by Candace Robb
Candace Robb studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon Literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. The Owen Archer series grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous 14th century; the first in the series, The Apothecary Rose, was published in 1994, at which point she began to write full time. In addition to the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada and America, her novels are published in France, Germany, Spain and Holland, and she is also available in the UK on audiobook and in large print.
Also by Candace Robb
THE APOTHECARY ROSE
THE LADY CHAPEL
THE NUN’S TALE
THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S
A GIFT OF SANCTUARY
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
A TRUST BETRAYED
To find out more about Candace Robb’s Owen Archer novels, read the Candace Robb Newsletter. For your free copy, write to the Marketing Department, William Heinemann, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1W 2SA. Please mark your envelope ‘Candace Robb Newsletter’.
You can also visit the Candace Robb website at www.candacerobb.com
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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Reprinted in 2001 by Arrow Books
11
Copyright © Candace Robb 1996
The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 1996 by William Heinemann and Mandarin Paperbacks,
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/vintage
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099426271
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Candace Robb
Title
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MAPS
GLOSSARY
1. A Body in the Moat
2. Matters of Conscience
3. A Hushed Argument
4. The King’s Bishop?
5. Mistress Mary
6. Matters of the Heart
7. Premonitions
8. Private Devils
9. Signs of Treachery
10. Blind Rage
11. Two Men Too Few
12. A Grave Matter
13. Magda’s Secret
14. Bodies in a Beck
15. Haunting Faces
16. An Invitation to Dine
17. Whom To Trust?
18. Ned Takes Action
19. Don Paulus Dissembles
20. Alice’s Mistake
21. Unwelcome Advice
22. Michaelo Rides North, Bringing Turmoil
23. Unlikely Alliances
24. A Plan Gone up in Smoke
25. A Remarkably Brave Lady
26. Owen Interrogates
27. Confessor to the Damned
28. Diplomacy
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For my Mother and Father
The King’s Bishop
Thoresby walked back to his own quarters in a thoughtful mood. Who would have thought the ambitious William of Wykeham would be such a decent, conscientious man? Indeed, he seemed a man admirably suited to the position of bishop, someone with a heart, mind and soul that worked in concert. He might even make a good chancellor; though Thoresby wondered what he knew of the law.
It was a pity, really, that Wykeham was the King’s man. He would feel the conflicts as Thoresby did, the frustration when a compromise was necessary to please the King, a compromise in morals or justice.
Did Wykeham understand that? Did he see the price of becoming the King’s bishop?
Thoresby paused at his door, and shrugged. If he had not been the King’s man, Wykeham would never have risen so high. He could be nothing but the King’s bishop.
Pity. The man would undoubtedly someday regret it. But not now.
Acknowledgements
I thank my editors Lynne Drew and Hope Dellon for insightful critiques and Victoria Hipps for a sharp eye for detail; for advice and information about the period I thank Jeremy Goldberg, Pat Cullum, Betty Garbutt, and the medievalists on the Mediev-L, Medsci, and Chaucer discussion lists. Thanks to Karen Wuthrich for asking just the right questions, and Charlie Robb for being a terrific sys-op and mapmaker.
Research for this book was conducted on location in Windsor and Yorkshire and at the University of York’s Morrell Library, the British Library, the University of Washington libraries and the Seattle Public Library, with additional critical materials from the York Archaeological Trust, English Heritage, and the National Trust.
Glossary
bailey
castle wall enclosing the outer court, also the court itself
compline
the last of the seven canonical hours, after sunset
grange
an outlying farmhouse with barns and other outbuildings belonging to an abbey, originally staffed by lay brothers
hospitaller
in a religious house, the person whose office it is to receive pilgrims or visitors
houpelande
men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open
jongleur
a minstrel who sang, juggled and tumbled
the King’s road
highways under the King’s protection
leman
mistress
liberty
an area of the city not subject to royal administration; for example, the Liberty of St Peter is the area surrounding York Minster which comes under the Archbishop’s jurisdiction
the Marches/Marcher Lords
the borders of the kingdom and the lords to whom the King granted jurisdiction over them
mazer
a large wooden cup
minster
a large church or cathedral; the cathedral of St Peter in York is referred to as York Minster
motte
the mound on which sits Windsor’s Round Tower
nones
the fifth of the seven canonical hours, or the ninth hour after sunrise
pandemain
the finest quality white bread, made from flour sifted two or three times prime the first of the seven canonical hours, or sunrise
prime
the first of the seven canonical hours, or sunrise
&nb
sp; solar
private room on upper level of house
the wards
at Windsor, the lower ward is the court west of the Round Tower, the middle ward is the area enclosing the Round Tower, and the upper ward is the court east of the tower, enclosing King Edward III’s new royal apartments
vespers
the sixth of the canonical hours, towards sunset
white monks
Cistercians, an offshoot of the Benedictine order; their aim was to observe more strictly the rule of St Benedict
One
A Body in the Moat
Windsor Castle, March 1367
St George’s Hall was aglow with torches and lamps, creating a firmament of stars in the glazed windows lining the far wall. The voices of the King’s courtiers rang in counterpoint to the music, their silks rustled as their feet caught the rhythm. There was an exuberance of aromas – roasted boar, exotic spices, delicately scented hair and clothing, melting beeswax, smoke, sweat, and now and then icy air as revellers slipped out to relieve their wine-bloated bladders in the privies.
A latecomer impatiently pushed aside a stumbling lord, then paused as his senses, having adjusted to the dark silence of the snowfall outside in the upper ward, were now ambushed by the noise, the heat, and the smoky glare of the torches that made him cough and blink. As he shook the snow from his brown hair, Ned Townley searched the faces at the long tables near the door, where the pages and lesser officials huddled over their food. He was looking for a young face that had become all too familiar of late. A face seen too often bent towards Mary, Ned’s betrothed.
He should not have left it so long. But the signs of Mary’s turmoil had been subtle. Frowns shrugged off as nothing, a distracted air, unexplained tears. By the time Ned had suspected and had begun spying on Mary she had reached a level of comfortable intimacy with Daniel, a page in Sir William of Wyndesore’s household, that Ned had taken months to achieve. Not that he had caught them embracing; Mary was too loyal to let it come to that without confessing all to Ned. He could see that Mary was aware of her shifting loyalties and tormented by guilt.
But he had no intention of losing Mary. His rival was a mere page, recently come to court from Dublin. What could the pup know of love? Ned had sampled women’s charms in many lands and knew that Mary was the one God meant for him. How serious could the lad’s affections be? Ned judged it would take little to frighten him off. Some sharp words, veiled threats, no more than that.
As he caught sight of Daniel, Ned felt a twinge of doubt about his suspicions. In contrast to the retainers surrounding him, the page looked a pale, delicate creature. What woman would lose her heart to such a lad? Was it possible Ned exaggerated the lad’s threat to his happiness? But it was no time to weaken. Ned must do what he could to ensure his happy future with Mary.
He squared his shoulders, put on a threatening visage. Had his old comrades in arms been beside him tonight they would have laughed and slapped him on the back, calling him a fool for love. But behind the teasing façades, Owen and Lief would have understood; they were equally besotted with the women they had coaxed to the church door.
Ned had not reckoned with the solidarity of Wyndesore’s men.
Daniel stared at his feet, his head and shoulders weighted down by remorse. He wished he were anywhere but here.
The page’s grief centred on the tall, handsome man who had faced Sir William’s retainers with disdain. ‘I am not such a fool as to attack a man in full view of his fellows! And a lad at that.’ But the retainers had been ordered to protect their lord’s page and they meant to do so.
Glancing up, Daniel saw that the comely face of his accuser was red with indignation, his elegant clothes dishevelled by the men’s rough handling. Daniel wished it were he being escorted from the hall, not Ned Townley. Daniel admired Townley. He was all the page might wish to be. He was a spy for the King’s powerful third son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. He was a proven warrior, renowned for his skill with daggers. Yet he was no oafish brute – not like Sir William’s retainers; Townley was a courtier in dress, manner, speech. And with his gentle brown eyes and perfectly proportioned face and form, Daniel thought him the most handsome man he had ever seen. He would never have knowingly angered the man.
But moments ago Townley had informed Daniel of his inadvertent transgression. The warning had been delivered with an energy that had startled Daniel. Townley had grabbed him by the neck of his tunic, lifting him off his feet. ‘I will pin you to the tapestries if you persist in your attentions to my betrothed.’
‘Your betrothed?’ Daniel had squeaked.
‘Mary. Mistress Perrers’s maid.’
‘No! I pray you!’ Daniel had cried, hoping to be lowered to the floor so he might explain that his feelings for Mary were fraternal, nothing more. But his exclamation had drawn the attention of Sir William’s bullies, who now led Townley from the hall.
‘He’ll bother you no more, Daniel. Rest easy,’ Scoggins said, filling the lad’s tankard with ale.
Daniel lifted his tankard towards Scoggins and nodded, then both drank. It was the gesture Scoggins wanted, and so Daniel made it. But he was hardly grateful. If Scoggins had minded his own business, Townley would have pounded the table a few times while he threatened to tack Daniel to the rafters with his daggers, then he would have stomped off into the night, satisfied that he’d put the fear of the Lord in Daniel. And come morning, it would have been plain to Townley that Daniel had understood and meant to stay away from Mary, and all would have been forgiven and forgotten. But Scoggins obviously felt honour-bound to protect his lord’s page.
In faith, Ned Townley had every right to be angry. Daniel had been foolish; he could see how his attentions to Mary had been misinterpreted. He had not known that Townley was the Ned Mary spoke of incessantly. Not once had she mentioned that her love was Lancaster’s spy. Not once had she spoken of his remarkable skill with daggers. He had just been Ned, ‘beautiful Ned’, ‘gentle Ned’, ‘tender Ned’, ‘tall, strong, dashing Ned’. A mythical being. Not the Duke of Lancaster’s spy.
Daniel drank down his ale, pushed his tankard aside, listened half-heartedly to the conversations round him, all about how his lord, Sir William of Wyndesore, had met with the King that day. It was said Sir William had boldly blamed the troubles in Ireland on the Duke of Clarence’s poor judgement. Some said the King was angered; Sir William was to be banished to the Scottish border. Others said the King knew his son Lionel, Duke of Clarence could not be trusted; Sir William was to be promoted to a Marcher Lord and sent to protect the Scottish border.
Daniel pricked up his ears. Punishment or reward, what everyone agreed upon was the likelihood of marching north to the border country. His mood lifted. That meant they would soon be far away from Windsor Castle and his humiliation. He absentmindedly reached for his tankard, remembered he’d drained it, found it full again. Had he imagined he’d downed the contents? No matter, he took a long drink. His head was beginning to hurt, so he took another long drink. And another. Then someone filled it up, laughing at Daniel’s slurred protests.
‘Come on, lad, drink up. Scoggins saved your hide. Drink to him.’
Daniel remembered the snow that had begun to fall before the evening meal. It was a long, treacherous walk from the hall to Sir William’s quarters. Already he dreaded trying to stand. How would he navigate through the snow?
‘Lift it, lad, drink it down!’ A face floated in front of Daniel’s eyes, but he was so far gone he could not tell who it was. He blinked to focus. How many times had they filled his cup? He shook his head to clear it, felt the bile rise in his stomach. Oh Lord, he was going to embarrass himself yet again this night. He was cursed, that was certain.
Though it was March, the harsh winter persisted. Brother Michaelo found last night’s snowfall lovely to behold at this early hour, while the pristine white lay undisturbed on the mounds and ledges within the walls of Windsor Castle, but underfoot the snow made the
rutted mud treacherous. He stepped cautiously, his entire body bent forward, focusing on his boots and the hem of his habit. He intended to reach Archbishop Thoresby’s chambers dry and presentable.
Not that it mattered; Michaelo would not be mingling with courtiers today. He would be hunched over a writing-desk preparing letters from the Archbishop to the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx, letters recommending William of Wykeham to the see of Winchester. A depressing task, for if the King succeeded in having the appointment confirmed, Wykeham would be poised to replace Archbishop Thoresby as Lord Chancellor. A dreary thought. Not that it was not an honour to be secretary to the Archbishop of York; but an archbishop was not so London-bound as the chancellor. Michaelo sighed at the prospect of more time in York. He preferred Thoresby in his dual role. If winter seemed endless here, it was far worse up north. His only hope of salvation from such a bleak future was that despite letters enthusiastically recommending Wykeham for the bishopric the Pope would stand firm in his determination to make Wykeham the first casualty in his war against pluralism. Pope Urban believed that the practice of conferring on clergy multiple benefices resulted in neglected parishes and pampered clergy who paid more heed to their debts to their benefactors than to their responsibilities to their flocks. His Holiness referred to William of Wykeham as the richest pluralist in England. Which was apparently quite true.
