The King's Bishop (25 page)

‘Ned believes their bodies were left there, near a road between abbeys, so that word would reach Abbot Richard, and the details would point to the same man the Abbot believes murdered Don Ambrose.’

‘Who would go to such lengths?’

‘According to Ned, Bardolph and Crofter.’

‘Bardolph! So that is why Ned was glad of the Archdeacon’s encounter.’

Owen said nothing.

‘But Gervase and Henry were their comrades.’

‘On this journey only.’

‘Why would they do this to Ned?’

Owen sighed. ‘He cannot say.’

‘Will not?’

‘I think cannot.’

‘Such an elaborate theory.’

‘I fear Mary’s death has robbed Ned of his wits.’

‘I should like to talk to him.’

‘I should like you to.’

R
ain tapped on the casement window above Thoresby’s writing-desk. For once he was glad not to be at his leaking palace at Bishopthorpe; last summer’s heavy rains and this winter’s snows had found all the weak spots in the roof and worried at them. Pray God the roof was fixed when he returned. With Archer busy chasing corpses and runaway captains he had little time for his duties as steward. Before Archer had left for Fountains he had given orders for workmen to fix the roof, but who was ensuring that the orders were carried out? Thoresby thought it wise to include a reminder in his letter to Owen.

He frowned over the papers spread out before him – letters he had dictated to Michaelo: one to Archdeacon Jehannes and one to Captain Archer, in Michaelo’s beautiful, steady hand. The quality of Michaelo’s work reflected well on Thoresby, in looks if not in content; he was not so pleased by the content, which was his fault, not Michaelo’s. These letters would be carried by a messenger accompanying the
King’s retainers who would ride north today. To York. To arrest Ned Townley for the murder of Don Ambrose.

Thoresby found the arrest absurd. It was plain that there was no proof of Townley’s guilt; however, though Jehannes had expressed his uncertainty to the King, Abbot Richard of Rievaulx had argued persuasively for the man’s arrest. And the King, preferring an arrest over uncertainty, had been pleased. Townley was expendable; the morale of the King’s retainers was more important. Thoresby’s letters explained this to Jehannes and Archer, urged them not to despair, but to continue questioning the judgement; he promised them he would delay a decision about Townley’s fate as long as possible. Admittedly, he had little hope of saving Townley, but nothing was impossible. Thoresby sighed, pressed the ridge of his nose, considered how to phrase his addition to Archer’s letter so that he would not appear to be more concerned by the state of the roof at Bishopthorpe than by Ned Townley’s arrest.

But perhaps Archer would welcome the opportunity to think of something other than Townley. In writing to Thoresby, Archer had told of finding Ned Townley up on the moors, as well as the corpses of two of the men left behind to search for Townley and Don Ambrose. To Thoresby it looked worse and worse for Archer’s friend.

Except when one examined the supposed motive. Blaming Don Ambrose for keeping the news of Mary’s death from him, killing Henry and Gervase to silence them. Only a very frightened man would be so foolish as to murder someone who had been known to fear him. And who could believe that Townley had been so addle-brained by the time Archer had arrived that
he had willingly led him to the bodies he had disposed of so poorly? And what of the other men in the search party? Where had they been when Townley was murdering their comrades? Thoresby did not believe Ned was guilty. But he agreed with Archer – it was difficult to explain Townley’s behaviour.

What of the other two left behind to search? Bardolph falling to his knees before Jehannes – what was that about? And where was Crofter?

Archer had sent a trustworthy messenger, Walter of Coventry, in haste to Windsor with instructions to learn what he might of Sir William of Wyndesore and the Duke of Clarence, under whom the two men still unaccounted for had served in Ireland. Thoresby had admitted to Archer in the letter that he knew little of Wyndesore, but intended to learn more. As for the Duke of Clarence, he was unlikely to have anything to do with such a subtle business.

Sunlight reflected off the letters beneath his hands. Thoresby had wasted so much time debating whether to add a note to Archer’s letter about the repairs at Bishopthorpe that the rain had stopped. This was nonsense. Why not simply tell Walter to remind Archer of the work? It would give Thoresby an opportunity to speak with Walter, find out whether he had heard anything of Bardolph in York, or knew either of the Austin friars. As a messenger, Walter would hear more than most people.

Thoresby chuckled as he gathered the letters. He began to enjoy this sleuthing; perhaps he ought to assist Archer more often. That would put another thorn in Archer’s already heavy crown.

The rain had turned the lower ward of the castle into a sea of mud. Thoresby had not foreseen that. He
regretted his excursion, particularly after leaving Walter’s quarters none the wiser. But he was rewarded in other coin. As he hurried north-east across the yard from the guards’ lodgings, his boots sucking disgustingly, he heard someone clumsily hurrying after him. He turned. It was Gilbert, Mistress Perrers’s servant.

‘Your Grace.’ The young man was panting, his face a glistening red.

‘
Benedicte
, Gilbert. Surely you were not running to catch me? I do not walk so fast as that. Especially in such mud.’

Gilbert wiped his sweaty forehead with his right sleeve while nodding. ‘Master Walter said I had just missed you.’

‘Walter? Indeed, I was just there.’

Blinking to rid his eyes of sweat, Gilbert gave a little bow. ‘Aye, Your Grace. He said that I might catch you.’

‘You had business with Walter?’

Gilbert drew a sealed note from his purse, handed it to the Archbishop. ‘I was delivering a letter. As I am to you, if it please Your Grace.’

Thoresby glanced at the note. ‘Your mistress has been busy.’ He smiled at Gilbert, who was still red in the face, his hair damp along his temples. ‘Did you run from Walter’s lodging?’

‘Aye, Your Grace.’

‘Had your mistress ordered you to make haste?’

Head dropped, eyes looked aside. ‘No, Your Grace. I thought to save time.’

Thoresby would not ask for what. It was not Gilbert who interested him. ‘She is a good mistress?’ He tucked the note in his sleeve.

Gilbert watched the note disappear with a troubled
expression. ‘If it please Your Grace, I am to await your reply.’

‘Ah.’ Thoresby withdrew the note and broke the seal. An invitation to meet at his convenience. In private. At Mistress Perrers’s house in the town. Intriguing. But no need to seem eager. ‘I might come just after vespers tomorrow evening. Would that suit your mistress, Gilbert?’

The young man had regained his composure and looked pleased with Thoresby’s reply. ‘I am certain that it would, Your Grace.’ He bowed, hurried away.

Thoresby watched Gilbert disappear in the direction of the town gate. So Alice wished to discuss something away from the prying eyes and ears of the court. That both cheered and chilled him.

Sunshine and a fresh breeze had lured Owen to the writing-table beneath the bedchamber window. He leaned against the table, at just the right height to catch the breeze on the back of his neck; Lucie kept the shutters closed during the night for fear of a draught on Gwenllian, and the air in the bedchamber never seemed fresh enough. Arms crossed, Owen waited for Lucie to finish fussing with the gown she had chosen to wear to the Archdeacon’s house. Now she spun round, waiting for an opinion.

Sweet Heaven, did she know how she looked? Owen stared at the white rounds of her swollen breasts that pushed up from the low, tight bodice.

Lucie tilted her head to one side. ‘Why such a frown?’

‘Do you mean to seduce Ned or talk to him?’

She glanced down the front of her dress and blushed. ‘I had wondered about it. The nursing has
changed my figure. I mean to find cloth for an insert, but I have no time to do it this morning.’

Owen was uncertain what to say. As Lucie’s husband he would have preferred her either to delay the visit or to wear an old gown. As captain of the Archbishop’s retainers he could see it as a clever ploy: send a desirable woman to a rogue who has just lost his lady, have her coax the truth from him.

‘My alternatives are the gowns I wear in the garden and the shop,’ Lucie said. ‘Do you think one of them more suitable?’

That depended on whether he was acting as husband or captain. What was needed was a hint of her mood. ‘Your beauty might inspire Ned to tell the truth …’

Lucie’s chin came up, her blue eyes chilled. ‘You would use me so, husband?’

Ah. Now he knew the lie of the land. ‘I?’ He grinned, shook his head. ‘How little you know me to ask that question. Your husband would ask you to wear one of your old gowns, or delay.’

When Owen watched Lucie hurrying down Stonegate in her old gown, a pale shawl thrown over her shoulders, he knew himself for a fool. The gown was very like the one she had worn when he first saw her, and her hair was pulled up in a white kerchief as it had been that day, showing her long, delicate neck. He had won no victory. And the thought that Ned might reveal his heart to her was cold comfort.

When Matthew opened the Archdeacon’s door, Lucie was glad of her choice of gown. He was tongue-tied and blushing. How much worse would he have been had she worn the other dress? Matthew hurried off to fetch Ned. Ann, the Archdeacon’s serving girl, peeked
in to ask whether Lucie wished for some refreshment. Lucie asked for water. She paced the parlour as she waited for Ned, listening for footsteps descending. When she heard them, she hurried to the foot of the stairs.

But only Matthew appeared, looking frightened.

‘Will Ned not see me?’ Lucie asked.

‘Mistress Wilton, I—’ Matthew swallowed, glanced back up the stairs. ‘The Captain’s gone, Mistress.’ He began to back up the stairs, his eyes wide, unblinking. ‘The window. He must have— Oh, Mistress Wilton, what have I done?’

Lucie closed her eyes for a moment, ordering herself to question the puppyish man gently, else he might bolt out of the same window from which she guessed Ned had escaped. But it was hard. So hard. Because with Ned gone … Damn him. How could he do this? How could he so betray the trust Jehannes had shown? And Owen. Sweet Mary in Heaven. Damn. Now Owen, home just a day, would go riding off after Ned and she would be alone again. Was she never to have her husband to herself ?

Her stillness must have worried Matthew, for he hurried back down the stairs. ‘Mistress Wilton? Are you faint?’

Holy Mary, Mother of God, give me the patience to get through this day
. Lucie opened her eyes. ‘No, Matthew, I am fine. Take me to the Captain’s chamber. Show me what you found.’

There was little to see. Jehannes had trusted Ned even so far as to give him a room with a window that faced away from the street, so he might drop out of it with little chance of being seen. Just beyond the overhanging second storey grew a sturdy fruit tree. At St Clement’s Nunnery Lucie had become adept at
using trees to escape. Even now she quickly concluded that if one climbed out and stood on the window sill, clutching the edge of the roof above, then – with a prayer and a promise never to do it again – pushed off and reached out for the branch just below, one might use the tree for a reasonably quiet escape. Had Archdeacon Jehannes truly thought Ned would resist the temptation and stay put to be taken back to Windsor shackled?

‘He had no guard?’ Lucie asked Matthew.

He blushed, dropped his head. ‘I was to guard him.’

‘Then it happened when you came to answer the door? Hurry. We might –’

Matthew was shaking his head. ‘Most like it happened as soon as I left him, which was hours ago. He told me he had not slept during the night but felt at last he might. He must have the window shuttered. But I needed light; I was oiling my boots. He asked me was it likely he would go anywhere in his sleep. So why didn’t I take the boots and go elsewhere, he would sleep until midday.’ Matthew’s eyes were sad, not angry. ‘He was cruel to use me so.’

‘Perhaps a little. But you were foolish as well, Matthew. Did you believe he would do nothing to save himself from the humiliation of being taken a prisoner to Windsor?’

‘Mistress Wilton?’ Ann was in the doorway, holding a cup of water.

Lucie had forgotten Ann. Now she glanced out the window, back to the serving girl. Even had Ned managed a smooth leap to the branch, someone down in the kitchen might well have heard him, and would surely have seen him once he reached the ground. ‘How long ago did the Captain escape, Ann?’

The young woman quickly dropped her head, peered up through her lashes. ‘Mistress?’

‘With what did Captain Townley buy your silence?’

The bit of cheek and neck visible to Lucie reddened. Ann was a tall, gangly young woman, awkward in this meek role. ‘What do you mean, mistress?’

Lucie walked over to Ann, took the cup of water out of her hands, lifted the sturdy chin until the nervous eyes met hers for an instance before flicking away. ‘Captain Townley has climbed down out of his window and disappeared, Ann. I doubt you have the kitchen door closed today. You must have seen him.’