The King's Bishop (21 page)

‘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.’

Lucie 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?’

‘Just him. What was he doing here in York? Alone? Out of livery?’

‘You must find out.’

Jehannes nodded.

Lucie reclaimed Gwenllian, who immediately began to scream. Above the din, Lucie said, ‘You must send someone to search for Bardolph before he has time to leave the city.’

Jehannes rose to go. ‘I am such a fool.’

Lucie shook her head. ‘You are no fool, Father. God bless you for coming. Please come back and tell me what happens.’ As she watched the two hurry from the yard she shook her head at her improved spirits. But at last they might leam something.

John Thoresby did not like the rumour. It was said that Wykeham and the King had met with the Duke of Burgundy, a valuable prisoner of war who was held in comfortable quarters in London. According to the rumours, the King had offered Burgundy his freedom in exchange for using his influence on Pope Urban in the matter of the seat of Winchester. Thoresby did not find it surprising; the King had a penchant for creative finance. What irked Thoresby was that if the rumours were true, all the trouble at Fountains Abbey had been for naught. That made his blood boil.

And what a mess the meeting with the abbots at Fountains had been. Jehannes had written a full account. Though the outcome, the abbots’ refusals to support Wykeham, was just what he had wished, Thoresby did not like the complications with Ned Townley and the Austin friar. They would be found, no doubt, but the situation required Archer to remain up north, and Thoresby had hoped to lure him down to court. Something was wrong, something that had begun with the death of Wyndesore’s page, and Thoresby wanted to get to the bottom of it.

Archer’s letter had been of more interest than
Jehannes’s. Archer had asked for details about the death of Alice Perrers’s maid and copied the contents of Don Paulus’s letter to the missing Don Ambrose. Thoresby must find an opportunity to speak to Mistress Perrers. It was said that she mourned her maid; her maid’s death would be a delicate subject to broach, but he suspected Mistress Perrers’s curiosity would outweigh her distress. If indeed her sorrow was sincere.

First things first. Thoresby needed to learn more about the friars. There could be no doubt the two were concealing something. Wykeham – he might prove knowledgeable; he had intended Don Ambrose for his household.

Thoresby waited until the King left the high table that evening, for the momentary commotion as the first wave of courtiers departed – hurrying towards rest or more private play – and those left behind reshuffled into more intimate parties. During the bustle, Michaelo was dispatched to invite Wykeham, seated at an adjoining table, to join Thoresby. While he waited, Thoresby entertained himself watching Alice Perrers dodge fawning courtiers seeking favours. Her back straight as a pike, head held high, precious stones in her gold circlet and sewn into her amber silk gown and veil glittering in the torchlight, those cat eyes sly and knowing. Notoriety made some slouch and slink, but not Alice Perrers. As her servant held open the tapestries at the end of the hall, Perrers turned; the cat eyes moved right to Thoresby. She smiled, inclined her head slightly, and slipped through the opening, the same through which Edward had disappeared. How had she felt his eyes upon her when so many others shared his curiosity? Thoresby crossed himself.

Wykeham approached with a nervous gait, his face flushed with colour.

Thoresby straightened, put Perrers out of his mind. ‘You are kind to join me.’

Wykeham nodded. ‘You are kind to invite me.’ The privy councillor folded his tall, angular body into the seat beside Thoresby, adjusted his flowing sleeves. The colours might be dark and dignified, but the cut was courtly.

‘Is it true about Burgundy?’ Thoresby asked. Wykeham’s surprise made the Archbishop smile. ‘I see that no one was to hear.’