Owen managed to reassure Camden Thorpe all was well, but he was not at all certain that was so. The Archdeacon exhibited an odd concern over Owen's apprenticeship. He obviously saw through his guise. But how much did he guess, and why did it disturb the Archdeacon to the extent that he would risk making a fool of himself with the Guildmaster? In Owen's mind, that spoke of a desperate man. And such men were dangerous.
But why the Archdeacon?
Lucie dreamed she ran through the maze at Freythorpe Hadden, stumbling now and then, breathless with laughter. She feared he would catch up. And she feared he would not. She tingled with the expectation of his hands around her waist, pulling her to him, kissing her neck-
She woke shivering. The fire had gone out. Yet her face was hot. She'd dreamed of Owen Archer. She must be mad.
Anselm paced. He'd underestimated Archer. He'd moved much faster than Anselm had thought possible. Archer must be Archbishop Thoresby's man. Thoresby had sent Archer, had arranged for him to insinuate himself into the Wilton household. To inquire into the death of the Archbishop's ward. Of course Thoresby would. How stupid of Anselm not to have predicted that. Considering Fitzwilliam's character, of course the Archbishop would suspect murder. Damn Fitzwilliam. Damn Brother Wulfstan, that bumbling monk. If Fitzwilliam had not died, no one would have cared about the other. But now John Thorpe, the most powerful man in York, was involved.
How odd that the Archbishop should care about a ward who brought him only trouble. Anselm's own father would care not a fig if Anselm died in mysterious circumstances. He would make no inquiries. He would forget the death in no time. He whose son had risen in the Church to the rank of Archdeacon of York. It was not just that Anselm was the second son, marked for the Church. His father had rejected him because he had no taste for violence. Once Anselm had shown his colours, he could do nothing to win his father's respect, much less his love. But the Archbishop, a mere guardian, wanted to know how the odious Fitzwilliam had died, a young man who had aspired to break all the commandments as often as possible.
What a lucky fellow, Oswald Fitzwilliam. Doubtless he had been sheltered as a youth, and hence his appetite for sin. Man craves the unknown. The mysterious. Anselm had learned early about sins of the flesh. All curiosity had been wrung from him by the slime his father trained as soldiers, the curs among whom his whore of a mother had thrown him. The quiet virtue expected at the abbey school had been a welcome relief.
Eleven
Long after the Guildmaster had gone home to his bed, Owen sat in the corner, vaguely aware of murmuring voices, the sour smells of ale, wine, and unwashed bodies, the draught that wrapped around his legs when a customer opened the door to the street. He rubbed the scar on his cheek and stared down at the tavern floor, thinking. Not of Fitzwilliam, but about his home. It was difficult, like peering through a mist, to remember. And so long ago, so much had happened — to them as well as to him, no doubt. Life was difficult in the village. Every journey sent one up mountains and through forests, in and out of every season except summer. Work broke the back and the spirit. There were no physicians like Roglio, or even apothecaries like Wilton. Folks had their remedies — his mother had many — but mostly they soothed rather than cured. Illness and injury meant death more often than not. Would Lucie believe him if he told her that the reason he had not returned was that he could not bear to find them all dead? His mother, her smile, her voice, her spirit, rotting underground, feeding the roots of the oak and ash, feeding the worms. And his sisters — Angie with her snapping eyes, Gwen with her slow, dreamy ways — so many young women died birthing. He crossed himself.
Lucie Wilton had sent him into black thoughts with her anger. Working for her was not easy on his heart.
Better to think on the death of FitzWilliam. That was what he'd come to York to investigate. The faster he answered the Archbishop's questions, the sooner he might leave. And leave he must. He was losing his heart to a woman who would never care for him, even if Nicholas died. She had rejected Owen before she ever knew him. Unfair, but, there being no one to complain to, he must accept it.
Accept it. Owen looked up, caught Tom's eye, lifted his tankard.
Tom ambled over. 'You're looking gloomy, Master Archer’ he said. 'Bad news from Guildmaster?'
'Nothing to do with him. Missing the old days.'
Tom frowned with sympathy. 'Aye. Captain of Archers, Not many rise so high.'
'Fortune smiled on you when he gave you a living you could keep into old age, Tom. And a bonny wife.'
Tom's face brightened. 'Aye. The Lord's been good to me.' He nodded and moved on among his customers with his pitcher of fine ale,
Owen took a long drink, appreciating the oiliness of the brew in his mouth. Tom Merchet was an artisan of great skill. His an brought comfort to his fellow man. A far cry from Owen's lost art — killing, maiming. Perhaps his apprenticeship would be his redemption.
He imagined himself and Lucie working side by side, like Tom and Bess. Running a tavern. Lucie would lend a different character to the place. Bess was saucy. The men met her eye boldly, called out to her. And she gave as good as she got. But men would lower their eyes to Lucie, like boys addressing their best friend's mother. Their voices would soften. And he-
Pah. Owen could not imagine her married to him. Murdering oaf. One-eyed, clumsy -
He slammed his tankard down on the table. His neighbours glanced up with curiosity. When they saw his apologetic flush, they shook their heads and went back to their business.
But they were soon interested in the Summoner's appearance. He stopped at the counter, then wound his way through the customers with his tankard in hand. He sat down at Owen's table.
His arrival did not help Owen's mood. Hoping rudeness would discourage the Summoner, Owen looked not at him but down at his ale. 'Don't tell me the Archdeacon wants to see me again?'
'Not as such.'
Owen nodded without looking up.
Digby fidgeted. He'd meant to intrigue Owen with his reply. He leaned closer. 'He wants me to follow you. Find out who sent you and why.'
Owen glanced up. 'Is the Archdeacon always so wary of strangers?'
'Nay.'
'Why me?'
Digby grinned. 'He didn't say. But I know. He thinks the Archbishop sent you to look into the death of Fitzwilliam.'
'And how do you know the Archdeacon thinks that?'
'Because I think so, too.' Digby took a long drink. He had gained confidence since last night.
'Surely the Archdeacon did not mean for you to tell me?'
Digby laughed. 'Course not.'
'So why are you telling me this?'
'Because I want to know what you want to know.'
'You mean if I was sent to York by the Archbishop to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam?'
'Aye’
'Now what, might I ask, is there to question? They say the man died of a winter chill.'
Digby snorted. An unpleasant sound. 'Not Fitzwilliam. He wasn't that sick’
'You knew him?'
'Aye. I knew him well. An easy source of revenue for the minster fund. Muck clung to him like cobwebs to a cat’
'Stealing the arm from your mother's pit was not his worst offence?'
'Pah. That was nothing’
'You think he was murdered?'
'Aye. That's how it always is with his sort’
'In the abbey infirmary?'
That's where he died’
'One of the brothers?'
'Not likely. But perhaps. They're not all saints’ — 'Like the Archdeacon’
Digby snorted again. 'Him least of all. They're all born with original sin, same as you and me’
Him least of all. A tantalising comment.