King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  The vale soon coaxed him into noticing its beauty, thickly wooded and echoing with bird-song. But wild. Could there truly be a community as large as Rievaulx down below? Thinking to ask how far before they should see signs of the community, Ned glanced back at Don Ambrose, who sensed Ned’s gaze and lifted his eyes to meet it. Ned slowed and edged over to the side of the track to let the others pass him. ‘This track is too narrow for carts, Don Ambrose. You stand by your assurance that this is the track to the abbey?’

  The eyes were coldly challenging. ‘I do.’

  ‘But it is not the only way.’

  The eyes slipped sideways. ‘I never said it was.’

  Ned took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Why have you led us down such a dangerous path?’ He was glad to hear his voice so low, reasonable.

  Ambrose looked him in the eye. ‘As God is my witness, I did not lead you, Captain. You paused at the top and asked whether this was the track to the abbey. It is one of them.’

  ‘You might have corrected me when I passed the safer way. You are meant to be our guide.’

  ‘The cart road is farther on,’ The ghost of a smile trembled at the corners of the friar’s mouth.

  Ned gripped the reins in his hand tightly. ‘Damn it, man, if you have some grudge against me take it out on me, not my men!’

  Ambrose glanced down the track at the disappearing backs. ‘All are well so far.’

  ‘You arrogant b— When shall we glimpse something of the abbey?’

  ‘Anon.’ Still the eyes challenged.

  Ned had never met with such insolence. ‘What is it? Why do you hate me? What happened in York?’

  ‘I see through your plan, Captain,’ Don Ambrose snarled. ‘You waited until the others were out of sight to ask.’ The pinched mouth spread into a cold grin. ‘You must think me a fool.’ The friar took a step forward.

  Ned fought a desire to punch the smile off the friar’s face. What was his sin? He had done nothing to the man. And that sly, knowing grin. Ned grabbed at a branch, snapped it off the tree, broke it in two across his knee.

  The noise startled the friar. He lunged into the dried leaves and bracken, missing the track. Ned cried out to warn him, but Ambrose yanked at his horse’s reins and continued. As Ned started down the track after him, the friar quickened his pace and stumbled. His horse stumbled. They both began to slide in the dense mat of old leaves, so thick and unstable on the steep slope that neither man nor beast could find a purchase.

  Ned hurried along the path, shouting, ‘Let go the reins, you bloody fool! The horse will crush you!’ He threw the reins of his own steed round a sapling and headed off into the bracken towards Ambrose. But it was no use with the horse between Ambrose and Ned, and both tumbling slowly, slowly through the leaves.

  Two of the men who had gone on ahead came running back up the track, hesitated as they saw the avalanche upon them. ‘Let go of the reins, Don Ambrose!’ one yelled.

  Ambrose did so. The horse slid a bit farther, but with its head free it managed to twist itself round and dig in its hooves. With a snort, the horse rose and stood panting, its eyes wild. The men managed to grab Ambrose and pull him back on to the track.

  Seeing the immediate danger past, Ned eased down the slope, calmed the friar’s horse, led it back to the track, got his own, led them both down towards Ambrose and his rescuers, who were asking the friar whether he was injured. ‘As long as he can walk, let us continue,’ Ned said. ‘The infirmarian can see to him.’

  Ambrose looked up at Ned with an expression of fear and loathing. ‘You almost had me.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘You almost had yourself, you bloody fool. I tried to warn you.’

  ‘Warn me? Coming after me with a switch?’

  It was no use. ‘Help him down,’ Ned ordered his men. He went on ahead. Damn the man. He now heard faint sounds of a community echoing from down below, the hammer of a smithy, the lowing of cattle. Praised be the Lord. He rode out from under the canopy of trees and came upon the rest of the company, riding their steeds now as the incline lessened, gazing on a huge complex of honey-coloured stone that rose out of the peaceful valley. They moved forward together, still descending, and suddenly, as they rounded a bend, the church towered to the left, tucked on a slight rise above the rest of the buildings, its roof soaring to compete with the bluff beside it. The afternoon sun shone on the lead roof, the tall, arched windows. Ned was almost glad he had come upon it this way, such a dramatic approach.

  But his pleasure was checked by the fear and hatred in Don Ambrose’s eyes. He must ask Abbot Richard to let the friar stay at the abbey. Someone else could escort the man back to York.

  Owen held Gwenllian up, studying her dear face. She laughed and grabbed at his earring. ‘My angel.’ He kissed her, handed her to Lucie. ‘I would remember her just like that.’

  Lucie crossed herself. ‘For pity’s sake, Owen, you speak as if you shall not see her again, yet you insist there is no danger on this mission. Have you lied to me?’

  He cursed himself for voicing his thoughts. ‘I meant only that I wish to burn Gwenllian’s face into my memory so that I might see her whenever I close my eyes.’

  ‘You must take care, Owen. We depend on your return.’ Lucie’s clear blue eyes were levelled at his good one, watching for a flinch.

  ‘I have every intention of returning, my love.’ He put his arms round her. She lifted her chin for a kiss. He sniffed her hair, kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her lips. She slid her fingers up through his hair while her body pressed against his. Sweet Heaven, why must he always be leaving her?

  He was still thinking about that kiss as he joined Jehannes and the company he was to lead to Fountains Abbey.

  ‘You look as if you come to meet your doom, my friend.’ Jehannes grinned, looked round him. ‘I see here no enemies. Do you?’

  Owen looked the men over, nodded to Jehannes. ‘Clearly I am mistaken. No enemies here.’

  ‘It is difficult to leave your family, eh?’

  Owen grinned. ‘Nay, foolish. I ask myself how it is I choose a life of constant farewell. Why can I not stay put?’

  ‘Because you have a questing soul, Owen. And because Lucie loves you the way you are. You know, were she a man I believe she would be much like you.’

  Owen laughed. ‘So I fell in love with my own reflection?’

  Jehannes grinned. ‘Now I have chased the shadows away. Shall we depart?’

  They were well on the road when Jehannes mentioned Don Ambrose. ‘I pity Ned Townley, riding with the secretive friar.’

  ‘Secretive?’

  ‘He came to me the day before he was to depart, begged to be relieved of the task.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘He would not say. The King’s orders and he would not say why he wished to remain in York.’ Jehannes shook his head.

  Owen felt a prickling under his eye patch. ‘He said nothing more?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Austins have no love for worldly clerics. But why were they so slow to protest supporting Wykeham?’

  ‘I thought perhaps to delay us,’ Jehannes said.

  Owen turned his head to study Jehannes. ‘You do not believe that.’

  ‘Why did he wait so long to come to me? I had enough to do without bowing to his whim.’ Jehannes winced under the piercing gaze of his one-eyed friend. ‘In truth, I sensed a private devil somewhere within him. It made me uneasy. But with no explanation …’ The Archdeacon’s voice trailed off. ‘I was indulging in righteous indignation.’

  ‘You chose a poor time to indulge yourself. A man with a private devil, asking to be relieved of the mission – why in God’s name did you not tell me of this before they rode out?’

  Jehannes looked surprised. ‘You are angry?’

  ‘Ned Townley has enough trouble without the friar’s private devil. But Ned’s as much to blame. He said nothing to me.’

  ‘I did not tell him.’

  Owen rei
ned in his horse. ‘For the love of God, why not?’ he shouted.

  Jehannes glanced back, turned his horse round to face his angry captain. ‘King Edward wished the friar to be in the company. Why should I poison him to his captain?’

  ‘You warn a captain of trouble in his ranks, Jehannes. You warn him!’

  ‘He might have refused to ride with him. You soldiers have no patience with cowards.’

  Owen bit back a curse. ‘What does it matter to the King whether Ambrose accompanies us or not?’

  ‘He had a reason for choosing him.’

  ‘And we had a damned good reason to leave him behind.’

  They rode on in an uncomfortable silence, Jehannes feeling unjustly criticised, Owen wondering what bedevilled the friar.

  Nine

  Signs of Treachery

  It was late afternoon when the breeze stiffened and a scent of salt air brought Abbot Richard’s head up sharp. He turned to Ned, who rode beside him. ‘I feel a storm coming.’

  Ned had noticed the change, and from the look in the Abbot’s eyes it must be a storm and not just rain approaching. ‘Will it overtake us before we reach tonight’s resting place?’ They were a day’s ride from Fountains Abbey.

  The Abbot paused, studied the sky all round. ‘I fear it will, though our goal is a grange house belonging to Fountains, not Rievaulx, so I am not certain of the distance. I think it close enough to reach by sunset, but not before the storm. May God protect us.’

  ‘By sunset is good enough,’ Ned said. The company had departed Rievaulx Abbey the previous afternoon and had spent the past night in one of Rievaulx’s grange houses along the way. The shepherds had been out with the lambing ewes, and were thus absent hosts. But they had left wood for a fire, fresh water, salted meats and hard bread. Ned had thought it quite comfortable. ‘If we get wet, a fire will soon dry our clothes.’

  Abbot Richard nodded. ‘There is no mistaking you for anything other than a soldier.’

  Ned was unsure whether that was praise or criticism, so he kept his peace. As the wind picked up and whipped his cloak round him, he rode through the company warning the men of the coming storm, softening it with the Abbot’s reassurance that they would reach shelter before the light faded.

  Don Ambrose received the news with a look and posture that blamed the bearer for any mishap. Ned wearied of the man. ‘I shall be glad to part company with you, to be sure,’ Ned muttered as he rode on, feeling the friar’s hostile eyes upon him.

  When Ned had asked Abbot Richard’s permission to leave Don Ambrose at Rievaulx, to be sent back to York with the next messenger headed that way, the abbot had replied with questions: ‘What happened as you rode into the vale, my son? What is the trouble between you?’

  Ned had been taken aback; it was clear that the Abbot thought them both at fault. ‘In my mind, we have no quarrel,’ Ned had replied. ‘Ask my men. From Windsor to York, the friar was – in faith I would not call him friendly, but cordial. Since York he has acted as if I were an enemy. What befell him in York I know not.’

  The Abbot’s expression had been enigmatic, though he kept his voice kindly enough. ‘Don Ambrose told me he asked the Archdeacon of York to relieve him from his duty to accompany you, but as he could not break an oath of silence to explain his request, it was not granted.’

  Ned stared at the Abbot, dumbfounded. Archdeacon Jehannes had not told him. Nor had Owen. ‘I did not know.’

  The Abbot smiled.

  Ned saw the Abbot was amused by what he perceived to be a clumsy lie, as well it might seem. It was incomprehensible why the Archdeacon had withheld information critical to the peace of the company. ‘I swear I did not know!’

  Still Abbot Richard smiled.

  What curse had befallen Ned that he was so misunderstood? By his gift of pleasing speech Ned always drew people to him, like a flower draws bees, a candle moths. Many had so described his gift. Why was he suddenly unable to speak on his behalf and be believed? Abbot Richard seemed determined to mistrust him.

  ‘Come now, Captain Townley. It would be foolhardy for the Archdeacon to keep such a request from the captain of the company.’

  ‘Indeed it was!’

  The Abbot’s smile grew tired. ‘You have made the friar swear silence and he fears you will accuse him of breaking that oath. It is quite obvious.’

  ‘But not true, my lord abbot. Not true.’ What could Ned say to convince the Abbot of his ignorance in the matter?

  Abbot Richard pressed his hands together, shrugged. ‘You must search your conscience for the truth in this, my son. It is between you and God.’ He had risen from the table.

  ‘It is between me and Don Ambrose,’ Ned said to the Abbot’s retreating back.

  They had not spoken of it again. But Ned felt not only the friar’s eyes on him, but the Abbot’s. Constantly. It was enough to make a man mad.

  The trees bent in the wind, the brush flattened. The travellers pulled their hoods low over their faces and leaned close to their beasts for warmth. At last the rain came, cold, sharp, penetrating. Cloaks were soon sodden and slapped wetly against the flanks of the steeds. It was with a hoarse cheer that the forward rider announced the grange house and barn were in sight.

  Mercifully, a fire had been left to smoulder under a layer of ashes. The men stirred it into flames and added dry wood. Ned looked round, counting the company. All there. He bowed his head and silently gave thanks. He did not need the Abbot to blame him for another mishap. Ropes were strung from the rafters and the wet clothes hung to dry overnight. It was a shivering, weary company that crowded round the fire to chew on bread and salted fish. The men spoke of other miserable journeys, as if to convince themselves that this, too, would pass. At last, bellies sufficiently filled, the company bedded down for the night. Ned offered the main room with the fire to the Abbot and his monks, but Richard chose the far room, explaining that white monks were not accustomed to sleeping in heated rooms.

  Nor was Ned. He fell asleep with his nostrils full of the stench of damp wool and his own sweat. Still, it was a small price to pay for dry clothes in the morning.

  Someone shook Ned, pulled him out of a dream of marching to battle in the hot sun. He jerked awake, shot up to attack, met a restraining hand.

  ‘Benedicte.’ Don Ambrose knelt over him, backlit by the fire.

  ‘What the hell… ?’ Ned reached for his daggers.

  Ambrose put a hand over Ned’s. ‘Peace, Captain Townley. I would speak with you alone. Please. Come out to the stables with me.’

  ‘Out to the stables?’ Ned rubbed his eyes. The room was so curséd smoky and his lids so heavy with sleep he had trouble keeping them open. ‘We can talk here. I have no wish to go out in the rain.’

  The friar put a finger to his lips. ‘We cannot talk here, among our sleeping companions. I pray you come quickly. The way to the stable is roofed, you will stay dry. We must resolve the trouble between us.’

  Grumbling at the friar’s choice of nights to interrupt his sleep, Ned was enticed by the prospect of peace. And by the covered arcade connecting the house with the stables – at least he would not be soaked again. ‘I will come.’ Ned wiped his sweaty chest with the blanket, pulled on his chemise and leggings.

  Ned and Don Ambrose moved silently among the sleeping men. Outside, the rain fell steadily, but the wind had died down. ‘Clear tomorrow, I wager,’ Ned said, pausing to fill his lungs with fresh air. The moon cast little light through the clouds. The landscape revealed itself to Ned’s ears rather than his eyes. Behind him, the stream they’d crossed on arrival boiled over rocks. Nearby, water gurgled in a gutter, pushing round some obstacle, and dripped from the eaves, hitting the rocky ground with wet plops. Ned heard the stable door open and shut and turned to follow, thought better of it. It was too dark to be walking round unfamiliar surroundings without a lantern; and he did not fancy sitting in the dark with a man who distrusted him. He returned to the grange house for a light.

  Back at th
e stable, Ned opened the door cautiously, shifting the lantern in his hands to open the shutter. The horses whinnied softly as the light moved over them. Where was the friar? Ned set the lantern on a shelf just within and was closing the door when something grazed him on the back of the neck. He whirled round. Don Ambrose lunged forward. Ned threw his arm up to protect his face from the friar’s dagger while reaching for his own with his other hand. His dagger was not there. Of course not. He had not expected an attack. The friar came at Ned again, this time shouting, ‘You’ll not advance yourself with my blood!’

  Ned kicked out. The friar stumbled, then righted himself enough to butt Ned in the groin with his head. As Ned fell back, the dagger grazed his leg. ‘Bloody idiot!’ He lunged at Ambrose, gripped his right wrist and shook the dagger out of his hand. The friar twisted out of his grasp and rolled over the dagger. Ned stood, pulled the friar up by the back of his habit, grabbed for his right arm, thinking Ambrose had retrieved the dagger. But it was still on the floor. Ned stepped on it, Ambrose tried to kick his foot away. They toppled, Ned grabbed the knife, sliced across the palm of the hand that tried to steal it from him. ‘What is wrong with you?’ Ned cried. ‘I’m here to protect you, you bloody bastard!’

  ‘Protect me?’ Don Ambrose spat at Ned. He held his bleeding hand away from his habit. ‘Poor Mary. She thought you loved her. Who did it, Townley? A friend left behind?’

  Ned sat on the ground pressing the wound in his thigh. ‘What are you blathering on about? And why did you ask to stay in York? Why didn’t you just disappear?’ He started to rise. Ambrose kicked him in the face and went running out into the night. Ned rolled over, spitting blood. ‘Damned good fighter for a friar.’ On the ground near him was the pouch the friar kept close to him. Ned picked it up as he climbed to his feet, then staggered back to the house clutching the pouch against his bleeding thigh. He left the lantern behind.

  Matthew, his second in command, woke as Ned stumbled towards him.

  ‘Come, Matthew. I need you to tend a wound.’