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comrades-in-arms, Lief and Gaspare, develop a strategy for training archers in a mere two weeks. The Duke of Lancaster was to sail for the Aquitaine in the autumn with one hundred trained archers if attempts at negotiating the restoration of Don Pedro to the throne of Castile failed. Meanwhile, Lancaster did not want to feed a hundred archers any longer than necessary; he sought a method for quickly training those already skilled with the longbow to fight efficiently in the field so that he might collect them in small increments. Thus this experiment in training seven men in a fortnight. They were to be presented to Lancaster at Pontefract after their training, where he would judge whether their skills were acceptable.
    ‘From His Grace the Archbishop, Captain Archer.’ The messenger handed Owen a sealed packet. ‘I’m to await your reply.’
    ‘Take yourself off to the kitchens. I’ll find you there.’
    Gaspare noticed his friend’s clenched jaw. ‘Likely to be bad news, coming from the mighty Thoresby?’
    ‘More likely to be orders.’
    ‘You’ve no love for him, that I can see.’
    ‘I do not like being his puppet.’
    ‘You did much the same work for the old Duke.’
    ‘Henry of Grosmont was a soldier. I understood him. I trusted him.’
    ‘Ah.’ Gaspare glanced over at the waiting trainee. ‘So. What am I to do with this “archer” who shoots his captain by mistake?’
    Owen scratched the scar beneath his patch with the archbishop’s letter as he thought. ‘We have not the time to change his character. Nor the one who swatted a fly earlier. Release them. Expend your effort on the other five.’
    Gaspare nodded. ‘With pleasure.’ He tapped the letter. ‘Think you Thoresby means to call you back so soon?’
    Owen looked down at the packet in his hand. ‘It is the sort of thing he would do. I had best go and read it.’
    Knaresborough sat on a precipitous cliff over the River Nidd. The trees that grew on the cliff were oddly twisted and stunted by their lifelong struggle to cling to the soil and sink in their roots. Owen stood atop the keep gazing down to the rushing river, remembering another precipitous cliff, another river. He had climbed the mountain with his father and his brother, Dafydd. At the top, Dafydd had dared Owen to walk to the edge and look down. Their father had laughed. ‘To look down is nothing, Dafydd, for your eyes can see it is far to fall, and you will not be tempted.’ Owen’s father had made them sit close to the edge and look down, then told them to shut one eye and look down. ‘You see how God protects us? He gave us two eyes that we might see the depths of Hell and seek to move upward.’ It was one of Owen’s best memories of his father, a rare moment when he had had time to take a day with his sons.
    But now Owen gazed down a precipice with but one working eye, and it looked as if he could reach down and scoop up the river water in his hands. Folk made light of his blinding, but as an active man, Owen felt the loss every day. Balance, his vision to the left of him, and judgement of depth, distance, and trajectory, were all crippled by it. And his appearance made people uneasy. Owen would like to teach his child things such as the value of two eyes. But hearing the words from a scarred and crippled man, would the child listen?
    Irritated with his self-pity, he tore open the letter from Thoresby, read quickly. The runaway nun from St Clement’s had reappeared. Odd, but no more than that. He read on. The rape and murder of Will Longford’s maid, and his cook buried in the nun’s grave with his neck broken – now those were more troublesome. Thoresby expressed an uneasiness about the business and ordered Owen to return to York. Owen could finish training the archers on St George’s Field; the archers could stay at York Castle. Meanwhile, Owen could begin inquiries into the matter. Meanwhile? What did he think, training archers occupied a few moments of his