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your nursemaid?’
    ‘Perhaps not. She has refused him.’
    ‘Her heart is sworn to another?’
    ‘I do not know. I thought it plain she loved Daimon.’
    ‘She teases him, perhaps?’
    ‘That is not her nature. No, something is amiss. I must discover her reason – discreetly. You must say nothing to anyone.’
    Harold bowed, another of his oddly formal gestures. ‘I shall say nothing.’
    ‘You are a good man, Harold. Master Moreton is fortunate.’
    Late in the afternoon, when the shadows were lengthening and a pleasant breeze stirred the trees, Lucie wandered out into the garden. She found Phillippa sitting on a bench at the entrance to the yew maze. It was strange to see her aunt so idle. Lucie joined her.
    ‘Come to York for Father’s Requiem Mass at the minster, Aunt, and stay with me for a time.’
    Phillippa did not answer at once, though she took Lucie’s hand and squeezed it. ‘You have heard about the stranger watching the hall?’ Phillippa suddenly asked.
    ‘Daimon told me. He thinks we were fools to ride out with such bold thieves about.’
    ‘It was once far worse. When Robert the Bruce used the North to try to force our king to give up Scotland. Scots everywhere. And Frenchmen, they did say, eager to use our enemies to weaken us.’
    ‘Did your Douglas fight the Scots?’
    Phillippa shifted on the bench, turning so that she might see Lucie’s face. In the clear light Lucie saw how like crinkled parchment was her aunt’s skin. Her eyes had always been deep-set, but now they appeared sunken. ‘Why do you ask about Douglas Sutton?’
    Because he is on my mind, Lucie thought. ‘You never spoke much of him. I was curious. With the Scots burning the countryside. Did you not live farther north then, in the Dales?’
    Phillippa studied Lucie’s face a moment longer, then dropped her gaze to her idle hands. ‘I grow old, Lucie, my dearest. I grow useless. You would find me a burden in your busy household.’
    ‘Not at all. Kate has much to learn and Tildy is busy with the children.’
    ‘Perhaps …’
    Lucie took her aunt’s hands, turned them palms up. ‘Still calloused. I do not think you are useless.’ She kissed her aunt on the cheek, then rose. ‘Do not stay out too long. Already the evening chills the shadows.’

Four
    THE ARCHDEACON’S WILL
     
    O wen shrugged out into the early evening. He paused on the great porch of the Bishop’s Palace, surprised by the hastening gloom. He had expected a soft grey sky, some lingering daylight. But although the storm had quieted to a drizzle, the rain-heavy clouds crouched close to the horizon, ready to snag on the towers of the palace or the cathedral and loose a flood in the valley. The world smelled of damp wool, damp stone, mud, mildew and moss. It suited Owen’s mood.
    The gatekeeper came over. ‘Captain, the house of the Archdeacon of St David’s –’
    ‘– is just without the gate,’ Owen growled. Needlessly. The man meant to be helpful.
    ‘Aye. Then you know the way.’ The gatekeeper stepped back into his corner.
    ‘Forgive my discourtesy,’ said Owen. The man was Welsh, had spoken in his own tongue. No doubt that was why he was but a gatekeeper, not an archdeacon. Or archbishop. ‘I had a long ride and a thorough soak. I thought to rest easy by the fire tonight with my comrades.’
    ‘Archdeacon Rokelyn is sure to feed you well,’ said the gatekeeper with a kindly smile.
    Fatten him up for a favour. Oh, aye. The English were good at that. If Owain Lawgoch, great-nephew of Llywelyn the Last, arrived on this soil to wrest the country from English control, would this Welsh gatekeeper support him? Throw off his livery and fight on the side of his people? Or was he too comfortable on this grand porch, ordering the wealthy pilgrims about, eating the bishop’s food? Would he worry he might wind up back in a turf-roofed hut sleeping with his sheep if he backed the prince of the Welsh?
    Owen’s boots squished through the muddy