by Candace Robb
Their rustling woke the other men. Outraged to hear what had happened, two ran out into the night after Don Ambrose.
Ned cursed himself for the foolishness of going off with a man who so obviously despised him. What was it he’d cried? Something about advancing himself with the friar’s blood? What did that mean? And what did Mary have to do with the friar? While Matthew cleaned and bound the wound, Ned fidgeted and fretted.
‘Why not open the pouch, Captain? See what the friar guarded so well, then left behind,’ Matthew suggested.
Ned opened the courier pouch. A breviary; a few coins; a seal; wax; a letter, seal broken. He unfolded the paper, spread it out where the light might illuminate it, squinted over the words. Reading did not come easily to Ned, but fortunately the hand was clean. Or unfortunately …
Matthew glanced up as Ned moaned. ‘What is it, Captain? What’s ado?’
‘Mary. My Mary.’ Ned raised his eyes, stared at the terrible image the words had conjured.
‘What of Mary?’
Ned moved his eyes to Matthew, tried to focus on him rather than his nightmare vision. ‘They have killed her,’ he whispered, for such a thing should not be spoken aloud.
Matthew crossed himself. ‘What are you saying?’
Poor Mary. She thought you loved her. Who did it … a friend left behind? ‘He thought I had her murdered,’ Ned whispered.
Matthew reached into his medicine pouch, drew out a bottle of brandywine, dropped it on Ned’s lap. ‘Drink some of this, Captain. You are shivering.’
Ned glanced down at the bottle, but did not touch it. ‘Mary is drowned.’
‘Someone wrote this to Don Ambrose?’
Ned nodded slowly. ‘Another friar. Paulus. He says he saw her. Told no one. “God will lead them to her, not I.”’
‘This friar wrote to Don Ambrose and told him he had let your Mary drown?’
A movement in the next room brought Ned back to the present. He stuffed the letter in his waistband and picked up the bottle. He took a drink, coughed.
‘Why did he carry such a letter? Why would someone write to him about Mary?’ Matthew asked.
‘The bastard carried this letter from York and never a word to me.’
Abbot Richard approached, his right hand outstretched, his eyes fixed on Ned. ‘Give me the letter you hid in your belt, Captain Townley.’
Ned stared up at him. What did these churchmen care about Mary? How was her death any of their business? How would Abbot Richard misinterpret this? It was clear that Ned had been wronged, but the Abbot would find a way to blame him. Already his voice, eyes and that outstretched hand accused.
Ned took another drink. ‘What letter?’
The Abbot looked right at the spot where it pressed into Ned’s side. ‘That one.’
Ned touched it, shrugged. ‘It has naught to do with our mission.’
‘You can read?’
Ned bristled. ‘I can indeed.’
‘Most admirable.’
‘Most necessary in my work for the Duke.’
‘What have you stolen from Don Ambrose?’
‘Stolen? Don Ambrose attacked the Captain,’ Matthew protested.
The Abbot did not look at Matthew. ‘You conceal the letter at the risk of your immortal soul, Captain Townley.’
‘At the … You do not understand, my lord abbot. I have done nothing but read a letter that should have been shared with me. The friar –’
The Abbot turned to Matthew. ‘You say Ambrose attacked the Captain?’
‘Aye, my lord. I have cleaned a deep wound in the Captain’s leg.’
‘Where is Don Ambrose now?’ the Abbot demanded.
‘Crofter and Bardolph are searching for him,’ Matthew said.
Abbot Richard turned back to Ned. ‘What did you do with him?’
Despair pressed down on Ned’s head and shoulders, twisted his gut, pulled him away from this pointless interrogation. He took another drink, stared into the fire.
The Abbot laid a hand on Ned’s shoulder, shook him. ‘What did you do with Don Ambrose?’
Ned shrugged out of the Abbot’s grasp. ‘For pity’s sake, he woke me. Asked me to come to the stables, he would make peace. So I followed.’
‘And attacked him? What is in the letter? Why did you take it from him?’
‘He attacked me. Hid while I went for a lantern, hit me from behind.’
‘A friar bested a seasoned soldier?’ The Abbot closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘It would go better for you if you spoke the truth, Captain Townley.’
‘I am telling the truth,’ Ned said. ‘But you are not listening. You chatter and jape at me like a bird does a cat for merely being in the garden.’
‘Indeed. Like the cat, it is your nature to attack. It is unlikely the birds would attack the cat. Give me the letter.’
Ned saw no gain in refusing any longer. He pulled the letter out, handed it to Abbot Richard. ‘If you were not already set against me you would find it odd that such a letter would be exchanged between two friars.’
The Abbot’s servant shone a lantern on the letter. Quickly the Abbot read, his disapproving lips moving slightly, then pursing as the eyes lifted to meet Ned’s. ‘We must search for Don Ambrose.’
‘Two men are already out looking,’ Matthew said.
‘If they return empty-handed, four will stay behind to search, the rest will continue with me – and Captain Townley, who will be kept under guard at all times.’
It was Matthew who protested. Ned knew better.
The Abbot looked amused. ‘You are loyal to your Captain, but you shall soon see your error. It is plain that Don Ambrose told the Captain of Mary’s death, then ran from Captain Townley’s rage. Or perhaps the Captain attacked Ambrose. God shall reveal all in good time.’
‘He knew nothing of Mary’s death until he read the letter.’
‘And how did he get Don Ambrose’s pouch? The pouch he guarded so jealously?’ the Abbot demanded of Matthew.
‘Don Ambrose dropped it, my lord abbot.’
Abbot Richard tilted his head. ‘Come now, my son. After guarding it so carefully, he dropped it and ran?’ He shook his head.
Ned silently emptied the skin, trying to obliterate the image of Mary floating in the Thames. But there was not enough drink in the world to do so.
Ten
Blind Rage
A cock crowed, waking Matthew. He lay there for a time, listening to the wind, listening for rain battering against the grange house. Had the rain stopped? His eyes and mouth were dry from the smoky room. His hair damp from night sweats. Man was not meant to sleep in such a warm room. He rolled over to find his boots, noticed the other men beginning to roll about and stretch. All the others but the one who should lie beside him.
Matthew sat up, rubbed his eyes. He had not been mistaken: Captain Townley was not where he should be. Nor were his cloak, boots or daggers. Think. Think. When did I last see him? What was he about? Where was he? Matthew closed his eyes, moved back to the past night. Abbot Richard had retired, charging Matthew to watch the captain. What had there been to watch? The captain had sat there hugging the brandywine, already bleary-eyed. They murdered my Mary. Over and over again. Matthew had coaxed him into lying down. You have lost much blood, Captain. When bled, one is always told to lie down and let the humours calm. You must lie down. Captain Townley had lain down. He had seemed to sleep. Reassured, Matthew had gone to sleep beside him.
But the captain was not lying beside Matthew this morning. And his belongings were gone. What would Abbot Richard say? Blessed Mary, Mother of God, let it not be what I fear. Perhaps the captain was getting his horse ready for the day’s ride.
Matthew needed a plan. While he relieved himself he would look about, see whether Captain Townley was just up betimes, getting some air, readying his mount. After much drink, cool air – wet or no – would feel good. Let him be outside, merely clearing his head.
Matthew picked up his cloak and slip
ped out of the door. The air was chilly and damp, just right after the stuffy house. But his damp hair soon had Matthew shivering. He shook out his cloak and draped it about him as he hurried down into the bushes by the beck. His urine steamed in the cold air. It was too cold to stand out here – so the captain would have hurried to the barn as soon as the chill had penetrated his clothing. Matthew turned to climb the slope back to the barn, stopped with a gasp of dismay.
Abbot Richard stood above, his servant and Brother Augustine behind him. The Abbot’s eyes were fierce, even with his face shadowed by the white cowl. He looked like Death come to collect Matthew.
‘Benedicte, Matthew. Where is your captain?’ The Abbot’s voice was quietly threatening. Matthew’s father had spoken just so before he whipped him.
Death. His father’s whip. This was no time for fear. Matthew must think how he might protect his captain. But if the captain were gone, there was no protecting himself from the Abbot’s wrath. What might Matthew say? ‘The Captain must have slipped out to the barn while I slept, my lord abbot. He always readies himself so he may help the others.’ Which was true.
The Abbot signalled his companions to check the barn. Then he fixed his dark, unfriendly eyes on Matthew.
Sweat ran down Matthew’s neck, down his back. It tickled. He wanted to squirm or reach back to scratch. Sweet Jesu, already I do penance for my lie. But was it a lie? Was the barn not where he had imagined the captain? Was he not always ready before the others?
Brother Augustine hurried from the barn, shaking his head. ‘Pray God protect our poor brother, Don Ambrose. Captain Townley’s mount is gone.’
Abbot Richard seemed to grow another foot beyond his already considerable height. ‘Take Matthew inside and guard him, Brother Augustine.’
Matthew’s legs wanted to collapse under him, not carry him up to where the Abbot stood, but he willed them to carry him to the top. He would not let the Abbot see his fear.
Ned’s lungs burned, but he urged his steed on, faster, faster. His leg throbbed; he felt a wetness spreading from the wound. It had opened when he had fallen in the dark, leading his horse up the rocks, away from the grange house. Foolish to have fled in the dark, but best that he had gone quickly, best to ride through his fury, though it meant he rode his horse and himself to exhaustion. Riding to where? Ah, that was obvious. To nowhere. To forgetfulness, he hoped. To death, more likely. Mary was dead; why should he live?
*
Abbot Richard paced the main room while the men quietly gathered their clothes and prepared to depart.
‘I want four to stay and search for the friar and the Captain,’ the Abbot said.
‘May I?’ Matthew asked.
‘No.’ Without a pause, without considering, so easy to deny him, like swatting a fly. Matthew hated him.
Bardolph stepped forward. ‘Crofter and I were sent along on this mission to watch Captain Townley, my lord abbot. We shall search.’
The Abbot’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sent along to watch him? By whom?’
Bardolph glanced back at Crofter as if seeking permission to answer. The man blinked once, slowly. Matthew saw the exchange. He doubted the Abbot could see it. Bardolph turned back to the Abbot. ‘Sir William of Wyndesore, my lord abbot. Some say the Captain murdered Sir William’s page.’ He shrugged.
Abbot Richard bristled. ‘Then was it not irresponsible to send him on such a mission?’
From the darkness, Crofter said, ‘Mistress Alice Perrers cleared him of the charges, my lord abbot.’
‘Mistress Perrers!’ the Abbot murmured with a disapproving sneer. ‘Come forward. I should see you when you speak.’
Crofter stepped forward. ‘After Mistress Perrers spoke up for Townley, His Grace the King wished him sent away from court until those of our fellows who still believed him guilty had time to calm down.’
‘Do you believe him guilty?’ Abbot Richard asked.
‘No, my lord abbot, I do not.’
The Abbot paced away from Crofter, returned to him. ‘Why were you to watch him?’
Crofter tilted his head and averted his eyes for a moment, as if considering how to reply. ‘In case Mistress Perrers—’ An exasperated sigh as he faced the Abbot once more. ‘In truth, there are those who do not trust her.’
Abbot Richard gave a satisfied grunt. ‘Including your lord?’
‘I took the orders to mean that, aye.’
Matthew closed his eyes and cursed Crofter. He had made a point of connecting Captain Townley with a woman the Abbot was sure to despise. Cunning bastard. The captain had warned him to beware Crofter. That fair face is a mask, Matthew. His eyes are mirrors, not windows. Watch how Bardolph jumps to do his bidding. What was Crofter’s game?
Abbot Richard saw nothing amiss. ‘You two shall indeed stay behind to search for the Captain. Gervase and Henry shall stay with you.’
‘There is no need for you to sacrifice your escort to the search, my lord abbot,’ Crofter said. ‘Bardolph and I gladly take it upon ourselves.’
Abbot Richard indulged in a fleeting smile. ‘You searched once and failed to recover Don Ambrose.’
Bardolph took a step forward. ‘But it was—’
Crofter silenced him with a hand on his arm. ‘We are grateful for the chance to participate in the search, my lord abbot. I did not mean to question your decision.’
‘Good. May God guide the four of you.’
Matthew watched as Bardolph and Crofter backed into the shadows. He was very worried for his captain.
When his horse stumbled at a ford, Ned realised his folly. He had ridden for miles. It was already midday. He gave himself and his deserving mount a rest. Drank deeply, cooled his head. Sobered.
Mary was dead. Her murderers must be found and punished. Fleeing across the moors would not accomplish that. And Ned’s death would leave the matter as it was. He owed it to Mary to stay alive until she was avenged.
Why had Don Ambrose hidden the letter from him? Why had he attacked? What did he know?
After a brief nap, with a few hours of daylight left, Ned turned his horse round. Flight was not the answer.
Eleven
Two Men Too Few
Owen leaned against the bridge and gazed down into the foaming water of the River Skell where it rushed forth from the abbey mill and caught the sun before disappearing beneath the dormitories and the infirmary. It was his second day at Fountains Abbey, but his first opportunity for a solitary walk. Yesterday he had settled the men, dined with Abbot Robert Monkton and Jehannes, attended services in the abbey church. By the time he’d had the leisure to slip outside, Owen found the sky louring with storm clouds and a cold, damp wind whipping down through the bowl of Skelldale. The valley had seemed too vulnerable for habitation.
Jehannes said the Cistercians had purposefully built in isolated countryside, the more desolate the better, to test themselves in their resolve to serve God with a simple life. With a storm coming, Skelldale had indeed seemed a place of trial.
But this morning the valley was utterly different, the sun lighting the trees atop the bluff and in the valley, sparkling on the rushing river, glinting off the lead roofs and warming the damp stone walls of the maze of buildings. The stone bridge on which Owen stood gave him a broad view of the abbey complex. He moved his good eye left along the expanse of the two-storey lay brothers’ dormitory and beyond to the great west door of the church with its Galilee porch, then up, up to the steep lead roof of the long church nave. To his right were two guest houses and the lay brothers’ infirmary. Behind him was the mill, a wool house, a malt house and more – far more outbuildings than at St Mary’s in York.
It was members of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Mary’s, protesting against the pampered life within its walls, who had fought for and won permission to come to the valley of the Skell and live simply, closer to God. The small company of monks had spent the first winter shivering in the caves tucked into the bluff above the church. From where Owen stood he could not
see across the valley to those caves; the maze of buildings, particularly the church, blocked the view. Was this what they had intended? To fill the valley with their material presence? Yet despite the bustle of the large community, Owen sensed a joyous peace here.
Owen was not a stranger to abbeys. He had once spent a fortnight in St. Mary’s, York, seeking – but not finding – just such a peace as he felt in Skelldale. Here, away from the stench and noise of the city, where work, song, bells, prayer and devotional readings were the only noises of men competing with wind, bird-song, and the rushing river, Owen felt that peace. Was it the descent into the valley and the wild countryside all round, the sense of leaving the world behind? Was it the symmetries of the grand yet simple, unadorned stone buildings, the way the soaring arches echoed one’s footsteps? Or had the white monks tapped into a celestial paradise in this valley?
‘God smiles on the valley this morning,’ Jehannes said as he approached on Owen’s blind side.
Owen turned so that he might take in the Archdeacon with his right eye. ‘It looks to me as if God smiles on this valley more often than not. It takes prosperity to build such a complex.’
‘The white monks have almost been destroyed by their unplanned prosperity,’ Jehannes said. ‘Even these worthy brothers have succumbed to the lure of riches.’
‘Tell me nothing of their failings,’ Owen said. ‘Come round where I can see you and still look out on the church.’ He disliked having anyone on his blind side.
Jehannes moved round to Owen’s right. ‘I came out here not to disturb your peace but to tell you the party from Rievaulx has been spotted by a shepherd. They should arrive by midday.’
Owen smiled. ‘Good. Our business can be concluded quickly.’ Fountains might be a paradise, but York sheltered all those Owen held dear. He was anxious to return to his family. ‘Pray God the friar caused no trouble.’
Jehannes rested his forearms on the bridge with a sad sigh. ‘I, too, am eager to know the outcome. And yet I confess it seems a pity they arrive so soon. I should like more time here.’
