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would be puffed up with pride and giddy with joy.’
    Owen rubbed his scar beneath the patch. It was difficult to explain. ‘Lucie had a child once, a boy, Martin. He died before he could walk. Plague.’
    ‘Ah.’ Lief nodded over his energetic whittling. ‘So she’s gloomy and fretful, eh?’
    Owen shook his head. ‘No. That is not Lucie’s way. She is determined that all will go well. But it is not up to us, is it? It’s God’s game in the end.’
    Lief paused, studied his friend’s face. ‘Here’s another piece of philosophy, then. It’s no use worrying about what might happen. God’s will is unknowable to the likes of us.’
    How true. And how maddening. If ever there were something Owen would give all to control . . . ‘You are right. And you were right before when you guessed it was Thoresby making me worry. Before you sat down, I’d been wondering about the nun who ran away. She or someone else went to great lengths to make it look like she’d died. A man called Longford was involved – but was he her friend, her lover or her enemy? Why is Longford’s man buried in the nun’s grave, his neck broken? Why was his maid murdered? Why was she wearing a blue shawl like the nun’s?’
    Lief shook his head. ‘Is that what you do for the chancellor? Make up questions?’
    Owen laughed. ‘It amounts to that, indeed. But that was not my point. I was showing you how I must think to do Thoresby’s work. Of course I’m worrying about all that could go wrong with Lucie. I’ve trained myself to do that.’
    ‘No wonder you hate him.’
    Owen shrugged. ‘I don’t know that I do hate him.’
    Lief glanced over at Owen. ‘God’s blood, but you are a hard one to figure. Well, think about hating the archbishop for a while and give your family a rest, eh?’ He handed Owen the carving, a featureless figure in an archbishop’s robes.
    Owen laughed, slapped Lief on the back. ‘Good advice, my philosophical friend. And a clever reminder.’ He picked up the letter and rose from the stone ledge, stretching. ‘I should go back. Gaspare will think I’ve already ridden off to do battle for Thoresby’s new cause.’
    Lief nodded, already absorbed in another piece of wood. ‘I’ll join you later.’
    Owen stopped in the kitchen to inform Thoresby’s messenger that he would start out for York on the morrow with his men.

Three
Lady’s Mantle
     
    S t Clement’s Nunnery was a small claustral establishment compared with St Mary’s Abbey, but the setting was pleasant, nestled among gardens, orchards, meadows, and small arable and pasture closes, separated from the west bank of the Ouse by a common. A Benedictine house, St Clement’s had the customary church and chapter house, cloister, guest house, and even a staithe on the Ouse. The priory’s church was the parish church of the residents of Clementhorpe; beneath its stones were buried not only nuns and their servants, but parishioners, and the nunnery was often remembered in the parishioners’ wills. As prioress, Isobel de Percy strove to instil in the sisters, boarders, and their domestics the importance of the community’s respect. Even the smallest scandal might convince potential benefactors to take their largesse elsewhere.
    This present situation distressed the prioress. She was not fool enough to think Joanna Calverley’s story would not spread among the people of York, but hoped in time Joanna’s notoriety would fade. Isobel intended to keep close watch on Joanna from now on.
    She had given orders to be notified at once when the party from Beverley arrived. She meant to settle Joanna without fuss and with only the essential people knowing. As soon as word came, Isobel hurried to the gate to escort the company into the priory. She would announce the prodigal’s return at the evening meal; it would cause an unpleasant stir, she had no doubt, but the sisters must be told. She would savour these last few hours of peace. As Sir Richard de Ravenser and