Now the eyes were surprised.

  'He found Nicholas Wilton in a swoon outside the infirmary. Wilton had just delivered a physick for Montaigne.' He paused. 'It would have been helpful had you told me of Montaigne's connection with the late Lady D'Arby’

  Thoresby regarded Owen coolly. 'I did not think it important in the investigation of Fitzwilliam's death.'

  'Digby thought it important. He thought it was all connected. He just didn't know how.'

  'Curious that Digby would be interested.'

  'Digby was a curious man’

  'If he told you this much, most likely he told you why’ Thoresby said. 'It appears that he trusted you’

  The Archbishop's eyes moved over Owen's face as if the truth that he tried to hold back were written there.

  How cool, Owen thought. How secure in his world.

  'I am not sure you will find it plausible,' Owen said.

  'Try it out’

  Owen took a deep breath. 'Digby suspected Archdeacon Anselm of protecting Nicholas Wilton. It disturbed him that the Archdeacon might be implicated in a murder.'

  Thoresby closed his eyes. When he opened them, he did not look at Owen, but rather frowned into the fire. 'That connection again. But what had Wilton done that Anselm should need to protect him?'

  Owen wished he could get up and pace. He was in way over his head. The Archbishop obviously knew of the closeness of Anselm and Nicholas. He had no idea what else the Archbishop knew. He might know everything already. Owen wished this were a duel with swords. Better yet, a sweaty wrestling match. He did not know where he stood.

  'What had Wilton done, Archer?' Thoresby asked quietly.

  'Digby thought he had poisoned Geoffrey Montaigne. His wife's mother's lover.'

  The Archbishop considered the fire for a moment, then sighed and put down his cup. 'So he thought, and presumably you think too, that Wilton poisoned Montaigne for his wife, who wanted to avenge her family's honour, and the guilt is killing him?'

  'I do not think Mistress Wilton knows the pilgrim's identity.'

  Thoresby regarded him closely. 'Do you fancy Mistress Wilton?'

  Owen's stomach turned. He felt like the cat in the corner, unable to read this man from a different world, who had complete control of his destiny. 'She is my employer, Your Grace.'

  'Indeed. But also beautiful and soon to be widowed.'

  'You doubt my judgement. But hear me out. There is an additional twist. Your Archdeacon. Although they had once been close, Anselm had not spoken to Nicholas Wilton for years. The morning after Nicholas took to his bed, the Archdeacon appeared, expressing much concern. He visits Nicholas regularly now, even though his visits disturb Nicholas - so much so that today it nearly killed him.'

  Thoresby silently took that in. Then he shifted in his chair. 'All intriguing, Owen Archer, but I employed you to inquire into the death of my ward Fitzwilliam.'

  'The two deaths are connected, Your Grace, I am certain of that. And I think that Fitzwilliam's death was the accident, not Montaigne's.'

  'A poison made for Montaigne given to Fitzwilliam?'

  Owen nodded.

  'And Digby suspected this?'

  'And is now dead.'

  'Nicholas Wilton could hardly have killed Digby.'

  'Perhaps the Archdeacon?'

  Thoresby considered Owen with a grave expression. 'Is that what you believe?' he asked at last.

  'It fits with Digby's suspicions. And a clumsy attempt on his part to rid himself of me.'

  'Oh?'

  He told him of Anselm's claim to have arranged, in less than a day, an apprenticeship for him in Durham. 'He hoped I might not return, I think.'

  'Interesting. What do you know of Anselm?'

  'Very little. What should I know?'

  Thoresby smiled at the question. 'You are a bold Welshman. The old Duke chose his men well.' He nodded to Jehannes, who filled his cup, and freshened Owen's. The Lord Chancellor's chain of office glittered in the firelight as Thoresby toyed with it. He nodded to himself, picked up the cup, tasted the wine, nodded again.

  'Do you know the duties of an Archdeacon, Owen?'

  'Primarily fiscal, are they not?'

  Thoresby nodded. 'As Archdeacon of York, Anselm must raise money for the cathedral building. You can see that it is not finished. A long, expensive process, this expression of York's devotion to the Lord. And the King. The Hatfield chapel is close to the King's heart.' He sipped. Thus the paradox of the position. The Archdeacon must be a cleric and yet worldly -not usually a virtue in a man of the cloth.'

  Owen nodded, but he wondered where Thoresby was leading.

  Thoresby chuckled. 'Your one eye is quite expressive. You think I wander. Too much wine, perhaps.' He put down his cup. 'You would be wrong to think that, my friend. John Thoresby never wanders’

  'I would not make the mistake of thinking that, Your Grace.'

  'I chose Anselm - and it has proven to be a wise choice - because he did not show great piety. A good scholar, a persuasive speaker, with a solemn air about him - the pinched face, the gauntness - but poorly suited to an abbey. He has a weakness for young men, you see.'

  'I had heard that he and Nicholas were good friends at the abbey school.'

  Thoresby smiled. 'You see Nicholas at the end of his life, on his deathbed. But he was a handsome young man - in a delicate way. Magnificent blue eyes. And he was a listener.' Thoresby shook his head, 'Anselm was smitten. There was a scandal. Not because two boys were discovered in bed together. A common occurrence in abbey schools - you must be used to it in the army. But Anselm was Abbot Gerard's prize novice. Gerard was grooming Anselm for high office in the Church. He was furious. And anger opened his eyes. He saw the signs of Anselm's nature, realised that it was his protege's doing, that young Nicholas had merely been flattered - and flustered, no doubt - by the attention of the older boy. And perhaps comforted to share a bed with another. Anselm was harshly reprimanded. He became rather an ascetic. But Gerard knew it was a mask.'

  'He offered Anselm to you as Archdeacon to get him away from novices?'

  'It was Anselm's request. To be removed from temptation.'

  'Admirable.'

  'You smirk as you say that. But Anselm is a fine man. I have had no cause for complaint. Or did not till now. It was his misfortune to be a second son, bound for the Church. Had he been a layman, his nature would not have mattered. Oh, he might have found it unpleasant siring his sons, but as long as he saw to that in an acceptable space of years, he would have been free to pursue his pleasures where he would. You must pity Anselm. The Church was not his choice.'

  'It is difficult for me to pity a man who tried to trick me into a dangerous, perhaps fatal journey.'

  'I find it hard to believe he would be so ... clumsy.'

  Not that he would not do it. Owen said nothing for a few minutes, absorbing that. 'I take it the Archdeacon never got over his passion for Nicholas Wilton?'

  'They were great friends. I think no more than that on Wilton's part. But that ended with the death of Lady D'Arby.'

  Owen sat up. This was more what he wished to hear. 'Why?'

  Thoresby shrugged. 'He did not like Nicholas's friendship with Lady D'Arby. But why they fought after she died, I do not know.'

  'I wish I had known all this when I began.'

  'I hardly imagined my ward had been poisoned by accident. He had so many enemies.'

  The two men regarded each other for a moment.

  'Do you have any proof?' Thoresby asked.

  'Not exactly. I have Brother Wulfstan's word that he gave your ward the physick made for Montaigne. After the second death, and only then, Wulfstan tested the medicine and discovered too much monkshood. Enough to kill. Looking back, he realised that their deaths had been similar, with all the symptoms expected of poisoning by monkshood.'

  'He is certain of this?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why did he not tell anyone of his discovery?'

  'It was too late to save them.'

  'Where is the physick now?'

  'Burned. So that no more harm could come of it.'

  'Belated caution’ Thoresby sighed. 'Did Brother Wulfstan confront Nicholas Wilton with his discovery?'

  'The man is dying, Your Grace.'

  'So he did not.' Thoresby seemed irritated by this turn. 'Have you said anything to Wilton?'

  'No. Do you wish to pursue this further?'

  Thoresby sat back, gazing up at the ceiling, his hands pressed together, lips pursed. 'It is difficult for me to accept, when I was expecting a clear case of revenge and my ward to be the intended victim. It is the motive that eludes me. Too weak. Not good enough for me, Owen Archer. Let us see this to the finish, shall we?'

  Owen nodded, rose to leave, then hesitated, frowning. 'I might wish to exhume Montaigne's body.'

  To what purpose?'

  'To look for signs of poisoning. Since Wulfstan destroyed the physick.'

  'I think not, Archer. I want no more upset at the abbey’

  Withholding information, tying his hands, what did the man want of him? 'Then what would you suggest, Your Grace?'

  'Look to the living for your answers, Archer. You have uncovered quite a complicated knot. Now unravel it.' Lucie sat by Nicholas, turning the few facts she had around in her mind. If Nicholas were not so ill, she might mention Geoffrey, see his reaction. But he was so weakened by today's attack. And if what she suspected was true, if his poisoning Geoffrey was no accident, it might kill him to know that she knew. But what could drive Nicholas to murder?

  She was frightened.

  She-devils. She and who? Her mother? What could the Archdeacon have against them? Of what vileness did he suspect them?

  But of course. Her mother with Geoffrey, and - he had accused her of it today - she and Owen. But it wasn't true.

  And why would Geoffrey have attacked Nicholas?

  She must know more. Geoffrey Montaigne, her mother, Nicholas, Archdeacon Anselm, Potter Digby. What connected them? Who might know? It must go back to her mother's time.

  Her Aunt Phillippa. Of course. She would send for her in the morning. She would say Nicholas was dying and she needed her aunt's support. And she did. The house would feel much safer with her Aunt Phillippa in it.

  Eighteen

  Lucie Joins the Dance

  Nicholas slept. His breathing was ragged, but regular enough to assure Lucie that the pain had diminished. She lay down beside him, the room dark but for the tiny flame of the spirit lamp. The cat climbed up on her chest, a welcome warmth. Lucie petted Melisende absently as she stared at the ceiling, wondering how to approach her Aunt Phillippa. To ask about her mother would not be unusual, but to ask about Geoffrey and Nicholas - Her aunt's guard would go up. Phillippa was always careful talking about that time. Lucie knew there was much her aunt chose not to tell her. She would want to know what Lucie had heard, what she was fishing for. Perhaps if Lucie did not make much of it. Something overheard, that Geoffrey and Nicholas had argued. But if she made light of it, so might her aunt. She must say enough that Phillippa would want to separate truth from rumour. Perhaps she might say she had noticed an odd entry in the shop records.

  The shop records. Lucie had not thought of them till now. The Archdeacon had said Geoffrey had attacked Nicholas and left him for dead. Then Nicholas had been wounded. Perhaps she could find a reference to it in the records. Her father-in-law had been as meticulous as Nicholas in recording all transactions. Might there not be an entry in the log for dressing a wound, for a salve to quicken the healing?

  She sat up, waking Melisende, who hissed and moved with slow dignity to Lucie's feet and began circling in preparation for lying down in a new spot. Lucie disturbed her once more as she pulled her feet up and out onto the cold floor. The old shop records were kept up here in their bedchamber, in a heavy oak chest beneath the front window. She lit the oil lamp from the spirit lamp, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and went over to the chest.

  It was Lucie's wedding chest, and her mother's before her. Out of this chest Lucie had pulled mementos of childhood and later when she carried Martin. How happy she had been. God had smiled down on her, allowing her joy. And in his short life Martin had given her much joy. Through him she had remembered her own girlhood, had seen her own mother, with her dark hair and pale eyes, bent over the chest, bringing out treasures, many of them gifts from Geof, her handsome knight. He had brought Lucie presents, too. A carved doll with silken hair, a small cart in which he pulled her through the maze. He had the sunniest smile and the gentlest voice . . . And Nicholas had poisoned him? The thought burned in the pit of Lucie's stomach. She told herself she had no time to dwell on that now.

  She lifted out an armful of sewn books, each painstakingly illustrated on its cloth cover with an unusual herb, and set them aside. These were Nicholas's. Beneath them were older, leather-bound books, their covers dry and cracking. Lucie leafed through them, pausing over meticulous sketches of astrological signs, heavenly portents. Paul Wilton, her father-in-law, had been more interested in that part of his work than in the botanical work that Nicholas delighted in. She found it confusing to follow her father-in-law's chronology’ he would go through several books and then go back and fill in blank areas in all of them before moving on to a fresh book. Or sometimes he would interrupt one book to return to another. Lucie was uncertain what date she sought, though she knew it had to be within the range of her mother's marriage and the time Geoffrey was in York. She knew that Geoffrey had come after she was born. She'd asked her Aunt Phillippa about that long ago, when she'd had a romantic idea that she might be Geoffrey's daughter. 'Oh no, my little love, you are my niece, you are Robert's child. Never doubt that.'

  Her Aunt Phillippa did not understand how lovely it had been, imagining that she was the child of her mother's happiness, that her father was the fair-haired knight who made her mother laugh. She did not want to be the daughter of the grim man who shouted and called her 'little lady.' It hurt her more than her father's scolding that Sir Robert never said her name. As if he could not be bothered to remember it. It had frightened her. If her father could forget her, God could, too. Geoffrey had remembered her name. And her favourite colour. And secrets she'd told him . . .

  Lucie shook her head. She had sat and dreamt over the same notebook long enough that needles prickled in the hand poised to turn the page, and one of her feet had gone to sleep. She picked up the record books that she guessed covered the years of her mother's marriage, and moved over to the table and chair by the garden window.

  Slowly she made her way through the books, pausing at all mention of 'N’ which was Paul Wilton's code for Nicholas. There were no complete names in the records, just one or two initials, enough to distinguish one customer or supplier from another. Most of the entries mentioning Nicholas referred to his purchase of cuttings and seeds for the garden. Occasionally, more frequently as time went by, Nicholas helped his father in the shop. His responsibilities grew.

  And then she found it. An entry about the time of her mother's death. She had almost stopped before she reached it. 'MD cauterised wound, bandaged. Stayed the night to see what N's eyes looked like when he woke. Left salve and tisane. AA, D'Arby, and DP agree N has done his penance.' And in the accounts were entered a generous payment to MD for services rendered and a gift to the minster fund, the size of which made Lucie uneasy. For surely 'AA' was the Archdeacon, D'Arby was her father, and 'DP' Dame Phillippa. They agreed that Nicholas had done his penance for what? What sin required such a large offering to the minster fund? Did it have something to do with her mother's death? And who was 'MD'?

  Owen woke at dawn from a light drowse that had taken most of the night to achieve. His stomach burned and his head felt crowded with demons chattering incessantly in voices pitched to hysteria. Too many questions, few answers, too many constraints. He could not exhume Montaigne, he could not question Lucie or she would know he suspected her, he could not question Nicholas because the man was dying. Anselm was a madman. Thoresby - what of John Thoresby? The comfortable, confident Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York. Sent Owen out to inquire into his ward's death, yet Owen felt the man pretended ignorance where he knew the facts. Why? Did Thoresby not trust Owen? If not, then what was Owen doing here? Not that he was certain anything would be proved by exhuming Montaigne, but for Thoresby to so summarily deny him . . .

  Such thoughts got him nowhere. He must think where he might get some answers. He needed to talk with someone who knew something of Lady D'Arby, Montaigne, and Nicholas. Bess had not lived long enough in York to know anything but rumours about that time.

  Magda Digby. It was a long shot, but Owen suspected that little occurred in York that the Riverwoman did not hear about. He applied some salve to the eye, put on his patch and his boots, and crept out of the inn. He could speak with her and be back before Lucie was ready to open the shop.

  After her wakeful night, Lucie was anxious to send Owen for her Aunt Phillippa. She put away the records and slept for a while, then rose shortly after dawn and broke her fast with Tildy while they discussed the girl's chores for the day. By then Lucie expected Owen, but he did not come. She checked for him out at the woodpile. The air was frosty, and snow clouds glowered overhead. Under the holly hedge, spring crocuses pushed green shoots through the thinning snow. It made her heart glad to see the first sign of spring. But her irritation returned when she found no trace of Owen anywhere in the garden. Now that she had resolved to send for her aunt, she could not bear the delay. • She would go to the York Tavern and fetch Owen. Tildy could listen for Nicholas and come for her if he woke.

  Tom was measuring the contents of the casks. He looked up with a smile when she entered. 'Lucie Wilton. Welcome, neighbour.' He noticed her agitated state. Is it Nicholas? Is he worse?'

  She nodded. 'I want to send Owen for my Aunt Phillippa’

 

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