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doing at an abbey?' Lief asked.
    They say he'd gone on pilgrimage to York.'
    'Aye,' said Gaspare. 'He left before Christmastide. Before we left the Savoy.'
    'That long ago? He arrived in York much later.'
    Ned shook his head. 'Only a fool such as he would travel north in winter.'
    'Aye,' said Bertold. 'The Duchess called Lord March mad for travelling that route to fetch his lady.'
    'Now there could lie a story,' Ned said. 'Fitzwilliam knew Lord March's lady well. He heads north to see her, the husband follows. Are you sure it was camp fever killed him?'
    ' Tis the story I heard. But I know nothing of this lady. He was to see her on his way?'
    Ned shrugged. 'Who's to say? Lord March has a holding south of York. At Christmastide the Duchess named his lady, Jocelyn, to be part of her household. So he hied himself north to fetch her straightaway, though the Duchess said 'twas a cruel thing to make her travel through the freezing mud, that she could come at Easter. But he'd have none of that, greedy bastard. The stipend doesn't begin until she's in residence, you see. He was loath to lose pay while she dallied up north until Eastertide.'
    Gaspare snorted. 'Daily's the right word for what she's about, from what I hear.'
    Owen felt hopeful. If it proved so easy as this, that Fitzwilliam had gone north, stopped with this Lady Jocelyn, and been seriously wounded by her jealous lord, then his investigation might be concluded with no need to spend February on the road north. 'So this Lady Jocelyn is now at Kenilworth?'
    'Aye,' Gaspare said. 'You'll see her sitting high with the other ladies-in-waiting this evening. And Lord March holding forth nearby.'
    Lady Jocelyn stared off into the ether with a bored expression while a companion chattered on about the weather. Owen would have chosen the pleasant-faced companion over Fitzwilliam's mistress. Lady Jocelyn had a charming, childlike face, rounded and dimpled and dotted with a rosebud mouth, but her eyes were flinty. She regarded him as he approached, calculating his worth to her, Owen guessed. The tiny mouth smiled.
    'My Lady Jocelyn.' He bowed to her.
    She put a hand to her bosom, her dress fashionably low, revealing much, and averted her eyes momentari ly, but they returned to regard him with a predatory attention. 'You are a guest of the Duke?'
    'A retainer of the old Duke, here to collect my belongings. I am now in the household of the Lord Chancellor.'
    That lit a small spark in the eyes. A member of a powerful household. 'Your name, sir?'
    'Owen Archer, my lady.'
    'You sought a word with me?'
    'I have a message for you from' - Owen looked at the companion, then back to Jocelyn - 'an old acquaintance.'
    A faint flush. 'I am afraid my duties consume my days, from tending to my lady's wardrobe to walking her lapdog in midmorning, out beyond the rose garden. That alone takes up most of the morning till the noon meal.'
    'Then it is that activity I must praise for putting such enchanting roses in your cheeks, though it keeps you so busy. Perhaps I will have the good fortune to see you on one of your walks. I often walk out to be alone with my thoughts.' Owen bowed to her, then to her companion, 'My ladies’ and withdrew.
    Bertold called to him as he moved to go out into the night. 'Share a tankard with us.'
    Owen shook his head, knowing that they would get maudlin about the old days and drink until they could barely stumble back to their cots. He would wake on the morrow with the devil's hammer pounding in his head and a mouth as dry as the sands of Hell. He did not wish to meet with the Lady Jocelyn in such state.
    'I can sit no more, my friend. I must walk off the journey so I can sleep lying still tonight.'
    'A word to a friend, then. Watch yourself with Lady Jocelyn. Lord March is ambitious. He will look the other way if his lady plays with the powerful, but not with a servant of the household, no matter how well you speak.'
    Bertold had tossed out the right bait. As Owen sat down