The King's Bishop (14 page)

A
cock crowed, waking Matthew. He lay there for a time, listening to the wind, listening for rain battering against the grange house. Had the rain stopped? His eyes and mouth were dry from the smoky room. His hair damp from night sweats. Man was not meant to sleep in such a warm room. He rolled over to find his boots, noticed the other men beginning to roll about and stretch. All the others but the one who should lie beside him.

Matthew sat up, rubbed his eyes. He had not been mistaken: Captain Townley was not where he should be. Nor were his cloak, boots or daggers.
Think. Think. When did I last see him? What was he about? Where was he?
Matthew closed his eyes, moved back to the past night. Abbot Richard had retired, charging Matthew to watch the captain. What had there been to watch? The captain had sat there hugging the brandywine, already bleary-eyed.
They murdered my Mary
. Over and over again. Matthew had coaxed him into lying down.
You have lost much blood, Captain. When bled, one is always told to lie down and let the
humours calm. You must lie down
. Captain Townley had lain down. He had seemed to sleep. Reassured, Matthew had gone to sleep beside him.

But the captain was not lying beside Matthew this morning. And his belongings were gone. What would Abbot Richard say?
Blessed Mary, Mother of God, let it not be what I fear
. Perhaps the captain was getting his horse ready for the day’s ride.

Matthew needed a plan. While he relieved himself he would look about, see whether Captain Townley was just up betimes, getting some air, readying his mount. After much drink, cool air – wet or no – would feel good.
Let him be outside, merely clearing his head
.

Matthew picked up his cloak and slipped out of the door. The air was chilly and damp, just right after the stuffy house. But his damp hair soon had Matthew shivering. He shook out his cloak and draped it about him as he hurried down into the bushes by the beck. His urine steamed in the cold air. It was too cold to stand out here – so the captain would have hurried to the barn as soon as the chill had penetrated his clothing. Matthew turned to climb the slope back to the barn, stopped with a gasp of dismay.

Abbot Richard stood above, his servant and Brother Augustine behind him. The Abbot’s eyes were fierce, even with his face shadowed by the white cowl. He looked like Death come to collect Matthew.

‘
Benedicte
, Matthew. Where is your captain?’ The Abbot’s voice was quietly threatening. Matthew’s father had spoken just so before he whipped him.

Death. His father’s whip. This was no time for fear. Matthew must think how he might protect his captain. But if the captain were gone, there was no
protecting himself from the Abbot’s wrath. What might Matthew say? ‘The Captain must have slipped out to the barn while I slept, my lord abbot. He always readies himself so he may help the others.’ Which was true.

The Abbot signalled his companions to check the barn. Then he fixed his dark, unfriendly eyes on Matthew.

Sweat ran down Matthew’s neck, down his back. It tickled. He wanted to squirm or reach back to scratch.
Sweet Jesu, already I do penance for my lie
. But was it a lie? Was the barn not where he had imagined the captain? Was he not always ready before the others?

Brother Augustine hurried from the barn, shaking his head. ‘Pray God protect our poor brother, Don Ambrose. Captain Townley’s mount is gone.’

Abbot Richard seemed to grow another foot beyond his already considerable height. ‘Take Matthew inside and guard him, Brother Augustine.’

Matthew’s legs wanted to collapse under him, not carry him up to where the Abbot stood, but he willed them to carry him to the top. He would not let the Abbot see his fear.

Ned’s lungs burned, but he urged his steed on, faster, faster. His leg throbbed; he felt a wetness spreading from the wound. It had opened when he had fallen in the dark, leading his horse up the rocks, away from the grange house. Foolish to have fled in the dark, but best that he had gone quickly, best to ride through his fury, though it meant he rode his horse and himself to exhaustion. Riding to where? Ah, that was obvious. To nowhere. To forgetfulness, he hoped. To death, more likely. Mary was dead; why should he live?

*

Abbot Richard paced the main room while the men quietly gathered their clothes and prepared to depart.

‘I want four to stay and search for the friar and the Captain,’ the Abbot said.

‘May I?’ Matthew asked.

‘No.’ Without a pause, without considering, so easy to deny him, like swatting a fly. Matthew hated him.

Bardolph stepped forward. ‘Crofter and I were sent along on this mission to watch Captain Townley, my lord abbot. We shall search.’

The Abbot’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sent along to watch him? By whom?’

Bardolph glanced back at Crofter as if seeking permission to answer. The man blinked once, slowly. Matthew saw the exchange. He doubted the Abbot could see it. Bardolph turned back to the Abbot. ‘Sir William of Wyndesore, my lord abbot. Some say the Captain murdered Sir William’s page.’ He shrugged.

Abbot Richard bristled. ‘Then was it not irresponsible to send him on such a mission?’

From the darkness, Crofter said, ‘Mistress Alice Perrers cleared him of the charges, my lord abbot.’

‘Mistress Perrers!’ the Abbot murmured with a disapproving sneer. ‘Come forward. I should see you when you speak.’

Crofter stepped forward. ‘After Mistress Perrers spoke up for Townley, His Grace the King wished him sent away from court until those of our fellows who still believed him guilty had time to calm down.’

‘Do you believe him guilty?’ Abbot Richard asked.

‘No, my lord abbot, I do not.’

The Abbot paced away from Crofter, returned to him. ‘Why were you to watch him?’

Crofter tilted his head and averted his eyes for a moment, as if considering how to reply. ‘In case
Mistress Perrers—’ An exasperated sigh as he faced the Abbot once more. ‘In truth, there are those who do not trust her.’

Abbot Richard gave a satisfied grunt. ‘Including your lord?’

‘I took the orders to mean that, aye.’

Matthew closed his eyes and cursed Crofter. He had made a point of connecting Captain Townley with a woman the Abbot was sure to despise. Cunning bastard. The captain had warned him to beware Crofter.
That fair face is a mask, Matthew. His eyes are mirrors, not windows. Watch how Bardolph jumps to do his bidding
. What was Crofter’s game?

Abbot Richard saw nothing amiss. ‘You two shall indeed stay behind to search for the Captain. Gervase and Henry shall stay with you.’

‘There is no need for you to sacrifice your escort to the search, my lord abbot,’ Crofter said. ‘Bardolph and I gladly take it upon ourselves.’

Abbot Richard indulged in a fleeting smile. ‘You searched once and failed to recover Don Ambrose.’

Bardolph took a step forward. ‘But it was—’

Crofter silenced him with a hand on his arm. ‘We are grateful for the chance to participate in the search, my lord abbot. I did not mean to question your decision.’

‘Good. May God guide the four of you.’

Matthew watched as Bardolph and Crofter backed into the shadows. He was very worried for his captain.

When his horse stumbled at a ford, Ned realised his folly. He had ridden for miles. It was already midday. He gave himself and his deserving mount a rest. Drank deeply, cooled his head. Sobered.

Mary was dead. Her murderers must be found and
punished. Fleeing across the moors would not accomplish that. And Ned’s death would leave the matter as it was. He owed it to Mary to stay alive until she was avenged.

Why had Don Ambrose hidden the letter from him? Why had he attacked? What did he know?

After a brief nap, with a few hours of daylight left, Ned turned his horse round. Flight was not the answer.

O
wen leaned against the bridge and gazed down into the foaming water of the River Skell where it rushed forth from the abbey mill and caught the sun before disappearing beneath the dormitories and the infirmary. It was his second day at Fountains Abbey, but his first opportunity for a solitary walk. Yesterday he had settled the men, dined with Abbot Robert Monkton and Jehannes, attended services in the abbey church. By the time he’d had the leisure to slip outside, Owen found the sky louring with storm clouds and a cold, damp wind whipping down through the bowl of Skelldale. The valley had seemed too vulnerable for habitation.

Jehannes said the Cistercians had purposefully built in isolated countryside, the more desolate the better, to test themselves in their resolve to serve God with a simple life. With a storm coming, Skelldale had indeed seemed a place of trial.

But this morning the valley was utterly different, the sun lighting the trees atop the bluff and in the valley, sparkling on the rushing river, glinting off the
lead roofs and warming the damp stone walls of the maze of buildings. The stone bridge on which Owen stood gave him a broad view of the abbey complex. He moved his good eye left along the expanse of the two-storey lay brothers’ dormitory and beyond to the great west door of the church with its Galilee porch, then up, up to the steep lead roof of the long church nave. To his right were two guest houses and the lay brothers’ infirmary. Behind him was the mill, a wool house, a malt house and more – far more outbuildings than at St Mary’s in York.

It was members of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Mary’s, protesting against the pampered life within its walls, who had fought for and won permission to come to the valley of the Skell and live simply, closer to God. The small company of monks had spent the first winter shivering in the caves tucked into the bluff above the church. From where Owen stood he could not see across the valley to those caves; the maze of buildings, particularly the church, blocked the view. Was this what they had intended? To fill the valley with their material presence? Yet despite the bustle of the large community, Owen sensed a joyous peace here.

Owen was not a stranger to abbeys. He had once spent a fortnight in St. Mary’s, York, seeking – but not finding – just such a peace as he felt in Skelldale. Here, away from the stench and noise of the city, where work, song, bells, prayer and devotional readings were the only noises of men competing with wind, bird-song, and the rushing river, Owen felt that peace. Was it the descent into the valley and the wild countryside all round, the sense of leaving the world behind? Was it the symmetries of the grand yet simple, unadorned stone buildings, the way the soaring arches echoed
one’s footsteps? Or had the white monks tapped into a celestial paradise in this valley?

‘God smiles on the valley this morning,’ Jehannes said as he approached on Owen’s blind side.

Owen turned so that he might take in the Archdeacon with his right eye. ‘It looks to me as if God smiles on this valley more often than not. It takes prosperity to build such a complex.’

‘The white monks have almost been destroyed by their unplanned prosperity,’ Jehannes said. ‘Even these worthy brothers have succumbed to the lure of riches.’

‘Tell me nothing of their failings,’ Owen said. ‘Come round where I can see you and still look out on the church.’ He disliked having anyone on his blind side.

Jehannes moved round to Owen’s right. ‘I came out here not to disturb your peace but to tell you the party from Rievaulx has been spotted by a shepherd. They should arrive by midday.’

Owen smiled. ‘Good. Our business can be concluded quickly.’ Fountains might be a paradise, but York sheltered all those Owen held dear. He was anxious to return to his family. ‘Pray God the friar caused no trouble.’

Jehannes rested his forearms on the bridge with a sad sigh. ‘I, too, am eager to know the outcome. And yet I confess it seems a pity they arrive so soon. I should like more time here.’

‘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.’