulfstan — and within three days Montaigne is dead.'
Thoresby paused.
Owen saw nothing odd in the story. 'Camp fever is often fatal.'
'Indeed. I understand that after you were wounded you assisted the camp doctor. You treated many cases of fever?'
'Many cases.'
'Master Worthington praised your compassion.'
'I'd had the fever myself but a year before. I knew what they suffered.'
The Archbishop nodded. 'Montaigne's death would have gone unremarked but for another death at the abbey within a month. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam of Lincoln, a familiar face at the abbey, making retreats for sins that were only too easily guessed at by all who knew him. Shortly after Twelfthnight he falls ill with a winter fever. It worsens. He sweats profusely, com shy;plains of pain in his limbs, has fainting spells, fever visions, and within a few days he is dead. A similar death to Montaigne's.'
'A similar death? But it does not sound like camp fever.'
'Towards the end, Montaigne was much the same.'
'The Infirmarian poisoned these men?'
'I think not. Too obvious.' Thoresby took up his cup and drank.
'Forgive me, Your Grace, but how do you come into this?'
The Archbishop sighed. 'Fitzwilliam was my ward until he came of age. An embarrassing failure for me. He grew to he a greedy, sly creature. I used all the weight of my offices to get him into Gaunt's service. I did not make friends in doing so. I assume my ward was poisoned. And though I do not pretend to mourn him, I should know his murderer.'
'And Montaigne?'
'Ah. As far as I can determine, a God-fearing man with no enemies. Perhaps his death is unrelated.' The Archbishop leaned back and closed his eyes. 'But I think not. The deaths were too similar.' He looked up at Owen. 'Poisoned by mistake?' He shrugged. 'Or was he merely better at burying his business than Fitzwilliam?' He smiled. 'And here's an interesting item. Montaigne did not give his name at St. Mary's. He called himself a pilgrim. Humble and plain. Or sly?'
An interesting puzzle. Owen liked the prospect. 'What inquiries have you made so far?'
'A few questions, enough to discover that Abbot Campian thinks they both died of natural causes. Hopes they did, is more like it. He fears we'll wrong shy;ly accuse his Infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. And the Archdeacon of York assures me that if there had been a hint of trouble his Summoner would know of it. I hand it to you, Owen Archer. Disregard them. Begin at the beginning’
'In what guise shall I present myself in York?'
'I think that something as close to the truth as possible will suit the situation. Present yourself as a soldier who has lost his taste for killing and wishes to begin afresh. You are looking for honest work in the city, with a small behest from your late lord to support you in the meantime. My secretary, Jehannes, will doubtless come up with something before you arrive in York. You will of course have all the funds you need. You will go to Jehannes when you arrive, and whenever you have need of anything. The Archdeacon of York would normally arrange all this, but I would rather he not know about your purpose.'
'You suspect him?'
Thoresby smiled. 'I suspect everyone at this point.'
'Everyone but Jehannes
Thoresby nodded.
'And after I complete this task, what then?'
'We will see.'
Owen left with mixed feelings. No need to take ship to Italy. He had an interesting puzzle to solve. But it was a mental challenge, not at all a physical one. Fishing for clues, catching people in lies. Not his best talents. It bothered him a little. What bothered him more was presenting himself as one who had lost his taste for killing. Did the Archbishop think that true? It was not. Given a just cause, he would kill again. He had not lost his nerve. Did the Archbishop think him a coward? His face grew hot.
But no. The Archbishop would not hire a coward. He must push that thought from his mind. Doubts would keep him from doing his best. And he must succeed. Success would secure his future in England. God still watched over him.
Two
Owen headed back to Kenilworth the next morning. Gaunt had come to the castle for Christmas and would remain there with his retinue while the roads were too muddy for wagons top-heavy with household items. Owen hoped that of his old comrades-in-arms who had remained in Gaunt's service, someone would have known Fitzwilliam. He was not certain, for he had divorced himself from his old friends when he became a spy, wanting nothing to remind him of the old times.
He arrived late in the day, in time to find his friends resting from a day of training the young recruits. Bertold, who had succeeded him as Captain of Archers, greeted him warmly. With him were Lief, Gaspare, and Ned. The five had fought together in France. It was Bertold and Lief who had found Owen bleeding and delirious with pain near the corpses of the jongleur and his leman.
The four archers sat around a smoking brazier in Bertold's quarters, a small but private room that was one of the rewards for attaining the status of captain in Lancaster's company, enjoying another luxury, a small cask of ale.
'Being Captain's changed you not a whit.' Owen tugged at Bertold's shaggy black hair, pulled back with a greasy leather thong, though it curled wildly about his scarred face wherever it could escape.
'No need to put on airs to train archers,' Bertold said. ' Tis not the place for lordlings.'
'True enough,' Owen said.
Doe-eyed Ned lifted his tankard to salute Owen. 'You'll never look a lordling with that patch.'
'Aye. But the ladies like it.'