‘His men slept here, too?’ Owen asked.
Harry, who tended to bend very close while reading lips, jerked back and nodded. ‘Aye. They slept on t’other side, with horses.’
‘And you slept below, Hugh above?’ Owen asked.
Harry straightened again and shook his head. ‘I slept above. The master had a curtained feather bed below.’
‘Fancy for such a hovel,’ Ned remarked.
Harry had not been watching Ned. ‘What?’ he shouted, turning to Ned.
Ned repeated his comment.
Harry nodded. ‘My master and his women liked their comfort, Sir.’
‘And you, Harry, did you find it comfortable?’ Ned asked.
Harry beamed. ‘Master Hugh promised the Percies would see to me if aught happened to him, and they have. That’s a good master.’
Owen saw the doubt on his friend’s face and wondered what he was up to.
‘They say your master beat you about the head.’ Ned mouthed the words dramatically, ‘And that is why you’re so deaf.’
Harry tugged an earlobe, shrugged. ‘Master Hugh had a temper, true enough. But he was patient wi’ me most times. I had threads and bread, sir, and a goodly fire. And now in my decline I work at the castle.’ His blackened teeth formed a grim smile. ‘I never looked for such riches.’
Owen stared into the fire in the hall until his vision blurred. A cup of wine in his hand attracted flies that he absently swatted away. He could not get deaf Harry out of his mind, the gratitude expressed in those watery eyes for the bare necessities and beatings that had bloodied his ears too often. Owen had grown so accustomed to his comfortable life that he had forgotten folk like Harry. Owen’s family were freemen, but poor. They would see his home in York as luxurious. And Sir Robert D’Arby was offering to expand it twice over. Why was he so fortunate? Should he return to Wales, see how his family fared? Lucie had once accused him of being cruel, not returning to show his family he had survived his years as an archer for Henry, Duke of Lancaster. But what might Owen do for his family? Would he shame them by offering help? Were any of them yet alive?
Sir William Percy entered the hall and made for Owen. ‘You have it.’
Owen lifted his eye to his host, slowly focusing on the man. ‘Have it?’ He shook his head, not understanding.
‘Captain Sebastian will meet with you and Ned tomorrow, midday, the church of St Mary the Virgin, right below the castle.’
Owen sat forward, now alert. ‘In truth?’
Percy grinned from ear to ear. ‘I’ve done well by Lancaster, eh?’
‘You have done well indeed, Sir William.’ Owen rose. ‘I shall tell Ned and Sir Nicholas.’
Percy stayed him with a large, beringed hand. ‘You heard what I said, eh? You and Ned. Sir Nicholas later, if the captain is satisfied.’
Owen turned his good eye dead centre on Percy’s face. ‘Why?’
‘You are soldiers. He is comfortable with soldiers. Sir Nicholas is an ecclesiastic. The captain says they talk in circles.’
Owen and Percy shared a good laugh over that observation.
Owen paused to admire the new carvings flanking the door of St Mary the Virgin, heads of King Edward and Queen Phillippa. The royal couple had taken their marriage vows in York Minster, and all Yorkshire had embraced them. Owen wondered if the gargoyle on the waterspout directly above Phillippa might be modelled after Alice Perrers. He had never seen the King’s mistress, but he knew that stonecutters often entertained themselves with such subtle jokes, and Thoresby had described her as very much the gargoyle.
Ned nudged Owen and nodded towards two richly caparisoned horses in the churchyard held by a squire in a jacket much like the one Louth had found with the Sebastian emblem hidden inside — a subtle livery. ‘Our man is here betimes.’
Owen nodded. The squire glanced nervously about, and from round the side of the building Owen could hear a horse snort impatiently. ‘He has prepared for trouble.’
Ned grinned. ‘As we knew he would.’
They entered the west door. After the glaring noon sun, Owen’s eye took a moment to adjust to the dark church nave, dimly lit by wall torches. A huge man in dark clothing rose from a camp stool, snapped his fingers. A boy opened a lantern.
‘By your patch and height, you must be Owen Archer.’ Captain Sebastian was a shaggy bear of a man with a booming voice. Owen was accustomed to being the tallest in any gathering. Sebastian was no more than four fingers taller than Owen, but his girth made it seem as though he towered.
‘Captain Sebastian.’ Owen held out his hands, showing he held no weapon.
Sebastian did likewise, then turned his dark eyes on Ned, who quickly lifted his hands.
‘Good,’ Sebastian thundered. ‘John!’ The boy scurried to open two more camp stools. ‘Sit,’ the captain said. His smile exposed healthy teeth.
But for the height, he reminded Owen of Bertrand du Guesclin. Owen commented on the resemblance.
Sebastian looked pleased. ‘But your memory has softened his appearance. Du Guesclin is much uglier than I.’ He threw back his head and roared. A chantry priest glanced their way. Owen could imagine the sniff and frown. Sebastian was clearly a man who saw no reason to whisper merely because he was in a church. ‘So.’ Sebastian sat forward, hands on knees. ‘You carry a letter from King Edward?’
Ned drew it out of his belt pouch.
Sebastian nodded, but made no move to take it. ‘About Don Pedro the Cruel, eh?’
‘You are the last of the English knights to hear the warning,’ Ned said. ‘Our King has vowed to win back the throne of Castile for Don Pedro, the rightful king. Any English knight fighting against Don Pedro commits treason.’
Sebastian wagged his head from side to side impatiently. ‘And he offers gold?’
Ned held up the purse.
‘Our King is puzzlingly misguided in one fact, gentlemen.’ Sebastian sat up straighter. ‘Though I deserve it more than anyone I know, I am not a knight.’
Ned frowned, tapped the letter against his hand. ‘But you are the Sebastian who made a pact with four English knights?’
‘Aye. They sorely needed me.’
Owen knew where this led. ‘So you will not change your allegiance in this struggle?’
Sebastian scratched his beard. ‘I cannot read, ’tis true, but I understand law well enough to know the King’s letter holds no power over me. It states “knights”, if you represent it properly. So I am still free to follow my conscience.’
‘You would trip your King on a detail?’ Ned’s voice was sharp with disapproval.
Sebastian made a face. ‘A detail to you, far more to me.’
Owen glanced at Ned, expecting his friend to pursue this. But instead Ned tucked away the letter and the purse with the jerky motion of anger.
Owen and Sebastian exchanged puzzled looks.
Sebastian snapped his fingers. The groom hurried over. ‘Wine!’ The boy brought forth a wineskin and handed it to his master. Sebastian threw back his head, squirted a generous gulp into his mouth, and passed the skin to Owen who drank.
Elbow on knee, Sebastian leaned closer to Owen. ‘So you have seen du Guesclin?’
‘I was captain of archers for Henry of Lancaster when he fought du Guesclin at Rennes.’ Owen passed the skin to Ned who took a squirt and returned it to the boy.
Sebastian grinned from ear to ear. ‘Ah! Rennes was a glorious moment.’
‘Du Guesclin is a master of trickery,’ Owen said, ‘and cuts a dash that delights the troubadours. But he is said to be a fair-minded man.’
Sebastian nodded vigorously, snapped his fingers for the wineskin. ‘Which is why he — and I — support Enrique de Trastamare against Don Pedro. Trastamare might be a bastard, but Don Pedro is far worse in God’s eyes — he is a murderer. Right is on Trastamare’s side.’
‘Don Pedro is the born king,’ Ned reminded him.
Sebastian drank, handed the skin to Owen, shrugged. ‘So was our King’s father — yet we put him aside for the good of the realm.’