Now what?
Everything must be learned over again. He'd not bothered till now, thinking the half-blind state tempo shy;rary. A passing discomfort, like all his wounds. When an unseen obstacle tripped him up, he shrugged it off, a small penance for his many sins, a lesson in humility. Not an easy lesson. Familiar objects looked foreign. The world appeared lopsided. When he blinked, it winked out.
Owen learned the value of two eyes. With two, a mote in one had not blinded him. It was a mere discomfort. Now it rendered him as helpless as a babe in arms.
Complete darkness. He knew it possible. Death, too, was possible.
It changed everything.
The old Duke argued that Owen's loss of sight did not render him useless — an archer aimed with one eye shut. And the strength would return to his shoulder with work. But Owen saw his blinding as the result of his own faulty judgement and the shoulder wound as the inevitable result of his blinding. A one-eyed man was vulnerable. He would endanger those with whom he fought.
Lancaster let him be for a time, then surprised him. 'You are a natural mimic, Owen Archer. In my service you have mannered yourself a knight. Your accent is rough, but the marcher lords carry the accents of their borders. And better than a lordling, you are a free man. No one owns you, you have no family honour to defend, you do not seek power through secret alli shy;ances. I can trust you. With a little education I might use you well as my eyes and my ears. What say you?'
Owen turned his head like a bird to study his lord with his good eye. Lancaster possessed a strange humour and was adept at maintaining a level voice, devoid of emotion. But at this moment the old Duke's gaze was level, lacking amusement.
'I would be your spy?'
The old Duke grinned. 'Yet another virtue. A blunt thrust to the heart of things.'
'A spy with one eye would seem almost as useless as a one-eyed archer, my lord.' Best that he say it. Someone would.
'Not to mention how conspicuous you are with your leather patch and angry scar.' The old Duke chuckled, enjoying the moment. 'Your unlikeliness becomes a disguise’
'An interesting line of reasoning’ Owen said.
The old Duke threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'Spoken with a lordling's delicacy. Excellent’ A sudden sobering. Lancaster leaned for shy;ward. 'My son-in-law called me a master tactician. And that I am, Owen Archer. Power is not held by attending the King and fighting battles. I need trustworthy spies. You were of great value as Captain of Archers. You can be of greater value as my eyes and ears. But you must know the players and the plots. You must read well both men and their letters. Will you apply yourself to the learning of this?'
A spy worked alone. Owen's incompleteness would endanger no one but himself. It appealed to him. 'Aye, my lord. Gladly’
God was merciful in His designs. Owen spent the night in chapel giving thanks. He might yet prove useful.
Two years later Owen stood in the back of Westminster Abbey church, part of the old Duke's funeral retinue.
God had lifted him up to strike him down once more. He could not expect that the old Duke had arranged for his future. If the dukedom had passed on to Lancaster's own son, perhaps that might have been. But the old Duke had only daughters. The new Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, was a son-in-law, husband to the old Duke's daughter Blanche, and he was the son of King Edward, which made him a powerful lord in his own right. He could hardly be expected to employ a one-eyed Welsh spy. Owen had thought much on his future the last few days. He had some money earned in the Duke's service. His best plan so far was to arrange passage to the continent and on to Italy. Many princes, much intrigue. Someone would find him useful.
He worked on his aim until his good eye blurred with fatigue and his arms and shoulders twitched. Still a sure shot, almost as strong as before. But vulnerable on the left. He worked on spinning from a crouch, and strengthened his neck so he could turn sharp.
And then John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York, sent to Kenilworth for him, Thoresby was in London seeing to the King's business. Owen was to join him there.
Owen accepted the proffered cup and tasted the wine. He had not tasted better, even at the old Duke's table. The Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York treated him nobly. Owen could not think what he might want.
John Thoresby leaned back in his chair. He sipped his wine with quiet pleasure. A fire crackled beside them in the hearth that warmed the private anteroom. Tapestries caught the firelight and lent the warmth of their vivid colours to the room.
With his one eye, Owen could not look at the tapestries without being obvious. It required turning the head this way and that, especially for those on the left. There was only one solution. Be obvious. Praise the man by praising his possessions. He turned his head, letting his one eye span the room. A boar hunt began to the left of the door and continued around the room, finishing with a feast in the great hall, where the beast's head was presented to the victor. The separate tapestries formed a complete set, designed for this room, for the fit was perfect. 'The tapestries are exquisite. Norman work, I think. The close weave, the deep green. Norman for certain’
John Thoresby smiled. 'Not all your time in Nor shy;mandy was spent on the battlefield, I see’
'Nor yours in negotiations’ Owen grinned. He must not seem cowed by the honour of sharing wine in the Lord Chancellor's chambers.
'You are a bold Welshman, Owen Archer. And adaptable. When the old Duke asked that I take you into my service, I thought his mind muddled with pain. He did not die with ease, as you may know’
Owen nodded. Lancaster had died in agony. Master Roglio said the old Duke's own flesh devoured itself from within so that he could at the end consume nothing but water, which exited his body as a bloody flux. Owen was moved that in the midst of his agony his lord had remembered him.
'He trained you to listen, observe, and retain’ Thoresby watched Owen over the rim of his cup. 'Is that correct?'
'Yes, my lord’
'So much trust might have overwhelmed an ordinary archer’ Thoresby kept his eyes steady on Owen.
The Archbishop was easy in himself. Honesty would be Owen's best ploy. 'I lost the sight in one eye, which I thought was death to me. My lord's trust lifted me up from despair. He gave me purpose when I thought I had none. I owed him my life’
'Owed him’ Thoresby nodded. 'And you owe me nothing. I merely consider honouring an old comrade's request’
'You might have ignored it, and only God would be the wiser’
Thoresby cocked an eyebrow. A grin danced on his lips. 'The Archbishop of York would deceive a man on his deathbed?'
'If he judged that it were better for the soul in his care’
Thoresby put down his cup and leaned forward, hands on knees. The Archbishop's ring shone on his finger. The chain of Chancellor glittered in the firelight. 'You make me smile, Owen Archer. You make me think I can trust you’
'As Archbishop or Lord Chancellor?'
'Both. The matter concerns York. And two knights of the realm, dead before their times, in St. Mary's Abbey. Do you know the abbey?'
Owen shook his head.
'Good. I want someone who can be objective. Make inquiries, note the facts, report them to me’ The Archbishop poured himself more wine and gestured for Owen to do the same. 'We serve ourselves. I wished to have no ears but ours this evening’
Owen poured himself more wine and sat back to hear the story.