The King's Bishop (28 page)

Tom Merchet led the donkey cart across Ouse Bridge in the late afternoon. On the other side he turned off Micklegate at St Martin’s Lane and stopped in front of a small house that was almost built into the stables behind it. Owen slipped out from beneath a pile of flour sacks in the cart, disappeared into the shadows beneath the jettied second storey. A young woman opened the door to the house, disappeared a moment, then stepped out, basket in hand, glanced round, shut the door, put her hand on Owen’s arm and took off down the lane. Tom clucked to the donkey and began to follow at a slower pace. They crossed Fetter Lane and continued up Bishophill in the direction of the Old Baile.

The Old Baile had been the twin of York Castle across the river before it had fallen into disrepair. It was now under the Archbishop’s jurisdiction, a sometime gaol, the yard occasionally a fairground. The last
serious repairs to the buildings and walls had been undertaken forty-odd years before, when King Edward had moved the government of the realm to York while he’d fought the Scots. There were guards on the walls and at the gates, but a determined intruder could find a way in.

As did Matilda, picking her way across the boggy moat on stones, slipping through a breach in the wall behind bracken. Owen almost slipped when a stone proved slicker than anticipated, but he managed to catch himself and suffered only a wet boot.

Within, the bailey stank of damp and urine. Owen stood still, searching the dim waste with his one eye, thinking he had lost Matilda. And then, almost at his shoulder, she whispered, ‘Here is the gate, Captain. It will take your strength to open it.’

He could see only a climbing vine. Matilda took his hand, guided it to an iron ring. He tugged with no result, stood back, wiped his hands on his leggings, blew on them, rubbed them together, then planted himself firmly and tugged once more. The door gave way a few inches. He went through the process once more, made more slight progress.

‘This will take all afternoon,’ he muttered.

‘I’ll push, you pull,’ Tom hissed from the other side.

‘God bless you, Tom.’

They soon had it open, then Tom cautiously led the donkey cart across the rotting planks. Matilda took the lantern from the cart, led the way to a guardhouse, opened the lantern to show them the small room furnished with a cot, a table and chair, a small brazier.

‘Who hides here?’ Owen asked.

Matilda shook her head. ‘Show me how to tend him.’

Owen and Tom helped Ned into the guardhouse,
settled him on the cot. From his pack, Owen pulled the ointments. ‘Bring the light closer.’

Matilda crept forward as Owen unwound the bandage. ‘Oh, Ned!’ she knelt down, holding the light over his leg. ‘Is it very painful?’

He snorted. ‘Wasn’t until this butcher took a needle and thread to it.’

Matilda glanced over at Owen. ‘I don’t think I could do that.’

‘It takes a strong stomach, aye,’ Owen said. ‘But you must only clean it, then dab on the ointment. Like this.’ He showed her. ‘And watch for fever, bring him plenty of water, send for me if there is any change. Or trouble.’

She nodded. ‘You can trust me.’

‘I see that,’ Owen said. ‘The usual resident of this den will not return for a while?’

‘No.’

‘You are certain?’

She looked up at Owen, her eyes wide. ‘Is it a simpleton you think me, or a traitor?’

‘Forgive me. I am only worried for my friend.’

‘He will be safe with me.’

Owen rose.

Matilda put the cloths and ointments in her basket.

‘A man in the livery of the Archbishop’s household will await you here this evening,’ Owen told her as she rose. ‘Alfred will stand watch while Ned is here.’

Matilda nodded. ‘I know Alfred.’

Brother Florian touched his folded hands to his nose, hiding a grin. But Thoresby saw it. ‘What amuses you?’

‘The ego of Paulus, thinking he could fool you. Surely he knew I would tell you how I caught him,
trying to escape beneath a corpse being removed from the hospital for burial?’

‘Sweet Heaven, no!’

Florian lifted his cup, nodded, drank, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I insisted he borrow a clean habit for the journey, impressing on his superiors that he was to be presented to you, Your Grace.’

‘You divulged my purpose?’

‘Never, Your Grace. I suggested you needed an extra clerk.’

‘Who would believe that man would please me?’

‘Other Austins, Your Grace.’ The sly face broke into a grin.

But Thoresby made little effort to smile. He swirled the wine round in his cup, thinking.

‘His story sounds false to you, Your Grace?’

‘Yes. And no. It is the only explanation I have that accounts for most of what has happened. The flaw is Townley’s being sent away with the friar.’

They grew quiet.

Thoresby was the first to speak. ‘Should it be true, we are now in possession of dangerous information.’

Florian raised an eyebrow. ‘He did warn me.’

‘I doubt anyone would connect you with it. As far as I am concerned, you heard naught of this.’

‘Of course.’ Brother Florian drained his cup and slowly eased himself from the bench on which he sat. He never accepted a more comfortable chair with back and arms – too difficult to climb out of.

‘You are leaving?’

‘I have much to do while I am here, Your Grace. And, faith, I can be of little help in this musing stage. I find them for you; I do not pretend to understand them.’

Fortunate man to be able to confine himself to what
he excelled in. Thoresby should try that. But it was too late to change. Too late.

Florian turned stiffly at the door. ‘May God protect you, Your Grace.’

‘And you, my old friend.’

Thoresby began to pace as the door closed. His mind was too active. Too full of questions. Was it possible? Would Alice Perrers risk her status at court for the loutish Wyndesore? Thoresby looked forward to his evening with her. How surprised she would be when he told her the rumour he had heard … Or should he mention it? But how else was he to know the truth?

First he must think of a secure hiding place for Don Paulus. Whether or not his tale was the truth, the man was in danger. And dangerous.

Lucie left Jasper in the shop and followed Owen into the kitchen. ‘What will you tell Jehannes?’

Owen sank down in a chair by the fire, ran his hands through his dusty hair. ‘I do not know, Lucie. Am I playing the fool?’

She leaned over, kissed Owen’s forehead, took one of his hands, kissed the palm. ‘You would not rest easy abandoning Ned to his fate.’

‘Am I not risking him all the same? Using him as bait to lure two murderers who are out for his blood?’

‘Perhaps they are not murderers.’

‘Then I am a fool.’

‘No you are not. You will get Ned safely to Windsor, where you will soon discover the truth. I have faith in you, my love.’

Owen pulled her down on to his lap, buried his face in her neck. ‘I do not deserve you.’

‘It is Ned who might be undeserving, my love, not you.’

‘Poor Jehannes.’

‘You must go to him in the morning, try to explain.’

‘Aye. ’Tis much the worst part of this foolishness.’

T
he sun had set by the time Thoresby rode out of the castle gates along crowded Bishop Street, shadowed down its length by the castle walls and jettied second storeys of the houses. He turned down New Street, where the houses stood farther apart; Alice Perrers’s was the last house on the street, overlooking the Thames. The torches set round her doorway illuminated a well-wrought structure of stone below, timber above. The windows were glazed, the area immediately before the door was set with cobbles – for the King’s visits, Thoresby presumed. He wondered how long she might keep this house if Don Paulus’s story was true?

Gilbert answered the door, showed Thoresby into a cosy parlour with a small fireplace, sturdy oak furniture, silver plate displayed in a floor-to-ceiling cupboard. Most surprising was the flaxen-haired lad who played in front of the fire, rolling about with a puppy intent on chewing his master’s little hand. This was Thoresby’s first glimpse of the King’s son by Alice since shortly after his birth.

‘Mistress Perrers asked that I make you comfortable, Your Grace,’ Gilbert said. He bowed Thoresby to a chair near the fire.

The lad’s nurse jumped up. ‘My Lord Chancellor,’ she bobbed a curtsey, then deftly scooped the puppy up with one arm and grabbed the boy’s hand with the other, lifting him to his feet. ‘Say “
benedicte
” to His Grace the Lord Chancellor of England, Master John,’ the young woman said.

The lad stuck a finger in his mouth, hid behind his nurse, then peered out cautiously to whisper something unintelligible that brought a proud smile to his nurse’s charming face.

‘
Benedicte
, Master John,’ Thoresby said. Now that he was a godfather he made an effort with children. Here was another risk Perrers had taken if the story were true: the King would never let her bring up his son if she had betrayed him. Surely she knew that. Would it mean nothing to her?

‘Take him up to the chamber, Katie.’ Alice Perrers spoke from the doorway, where she stood, beringed hands stretched to either side of the door frame, her deep green gown shimmering in the firelight. Even at home she took care to make an elegant entrance. Alice smiled down at her son, stood aside to let him pass, recoiling slightly from the curious puppy.

‘You are not fond of dogs, Mistress Perrers?’ Thoresby commented as she slid into a seat half facing his.

A private smile was almost hidden as she had her head down, checking the drape of her gown. Alice raised her head, met Thoresby’s eyes, wrinkled her nose. ‘Cats are so much cleaner, Your Grace. But puppies accept the brutality of children with more equanimity.’

Such a confusing mix of artificiality and bluntness.
‘Equanimity? The pup seemed to be gnawing on your son’s hand.’

‘I am sure John had done something far more horrible to the pup.’ Alice moved her smile from Thoresby to Gilbert. ‘Wine, Gilbert.’ She returned to Thoresby. ‘Thank you for coming, Your Grace. I know it must have seemed an odd request.’

‘Not at all. I assumed the nature of our discussion was private.’

The smile flickered. Thoresby wondered what ghostly emotion had almost been revealed. ‘In truth, you will judge me a dizzy woman when I confess the topic. It is not so much private as – painful.’ Beringed hand to bare, beautiful throat, eyes cast down. All staged with her usual care. Thoresby should be flattered. Alice Perrers considered him someone to treat with caution. And he was. He was.

‘It is a pleasure to retreat from court now and again,’ he said with his most charming voice and smile. He could be just as artificial. ‘Even if that was the sole reason for inviting me here, I should be happy to come.’ Oddly enough, he meant it. A pleasant house, interesting companion. Deadly, but interesting.

Alice was quiet as Gilbert poured the wine. They each sipped, sat back, relaxing into the occasion.

Thoresby looked round. ‘You have a pleasant house. It is close to the river, yet I feel the damp less than up at the castle.’

‘Thick stone walls hold in the damp once it penetrates,’ Alice said.

‘You have studied architecture?’

Alice made a face. ‘Not voluntarily.’ She nodded slightly to Gilbert, who immediately and noiselessly left the room. ‘Wykeham delights in telling the King
about the wonders of his works. Modesty is not one of his innumerable virtues.’

‘You have trained your servant well.’

‘In my situation I must have a trustworthy household, above reproach.’ Alice set her cup down on a polished table beside her, flicked a mote from her skirt. An uncharacteristic gesture. Alice Perrers was nervous. ‘This painful topic …’ She took a deep breath. Her gown was not as low cut as usual; the scar which she usually brandished to remind him of his human frailty was covered. To put him at ease? ‘I wondered what your spy in York has told you about Ned Townley,’ she said. ‘Captain Archer is Ned’s friend, is he not?’

Though Thoresby had guessed this conversation would centre round Mary’s death, he had not expected this particular question. ‘His Grace the King has been fully informed, Mistress Perrers.’ He would not be accused of holding back information.

Alice glanced up, her cat eyes candidly surprised. ‘You think—’? Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to imply … I am clumsy because—’ She pressed two fingers to her forehead, shook her head. ‘The King will tell me nothing. He will not speak of Ned.’ She did not meet Thoresby’s eyes, but focused on his chain of office.

Losing her hold on Edward, was she? There was a time, just yesterday, in fact, when that would have improved Thoresby’s mood more than the wine had, lovely as it was. But now it disturbed him. Could the friar’s story be true? ‘His Grace will say nothing?’ Thoresby knitted his brows, pretended to consider whether to speak, then shrugged. ‘I can think of no reason to keep it from you. You have heard that the King is sending men north to arrest Townley?’