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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 co-operate.

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 soldiers 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 Highlanders had found them first?'

'I trusted in God. Brandon is a strong lad from the borders. He knows how to defend himself.'

'Against Highlanders? 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 honourable.' 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 recognise 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 can't 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.'

Twenty-six

Forgiveness

Bess sat on the bench in Owen's room, watching him assemble his belongings to take to St. Mary's. ' Tis a good thing to do, pray and think, after what's happened. You have a head on those broad shoulders, Owen Archer.' He had told her everything. Even his hope for the future. 'And when you get back, Lucie may be ready to think about you in a different light.'