King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  ‘You would worry them.’

  A thin smile. Suddenly Ned grabbed Owen’s sleeve, his eyes pleaded. ‘I must find her murderers before the trail is gone.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I must return to Windsor.’

  ‘And so you shall.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘Without the company. No one must expect me. I meant to find Don Paulus. Find out who killed Mary.’

  ‘You bloody fool! Aren’t you in trouble enough?’

  ‘Trouble?’ Ned made a wry face. ‘More than trouble. I am a dead man, Owen. No matter what I do. At least let me avenge her.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘If it were Lucie, you would feel the same.’

  Owen could not deny that, but he hoped his tactics would be better than Ned’s, more likely to succeed. ‘Why are you so certain Mary’s death was no accident?’

  ‘She was frightened. At Windsor. She wanted me to stay. Who would protect her, she asked. I thought she was safe. Maid to Alice Perrers – who could be safer?’

  ‘Who would have cause to harm Mary?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was so good, so kind. She could have no enemies.’ Ned covered his eyes with his hand, turned away from Owen. ‘Perhaps they meant to attack me through her. Perhaps she was their pawn.’

  ‘Whose pawn, Ned? Who are your enemies?’

  ‘I know not,’ Ned whispered. ‘Lancaster has many enemies.’

  ‘What do you mean to do?’

  Ned turned. Tears shone in his eyes, but his expression was excited. Hopeful. ‘I must find out from whom Bardolph and Crofter take their orders. They have done everything so that the blame fell on me.’

  ‘You think they murdered Henry and Gervase?’

  ‘And Don Ambrose.’

  ‘Why?’

  Ned shrugged. ‘I am Lancaster’s man. That is enough.’

  ‘It is nothing, Ned.’ But his friend’s suspicion about Bardolph and Crofter was not so easy to dismiss. Owen had guessed them to be trouble the night he had drunk with the company in the York Tavern. Crofter had admired Owen for killing the jongleur and his leman. And Matthew had said that Don Ambrose had at first seemed to fear them, not Ned. ‘Bardolph and Crofter fought under Wyndesore.’

  Ned nodded. ‘And he under the Duke of Clarence, Lancaster’s brother. Wyndesore has defamed Clarence to the King.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘I do not see the connection.’

  Ned shrugged.

  ‘And you’ve no proof of any sort so far.’

  ‘I knew you would try to stop me. And now you know who I’m after.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bury Henry and Gervase?’

  ‘Asa and Malcolm have been watching them. To see whether Bardolph and Crofter return for the bodies.’

  ‘Not for you?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘I don’t think they knew how close I was. That stream, near that track on which folk travel between the moorland abbeys – word would have reached Abbot Richard soon enough. And who would he blame?’

  ‘They did not see you up here?’

  A filthy hand tugged at the knotted locks. ‘Would you recognise me had you known me only a short time?’

  Owen looked his friend up and down. ‘Nay. And not from a distance even now, knowing you as I do.’

  ‘Now that you know, you must help me bring them to justice. Find proof of their infamy.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘Things have gone too far. I must take you back to York under guard is what I must do.’

  Ned looked disgusted. ‘I’ll run.’

  ‘You did not run last night.’

  ‘In truth, I am relieved to be forced to action.’

  ‘You will not run. You are not yet so mad as to betray me.’

  ‘Friendship can be a heavy burden.’

  ‘I am the one has more cause to complain. But I swear, Ned, I shall find out all I can about Mary.’

  Ned grimaced. ‘I may yet change your mind.’

  Owen doubted it. If Ned were more himself, perhaps. But the lies and silences …

  *

  Word of their approach had arrived at the hamlet before Owen and company. The men heard that Owen shared his horse with the Widow Digby, another man rode beside him, a dog following. Who had joined the company? The men waited outside Asa’s house, eager to see.

  Matthew recognised him first. ‘Captain Townley!’

  Ralph and Geoff moved forward to take the reins. ‘God be with you, Captain Townley,’ Ralph said.

  Ned nodded to him, but said nothing.

  ‘Any sign of the others, Captain?’ Geoff asked.

  ‘Two we buried, two we have not seen,’ Owen said.

  A murmur passed among the men.

  ‘Whom did you bury, sir?’ Geoff asked.

  ‘Henry and Gervase.’

  The men dropped their heads and crossed themselves.

  It was Ralph who asked, ‘How did they die?’

  ‘Murdered,’ Owen said.

  Ralph turned to Ned. ‘Did you see who did it?’

  ‘I did not see it happen.’

  Ralph studied Ned’s face for a moment. ‘Ah,’ he said at last, nodded and walked away.

  Watching Ralph, Owen expected trouble, but he and Geoff went off about their business. Still uneasy, Owen showed Ned into Asa’s house. Matthew, Curan and Edgar followed them.

  ‘So what’s to be done now, Captain Archer?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘We shall escort Captain Townley back to York, where he will await the King’s pleasure.’

  Curan strode up to Ned. ‘You snivelling coward. You killed them, and the friar, didn’t you? What did they know about you, eh?’

  Ned’s fist connected with Curan’s jaw before Owen could get between them. But Ned did not leave it at that. He threw himself on Curan, knocked him to the ground, and managed to bloody his nose before Owen grabbed Ned and sent him sprawling.

  ‘Get Curan to Magda,’ Owen commanded Edgar and Matthew.

  Ned slowly rose. Owen punched him back down. ‘I am losing my patience with you. Any more foolish behaviour and you ride to York bound hand and foot.’

  ‘Bardolph and Crofter have done a good job. Everyone believes I’m guilty.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘If you’re right about them, your behaviour suits their purpose, you fool.’ He went out to see how Curan fared. It would be a long ride back to York.

  Fifteen

  Haunting faces

  Owen, Ned and Matthew spent the night in Magda’s cottage; both Ned and Matthew were nursing sore noses and split lips from encounters with the other men that had failed to restore Ned’s good name. Magda had ordered the separation so that she might have peace.

  It was a crowded cottage. Magda shared it with a young woman, Tola, who was great with child. It was her imminent lying-in that prevented Magda from returning to York in Owen’s company.

  Owen had seen little of the young woman until this evening. He talked to her while she prepared a meal for the five of them. Her husband was busy with the lambing and glad that Magda had come to assist Tola in the birth of their first child.

  ‘Why did you send all the way to York for a midwife?’ Owen asked. ‘Have you none up here?’

  Tola, her back to Owen as she sprinkled dried herbs into the broth, said simply, ‘We thought it best.’ Thus had she answered all Owen’s attempts to converse with her. A woman of few words. One might suspect her of being simple but for the eyes. The few times Owen had found her watching him it was because he had felt her gaze. As intense as Magda’s.

  As Owen lay in the dark much later, he noted something else: many of Tola’s features were very much like Asa’s. Asa and Magda. Of course. Lucie would have seen it sooner, recognised the relationship, no doubt.

  He rose. Magda had gone out when everyone else had settled for the night. Owen found her at the edge of the clearing, sitting on a stone, her head thrown back to study the night sky.

  ‘Thou shalt
be back among thy family soon, Bird-eye. Art thou glad?’

  ‘You know that I am.’

  ‘What keeps thee wakeful? Dagger-thrower’s ill fortune?’

  ‘Magda, is Ned telling me the truth about how he came to be here?’

  Magda said nothing. Owen glanced over at her. She had resumed her star-gazing.

  ‘You have nothing to say?’

  ‘Nay. ‘Tis not for Magda to tell thee whether or no thy friend can be trusted. Thou canst judge for thyself.’

  Owen raised his eye to the stars. ‘Matthew believes that the sky over the River Thames is different from this sky.’

  ‘The pup fears the moors, aye.’ Magda patted Owen’s knee. ‘Many do.’

  ‘Why is your daughter living up on the moors? And why do they call you Widow Digby up here?’

  ‘Magda’s daughter, eh? And who might she be?’

  ‘Asa.’

  A wheezing laugh warmed the darkness. ‘Thou hast a habit of spying now, eh? So how didst thou guess?’

  ‘I see both of you in Tola.’

  ‘Tola looks more like Digby than Magda.’

  ‘Potter? Not at all.’

  ‘Nay, Bird-eye, Potter’s father.’

  ‘He was a shepherd?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But folk say you have always lived on the Ouse.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You did not live with your husband? And yet you took his name.’

  The wheezing laughter was his only answer.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘What wouldst thou hear? Magda was needed in York, Digby had his sheep.’

  ‘Asa lived with her father, Potter with you?’

  ‘Aye. They chose. Asa was ever her father’s child, at peace alone, up on the moors. Potter liked the river.’

  ‘But Asa, too, is a healer.’

  Magda snorted. ‘Healer? Asa plays with the dark arts as if they cannot hurt her. Spells. Potions. Foolish Asa. Magda warned her, but she hears nothing Magda says.’ The old woman rose, brushed off her clothes. ‘To bed. Thou shouldst sleep, Bird-eye. A long ride lies before thee, with angry men.’

  Owen rose. ‘When I asked Tola why she sent all the way to York for a midwife, she said they “thought it best”. Why did she not tell me you were her mother’s mother?’

  Magda stood before Owen, hands on hips, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘Thou knowest nothing of the moorland folk. Why spew out thy heart to a stranger?’

  ‘Moorland folk, or the Digby clan?’

  Magda shook her head again, motioned for him to come along.

  Owen followed, knowing full well he had learned all he would about the Riverwoman for now. It was enough to ponder as he fell asleep.

  Archdeacon Jehannes had returned to York anxiously guarded by Owen’s man Alfred and the rest of the men who had not accompanied Owen and Abbot Richard. After sending a messenger to Archbishop Thoresby with the sad tale of his journey, Jehannes settled into his customary routine. Several days after his return he spent a long morning with the master mason discussing the slow progress on the minster’s Lady Chapel. Archbishop Thoresby would be disappointed, but the problem was with the quarry, not with the masons. Soon, very soon, they must find another source, particularly for the larger stones. There was no other as near, which meant higher costs for transportation. And funds were dwindling; Jehannes was embarrassed to admit that Archdeacon Anselm had been more successful in filling the minster coffers.

  Frustrated, wanting to delay writing yet another unpleasant letter to the Archbishop, Jehannes decided to spend the afternoon in the city doing errands. Perhaps he would add a visit to Lucie Wilton. He had not spoken with her since she’d received Owen’s letter. She might have some insight into what had happened.

  The day was overcast but with an invigorating breeze. Jehannes set off with his clerk Harold. It was Thursday, market day, and though they were well away from the market square they found the streets crowded. As they left the minster gate and entered Stonegate, a man approached, hood up, head down, hands behind his back. Jehannes noticed him because he walked as if lost in thought, a quiet island in the midst of the bustling market day crowd. Possibly sensing eyes upon him, the man lifted his. When he met Jehannes’s gaze, the man gave a little cry and turned to run away. Jehannes chided himself for intruding on the man’s reveries.

  But then, just as suddenly, the man spun back, dropped to his knees before Jehannes, bowed and raised his folded hands over his head. ‘I beg you, Father, give me your blessing,’ he said.

  Jehannes did not find it an unusual request. What puzzled him was the cry and the momentary turning away. Nevertheless, he laid his hands on the man’s head and gave his blessing.

  ‘May God forgive me my sins,’ the man said, crossing himself. He rose and kissed Jehannes’s hand. ‘Bless you, Father.’

  ‘Do you wish to come to me at the minster and make confession?’

  The man shook his head. His hood slipped back.

  There was a familiarity about the eyes, the voice. Might that explain the odd behaviour? A disconcerting thought, that he might have hesitated to approach Jehannes in particular. ‘Do I know you?’ Jehannes asked.

  The man shook his head, pulled up his hood, and slipped back into the crowd.

  ‘Harold, who was that?’

  ‘I did not recognise him.’

  The crowd had begun to jostle them. It was unwise – and difficult – to stand still in the street on market day. ‘Come, Harold, let us make our visit to Mistress Wilton before we go to market.’ Jehannes hoped that by talking to Lucie Wilton and thereby putting the incident out of his mind, he might trick himself into remembering where he had seen the man before.

  Seated at a table by the garden window, supporting a sleeping Gwenllian on her lap with her left arm, Lucie was making notes in the shop ledger when Archdeacon Jehannes appeared in the kitchen doorway. Lucie had left the door ajar to catch the fresh air.

  ‘How lovely! Forgive me for not rising to greet you, Father, but as you see I cannot.’

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting your work, Mistress Wilton.’ Jehannes stepped back as if to leave.

  ‘Oh, please do not desert me so soon. Tildy is at market, Jasper is minding the shop, and I need cheering. Come, sit and tell me how Owen looked when you left him. It is three weeks and more since he headed north with you and I am eager for news of him.’

  ‘You had the letter?’ Jehannes asked, stepping inside. Harold followed him.

  ‘Yes, but he hardly told me how he looked, and he told me very little about how he felt.’ Jehannes looked decidedly uncomfortable about that. ‘How he felt about Ned Townley.’

  ‘Oh. The poor man.’

  Lucie nodded towards Harold. ‘How is the earache?’

  The young clerk put a hand to his right ear and nodded. ‘Much better, Mistress Wilton. I have slept these past nights without pain.’

  ‘I hope you cover your head with your cowl whenever you go out in this wind. It is important to protect your ears.’

  ‘I do, Mistress Wilton.’

  Jehannes sat down opposite Lucie. ‘Tell me why you need cheering.’

  Lucie wished she had not said that. She felt rather foolish telling the Archdeacon of York she missed her husband. She watched silently as he reached over and gently touched Gwenllian’s hand. When the baby curled her chubby fingers round Jehannes’s forefinger and pressed it to her face, his face glowed with joy. Lucie relaxed. Here was a man who understood matters of the heart.

  ‘’Tis a bittersweet sadness. I am missing my husband.’

  Jehannes’s smile was kind. ‘Did he tell you in his letter about the bird trapped in the nave at Fountains?’

  ‘No.’

  Jehannes told the story, his finger all the while clasped firmly in Gwenllian’s hand.

  ‘Did the bird escape?’

  ‘When I returned later that day, I heard nothing. And the door was still ajar.’

  Luci
e smiled. The simple story had cheered her. ‘Would you like to hold Gwenllian?’

  The Archdeacon looked surprised. ‘I shall not frighten her?’

  ‘We can but try.’ Lucie rose, put the baby in his arms.

  Gwenllian opened her eyes, screwed up her face to cry. Jehannes folded his hands round her and began to rock, all as if he had done it many times before. Gwenllian relaxed, blinked a few times, then closed her eyes and slept once more.

  ‘You are good with children.’

  ‘I am fond of them.’

  ‘You were a good friend to Jasper when he was in need.’

  ‘He is a bright lad. You were good to take him in.’

  Always the compliment must be returned. Lucie closed up the ledger, offered Jehannes and Harold some ale. They were quiet while she poured. ‘It is a sad business about Ned,’ Lucie said, sitting down once more.

  Jehannes’s eyes darkened. He lowered the cup he had raised to his lips to drink. ‘I blame myself. I should have gone to Owen and Ned when Don Ambrose came to me. God grant that no evil comes of my mistake.’

  Lucie regretted broaching the subject. She had forgotten the Archdeacon’s part in it. But now that she had erred… ‘You blessed Ned’s company the day he rode from York, did you not?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Jehannes gazed down into his untasted ale.

  ‘Did Don Ambrose behave oddly then?’

  The smooth brow crinkled in thought. ‘A little. I see it now that I look for it. But at the time I thought him uncomfortable with the soldiers. They can be …’ he shrugged.

  Lucie laughed. ‘Owen asked me recently if he was so rude in manner and speech when we first met. Did Don Ambrose seem uneasy with all the men?’

  Jehannes shrugged. ‘Not that day, but earlier I had noted he kept his distance from Bardolph and – ’ Jehannes’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. ‘That was him. Today.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bardolph.’ Jehannes told her of the encounter in Stonegate. ‘I could not place him, but there was something familiar. And now it is so plain. Without a doubt.’ He took a drink.

  ‘Just Bardolph? None of the others?’