Wulfstan heard a pair of boots and an accompanying pair of sandals on the stone floor of the chapel. They paused in the doorway, then both came forward. Gold chains rattled richly. Wulfstan withdrew his senses, returning to his meditation on the cross, which he echoed in his posture, lying prostrate on the stone floor before the altar, arms outspread. The cross, Christ’s agony, mankind’s salvation. Salvation. Because of that selfless act, man could hope for salvation, no matter how grievous his sin.
He struggled to keep his mind on the cross, but discipline did not come easily to Wulfstan. He floated, his thoughts drifting up, over, around him, never quite engaging him, just brushing him with random strands. It was a pleasant feeling that he found impossible to resist. But he tried. He had a vague idea that he should not be comforted, that he’d done something unforgivable, though at the moment he could not remember what it was. When he tried to remember, he became frightened and shied away from the effort.
“Brother Wulfstan, can you hear me?”
It was a quiet, unfamiliar voice. Deep, resonant. Wulfstan liked the voice. But he did not answer. To speak would break the bubble in which he floated. Why could they not leave him alone?
“Wulfstan, the Archbishop is here to speak with you.”
His Abbot’s voice. High-pitched with tension. An unpleasant voice. Wulfstan preferred the other.
“He wishes to ask you about Lucie Wilton.”
Blue eyes. A gentle touch. A smile. Lucie Wilton. Wulfstan shivered. The bubble in which he floated dipped precipitously, then righted itself. Lucie Wilton stirred an unpleasant strand of memory. He did not want to think about her.
“Wulfstan?”
Why would they not go away?
“Nicholas Wilton is dead, Wulfstan. We know he poisoned your friend Montaigne. Did Lucie Wilton have a hand in that?”
Montaigne. Gentle pilgrim. Darkness. Merciful Mother Mary, that was it. That was the horrible deed for which he could not be absolved. Not with any amount of penance. His fault. He should have known. It was his duty to know. He had murdered his friend. He had failed him. Arrogance. And dear Lucie Wilton. Could she have had a hand in the poisoning? Or known and not warned him? Could she have cold-bloodedly looked away as his friend was poisoned?
“No!” The bubble burst. His heart jolted. He clawed the stones, struggling to rise. Strong arms came to his aid. Wulfstan opened his eyes and stumbled, blinded by the flickering light of the altar candles. The strong arms steadied him.
“Come, sit down on this bench.” It was the Archbishop who spoke with the pleasant voice and helped him so gently. Thoresby himself. The Lord Chancellor’s chain of office shone on his chest. He smelled richly of scented oils.
“I must know the character of the woman, Brother Wulfstan. You must tell me about her.”
Michaelo sometimes smelled like this. Spicy, musky, flowery all at once. A vain young man. But harmless, Wulfstan had thought. Until Michaelo had tried to poison him. Had come perilously close to succeeding.
“Why me? Why would he want to kill me?” Wulfstan wondered aloud.
“Wulfstan.” Abbot Campian filled his vision. “You are wandering.” To Thoresby, Campian said, “He is not fully recovered. But he begged to be allowed to come to chapel and do penance.”
“Penance? For what sin, Brother Wulfstan?”
Wulfstan hung his head. “I should have recognized the nature of the concoction. I should have recognized the symptoms of aconite poisoning. Your ward should not have died. Or Geoffrey.” He wept.
Dame Phillippa and Bess had persuaded Lucie and Owen to go and sleep at the inn. They would prepare Nicholas and sit with him. One of the Archbishop’s men guarded the inn, another the shop. The other two had gone to inform Thoresby of the Archdeacon’s death.
Owen looked in on Lucie before going to his own room. She stood at the window, her arms wrapped tightly around her, as if braced for the next blow.
“You must try to sleep.”
“When I close my eyes, I see Nicholas in Anselm’s arms.” Her voice was full of tears. “I cannot bear it.”
Owen stood for a moment, uncertain whether he was welcome. But he could not leave her. “Come. Lie down. I’ll talk with you until you sleep.”
She let him lead her to the bed. “Tell me how you met the Archbishop.”
“No. That would keep you wakeful.” Instead, he told her about his archers, naming each one and describing him. Lucie was soon asleep.
Owen nodded off in the chair beside her.
Lucie awoke at the cock’s crow, disoriented. “What is this place?”
Owen jerked awake.
“What is this place?” she repeated.
“The best room at the York. We came here last night.”
“The Archdeacon,” Lucie whispered, touching her head gingerly. Bruises had appeared on her face and throat, revealing to Owen that they had struggled more than he’d guessed.
The sight of the bruises filled Owen with a rage that killing Anselm had not satisfied. He must master this. “Lie still.” He pressed a cold, damp cloth to Lucie’s head. “You fought bravely.”
Her eyes looked beyond Owen. “I wanted to kill him,” she said. “I was angry with you for stealing the kill from me.”
“It is all over now.”
“What am I to do?”
“Do?”
“I have lost everything. My husband. The shop. Everything.”
“I have told the Archbishop you are innocent.”
“That will not matter.”
“I will do my best.”
Lucie pushed the cloth away and sat up with effort. “You will continue in the Archbishop’s service?”
“I may wind up in his dungeon in the Old Baile.”
“Why? You came to my defense. Why would you wind up in his dungeon for that?”
“He did not want Anselm disposed of in the city. He wanted it to happen away from witnesses.” And he’d already questioned Owen’s loyalty.
“So you should have let Anselm kill me?”
“Of course not. It is a matter of whether His Grace believes me.” Owen freshened the cloth and put it back on her forehead. “I saw the knife slash on Anselm’s face. That took daring.”
“I was driven. I wanted to blind him and then stab him in the heart. You see how successful I was. I’d never used a knife on someone before. It wasn’t—His skull—” She coughed, doubled over. He held her head over a pan as she retched.
John Thoresby removed his chain of office and his cloak. Blood did not easily wash out of fur. Then he bent down to examine his Archdeacon. The neck had been neatly snapped. Archer was tidy and quick. It pleased the Archbishop. It also disturbed him. He had wanted this to happen, yes. But not in York. Not so close to the minster. Or if it had to happen in the city, then within his liberty, where he had jurisdiction. Not that anyone involved would talk. But in the middle of the city. Some soul, unable to sleep, might have seen the Archdeacon arrive. Seen the commotion. And for whom had Owen murdered Anselm? For his lord, or for the pretty widow?
Thoresby knew how to deal with the widow. Wulfstan had said she expected to be made a master apothecary soon. He said she wanted that very much. And Nicholas had wanted it for her. That suited Thoresby. He liked Mistress Wilton’s spirit. She would have made a good abbess. He would agree to her becoming a master in exchange for her silence about this affair. He did not doubt she would cooperate.
But Archer. What to do with him? He knew everything, had no loyalties, no handles to hold him down, keep him to his silence. Unless it was the widow. If Archer had murdered Anselm for the widow, that might be something. Thoresby would watch him.
The requiems were small and quiet, but not for any shame. Both Anselm and Nicholas were laid to rest in hallowed ground. In the apothecary’s case, Thoresby blessed a corner of the Wiltons’ garden. It was a small matter, but the widow was touchingly grateful. He wanted her that way.
Thoresby watched Archer at the grave. If the man was in love with the widow, he should be elated. She was now free, though of course a discreet period of mourning ought to be observed. But Archer stood there with a dark light in his eye, close to but never touching Lucie Wilton. As if he could not see through to that earthly reward.
After the ceremony, Thoresby drew Owen aside. “What is this gloom?”
Archer gave him a queer look. “None of it is right. All of York is making a martyr out of Anselm. They say he was ambushed as he returned to the city to give the last rites to his friend. That God saw his loyalty and let him live long enough to help his friend to Heaven.”
“It is almost the truth, Archer.”
“The people should know the whole truth. They should know what Anselm had done.”
Thoresby looked down at his ring, discomfited by the fanatic glint in the man’s eye. “It was I put the story of Anselm’s noble death on people’s lips,” Thoresby said quietly. “If I were to correct it, tell people that my Archdeacon had killed Digby, tried to kill you and Mistress Wilton, then we have scandal at the minster. Folk do not bequeath money to churches connected with scandals. And the King wants York to be a grand minster, because his son is buried there, William of Hatfield, who died so young, still a babe, because he was too good to live. Edward likes that image. The Hatfield chapel must be in a church worthy of the little angel. Untouched by scandal. So you see, the romantic story of boyhood friends is the only story they must ever hear.”
“It is a lie.”
“You are a fool, Archer. Whom will it hurt?”
“Are you a man of God? Are you not to lead us on the path of righteousness? To show us how to choose between good and evil?”
Thoresby bit back a smile. Could Archer be so naive after all his years in the old Duke’s service? “I am the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. Good and evil I must judge in the light of the common weal.”
Owen paced in front of him. “You sent your Archdeacon off to Durham hoping that he would be ambushed.”
“Not hoping. I told you I had signed his death warrant. What did you think I meant? The ambushers were my soldiers.”
“And Brandon?”
“I had to send someone from the abbey, or Anselm would have been suspicious. Young Brandon knew the plan. He rode off, but he didn’t need to. My men knew not to harm him.”
“It was dark out on the moors, Your Grace. How could they be sure they had the right man?”
“The lad is resourceful. He might think to identify himself.”
“And what if the Scots had found them first?”
“I trusted in God. Brandon is a strong lad from the borders. He knows how to defend himself.”
“Against Scots? What do you know about fighting alone? You, who have been coddled from birth. ’Tis the same in battle. You sit in your fancy tents and plot and scheme, then move us around the field mimicking tactics you read about in books. You find it exciting. A challenge. You make wagers. Clever tactician, that Thoresby, he lost only fifty men.”
“As a soldier you would have valued such a man.”
“Why did you send the novice? Why not Michaelo?”
“I could not trust Michaelo not to try to save Anselm at the last.”
“You are too cold.”
Thoresby chuckled. “I like your moral outrage, Archer. I want you to remain in my service. I can use a man like you.”
“Why would you want me? I have made a mess of it.”
“How so? You solved the riddle of Fitzwilliam’s death. I am pleased his death was accidental. I do not feel such a failure with him knowing that he was not yet so evil that God struck him down.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You are not yet accustomed to the ways of the world, Archer. In battle the sides seem clear. They are not, you know. Out in the field you see none of the play behind the lines. Today’s enemy is tomorrow’s ally, sometimes over a mere strip of land along a river. You are behind the lines now, seeing the muddled truth of things. Nothing is so clear as you thought. You have lost your innocence.”
“I fear I have lost my soul. You once gave me a choice between yourself and Gaunt. I chose you, thinking you were more honorable.” Archer looked disgusted with himself.
“Dine with me tonight. We will talk.”
Thoresby found Owen in the hall at the appointed hour, darkly watching some soldiers who hovered round a cask of ale, trading stories, comfortable in their brotherhood.
“You could return to that life. Would you like that?”
Owen shook his head. “The reasons I left have not changed. With one eye I am less reliable. I need to work alone. That way I risk only my own life.”
“Good. I can use you in my household.”
“I would rather find more honest work.”
“Honest. Ah. What did you have in mind?”
“What will become of the Wiltons’ shop?”
Thoresby cocked his head to one side. “You would be interested in it? But you’re merely an apprentice.”
“I would like to continue my apprenticeship with Mistress Wilton.”
Thoresby raised an eyebrow. “I have not decided whether she will keep the shop.”
“You would be a fool to take it from her. She may prove to be even more skilled than her husband.”
“And hence your interest in apprenticing with her.” Thoresby smirked.
Owen glowered at Thoresby. “You think I mean to bed her. But it is the life I want. It is honest work.”
“You killed my Archdeacon for her, not for me, didn’t you?”
“At that moment it mattered not a whit who it was up there, I could not let him hurt her.”
Thoresby thought back to the funeral. There had been no signs of affection between them. “Have you discussed your plans with her?”
“No.”
“What if she refuses to keep you on?”
“Then I will look for a similar post.”
“I see. Either way, I am to lose you. Pity. I liked that you hated the work. It is what keeps a man honest.”
“When will you decide about the shop?”
“Soon.”
“I mean to spend some days at St. Mary’s.”
“Honest work and prayer. I wonder if your old comrades would recognize you?”
“Ever since you made up the story for me that I had lost the heart for soldiering…” Owen shook his head. “I don’t understand it. But I cannot forgive myself for Digby.”
Thoresby put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “We can never predict the losses that we find hard to bear. Come. Let us eat.”