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puzzle. Owen liked the prospect. 'What inquiries have you made so far?'
    'A few questions, enough to discover that Abbot Campian thinks they both died of natural causes. Hopes they did, is more like it. He fears we'll wrong ly accuse his Infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. And the Archdeacon of York assures me that if there had been a hint of trouble his Summoner would know of it. I hand it to you, Owen Archer. Disregard them. Begin at the beginning’
    'In what guise shall I present myself in York?'
    'I think that something as close to the truth as possible will suit the situation. Present yourself as a soldier who has lost his taste for killing and wishes to begin afresh. You are looking for honest work in the city, with a small behest from your late lord to support you in the meantime. My secretary, Jehannes, will doubtless come up with something before you arrive in York. You will of course have all the funds you need. You will go to Jehannes when you arrive, and whenever you have need of anything. The Archdeacon of York would normally arrange all this, but I would rather he not know about your purpose.'
    'You suspect him?'
    Thoresby smiled. 'I suspect everyone at this point.'
    'Everyone but Jehannes
    Thoresby nodded.
    'And after I complete this task, what then?'
    'We will see.'
    Owen left with mixed feelings. No need to take ship to Italy. He had an interesting puzzle to solve. But it was a mental challenge, not at all a physical one. Fishing for clues, catching people in lies. Not his best talents. It bothered him a little. What bothered him more was presenting himself as one who had lost his taste for killing. Did the Archbishop think that true? It was not. Given a just cause, he would kill again. He had not lost his nerve. Did the Archbishop think him a coward? His face grew hot.
    But no. The Archbishop would not hire a coward. He must push that thought from his mind. Doubts would keep him from doing his best. And he must succeed. Success would secure his future in England. God still watched over him.

Two
    Entering the Maze
    O wen headed back to Kenilworth the next morni ng. Gaunt had come to the castle for Christmas an d would remain there with his retinue while the roads were too muddy for wagons top-heavy with household items. Owen hoped that of his old comrades-in-arms who had remained in Gaunt's service, someone would have known Fitzwilliam. He was not certain, for he had divorced himself from his old friends when he became a spy, wanting nothing to remind him of the old times.
    He arrived late in the day, in time to find his friends resting from a day of training the young recruits. Bertold, who had succeeded him as Captain of Archers, greeted him warmly. With him were Lief, Gaspare, and Ned. The five had fought together in France. It was Bertold and Lief who had found Owen bleeding and delirious with pain near the corpses of the jongleur and his leman.
    The four archers sat around a smoking brazier in Bertold's quarters, a small but private room that was one of the rewards for attaining the status of captain in Lancaster's company, enjoying another luxury, a small cask of ale.
    'Being Captain's changed you not a whit.' Owen tugged at Bertold's shaggy black hair, pulled back with a greasy leather thong, though it curled wildly about his scarred face wherever it could escape.
    'No need to put on airs to train archers,' Bertold said. ' Tis not the place for lordlings.'
    'True enough,' Owen said.
    Doe-eyed Ned lifted his tankard to salute Owen. 'You'll never look a lordling with that patch.'
    'Aye. But the ladies like it.'
    Laughing, Gaspare made room on the bench beside him. He knew the weakness women had for the right scars. Tall, handsome, broad in the shoulders, he'd seduced many a young woman by asking her to kiss the scar that ran from his ear to his lips, where the knife had left a permanent crease, and then asking if they would like to see where the wound continued on his chest. 'You can't be getting much of a