The King's Bishop (10 page)

‘’Tis a painful thing, love.’

‘But you said you were with her that night,’ Jehannes said. ‘Does she share the blame?’

‘’Tis not that sort of blame. What she says is that he drank too much that evening because of our argument; and the drink killed him.’

Owen thought that a bit of wrongheaded reasoning. ‘But surely you do not believe that? Are we to be blamed for another’s mistaken impression of us?’

‘Of course I do not agree with Mary. In faith, had I frightened Daniel, had he feared for his safety, he would have stayed sober. Else he was a fool. Either way, I cannot see how I am to blame.’

Jehannes sat forward. ‘And all this has naught to do with the Duke of Lancaster? You have no secret instructions to subvert our mission?’

Ned glanced at Owen with raised eyebrows. ‘First
Mary, now the good Archdeacon. I find myself a man much distrusted of a sudden.’

‘Forgive me,’ Jehannes said, ‘but I must know.’

‘He has understandable concerns,’ Owen agreed.

‘Rest easy, sir. My lord knows naught of this mission, or shall hear of it too late to prevent it. I tell you it is my suspicion that Mistress Perrers put my name forth. She is eager to separate me from my love. When I am out of sight, she will try to shift Mary’s affections to someone more suitable.’

‘The mighty Alice Perrers has ambitions for Mary?’ A selfless affection? Owen found that interesting indeed.

Ned looked weary. ‘Mistress Perrers told Mary I shall lead her down a path of poverty and disappointment.’

Owen was happy for his friend’s new-found heart. He made a decision. ‘Then you must prove yourself worthy, Ned, that is all. Archdeacon Jehannes should ride directly to Fountains; I prefer not to risk his eminence and the important documents he carries. So I need a separate company to ride to Abbot Richard at Rievaulx and escort him west across the moors to Fountains for the meeting. I shall appoint you captain of Abbot Richard’s escort.’

Jehannes let slip a chirp of dismay. As heads turned towards him, he lifted his hands, palms up, his expression one of apology. ‘Forgive me, but am I not to be consulted? We had not discussed dividing the company.’

‘I assure you Ned is a good man,’ Owen said. ‘I can think of no one better able to deliver Abbot Richard safely.’

Ned cleared his throat. ‘I am honoured by the
sentiment, my friend. But I think it best the Archdeacon choose his man. Only Our Lord might guarantee a choice of men. And the Archdeacon is closer to Him than you or I.’

Owen was pleased. It seemed love had steadied his headstrong friend. ‘You grow wise, Ned. I agree. It is best to let Jehannes decide.’

Jehannes rose, clasped his hands behind his back, moved over to the fire, stared down into it. The room was quiet while he considered. After a long while, he returned to his seat, lifted his cup. ‘To Ned, second in command.’

Owen grinned, raised his cup. ‘To Ned.’

Ned beamed. ‘Then it is agreed.’

Lucie did not share Owen’s certainty. ‘Might there not be enmity hidden among the others that would flare up once they are up on the moors, far from witnesses?’

‘They might as easily have struck on the road to York. Yet they did not.’

‘They were on the King’s road to York and know full well the penalty for breaking his peace. But the road to Rievaulx Abbey is a different matter.’ Lucie spoke softly and in pleasant tones while she nursed Gwenllian. But the expression on her face said, ‘Beware.’

Owen struggled to concentrate on tactics rather than the appealing scene before him, Lucie’s hair tumbling down over her sleepy-eyed daughter, her finger held tightly in Gwenllian’s dimpled hand. The room smelled milky, a calming scent from a time when fear is unknown in the presence of mother and father. ‘Let us not discuss it now, Lucie.’

‘Just think on this, Owen. If aught happens, Ned
will be blamed. And if aught happens to him, with only his enemies about, we shall hear of it too late, and perhaps never know the truth.’

Trust Lucie to have expanded Jehannes’s argument. ‘What might happen for which Ned would be blamed?’

‘I know not. I just warn you that any misadventure will be his to explain.’

‘I shall consider this.’

Lucie sighed. ‘I speak thus, knowing full well my warning will go unheeded. You have decided. You will not turn back.’

‘No. I admit to having been caught up in the idea of Ned being changed by his love. But perhaps I read too much into it. He has ever been quick to anger, quick to speak his mind. Both faults that were at work in his latest trouble. With Easter upon us, he must wait at least four days to depart. I shall watch him and consider.’

Lucie looked surprised. ‘I am glad to hear you retain an open mind, Owen. It is all I ask.’

T
he afternoon sun brightened the solar and Alice hummed as she dressed. She liked it best here, her small house by the Thames. Though it was close to the river and wattle and daub above the first storey, the house seemed warmer than her chambers in Windsor Castle. Perhaps it was the absence of watchful eyes and incessant whispers. Here she could quietly enjoy the fruits of her labours.

Though Alice hummed, she was not gay. She awaited the King, who was coming to see their son John and to discuss the boy’s education. He had chosen a household for John in which the boy would be tutored and brought up as a gentleman. Alice did not like parting from her son – he was but two years old. But he was the King’s son, bastard or no, and must be raised properly.

Lifting John from his play in the sunbeam, Alice cleaned his face and then carried him to the window. From her vantage point on the second storey, she spied a cart clattering up the slope from the river, driven by a man in the livery of the castle guards. In
the cart was a draped bundle the shape of a body. A fisherman followed, his head bowed, his gait melancholy. Beside him walked William of Wykeham. Alice crossed herself. A week past, Mary’s pack had been found down by the river. Since then Alice had waited in dreadful certainty.

As Alice watched the curious procession, the King’s party drew up beside them. Wykeham hurried to the King, who leaned from his saddle with a grave face. Handing John to his nurse, Alice hurried from her private chamber down the ladder to the parlour. ‘The King and his privy councillor are without, Gilbert,’ she called to her servant. ‘Invite them in.’

Alice called to Katie to bring John. The child fussed as his nurse lifted him. He preferred to descend the ladder from the solar by himself. But it would not do to greet the King in ripped and soiled clothes. In the end, John discovered that Katie’s arms were a perfect launch for leaping into the outthrust arms of King Edward as he entered with his company and William of Wykeham.

‘Praise God, what a strapping fine lad!’ the King roared, throwing back his head and laughing. John’s chubby hands clasped the King’s wool-clad shoulders.

Alice stood back, taking in the sight. Her son was as fair as his father had once been, pale blond hair, hazel eyes, a straight body, long in the limbs. You could see John was a Plantagenet. He had a promising future, for the King doted on him. And she would ensure that future while the affection lasted. For the King could be inconstant in his affections.

Edward spun round with John, who giggled and hung on to his father’s beard.

Wykeham cleared his throat. ‘My lady …’

Alice gestured towards a cushioned window seat.
‘Come. Sit beside me and tell me of the curious group I saw without. Who is the fisherman? What is in the cart?’ She fought to keep her tone light.

Wykeham glanced questioningly at the King.

Edward’s face changed. He handed the confused child to Alice, who handed him to the nurse.

‘Come back when I call for you, Katie,’ Alice said.

John chirped, reaching back towards the King as Katie carried him off.

But Edward had turned away, the boy already forgotten. John screwed up his face and let out a howl of disappointment. The nurse hurried up the ladder with him.

Gilbert had pulled up a high-backed armchair for the King, who settled down into it, comfortably at home. Alice returned to her seat on the bench beneath the window. Wykeham went to the door, called to someone, paused, returned with the fisherman, who bobbed nervously when he realised he was brought before the King.

Edward turned to Alice, levelled his faded blue eyes at her, leaned over and took her hand. ‘We have news of your maid, Mistress Alice.’ He turned to Wykeham. ‘William?’

Alice brought her free hand to her throat, glanced over at the King’s councillor.

Wykeham’s eyes flicked towards Alice, back to the fisherman. ‘This man found her, Your Grace.’

The King nodded. ‘And you identified her?’

Wykeham closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I did, Your Grace.’

‘Sit down, William. It is civilised to sit at eye level with a person when you give them evil news.’

Wykeham lowered his long body on to the bench
beside Alice, who sat stiffly at the edge. ‘Mistress Alice …’ He hesitated.

Alice pressed her hands together. ‘This fisherman has found Mary. Which means she was in the river. Drowned.’

Wykeham nodded, his eyes discreetly on Alice’s shoe.

Alice pressed cold fingers to hot eyelids. ‘How long?’

The councillor cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps ever since she went missing. She was caught in the weeds in an inlet. This good man found her early this morning.’

Alice glanced up at the man who pressed one dirty foot down on the toe of the other as if so to force himself to remain in this uncomfortable place. His hair and clothes were grimy, but his face was clean, as were his hands. Alice rose and took his hand. ‘God bless you for ending my search, however horrible the outcome,’ she said. ‘Has she been much – Have the fish – ‘Sweet Heaven, why did she ask such a thing? She could see by the distress in the fisherman’s eyes that Mary was not whole. Alice shook her head. ‘No. Do not tell me. God bless you.’

‘Give him a purse for his troubles,’ the King shouted to his servant by the door.

The fisherman grinned, showing healthy teeth but for a broken one on the top and a gap on the bottom. ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘My Lady. Father William.’

‘You may go now, Rafe,’ Wykeham said.

The man gladly hurried out, the servant following.

Alice turned to Wykeham. ‘Thank you for going down to the river, councillor. I would fain not see Mary so.’

The eyes upturned to her were sympathetic. ‘I deemed it best you did not see her,’

Alice shivered, aware of the river flowing just below the garden, its icy waters blackening as the sun set.

The King rose and put an arm round her. ‘Let us save John’s future for another day. Are there any women from court might keep you company tonight in your grief?’

‘No,’ Alice whispered. ‘I am best alone tonight.’

Owen bought drinks for Ned and his company at the York Tavern to observe his friend with the men he’d travelled with from Windsor. Having been a captain of archers, Owen had developed a sixth sense for troublemakers. He took a dislike to two of them, large, coarse men who seemed to itch for a brawl. Bardolph and Crofter. He would warn Ned to watch them. Ned’s second, Matthew, looked like a clumsy pup and acted much the same. Completely devoted to his master. The others were nondescript. All looked to be good fighters. One was lacking a thumb and two fingers on his right hand. ‘Dagger tricks?’

A puzzled look, then a blush. ‘Nay. Helping my father at the sawmill. And your eye? A lass poke it out for winking?’

Owen slapped him on the back. He liked a man who let you have it with wit, not muscle. ‘We’re even now, Henry.’

‘In faith, Captain. Tell us the story.’

Owen groaned.

Bess Merchet, never far away when her handsome neighbour graced her tavern, leaned over. ‘’Tis a good story. Give us a treat.’

Ned lifted his cup to Owen and nodded.

So for the hundredth time Owen found himself telling the sad tale of betrayal that had led him here from his comfortable, honourable career as captain of archers in the service of the great Henry of Grosmont. He told them of the Breton jongleur whose life had been spared on Owen’s orders; and how the following night Owen had found him in camp slitting the throats of the prize hostages. When Owen had attacked, the jongleur’s leman had come from behind and in the struggle dealt the blow that blinded him.

‘How did they die?’ Crofter asked.

‘Swiftly. By my hand,’ Owen said quietly. He did not like the gleam of approval in the fair man’s eyes. ‘But enough about me. There are far more heroic tales to tell about Captain Townley.’ And so the evening went, fighting men showing off their battle scars. What else were such permanent reminders of death good for?

Gwenllian’s cries broke Lucie free from her nightmare. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, wondered how long she had slept.

Owen turned on his side. ‘Bad dream?’

‘Are you asking me? Or Gwenllian?’

‘You. You were thrashing round. I almost woke you.’

The bad dream had left her edgy. ‘Almost woke me? There’s no almost about it. You’ve lain there and let Gwenllian cry so long she dragged me from my sleep. And listen to her. She is hoarse! Why did you not comfort her?’ Lucie rocked the cradle with one hand. The movement was not enough to quiet Gwenllian.