Seventeen
A funeral, an interrogation, a sickbed, a profession of love, and no answers. Owen knew himself a failure at this new life. And he had chosen the easy life. As a mercenary in Italy, he would have been called on to use much more of his wits. But also his training as a soldier. His body. Perhaps this life of spying made him lazy. It disgusted him even more that he planned to take a tankard of ale up to his room and dull his thoughts enough to sleep. He had lost all his honour. Better if he were truly the Wiltons' apprentice. He could throw himself into his work. Devote himself to his new profession. But the knowledge that it was temporary held him back. He hated to let Lucie Wilton become dependent on him, for she would lose him soon enough. Whenever the Archbishop realised he was getting nothing from him. Then he would send him away, probably on an errand from which he would not return. With such black thoughts, Owen returned to the York Tavern.
Bess was waiting for him, hands on hips, impatient. 'So there you are at last.'
'I hope no visitor awaits me tonight, Bess. I have no energy for conversation.'
She looked him up and down. 'I can see you've lost some spark. But the Archbishop's secretary came for you. You are wanted at the minster.'
'It is late.'
'He said whenever you came in.'
Perhaps it was a good sign. Perhaps the Archbishop wished him to give up the inquiry. And wished to give up on him. Then Owen could settle in as apprentice to Lucie Wilton. And when Nicholas died -
Jehannes answered the door. The Archbishop was comfortably enthroned beside the fire. Owen could not imagine Thoresby doubting anything. His life was set, his goals clear. Men such as he, highly placed, did not see their lives whittled away piece by piece, a limb, an eye, a stomach wound that prevented them from eating properly. Only if they were foolhardy did they put themselves in vulnerable situations. They might be murdered, but their attackers would make sure it was successful. Death was a clean end. Of course Thoresby was comfortable. He would never stand here wondering whether his fate had been decided, what was to be next for him.
'Well, Owen Archer. I judge it about time we discussed your progress.'
With no warning, of course. Left him alone to hang himself, then suddenly demanded a report. On a whim, no doubt. Still, perhaps it would lead to his freedom. 'Your Grace. I confess I have no definite answer to how Fitzwilliam died. Only new questions.'
Thoresby motioned Owen to the seat across from him, with his good eye facing away from the fire. At least he had been that considerate. Or Jehannes had set it up that way.
Jehannes handed Owen a goblet of wine. Owen lifted it towards Thoresby, then drank. 'This is most welcome, Your Grace. My day has been unpleasant. It began with a funeral and ended at the sickbed of my dying employer.' Owen downed the wine with relish.
Thoresby smiled. It was not as friendly a smile as Owen might have wished. Thoresby must suspect him of something, had heard something not to his liking. This was not the time to be evasive.
'You said you had new questions?' Thoresby's voice was silky. Dangerous.
Owen set his cup beside him, sat forward. 'To be brief, I have lost the man who was assisting me in my investigation. Digby the Summoner. He drowned. Not by accident, I think.'
Eyebrows lifted, but they did not fool Owen. The Archbishop's eyes expressed no surprise. 'Why the Summoner?' Thoresby asked. 'Why would you trust the man least trusted in all York?'
'He offered his services to me in exchange for information. I had no reason to distrust him.'
'His being a Summoner was enough for most men.'
Owen shrugged. 'I'm a Welshman. I struggle against the current by nature.' He grinned.
Thoresby returned a ghost of a smile. 'This information you gave Digby, did he find it useful?'
Not good. 'A poor choice of words, Your Grace. He, too, was interested in the deaths at the abbey. He wished to help. I told him the identity of the first man. He was able to tell me why the man came to York’
'And that was useful to you?'
'I think it will be.' Owen picked up his cup, which Jehannes had unobtrusively refilled, and sipped the wine, trying to think how he might modify the story to protect Lucie Wilton. But Thoresby's expression hurried him into the truth. 'Digby, you see, was at the abbey the night Montaigne died.'
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?'