King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  ‘No, I do not mean to say they were not content with my elevation. On the contrary, they were proud of me, glad of the prestige I brought to the family. No, it is I who believe I would have been a better man, a holier man, had I shut myself away from the world.’

  Wykeham wiped his knife with a linen cloth. ‘You have recently been to Fountains, I hear. You know the Cistercians have the world in their abbeys. Not precisely what one thinks of when speaking of being shut away from the world.’

  ‘Indeed. But the intrigues of the court. The compromises one makes in deference to the King, his family, the welfare of the diocese …’ Thoresby lifted his hands, palms up. ‘Surely you see the difference?’

  Turning his knife this way and that in the lamplight, Wykeham was satisfied, tucked it into the scabbard at his waist. ‘The Cistercian abbots were quick to find fault with your messengers so that they might exercise their power and prevent my becoming Bishop of Winchester.’

  ‘Winchester. Yes. And then Lord Chancellor.’

  Wykeham sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, faced Thoresby with a level look. ‘Indeed, I believe that is the King’s intention.’

  Thoresby nodded. ‘Which is why I wished you to understand what a nest of vipers the court has become.’

  An uncomfortable silence as Wykeham held Thoresby’s gaze while his pale face was washed with an angry crimson. ‘You would trick me out of becoming chancellor? You are sly, I grant you that. I almost believed you meant to help me.’

  The councillor’s suspicion did not surprise Thoresby. They had not been confidants. ‘In the past months I have watched you, Councillor, and I have come to believe that I formerly misjudged you. You are a good man who hopes to act for the good of the people, for the good of their souls. And I am telling you – awkwardly and unconvincingly, it seems – that you must understand what it means to be the King’s bishop, how impossible it will become to act contrary to the King. For you will owe him everything, and he will not hesitate to remind you.’

  Wykeham shook his head as if puzzling over a surprisingly disappointing child. ‘It is not so much your chain of office I seek, Chancellor. It is the see of Winchester. I grew to manhood there, Bishop Edington was my teacher in all things I count best in myself.’

  Thoresby raised an eyebrow. ‘You would reject the chancellorship?’

  ‘No. But it is Winchester I covet.’

  Thoresby did not believe him. Though it was said that the see of Winchester was the richest in the kingdom. ‘I did not realise …’

  ‘No. You would not. It is something personal, and we have not been on such terms.’

  Thoresby bowed to Wykeham, began to rise. ‘I understand. You feel I have overstepped the bounds you have set for us.’ He shrugged.

  Wykeham lifted a hand, stopping Thoresby, then gestured towards the table. ‘God has provided us this goodly feast. Shall we not give thanks and enjoy it?’

  ‘Do you wish to do so?’

  ‘I do.’

  Thoresby resumed his seat.

  They finished their meal idly wondering about the bones found beneath a floor in an old building being razed for the new construction in the upper ward.

  It was not until Thoresby was at the door, taking his leave, that Wykeham said, ‘I am puzzled why Mistress Perrers has not told the King of her suspicions about her husband, the deaths for which she believes him responsible.’ His lean face was drawn, almost pinched. ‘The King would surely wish to know.’

  Thoresby put a hand on Wykeham’s shoulder. ‘My noble, godly Wykeham. It is not the sort of information the King welcomes. You would be wise to remain silent. It is enough to know. To watch.’

  ‘That is impossible. We should do something.’

  ‘What? We have no proof. And if we did? And the King judges the secret marriage more important? What then?’

  ‘He would not do so.’

  The man had heard nothing Thoresby had said. ‘When you are the King’s bishop, you will understand.’

  He felt Wykeham’s eyes on him as he disappeared down the stone steps. But he did not turn, did not retrace his steps to try to explain. He was headed for sleep.

  Owen woke when Gwenllian cried out for her midnight feeding. As he lay quietly watching Lucie feed their daughter, he felt a horrible dread. He had so much to lose; what if Ned were not to be trusted? What if he had murdered Don Ambrose? Might Ned have attacked the friar in a fit of rage, as Abbot Richard believed?

  No. That would go against Ned’s nature. He had a temper, there was no denying that. Many a time he had bloodied a face, broken a nose. When in his cups, mostly. That was a problem. Matthew had described Ned as drunk that night. But after the friar had disappeared, not before. After Ned had learned of Mary’s death. And who could blame him for drinking to lessen that pain?

  Owen turned on to his side, sighed at the dark sky glimpsed through the chinks of the shutters. Try as he might, Owen could not imagine Ned losing his head and attacking Don Ambrose, not unless he had found some sort of evidence that Ambrose had been responsible for Mary’s death.

  And how could he have been? Ambrose had been with the party from the beginning.

  Lucie put Gwenllian back in her cradle, turned to Owen. ‘You sigh over Ned.’ She brushed back his damp curls, kissed his forehead tenderly.

  ‘I risk much to help him.’

  ‘I would do the same for Bess.’

  ‘Time and again Ned saved my life, I am certain.’

  ‘Then I am beholden to him.’

  ‘You cannot imagine the half of it. You did not fight alongside Bess.’

  A sudden chuckle.

  Owen raised his head, frowning. ‘What can you possibly find amusing in this?’

  ‘The thought of Bess in battle.’

  Owen could not help but smile. ‘She would make an excellent captain.’

  ‘That she would.’

  ‘I would not want her for an enemy.’

  ‘No, nor I.I wonder … Would she wear ribbons on her cap in the field?’

  Owen pulled Lucie to him. ‘Thank you for making me smile tonight.’

  Lucie nestled close. ‘It is my pleasure. Now rest, my love. Think of Bess going to battle starched and grim.’

  Alfred leapt from his chair, dagger in hand.

  Owen gave him a kick that sent him sprawling. ‘’Tis your captain, you slugabed. What are you doing inside? You were to stand guard, not sit!’

  ‘I was awake, wasn’t I? Came for you soon as you stepped within.’ Alfred rubbed his booted groin and spat on the floor beside him.

  ‘Charming company you’ve provided me with,’ Ned said. He lay on his back on the cot, fully dressed.

  ‘Outside with you, Alfred,’ Owen barked. ‘I want no one listening from the shadows.’

  ‘’Tis naught but shadows out there, Captain,’ Alfred complained.

  Owen turned slowly, a warning look on his face.

  Alfred grabbed his cloak, a shuttered lantern, and hobbled out.

  Owen sank down on the chair vacated by Alfred, opened his lantern further to get a better look at his friend. ‘Do you always sleep with your boots on?’

  ‘Only in hellish surroundings. This is worse than a gaol.’ Ned propped himself up on one elbow. ‘So what’s amiss?’

  ‘Amiss? My man knows nothing of guarding, that’s what’s amiss.’

  Ned grunted. ‘I know you, Owen. An early morning walk means troubling thoughts robbed you of sleep.’

  ‘I must see Jehannes, give him some explanation for what I have done.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Owen stretched out his legs, tilted the chair back against the stone wall. ‘Tell me again. Why were you chosen for the journey north?’

  Ned dropped on to his back, stared at the damp stones above. ‘The ceiling leaks, you know.’ He rubbed his cheeks briskly with his palms as if to wake himself. ‘I believe Alice Perrers arranged it to separate Mary and me.’

  ‘Who told you this?’
<
br />   ‘No one. But what else makes sense?’

  ‘Do you believe Mistress Perrers had aught to do with Mary’s death?’

  Ned closed his eyes, clenched his fists. ‘Without her interference, it could not have happened. I would have been there to protect Mary, as she wished. As she begged.’

  Owen saw the tension in his friend’s face, gave him a moment with his grief. He did not doubt his friend’s feelings for Mary.

  ‘You are keen to blame the King’s mistress. What do you know of Alice Perrers?’

  ‘Far more than you might think.’

  ‘Lancaster is interested?’

  ‘She is his father’s mistress.’

  ‘But there are too many males between Lancaster and the throne. Why does he take such an interest?’

  ‘He believes someone must. His brother Edward lives for the next chance to don his black armour and Lionel is ever busy running from his own troubles.’

  ‘Tell me about her then.’

  ‘Mistress Alice was a plague child, born in the year the death first walked among us. It is said such children have unholy strength. Or unholy powers. Many believe the King’s mistress has both. She bewitched the Queen, who took her into her bedchamber; soon she had crossed over to the King’s.’

  ‘What of her parents?’

  ‘Landed family. Modest income. Both died of the plague. Uncles placed her with a merchant and his wife who had lost a daughter to the plague. They raised her as their own with a small allowance from the uncles. A sudden family feeling led them to tear her from her foster parents, the only folk she remembered. Put her in a convent school for manners, reading, writing.’

  ‘Fortunate young woman.’

  ‘You would not think so to hear her tell it.’

  ‘This is your Mary talking, isn’t it? Is that how you came to woo her, to spy on Alice Perrers?’

  ‘May God forgive me. Aye. ’Tis just so. But God soon put it right. Mary won my heart. I did love her, Owen. I would have done anything for her. But the one thing she begged me …’

  ‘She did not tell you why she wished you to stay?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘I wish to God I knew why. What prevented her from confiding in me about her fear?’

  ‘Wyndesore’s page. What was that about?’

  ‘He befriended her. When I asked her why, she took it as an insult.’ Ned put his knuckles to his temples, pressed.

  ‘Pain?’

  ‘Nothing you might cure.’

  ‘The deaths of Wyndesore’s page and Perrers’s maid. Any connection?’

  ‘If there is, I am the last to know.’

  ‘Bardolph and Crofter, Wyndesore’s men. How can you be certain they are after you?’

  ‘When we began the journey, Don Ambrose feared them. After York, when he turned against me, they encouraged that, elaborated slights, made him think I placed him in particular danger.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They believe I murdered Daniel?’ Ned shrugged. ‘Only God knows their black hearts.’

  ‘Still believe it has to do with your being Lancaster’s spy?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘If they do not come after you, will you give me your word to continue to Windsor?’

  A hesitation. ‘You will deliver me up to the Lord Chancellor?’

  ‘I will.’

  Ned nodded. ‘I promise to continue to Windsor.’

  Jehannes, Archdeacon of York, paced his parlour, hands clasped behind him. ‘God give me strength. This is an impossible situation, Owen. Impossible.’

  Owen wished he were up and pacing, too, but one of them must be calm. He sat with his elbows on his knees, one hand pressing the patch against his left eye, in which a shower of needle pricks alerted him to his own uneasiness. ‘We are merely trying to keep Ned alive until the King’s men arrive for him,’ he said slowly, in the calmest tone he could manage.

  Jehannes was suddenly within arm’s length, peering down with an anxious expression. ‘You are certain they will come?’

  Owen sat back, stretched his legs. ‘Do you doubt it?’

  With an exasperated sigh, the Archdeacon pulled up a chair and sank into it, grasping his knees through his gown. ‘They would take him back to Windsor and put him to death, Owen. The King does not send men after a captain unless he means to do so.’

  Owen nodded. What was there to say?

  Jehannes touched his palms to his cheeks, as if feeling their heat, then dropped his hands to his sides. ‘I cannot let that happen unless we know he deserves death.’

  ‘What?’ Owen straightened up, amazed by what Jehannes implied.

  ‘So.’ Jehannes nodded to himself. ‘Unless the Archbishop has managed to intervene …’ He shook his head. ‘I have never to my knowledge disobeyed my King.’

  Owen grinned. ‘Think of it as thwarting a group of soldiers out for blood.’

  ‘Ralph was here last night, warning me that Townley might count me dangerous. That I might be his next victim.’

  Bloody-minded bastard. ‘He seemed a sensible man.’

  Jehannes shrugged. ‘He believes Townley murdered his comrades. It is not senseless to feel that such a man is dangerous. It is senseless to take the law into one’s own hands and eliminate the danger.’

  ‘Senseless and soldierly,’ Owen muttered, wondering how long it would be before Ralph and his companions descended upon the shop. ‘There is no need for you to continue feeding Matthew.’

  Jehannes had turned towards the window; now he spun round. ‘You would have him guard Townley again?’

  ‘No. But I may have need of him.’

  ‘You will not tell me where you are hiding Townley?’

  ‘You know you trip over yourself when you attempt a lie.’

  Jehannes pressed the bones beneath his brows. ‘What shall I tell the King’s men?’

  ‘Tell them I’ve removed Ned to Bishopthorpe.’

  A frown. ‘Bishopthorpe?’

  ‘That is all you need tell them.’

  Jehannes nodded. ‘Go in peace, Owen. May God watch over you.’

  Twenty-two

  Michaelo Rides north, Bringing Turmoil

  Crowder rolled about the floor with a knot of cloth while Jasper bit his lip and poured powdered orris root into a mortar, trying not to raise dust, which would make him sneeze and ruin the physick he had worked on most of the morning. Lucie saw to customers and pretended she was unaware of Jasper’s little cries of dismay, knowing that his yelps usually signalled only his fear of an accident rather than his having made a mistake. Owen was with Ned, removing the stitches; after four days the threads were itching horribly, a sign of healing.

  When the door opened, Lucie squinted, thinking her eyes tricked her. But it still looked like Brother Michaelo, though not as meticulously groomed as usual. ‘I thought you were in Windsor with His Grace.’

  Michaelo closed his bloodshot eyes and nodded. ‘I left His Grace four days ago with an urgent message for Captain Archer. Is he here?’

  Lucie wondered where Michaelo’s loyalties would lie, with the King or with justice. ‘He is out at present. Might I see the letter?’

  Michaelo bowed to her. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Wilton, but it is for your husband. If he decides, having read it, that you are to be privy to its contents, so be it. But that is not for me to judge.’

  Lucie did not like the secretary’s solemn tone. ‘I presume it has to do with Ned Townley?’

  ‘God sorely tests Captain Townley. I must warn you that the King’s men are a day behind me. They come to arrest your friend.’

  One day. So little time. ‘That is why you rode so hard your eyes are bloodshot and you’ve not stopped in the city to change?’

  ‘Just so. I refreshed myself at Bishopthorpe, but I did not risk a long pause.’

  ‘They will take the Captain to Windsor?’

  ‘Those are their orders, Mistress Wilton. Accompanying them is a clerk with a letter for Captain Archer from His Grace. B
ut I carry a more recent one.’

  The Archbishop had obviously learned something that forced him to make haste getting word to Owen. ‘Come through to the kitchen, Brother Michaelo. Tildy will give you refreshment while I fetch Owen.’

  ‘What of the shop?’

  ‘Jasper can watch it. I shall not be long away.’

  Lucie met Owen on the bridge. He did not like the news.

  ‘Can Ned ride?’ she asked.

  ‘If he must. But his leg will be the worse for it later.’

  They returned to the shop arm in arm. Lucie left Owen there; he took Michaelo over to the kitchen of the new house, where they made a place for themselves among the supplies Tildy was gradually moving there. Michaelo gazed out at the apothecary garden while Owen read.

  Thoresby had carefully described Don Ambrose’s fear for his life, Alice Perrers’s secret marriage, her suspicions of her husband’s part in the deaths of the witnesses, and the danger all shared who had knowledge of this. Owen read quickly, then read it through again.

  ‘So, Michaelo, Mistress Perrers may be a victim of her own heart, eh?’

  ‘Heart? I should rather say she is a victim of her own ambition.’ He sat down by Owen. ‘The King’s men will arrive tomorrow to take Captain Townley back to Windsor for trial. I rode hard to arrive before them, pausing only to sleep a few hours each night and give my horse a rest.’

  ‘You travelled alone?’

  ‘Faith no, more’s the pity. I had the companionship of Don Paulus.’

  ‘Jesu. He is at Bishopthorpe?’

  Michaelo’s nostrils flared. ‘I trust he will eat through the larder and drain the wine cellar if left too long.’

  ‘What does the Archbishop suggest I do?’

  ‘That you take some of his retainers and head for Windsor with Captain Townley.’

  A tidy coincidence in plans. ‘He will do what he can for Ned?’

  ‘His Grace is particularly eager that you should come, Captain. He wants you by his side. In return, he will give Townley his support.’

  Owen slapped his thighs, rose. ‘I must discuss preparations with my wife. We must leave before the gates are barred tonight.’

  ‘You will tell Mistress Wilton all that you have learned?’