King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Stay too long and you will be tempted to leave the world entirely,’ Owen warned.

  Jehannes glanced round, surprised. ‘You feel the power of this place?’

  Owen nodded.

  ‘Yet you wish to leave quickly.’

  ‘Aye. My family pulls me ever back to York. But I do sense a peace here. I feel I should whisper and step softly. God is near.’

  The Archdeacon’s expression was wistful. ‘It is bewitching.’

  Owen laughed. ‘I should have thought it more a blessing than a bewitching.’

  ‘I have no gift for eloquent speech.’

  ‘You were eloquent enough on Wykeham’s behalf. Abbot Monkton listened to your arguments most keenly. In truth I fear you were too eloquent. “Sober habits, tireless industry …”’ Owen shook his head. ‘His Grace the Archbishop would be disappointed. You make Wykeham sound the ideal bishop.’

  Jehannes winced. ‘I told you I was no dissembler.’

  Owen leaned his left elbow on the bridge and studied Jehannes’s profile. ‘The underlying problem is your heart, not your tongue, eh? You believe Wykeham well suited to be Bishop of Winchester.’

  Jehannes did not reply at once, and when he did it was in a whisper almost lost in the sound of the rushing river. ‘I fear that I do. A better dissembler might argue less effectively, but I am bound to disappoint Archbishop Thoresby.’

  ‘Take heart, my friend. If you fail John Thoresby in this mission, you shall make a friend of the King.’

  Jehannes shook his head. ‘John Thoresby shall make a friend of the King. My role in this will be overlooked.’

  ‘Do you ever wish you had chosen a cloistered life?’

  Jehannes shrugged. ‘When I am in such a place as this, yes. But I quickly forget when I am back out in the world.’

  The world. As if an abbey were not in the world. Clerics had odd notions. ‘What would it take for you to give up the world?’

  ‘A loss of self.’

  Owen frowned. ‘Should you not have lost that to your calling?’

  ‘I am an archdeacon, Owen. An administrator, a financier, a politician as well as a clergyman. Selfless men of God make good saints, not archdeacons.’

  It reminded Owen of Thoresby’s defence of the former Archdeacon of York, Anselm. In Owen’s mind Anselm had been a disgrace to his position, but Thoresby had called him a fine archdeacon, responsible for collecting the bulk of the donations for stained glass in the minster.

  Owen turned towards the sound of someone approaching at a run. It was a lay brother, who reached them gasping for breath. ‘I am to tell you that the party from Rievaulx are come. There has been trouble. My lord abbot asks you to come quickly.’

  A white-robed cluster took up the centre of the abbot’s parlour, pristine robes encircling travel-stained ones. From their midst, a cool voice could be heard saying, ‘As I had predicted …’

  The voice hushed and the monks parted as Owen and Jehannes joined them, revealing in their midst a tall monk with deep-set eyes who carried himself with a haughty authority. Owen guessed this to be the speaker.

  Abbot Robert Monkton stepped forward. ‘Captain Archer, Archdeacon Jehannes, this is Abbot Richard of Rievaulx.’

  Jehannes bowed and spoke most courteously. Owen bobbed his head and asked after the escort.

  ‘They shall be lodged in the guest house with you,’ Abbot Monkton said. His eyes did not stay on Owen’s face.

  Owen looked round at the waiting faces, noting all eyes focused on him. Uneasy eyes. It took no wit to sense trouble. ‘What has happened here?’

  With a bow to his fellow abbot, Monkton said, ‘Abbot Richard had just begun to explain. It seems that Don Ambrose disappeared, and Captain Townley after him. Four men were left behind to search for them.’

  ‘Sweet Heaven!’ Jehannes murmured.

  Well he might. Why hadn’t the bloody fool warned Ned about the friar’s request to quit the company? Owen closed his eye, clenched his hands. First hear all, then blame. ‘If you would be so kind as to tell me what happened. All of it.’

  The Abbot of Rievaulx bowed to Owen with a chilly smile. ‘I shall begin again.’ He started with the incident on the bluff above Rievaulx. ‘Each had a different story, and I deemed both stories plausible, so I resolved to watch both men on the journey. Don Ambrose invariably exhibited a fearful wariness when the captain was near. Such strong emotion is difficult to mask. And, of course, Captain Townley revealed his guilt when he fled.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord abbot, but you jump ahead,’ Owen said, winning a sniff from Abbot Richard. ‘Did you ever witness Captain Townley doing aught to warrant the friar’s behaviour?’

  Abbot Richard sighed, lifted one shoulder slightly as if to dismiss the issue.

  ‘I thought not,’ Owen said. ‘Then whatever the problem, it began with the friar.’

  Abbot Richard drew a piece of paper from his sleeve. ‘This letter reveals the connection between the two men.’

  Abbot Monkton took the letter, read. His carefully neutral expression changed and by the time his eyes had moved from the letter he was quite agitated. ‘I would speak privately with the Captain, the Archdeacon, and my fellow Abbot.’

  Once the others had shuffled out, Monkton quickly read through the document again. ‘It is a letter from Don Paulus, a fellow Austin friar, to Don Ambrose concerning the drowning of a young woman at Windsor – Mary, maid to Mistress Alice Perrers, a member of the Queen’s household. Paulus writes that he observed the body in the river but did not report it. He knows that Ambrose will understand his reluctance.’ The Abbots’ eyes met. ‘What I read here condemns Don Paulus and implicates Don Ambrose. What has this to do with Captain Townley?’

  The drowning of Ned’s beloved. Owen crossed himself, turned to Abbot Monkton. ‘The young woman was Captain Townley’s betrothed, my lord abbot.’

  Monkton’s eyebrows registered interest. But still he looked at his fellow abbot. ‘What was the friars’ interest in the young woman?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Richard said.

  ‘This letter was in Captain Townley’s possession?’ Owen asked.

  Richard inclined his head. ‘I took it from him, yes. He claimed that the friar had attacked him during the night, then dropped the letter as he fled.’ Another eloquent sigh. ‘A friar attacking a soldier.’ He shook his head as if pitying Ned. ‘You see why I believe otherwise.’

  ‘You suspect Captain Townley of wrongdoing,’ Owen said. ‘What is it you think he did?’

  ‘I believe he discovered the letter in York and accused Don Ambrose of being a party to the girl’s accident. Threatened him.’

  ‘Do you have proof of this?’ Abbot Monkton asked.

  Abbot Richard reared up. ‘The friar’s behaviour.’

  Monkton shook his head at Owen’s scowl, turned back to Richard. ‘That is all?’

  ‘How might it be explained otherwise?’

  Monkton turned to Owen. ‘It is said that you and the Captain are friends. You were together in York. Is it true? Did he see the letter, or hear of it, in York? Did he know of his lady’s death?’

  ‘I am certain he did not, my lord abbot.’

  ‘He would have told you?’

  ‘He would. Instead he spoke of Mary as his future wife.’

  ‘It is true,’ Jehannes said. ‘He spoke about the living, not the dead.’ He pointed to the letter. ‘That was written by an Austin friar?’

  Abbot Monkton checked the letter. ‘Yes. The Austins are no friends of Wykeham. Might Don Ambrose have hoped to distract us from our purpose?’

  ‘No,’ Abbot Richard said in an impatient tone. ‘Don Ambrose told me he was to join the privy councillor’s household on his return.’

  Monkton studied his fellow abbot with a sad expression. ‘You are convinced of the friar’s honesty and the Captain’s deceit.’ He shook his head. When Richard opened his mouth, Monkton held up a hand. ‘Peace. We must consider this after prayer and meditation. You mus
t all rest from your journey. We shall meet again tomorrow morning.’

  *

  Owen and Jehannes walked back towards the guest house in silence, according to the custom of this place, but as they approached the Galilee porch at the west entrance to the church, Jehannes paused. ‘I would pray,’ he said.

  Owen followed him in, though he itched to find Matthew and the men and to hear their accounts of Ned’s disappearance. Jehannes knelt before a statue of the Blessed Virgin placed high on one of the nave piers.

  Back in the shadows, Owen knelt and said a prayer for his friend, then one for himself, though he ought rather to have cursed himself for ignoring Lucie’s warnings. She had predicted the situation precisely – anything that went wrong would be blamed on Ned, an easy scapegoat because the seeds of suspicion had been sown at Windsor, and once sown would require little sustenance to take root. Owen should have kept Ned by his side so he might be witness to anything that happened. How had Lucie seen it and he had not? What did he lack? He prayed for whatever it was. It was not necessary to know its name. God knew his failings well enough.

  When Owen’s knees numbed with the cold, he rose and began to pace slowly round the nave. Stone screens extended from the first to the sixth piers on each side, backing the lay brothers’ choir stalls. Owen sat for a while in one of the stalls, his eye raised to the high roof, following with his ear the plight of a trapped bird. He assumed it was a bird – it was far too dark to see so high. The frantic wingbeat sounded otherworldly. How easy to believe an angel hovered above, listening to his prayers. But the truth of the trapped and frightened bird broke his peaceful meditations.

  He rose and lifted a torch from the first pier, walked slowly down the outer aisle, studying the walls, and the scalloped and waterleafed capitals of the piers and corbels, the perfect stonework of the arches. Even the wall painting drew one into quiet contemplation, repeated lines mimicking masonry, nothing more.

  Jehannes joined him. ‘I hear a bird above.’

  Owen returned the torch to its sconce. ‘Come. Let us leave the door ajar and hope the bird sees its freedom.’

  In the guest house, Jehannes sank down on a chair, refused wine. ‘I should have warned both you and Ned about Don Ambrose the moment he came to see me.’

  ‘Aye, that you should have.’ Owen sat down beside Jehannes, his anger forestalled by his friend’s admission. ‘But I, too, am at fault. Lucie warned me. She said Ned would be blamed for aught that went wrong on the journey.’ He accepted the wine the servant offered, asked him, ‘The men who escorted the party from Rievaulx, where are they?’

  ‘The four soldiers are up in the chamber next to yours, Captain. Matthew is in there.’ The servant indicated a door at the far end of the parlour.

  Owen eased himself up, started for the door.

  ‘It is locked,’ the servant said in a timid voice.

  ‘Locked? Why?’

  ‘Abbot Richard said he must be confined.’

  ‘Unlock it for him,’ Jehannes said.

  The servant looked uncertain. ‘You will keep him inside, Captain?’

  Owen nodded. The door was duly opened. Taking up an oil lamp, Owen stepped into a small, dark, airless room. Matthew, lying on a cot, threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden light.

  ‘You need a good meal, eh?’ Owen settled at the foot of the cot.

  Matthew lifted himself up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes. ‘I have little appetite at the moment, Captain Archer.’

  That was plain, and understandable, but Owen could not allow Matthew the peace to lick his wounds. ‘You must eat. I have questions to ask you. And we’ve more travel before we’re through.’

  ‘Abbot Richard hates Captain Townley.’

  Owen shook his head to silence Matthew while the servant brought in bread, cheese, and ale. When the servant was gone, Owen swung his long legs off the cot, reached for the pitcher, filled a cup, handed it to Matthew, who drank thirstily.

  Owen filled a cup for himself. ‘Now, tell me in your own words what happened with Captain Townley.’

  Matthew proved to be a careful recorder, noting conversations with Ned, his observations of Don Ambrose. He recounted what he remembered of Ned’s encounters with the friar. ‘By the time we left Rievaulx, Captain Townley was uneasy. Watchful. Something made the friar fearful, and it had something to do with the Captain, you see. That much seemed plain.’

  Owen was quiet a while, thinking. But unless Matthew left out some critical detail, there seemed nothing to note except a nervous friar who – what? Was worried Ned might find the letter? And do what? Was Abbot Richard correct? Was the friar worried that Ned would blame him? Imagine he was implicated in the drowning? Ned’s temper was quick to ignite and burned hot. ‘Don Ambrose kept the letter in his pouch, you say?’

  Matthew nodded.

  ‘He kept it close at all times?’

  ‘Yes. I think that is why Abbot Richard did not believe he dropped it in the barn.’

  Owen, too, found that passing strange. ‘The friar received the letter in York and his odd behaviour began then.’ Owen sighed. ‘I must agree with Abbot Richard, much as I dislike agreeing with the man. You saw no evidence of the friar’s unease before?’

  ‘He was nervous from the start, but not of anyone in particular. Or perhaps of Wyndesore’s men, Bardolph and Crofter.’

  Owen remembered Crofter’s cold eyes. But would the friar have understood the danger in such a man? ‘Why them?’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘I think it was their speech. They have been on campaign of late, with Sir William and the Duke of Clarence. Rough, rude, bawdy speech and songs.’

  ‘They gave him trouble?’

  ‘Not that I saw. They’re up to something, though.’ He told Owen of Crofter’s effort to associate Ned with Alice Perrers in Abbot Richard’s mind, and their claim that Wyndesore had set them to watch Ned.

  ‘What madness was this?’ Owen growled. ‘I’ve never encountered such a pack of scheming fools.’ He was frustrated. All the threads seemed to head nowhere or into a knot. But seeing Matthew’s alarmed look, he put his anger aside. ‘Once Don Ambrose had the letter, it was Captain Townley he watched?’

  ‘We saw him little in York. But once we had headed out towards Rievaulx, yes, he was fearful of the Captain; watched him all the time.’ Matthew rubbed his eyes, rumpled his hair. The ale was warming him up. ‘Why would friars exchange such a letter? About a young woman?’

  Why indeed?

  ‘I’m damned if I know. Would they have known Mary was to wed Captain Townley?’

  ‘Most like. After the death of Daniel – Sir William of Wyndesore’s page – everyone at the castle must have known. Courtiers love their gossip, and their confessors hear it all, I imagine.’

  Owen disliked how he agreed with the Abbot more and more. He leaned over, refilled Matthew’s cup. ‘What was Captain Townley like when you last saw him?’

  ‘Drunk as a lord, sir,’ Matthew said. ‘I did not like to think of him riding through the moors in such a state.’

  ‘Nor I.’ The account left Owen with much to ponder. ‘Eat something, Matthew. I will be taking you with me when we escort Abbot Richard to Rievaulx.’

  ‘Escort him back?’

  ‘My man Alfred will escort Archdeacon Jehannes back to York. I wish to see where Captain Townley and Don Ambrose disappeared. So I shall lead Abbot Richard’s escort back to Rievaulx when the meeting is over.’

  ‘I do not know what else I might have done.’ Matthew’s huge eyes implored. He looked like an awkward puppy.

  ‘I see nothing to blame in your conduct, Matthew.’

  A sigh. ‘Abbot Richard hates the Captain.’

  ‘Aye. You have said that twice now. I doubt he hates him. I doubt he has made much note of him at all. My guess is the trouble between the Captain and the friar came as an opportunity to question the integrity of our mission.’

  ‘But how can it?’

  ‘It does not need to mak
e sense to work in his favour, Matthew.’ That Owen had learned from his work for the Archbishop.

  Another storm had moved in overnight. Archdeacon Jehannes was chilled when he joined the two abbots in Monkton’s parlour, and the smug expression on Abbot Richard’s face did nothing to warm him.

  Owen had agreed that the Abbot of Rievaulx might be friendlier to Jehannes if he attended alone, but it appeared they had been wrong. Jehannes fortified himself with spiced wine and settled in for an unpleasant round of argument. ‘I am sure the issue needs no further explanation,’ he began.

  ‘No,’ Abbot Monkton said with a smile meant to soften what was to come. ‘In fact, it requires no further discussion.’

  Abbot Richard made no effort to mask a smug grin, and Jehannes knew what was coming.

  Abbot Monkton winced, as if experiencing, too, the pain he imagined Jehannes must feel. ‘Abbot Richard and I do not agree about Captain Townley and Don Ambrose …’

  ‘They have nothing to do with my purpose for being here,’ Jehannes said, interrupting. It was either this mild aggression or throw wine in Abbot Richard’s smug face, which would distress Abbot Monkton.

  ‘The Captain and friar are to your purpose,’ Abbot Monkton said, holding up his hands for silence when Jehannes began to protest. ‘I have prayed over this, my son, and I am quite confident in my assessment. This unfortunate circumstance is a sign given us by God that we are right to stand firm against pluralism.’ He paused as Jehannes shook his head. ‘You cannot see it?’

  How could he? There was naught to see. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Were Wykeham a simple parish priest, conscientious in ministering to the souls in his care, His Holiness would have readily agreed to his appointment, Wykeham would have been consecrated, and all would have progressed quietly, efficiently. Instead, the King pushes his favourite at His Holiness, a favourite on whom the King has already lavished an array of benefices that bring him indecent wealth, a favourite who has attracted enemies. Naturally, His Holiness sees this as a dangerous situation; such a prominent, wealthy, political man, a man so important to the King, will not suddenly change his allegiance and withdraw his attention from the court to focus on the see of Winchester. His diocese will become a pawn in the King’s hands.’