King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  The horses snorted and stamped, their breath blending into the mist.

  A door opened nearby, heard but not seen.

  ‘His royal highness at last,’ muttered Matthew.

  A procession of white-robed novices appeared out of the mist, followed by Abbot Richard in his mass robes. The night before, he had questioned Owen’s judgement in riding up on to the moors to consult a midwife.

  ‘What can a midwife do for you, Captain Archer? Cast a spell? Weave a charm for your friend?’

  ‘I seek facts, my lord abbot. Magda Digby will know whether there is news of my men.’

  ‘So she is more than a midwife.’

  ‘As are we all more besides our callings.’

  ‘I intend to notify King Edward of the circumstances.’

  ‘I never doubted you would. And I shall send a complete account to Archbishop Thoresby and to you when I return to York.’

  The Abbot had been satisfied with Owen’s reply; his presence here this morning was testament to that.

  ‘Benedicte, Captain Archer; Nym; Matthew; Ralph; Curan; Edgar; Geoff.’ Abbot Richard made the sign of the cross over each man as he spoke his name. ‘Our Lord God shines His light upon this company. Let us pray it is a sign of a safe and productive journey.’

  The men had grown still with the blessing, now they bowed their heads, pressed their hands together. Abbot Richard did not prolong the prayers overmuch, but neither did he skimp. When he was finished, the men crossed themselves and moved towards their mounts.

  Abbot Richard took Owen aside. ‘You have the trust of powerful men, Captain Archer. Do not ruin your future by misguided loyalty.’

  ‘Do not be so confident you are right to condemn Captain Townley, my lord abbot. I would delight in proving you wrong.’

  An eyebrow raised, a smile flickered and died. The deep-set eyes looked sad. ‘God go with you, Captain.’

  Owen found the Abbot’s blessing disquieting. He was silent as he joined his men. The company mounted, made secure the reins connecting them to the pack-horses carrying food, gifts from the infirmarian for Nym’s family and a bottle of brandywine for Magda Digby, and rode off towards the north.

  Nym led the company up along the Rye River valley. The ground was sodden and muddy from recent floods. The shepherd assured them his ears were trained to hear the warning sound of a flash flood, which could come at any time now that the snow cover on the high moors was melting. They rode prepared for a sudden gallop up on to the high ground.

  Owen rode at the rear, Matthew beside him. The puppy-faced man kept glancing up and about at the rolling moorland.

  ‘Nym has not lived to two score and ten by acting the fool, Matthew,’ Owen said. ‘Have faith that he does not mean to be washed away.’

  ‘’Tis not just that, Captain. Along the Thames, where I was born, a man may look out over many miles and see whence he came and where he is headed. But this …’ Matthew made a sweeping gesture over the surrounding heights. ‘Hills. Mist. Abbeys hiding in valleys where the traveller comes upon them like giants lurking. ‘Tis a queer, dangerous country. There are too many hills from which the enemy might watch, valleys where they might hide.’ He screwed up his puppy face. ‘How might a man live here without forever glancing about, ready for mischief?’

  Ah. Owen remembered such fears among his archers in Normandy. Unfamiliar terrain held unpredictable dangers. Some men eased into the new, learned it. Some resisted it, always feared it. ‘Knowing that men are missing, that someone murdered Don Ambrose, makes it all the keener, that feeling.’

  Matthew ducked his head, embarrassed. ‘It does that, Captain.’

  ‘We are fortunate to have a guide who knows the land. I have faith he will get us there safely.’ Owen glanced over at Matthew, saw less fear in his eyes. Owen would not mention what bothered him, the uncertainty of what they sought.

  Matthew glanced at Owen. ‘This Riverwoman. What is she?’

  The man was a bundle of worries, to be sure. ‘A midwife,’ Owen said. ‘She brought my wife into the world. And my daughter.’

  A puzzled frown. ‘What need have we of a midwife?’

  Owen laughed. ‘Abbot Richard asked the same question. Her skill as a midwife is what most folk seek her for. But I think her the finest spy in the land. Folk hear of something out of joint, they tell Magda. Magda seeks knowledge of something, she spreads the word. If anyone has seen aught of Captain Townley or the other men up on the moors, Magda will know. Or will find out.’

  ‘Let us pray she knows something that will help Captain Townley.’

  ‘Magda would not send Nym for us if she had naught to offer.’

  They reached the hamlet at the edge of Hazel Head Wood as twilight faded into night. A fire burned in front of one of the houses, its brightness making the darkness in which the company rode seem blacker still.

  Matthew stared straight ahead. As the sun had set he had told Owen that the moorland hills on either side seemed like dark, crouching beasts, and the sky was too broad.

  Owen had glanced up to the twilight sky, stars beginning to twinkle palely. ‘The Thames shares the same sky.’

  Matthew had shaken his head. ‘Not the same. Not at all.’

  Owen, however, felt at home riding into the hamlet. The smoky fire with its welcoming crackle, the soft bleating of the sheep, the wind sighing down from the moors and whispering in the trees, voices murmuring. It felt like the village of his boyhood. Nym dismounted and nodded for Owen and the others to wait. He ducked into the low doorway of the house directly ahead and quickly returned to beckon the men to dismount. He walked over to Owen.

  ‘Widow Digby welcomes you and says you and your men may settle yourselves in the far house. There is fire and water for your needs. She will come and talk to you there.’

  Owen looked down the houses to the far one. ‘That is Magda’s house?’

  Nym shook his head. ‘’Tis empty for now, is all. Asa is away.’

  The men led the horses to the stable end of the house. It was a long building with a third of it separated from the living space by a wooden partition. Straw was spread over the floor and the place had the strong scent of animals. The rest of the house held a fire pit under the hole in the sod roof, a much mended table, a chair, a bench that might seat three grown men, a milking stool. A flimsy wooden partition created a private sleeping chamber. A simple shepherd’s house, perhaps larger than the average. But what caught Owen’s eye were the wall decorations, images of the moorland life: not the simple flowers and borders in repetitive patterns that most commonly decorated walls, but sketches of animals, trees, rocks.

  Nym entered, dragging two benches, one of which needed to be pressed down on to the packed earth floor to be steadied. Owen asked him about the painting.

  Nym glanced at the walls, shrugged. ‘Asa’s work.’ He stooped in the doorway. ‘There is wood by the fire. You are welcome to what you need.’

  Owen glanced at Ralph, who motioned for the men to follow Nym out to fetch wood and a burning ember for the fire.

  They were settling in, their rations spread out, eating and drinking and letting the quiet of the moors descend upon them, when Matthew, glancing over at the doorway, called out, ‘Who goes there?’

  Owen turned, then rose. A short figure swathed in a plain wool cloak stood there, head covered with a linen coif. The clothing was unlike Magda’s usual attire, but no one else had such eyes. Certainly no one so old. ‘Bless you, Magda. The house is comfortable after our long ride.’

  ‘Thou hast need of Magda.’ She stepped into the room, nodded towards the other men, who had all risen. No one confronted by Magda doubted her powerful presence. She inspired respect without asking for it. ‘Sit thee down, sit thee down. Magda despairs of her shrinking frame enough. Thou needst not tower over her.’ Her eyes laughed.

  Owen handed her the bottle of brandywine. ‘From the cellars of Rievaulx.’

  Magda opened it, sniffed, nodded. ‘The white monks fled luxu
ry, they say.’ She threw back her head and barked with laughter.

  The men all grinned and relaxed, sinking back down on to their seats.

  Magda perched on the milking stool, loosened the cloak from round her wrinkled neck, then tilted her head back and savoured a mouthful of brandywine. Only then did she speak. ‘How goest thy daughter, Bird-eye?’

  Owen was impatient to hear why she had sent for him, but he would not rush her. It never paid to rush Magda. ‘God has granted us a healthy child. Already Gwenllian has a strong grasp and a straight back.’

  Magda bobbed her head from side to side in a merry gesture. ‘Like thy apothecary wife, eh?’ She took another sip. ‘And Jasper? He pleases Lucie?’

  Would they make their way through all in the household? ‘Jasper learns and remembers. He is quick to obey, cheerful. Lucie could ask for no better.’

  ‘Good.’ Magda sighed, stoppered the bottle and tucked it into a pouch at her waist, stretched her arms wide, extended her feet towards the fire. ‘Good and warm. So. Magda and thee shall ride up on to Kepwick Moor tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To visit a shepherd.’

  ‘Someone with news of Ned or the others?’

  Magda shrugged.

  ‘Kepwick Moor. Surely my men did not travel so far.’

  With a piece of kindling Magda poked the fire. ‘Thou sayest not so far.’ She turned to look at him with her shrewd eyes. ‘And if they were lost? Or in flight? On horseback?’

  The men were quiet now, straining to hear.

  ‘What do you know, Magda?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Magda can take thee at dawn. But just thee and Magda. No others.’

  ‘Why not my men?’

  ‘Thou seekst answers from a shepherd? They are not fond of strangers. Nym is different, so Magda might send him to the abbey. But this one would not speak to a company of men. To just one …’ She shrugged. ‘Mayhap.’ She rose, fastened her cloak. ‘Magda shall ride like a lordling tomorrow. Have two mounts ready at dawn.’ As she walked towards the door she paused in front of one of the decorations, a hawk, wings spread wide, head down, eyeing its prey. Magda sniffed, shrugged, departed.

  After a day of riding across the high moor, just as the light faded, Magda said, ‘Canst thou see it?’

  Owen squinted, saw nothing but heath that slowly lost detail in the dying light. ‘I hear a dog barking.’

  Magda nodded, pointed.

  ‘Ah.’ He saw the buildings: two sod huts, not far from them.

  By the time they reached the larger hut, a large-boned woman with flinty eyes stood in the doorway, arms folded before her. The strands of hair that escaped her linen cap were dark with light streaks, grey, Owen guessed, though he could not see colour in the twilight. The barking dog must be in the smaller hut, behind this one. Owen wondered how the woman could stand so calmly and ignore the sound.

  ‘What is thy business with us, Widow Digby?’ The eyes moved to Owen, back to Magda. ‘Is this the one-eyed spy who works for thy Archbishop?’ The voice was low, unfriendly.

  Magda walked up to the woman, stood quite close to her, hands on hips. ‘Captain Archer comes to speak with the shepherd, Asa.’ Magda’s voice was as unfriendly as Asa’s.

  Owen recognised the name – this woman was the artist. She was not what he had expected.

  The flinty eyes rested on Owen. Asa shook her head, stretched out her hands, clutching either side of the doorway to bar the way. ‘He has naught to say to thee, Captain.’

  ‘Let him decide whether he will speak to the Captain,’ Magda said firmly.

  Someone grabbed Asa’s shoulder from behind. ‘What is it?’ A head peered over the woman’s shoulder. ‘Widow Digby. Asa, step aside.’

  Asa turned and whispered something. The man pushed her aside, stepped forward.

  ‘Ned!’ Owen reached out for his friend, ignoring Ned’s strangeness in his great relief to find his friend alive. For he was strange, the usually fastidious man unshaven, uncombed, gaunt, dressed in tattered, shapeless tunic and leggings, his fingernails torn and filthy.

  Ned’s eyebrows met in a frown. Even his large brown eyes were wrong, vague. ‘Owen? How did you find me?’

  Praise God he recognised him. ‘Magda sent for me.’

  Ned lifted his head, peered out beyond Owen. ‘And the others?’

  ‘They know nothing. They did not accompany us.’

  Ned took a deep breath, nodded, took one step back towards Asa. His movements were like his eyes, dulled, slow. A contrast to Asa’s flinty stare.

  ‘It grows dark and chilly,’ Magda said. ‘Wouldst thou invite Magda and the Captain inside?’

  ‘Why should he?’ Asa demanded.

  Ned glanced back. ‘These are my friends, Asa.’ At last a spark of life. He stepped aside and invited them in.

  Dark, smoky, tiny, but with a fire and a pot of something with a spicy scent cooking over it. Ned indicated a bench against the wall. ‘Pull it up, rest yourselves.’

  Owen held out a wineskin. ‘Will you drink with us? Something to warm you?’

  Ned reached for the skin, Asa stayed his hand. Ned withdrew his hand.

  ‘Why do you refuse wine?’ Owen asked. He had never known Ned to pass up a drink.

  Magda sniffed. ‘Because Asa, who calls herself a healer, has been filling thy friend’s belly with remedies that dull his mind. Wine might rob his wits entirely.’

  ‘Be quiet, old woman. They calm him; they do not dull his mind,’ Asa said.

  Magda rolled her eyes and sniffed again.

  Asa knelt down by the pot and stirred.

  Owen looked from one to the other, wondering what was between them. He had never seen Magda treated with such disrespect. And she gave it so little heed. ‘Why do you need calming, Ned?’ Owen asked.

  Ned looked down at his hands. ‘You know about Mary?’

  ‘I do. I am sorrier than I can say.’ Owen nodded towards Asa. ‘Is that what you are helping him forget?’

  Asa met Owen’s eye. ‘Thou wouldst have thy friend suffer?’

  ‘She has dulled my wish to die. There is no forgetting.’ Ned rose. ‘Come. I have something to show you.’

  ‘Not now.’ Asa stepped in front of Ned, hands out, barring his way.

  He gave her a weak push. ‘Out of my way.’

  She did not move.

  ‘In the morning, Dagger-thrower,’ Magda said. ‘In daylight.’ She touched Owen’s arm. ‘Magda knows of a place for us to spend the night, not far.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Asa said with an impatient sigh. ‘There is room for thee here. But let Ned be for tonight. Ask no questions.’

  ‘If thou shalt promise to cease dosing him,’ Magda said.

  Owen felt a tug of wills as the women faced each other with steely eyes.

  It was Asa who looked away first. ‘I shall give him naught tonight.’

  ‘Then thou art kind to offer Magda and Bird-eye a bed for the night.’ Magda’s voice held a smile.

  Owen felt he had walked into a room in the middle of an interesting tale.

  The dog’s incessant barking accompanied the meal. At last Owen could bear it no longer. ‘What is wrong with the dog?’

  Ned and Asa exchanged glances.

  ‘Sheep-dogs are trained to attack wolves,’ Asa said. ‘But some become confused and forget it is only wolves they are to attack. That one must be tied up when not working. He does not like it.’

  ‘Why tie him out of sight of his master?’ Magda asked. ‘’Tis punishment to lock him away alone.’

  ‘What dost thou know of dogs?’ Asa demanded.

  ‘More than thee,’ Magda said, bending back to her food.

  Ned put down his spoon with a clatter, picked up a lantern and headed for the door, motioning for Owen to follow. ‘Come along. I will show you.’

  They headed for the smaller hut. As they stepped inside, the barking switched to a whimper. Ned shined the lantern on a stall. A dark dog, muzzle grey with age, w
as chained to a post. ‘Nym loaned me his old dog to help with the lambing,’ Ned said. ‘He is as vicious as he should be, but I did not tie him up for fear he would attack. He’s a good dog. Trouble is he keeps running to the beck, and I cannot let him go down there.’ Ned’s voice was stronger. It seemed the food had lessened the effect of whatever Asa had given him.

  ‘Why keep him from the beck?’ Owen asked.

  Ned looked Owen in the eye. ‘There are bodies down there. He found them. He’s much too curious about them.’

  Sweet Heaven. ‘That is what we are to see in the morning?’

  Ned turned away, opened the stall, knelt down beside the dog, who fell on his new master, panting with joy. ‘Gervase and Henry in the beck. Aye.’ His voice was choked. He hugged the dog, as if for comfort.

  ‘Gervase and Henry,’ Owen repeated. It grew worse and worse. ‘Were they caught in a flood?’

  ‘Nay. They are bound hand and foot.’

  An unpleasant pattern was developing. ‘Had they come up here with you?’

  ‘No. I came here alone.’

  ‘So what were Gervase and Henry doing here?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Ned.’

  Ned turned to Owen. ‘I do not know, Owen. The dog found the bodies. It was the first I knew of their presence.’

  Owen found such a coincidence unlikely. ‘What happened that night, Ned? Did you find Don Ambrose?’

  Ned rubbed his eyes, gave his head a little shake. ‘I rode off. Drunk. Almost killed myself. But I had to get away from Abbot Richard, fussing about everything but what was important. When I sobered, I turned back. To find the friar. Find out what more he knew about Mary. But I lost my way.’

  Owen had never known Ned to lose his way. He was accustomed to life on the road. Anyone might have guided him to Rievaulx or Fountains. ‘Did anyone come after you?’

  Ned still crouched by the dog, scratching him. ‘Must have, with two bodies in the beck so close by, eh?’

  There seemed nothing wrong with Ned’s mind now. He was managing to side-step the unpleasant parts of Owen’s questions. Nothing at all wrong with his mind. ‘When did you find the bodies?’

  ‘A few days ago.’