The King's Bishop (23 page)

While awaiting the letter, Thoresby told Alice of Don Ambrose’s behaviour on the journey to Rievaulx.

‘Don Ambrose?’ Alice’s hand moved up to her throat, her eyes mirrored the surprise in her voice.

He had indeed cracked Alice’s seemingly impregnable shell. ‘You had not heard of Don Ambrose’s part in this?’

Alice shook her head. ‘An Austin friar. That is all I heard.’

Adam returned with Owen’s letter. Thoresby read his transcription of Don Paulus’s letter. As he finished, he glanced up, saw an Alice drained of colour. ‘You are shocked.’

‘How could he be so cruel as to leave her there?’ Her voice was a whisper, her cat eyes were wide, battling tears.

Thoresby resisted a desire to console her. ‘Precisely why I wished you to hear it, Mistress Perrers. I thought you might be able to tell me why Don Paulus would write such a letter. Two things puzzle me – the assumption that Don Ambrose will understand why he neither pulled Mary from the river nor told anyone what he had seen, and why Ambrose and Paulus concerned themselves with Mary at all.’

‘Where is Paulus?’ Alice asked.

‘He has disappeared.’

‘And Ambrose, too?’

Thoresby nodded. ‘Were either of the friars kin to Mary?’

‘Kin?’ Alice whispered, shook her head. ‘I think I should have known. We
did
talk. I trust she would have said something.’

‘Can you explain any of this?’

Alice gripped the edge of the table with her hands. The gesture seemed to strengthen her. Her face took on some colour. ‘These friars must be found.’ Her voice was clear now, angry.

‘The privy councillor has organised a search for Paulus, I believe. I have men searching for Ambrose.’

‘The privy councillor? What is Wykeham’s interest in this?’

‘Don Ambrose and Ned Townley were on a mission on his behalf when they disappeared.’

Alice nodded. ‘I had forgotten.’ She took the last sip of her liqueur. ‘I would be grateful for any news.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘I did have a thought. I wondered whether I might ask your opinion?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is it possible that Mary’s death is related to the death of Sir William of Wyndesore’s page, Daniel?’

A flush. The amber eyes flamed. ‘Neither Mary nor Ned had anything to do with Daniel’s accident.’

‘You are convinced it was an accident?’

Alice rose. ‘In truth, I have given it little thought. Daniel was not my concern.’

Not true. She was trembling with emotion. But what emotion? ‘You vouched for Ned Townley.’

‘I stepped forward as someone who knew the truth. Ned had been with Mary that night.’

‘Do you know Sir William of Wyndesore very well?’

Alice’s blush competed with her crimson clothing. So. Lovers, were they? He felt a disturbing stab of envy. ‘I know him,’ Alice said. Her chin up, she motioned for Gilbert to prepare to depart. ‘I went to him when his men accused Ned Townley of frightening Daniel into drinking too much.’

‘Is that what they accused him of?’

The cat eyes were wary. ‘What did you think?’

Thoresby shrugged. ‘A push from the tower?’

Alice closed her eyes, shook her head. ‘There was never any question of that.’ She stood tensed, as if awaiting the next uncomfortable question.

Was it possible only Michaelo had noted the marks on the lad’s wrists? ‘Sir William never doubted it was an accident?’

Alice opened her eyes slowly. ‘I would not know, Your Grace.’ This time the last two words were icily formal.

Stalemate. Thoresby bowed. ‘Forgive me for ending the evening with an unpleasant topic.’

‘I thank you for reading the letter, Your Grace. I regret that I have been of no help to you. The excellent food, wine and company more than compensate for a little unpleasantness.’ Her smile was polite, but it could not hide the strain in the eyes, the voice.

*

Michaelo stood up as the door to Thoresby’s chambers opened. He smiled in the darkness as he heard Thoresby’s farewell, saw Alice Perrers’s profile against the lighted doorway.

He watched Alice and Gilbert move down the torchlit hallway. As soon as they turned into the crossing corridor, he stole after them. He was disappointed to see Gilbert open the door to Alice’s chambers. But perhaps she required a cloak. Michaelo ducked into an alcove, waited. At last the door opened, but it was only Gilbert, off to his bed in the servant’s hall below. Michaelo followed him just to make sure. Indeed, Gilbert entered the room and did not leave.

Thoresby sat slumped in his chair by the fire, his stomach beginning to register a complaint at the rich food followed by a tense conversation. And his latest battle to resist Alice Perrers’s attraction. Michaelo’s disappointing report was shrugged off. It would have been convenient to identify another with an interest in this matter, but no matter. It was enough to see Alice Perrers’s unease.

Adam coughed politely beside him. Thoresby glanced up. The lad held a drinking bowl nestled in a cloth. Something hot.

‘What is it?’

‘Mistress Wilton’s tisane for the stomach, Your Grace. I thought perhaps with the rich food … ?’

Thoresby made the effort to smile as he accepted the warm bowl. ‘You must be weary, lad. To bed with you. The rest can be removed in the morning.’

‘You are ready to retire, Your Grace?’

‘Not quite yet. Prepare my bed, then go to yours. I shall drink this, think a while. I can undress myself,
Adam. It is more important that you are awake to dress me in the morning, eh?’

Adam nodded, went about snuffing candles, then disappeared into the bedchamber.

Thoresby sipped the minty tisane and tried to slip into pleasant thoughts, tried to conjure up his goddaughter’s face, her throaty laugh. But it was no use. The unhappy faces of William of Wykeham and Alice Perrers were burned into the insides of his eyelids. Two intelligent people made miserable by their ambition. It was no surprise that Alice Perrers was uneasy at court; the position of a royal mistress was only as stable as the King, and Edward was an old man with flagging powers. But Thoresby had not expected Wykeham to lose his peace of mind so soon.

Of late, it seemed the worst fate of a courtier was to win the confidence of the King. Yet who would utter such treasonous advice?

M
ay warmed as the company rode south. By the time the towers of York Minster were in sight, Owen’s back itched and he considered removing his cloak, but he resisted. He wanted no distractions. If Ned meant to escape, this was his last chance, and Owen could see the men were waiting for it, hoping for it. It was plain they believed Ned had betrayed their comrades and they ached for vengeance. Owen and Matthew rode flanking Ned.

But Ned made no move to escape. He stared straight ahead, watching the approaching city without expression, without comment.

‘We will enter by Bootham Bar,’ Owen said, ‘right beside the minster liberty. The men would not turn on you there.’

Ned glanced at Owen with sunken, uneasy eyes. ‘You mean to do this? Hand me over to the Archdeacon?’ He flicked his hair from his face in a nervous manner.

‘Jehannes is a fair man, Ned.’

‘It is not the Archdeacon of York who will decide my fate.’

Owen, unable to deny that, said nothing, stared at Bootham Bar, the well built barbican. It reminded him of the Archbishop’s gaol. Would Jehannes lock Ned in there?

Ned leaned towards Owen. ‘You are resolved in this?’

‘What choice do I have?’

‘Take me to Archbishop Thoresby.’

Owen glanced at his friend, saw despair in the luminous eyes. ‘It is the King’s business, Ned.’

‘And Thoresby is chancellor.’

‘So he is. But I swore that if I found you I would deliver you at once to the Archdeacon of York.’

‘Much has happened since you swore it.’

‘Nothing to make me break my oath.’

A brief silence. ‘You have not decided whether you believe me.’

Damn Ned for making Owen admit it. ‘No. I have not.’

‘The King’s men will come for me.’

‘Yes. They will.’ And it looked bad for Ned.

Jehannes asked Harold to escort Ralph, Curan, Geoff and Edgar to the barracks by the Archbishop’s gaol.

‘First we should take Townley to the gaol,’ Ralph said.

Jehannes stood at the head of the table round which they had gathered. He tucked his hands in his sleeves. ‘No. Captain Townley will stay here.’

Ralph shook his head. ‘He should be under guard. You do not know what he has done.’

‘Neither do you,’ Owen said. ‘You suspect, but you have no proof.’

‘There is more to tell, Captain?’ Jehannes asked.

‘Yes. But in private.’ Though one-eyed, Owen caught Ralph’s sneer, glared at him until he dropped his gaze.

Jehannes nodded at the men. ‘Matthew will guard Captain Townley.’

Owen had his doubts about Matthew’s ability to guard his master and intended to offer some of his own men, the Archbishop’s retainers; but he kept his counsel for the moment.

Ralph was not so diplomatic. ‘You will leave Matthew to guard Townley? His sworn man?’ He fairly flung himself across the table towards the Archdeacon, his ruddy face dark with anger. ‘Why waste time? Why not escort him out of the city and set him free right now?’

‘You will obey orders, Ralph. Quietly,’ Owen warned.

Ralph growled and would not meet Owen’s eye, but he did settle back on the bench.

‘I have no intention of setting him free,’ Jehannes said. He sounded calm, certain of his judgement. ‘Neither do I intend to let you take the law into your hands. I understand your anger. Captain Townley ran from his duty. You men did not. But that in itself does not make him a dangerous man.’

‘They should have tried him in Windsor. Caught him with only the blood of Daniel on his hands,’ Curan muttered.

Ned, who sat between Owen and Jehannes, clenched his hands and began to rise.

Owen held him back. ‘Follow Harold, men,’ he said. ‘I shall come to you in the morning.’

‘It is not right,’ Edgar protested.

‘I do not recall asking your opinion, any of you,’ Owen said with a look that silenced the men.

They shuffled out of the Archdeacon’s house with grim faces. When they were gone, Jehannes dabbed his face.

Owen admired the show Jehannes had put on. There had been no outward sign that Jehannes was so nervous about the meeting until now. ‘You handled that well.’

Jehannes dabbed again. ‘I do not enjoy such encounters. I could see by all your faces that there is much to tell me. A roomful of soldiers thirsty for blood …’ He shook his head.

Ned threw his cap on the table. ‘Swine.’ He slumped into a chair, folded his arms, glowered at Owen and Jehannes. He wore his livery and had let Asa trim his hair before they set off, so he looked more like himself. Except for the eyes, which had taken on a wildness that Owen had never seen in them before.

‘Are you referring to us as swine?’ Owen asked, taking care to sound amused. He did not wish to give Jehannes any more frights.

‘Don’t play the fool with me, Owen. You know full well I mean Ralph and his curs.’

‘They are good men,’ Owen said, taking a seat opposite Ned.

Ned gave a nasty laugh. ‘And how do you see that, my friend?’

‘They might have overwhelmed me at any time on the road. And they did not, Ned. They are mouthing empty threats. It makes them feel better. But they have not indulged in the bloodletting they thirst for.’

Jehannes lifted the cap Ned had thrown on to the table, thoughtfully traced the badge with a fingertip. ‘I
saw Bardolph in the city yesterday,’ he said into the sullen silence.

‘Bardolph!’ Ned straightened, leaned forward. ‘Where is the murdering bastard?’

Jehannes dropped the cap, looked taken aback. ‘He is a murderer?’

‘Ned has a suspicion, nothing more,’ Owen said. ‘Where did you see him? Was Crofter with him?’

Jehannes told them of the encounter.

‘You see?’ Ned said. ‘He was asking absolution for his sins.’

Jehannes got a faraway look in his eyes and nodded slowly. ‘He seemed frightened. Such a sin on one’s soul would be something to fear. But as I say, I told him I could not absolve him there in the street, that he must come to me for confession.’

Owen rose. ‘My men failed to find him?’

Jehannes nodded. ‘I sent for His Grace’s guards as soon as Mistress Wilton suggested it.’

With an impatient kick to the chair he’d just vacated, Owen left the table, moved towards the door, changed his mind, returned. ‘You went right to my house. How long were you there?’

Jehannes shrugged. ‘Long enough to have a small cup of ale. Not long.’

‘Then he knew he had made a mistake coming to you. Yet he was driven to ask forgiveness.’