King's Bishop

One

Windsor Castle, March 1367

St George’s Hall was aglow with torches and lamps, creating a firmament of stars in the glazed windows lining the far wall. The voices of the King’s courtiers rang in counterpoint to the music, their silks rustled as their feet caught the rhythm. There was an exuberance of aromas — roasted boar, exotic spices, delicately scented hair and clothing, melting beeswax, smoke, sweat, and now and then icy air as revellers slipped out to relieve their wine-bloated bladders in the privies.

A latecomer impatiently pushed aside a stumbling lord, then paused as his senses, having adjusted to the dark silence of the snowfall outside in the upper ward, were now ambushed by the noise, the heat, and the smoky glare of the torches that made him cough and blink. As he shook the snow from his brown hair, Ned Townley searched the faces at the long tables near the door, where the pages and lesser officials huddled over their food. He was looking for a young face that had become all too familiar of late. A face seen too often bent towards Mary, Ned’s betrothed.

He should not have left it so long. But the signs of Mary’s turmoil had been subtle. Frowns shrugged off as nothing, a distracted air, unexplained tears. By the time Ned had suspected and had begun spying on Mary she had reached a level of comfortable intimacy with Daniel, a page in Sir William of Wyndesore’s household, that Ned had taken months to achieve. Not that he had caught them embracing; Mary was too loyal to let it come to that without confessing all to Ned. He could see that Mary was aware of her shifting loyalties and tormented by guilt.

But he had no intention of losing Mary. His rival was a mere page, recently come to court from Dublin. What could the pup know of love? Ned had sampled women’s charms in many lands and knew that Mary was the one God meant for him. How serious could the lad’s affections be? Ned judged it would take little to frighten him off. Some sharp words, veiled threats, no more than that.

As he caught sight of Daniel, Ned felt a twinge of doubt about his suspicions. In contrast to the retainers surrounding him, the page looked a pale, delicate creature. What woman would lose her heart to such a lad? Was it possible Ned exaggerated the lad’s threat to his happiness? But it was no time to weaken. Ned must do what he could to ensure his happy future with Mary.

He squared his shoulders, put on a threatening visage. Had his old comrades in arms been beside him tonight they would have laughed and slapped him on the back, calling him a fool for love. But behind the teasing façades, Owen and Lief would have understood; they were equally besotted with the women they had coaxed to the church door.

Ned had not reckoned with the solidarity of Wyndesore’s men.

Daniel stared at his feet, his head and shoulders weighted down by remorse. He wished he were anywhere but here.

The page’s grief centred on the tall, handsome man who had faced Sir William’s retainers with disdain. ‘I am not such a fool as to attack a man in full view of his fellows! And a lad at that.’ But the retainers had been ordered to protect their lord’s page and they meant to do so.

Glancing up, Daniel saw that the comely face of his accuser was red with indignation, his elegant clothes dishevelled by the men’s rough handling. Daniel wished it were he being escorted from the hall, not Ned Townley. Daniel admired Townley. He was all the page might wish to be. He was a spy for the King’s powerful third son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. He was a proven warrior, renowned for his skill with daggers. Yet he was no oafish brute — not like Sir William’s retainers; Townley was a courtier in dress, manner, speech. And with his gentle brown eyes and perfectly proportioned face and form, Daniel thought him the most handsome man he had ever seen. He would never have knowingly angered the man.

But moments ago Townley had informed Daniel of his inadvertent transgression. The warning had been delivered with an energy that had startled Daniel. Townley had grabbed him by the neck of his tunic, lifting him off his feet. ‘I will pin you to the tapestries if you persist in your attentions to my betrothed.’

‘Your betrothed?’ Daniel had squeaked.

‘Mary. Mistress Perrers’s maid.’

‘No! I pray you!’ Daniel had cried, hoping to be lowered to the floor so he might explain that his feelings for Mary were fraternal, nothing more. But his exclamation had drawn the attention of Sir William’s bullies, who now led Townley from the hall.

‘He’ll bother you no more, Daniel. Rest easy,’ Scoggins said, filling the lad’s tankard with ale.

Daniel lifted his tankard towards Scoggins and nodded, then both drank. It was the gesture Scoggins wanted, and so Daniel made it. But he was hardly grateful. If Scoggins had minded his own business, Townley would have pounded the table a few times while he threatened to tack Daniel to the rafters with his daggers, then he would have stomped off into the night, satisfied that he’d put the fear of the Lord in Daniel. And come morning, it would have been plain to Townley that Daniel had understood and meant to stay away from Mary, and all would have been forgiven and forgotten. But Scoggins obviously felt honour-bound to protect his lord’s page.

In faith, Ned Townley had every right to be angry. Daniel had been foolish; he could see how his attentions to Mary had been misinterpreted. He had not known that Townley was the Ned Mary spoke of incessantly. Not once had she mentioned that her love was Lancaster’s spy. Not once had she spoken of his remarkable skill with daggers. He had just been Ned, ‘beautiful Ned’, ‘gentle Ned’, ‘tender Ned’, ‘tall, strong, dashing Ned’. A mythical being. Not the Duke of Lancaster’s spy.

Daniel drank down his ale, pushed his tankard aside, listened half-heartedly to the conversations round him, all about how his lord, Sir William of Wyndesore, had met with the King that day. It was said Sir William had boldly blamed the troubles in Ireland on the Duke of Clarence’s poor judgement. Some said the King was angered; Sir William was to be banished to the Scottish border. Others said the King knew his son Lionel, Duke of Clarence could not be trusted; Sir William was to be promoted to a Marcher Lord and sent to protect the Scottish border.

Daniel pricked up his ears. Punishment or reward, what everyone agreed upon was the likelihood of marching north to the border country. His mood lifted. That meant they would soon be far away from Windsor Castle and his humiliation. He absentmindedly reached for his tankard, remembered he’d drained it, found it full again. Had he imagined he’d downed the contents? No matter, he took a long drink. His head was beginning to hurt, so he took another long drink. And another. Then someone filled it up, laughing at Daniel’s slurred protests.

‘Come on, lad, drink up. Scoggins saved your hide. Drink to him.’

Daniel remembered the snow that had begun to fall before the evening meal. It was a long, treacherous walk from the hall to Sir William’s quarters. Already he dreaded trying to stand. How would he navigate through the snow?

‘Lift it, lad, drink it down!’ A face floated in front of Daniel’s eyes, but he was so far gone he could not tell who it was. He blinked to focus. How many times had they filled his cup? He shook his head to clear it, felt the bile rise in his stomach. Oh Lord, he was going to embarrass himself yet again this night. He was cursed, that was certain.

Though it was March, the harsh winter persisted. Brother Michaelo found last night’s snowfall lovely to behold at this early hour, while the pristine white lay undisturbed on the mounds and ledges within the walls of Windsor Castle, but underfoot the snow made the rutted mud treacherous. He stepped cautiously, his entire body bent forward, focusing on his boots and the hem of his habit. He intended to reach Archbishop Thoresby’s chambers dry and presentable.

Not that it mattered; Michaelo would not be mingling with courtiers today. He would be hunched over a writing-desk preparing letters from the Archbishop to the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx, letters recommending William of Wykeham to the see of Winchester. A depressing task, for if the King succeeded in having the appointment confirmed, Wykeham would be poised to replace Archbishop Thoresby as Lord Chancellor. A dreary thought. Not that it was not an honour to be secretary to the Archbishop of York; but an archbishop was not so London-bound as the chancellor. Michaelo sighed at the prospect of more time in York. He preferred Thoresby in his dual role. If winter seemed endless here, it was far worse up north. His only hope of salvation from such a bleak future was that despite letters enthusiastically recommending Wykeham for the bishopric the Pope would stand firm in his determination to make Wykeham the first casualty in his war against pluralism. Pope Urban believed that the practice of conferring on clergy multiple benefices resulted in neglected parishes and pampered clergy who paid more heed to their debts to their benefactors than to their responsibilities to their flocks. His Holiness referred to William of Wykeham as the richest pluralist in England. Which was apparently quite true.

A shout from below the Round Tower startled Michaelo from his thoughts; he straightened suddenly, tottered, regained his balance. Three men at arms ran towards the commotion. The man who had called the alarm stood over the ditch that bordered the motte on which the tower squatted. The snow that blanketed the steep slope was scarred as if something had slid down from the top. Curiosity propelled Michaelo closer.

When he was but ten feet from what was now a small crowd, Michaelo saw three men lifting a body from the ditch. The lifeless form dripped ice, water and filth. The heavy rains had filled the ditch, making it a shallow moat, and the freeze had crusted it with ice. Poor soul must have slipped into the freezing water and drowned in a cold stupor before he got his wits about him to crawl out. But how had he come to be on the slope?

One of the men lifted what looked like a cloak from the mud, sniffed it, handed it to his companion. ‘Smell this, would you?’

His companion sniffed, recoiled. ‘Phew! Better in the tankard than soaked into the wool. What did the lad do, dive into the barrel?’

‘Drank a bellyful and thought he’d try sledding, I’d wager.’

Ah. Now Michaelo understood the scar in the snow. Sledding down the motte, unable to stop — a scenario many a mother had rehearsed with her wayward children in the past months, warning them of the danger. ‘Who is he?’ Michaelo called out.

‘Daniel. The page of Sir William of Wyndesore.’

‘Are you certain?’ Michaelo knew Daniel. A sweet-faced, gentle lad.

‘Looks like Daniel to me,’ the man said.

Michaelo pressed closer still, cutting across the mud without a thought now for his boots. The lad lay on the ground, eyes opened wide, his hair caked with mud, his arms outspread. As Michaelo squatted beside the body to lift the stiff hair from the face, he noticed something that did not belong on a drowned man: red welts on the wrists, just visible beneath the sleeves of the lad’s tunic. Michaelo wanted to push up a sleeve for a better look, but he resisted. He brushed back the hair, gently closed the lad’s eyelids.

‘So? Is it Daniel?’ The man held the cloak at arm’s length.

Michaelo straightened up, made the sign of the cross over the body. ‘Yes. Yes, poor lad.’ He hurried away without a word about Daniel’s wrists. Better mentioned to someone he could trust.

Sir William of Wyndesore instructed his servants to leave the lad’s body covered and to keep away the curious. Then he went out to speak with his men. He cursed under his breath as pale winter sunlight burned his eyes and a chill wind wrapped icy fingers round his bones. Wyndesore was a tough, seasoned campaigner, powerfully built; but he was no longer young, he had awakened with a head that felt several times its normal size thanks to some fine brandywine last night, and that awakening had been sudden and unpleasant, his servants distraught at the news of Daniel’s drowning. His men were assembled in the outer ward, some hopping from foot to foot trying to get warm, some dabbing their eyes, but many frowning fiercely and demanding Ned Townley.

‘Who?’ Wyndesore asked his squire.

Alan leaned close. ‘Ned Townley. He is Lancaster’s spy, left here to be the Duke’s ears while he’s fighting in Castile, so they say.’

‘Do they now? So what’s his sin, besides being Lancaster’s spy?’

‘I know not. But I saw Scoggins with him last night.’

Wyndesore straightened up, squinted out at his men, picked out Scoggins scowling with the best of them. ‘Well, Scoggins, what has this Townley done?’

‘He’s murdered Daniel, that’s what he’s done, my lord.’ The men muttered their approval of Scoggins’s explanation, their combined voices echoing against the stone walls surrounding them.

‘You witnessed him doing this, did you?’

Scoggins spat in the mud, shook his head. ‘Nay, my lord. But I saw the two of ‘em last night arguing over one of Mistress Perrers’s maids, that little Mary. And Townley told Daniel he’d pin him to the wall with his daggers if he found him round Mary again. That’s what he said, and that I can swear to, my lord. I called some men to escort him from the hall. He must’ve come back, waited for the lad without.’

Wyndesore closed his eyes. ‘And was Daniel stabbed?’ Scoggins was a gossip and troublemaker, but a good fighter, and loyal. Fiercely loyal. ‘Eh, Scoggins?’

The man shrugged. ‘I did not see the body, my lord.’

Wyndesore looked round. ‘Who did? Who found him?’

‘One of the King’s guards,’ Alan whispered. ‘But Bardolph and Crofter helped drag him from the ditch.’

‘Crofter!’

A fair, square-jawed man stepped forward. ‘I saw no stab wounds, my lord. The lad drowned, no doubt of that.’

Wyndesore nodded. ‘Then enough of this nonsense about Townley.’

Crofter shook his head. ‘Who’s to say Townley didn’t change his mind and make it look like an accident, my lord? Who’s to say?’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not argumentative.

Wyndesore scowled. ‘Stick to the facts, Crofter.’

Crofter bobbed his head in good-humoured deference. ‘He drowned, my lord.’

‘Thank you.’

But Crofter was not finished. ‘If it please you, my lord. His cloak reeked of ale. He must have spilled it all over himself. I suppose he might have been too drunk to judge what he was doing, my lord.’

Wyndesore turned to Scoggins. ‘Was Daniel drunk when he left the hall?’

Scoggins shrugged, looked down at his boots. ‘A bit, my lord.’

‘He was not accustomed to much drink, Scoggins. Did you encourage this?’

Scoggins faced his lord. ‘I did, my lord, and for that I shall do much penance.’

‘So you were drinking, too?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Did someone offer to help young Daniel back to his bed?’

‘I did not see him leave, my lord.’

‘Too drunk by then?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

Wyndesore shielded his eyes against the sunlight as he looked back out at his men. ‘Go about your morning duties. You will have a chance to pray for Daniel at mass tomorrow morning.’ He turned on his heels and marched back inside, shouting for Alan to go wake Mistress Alice Perrers.

‘And Ned Townley, my lord?’

‘First Mistress Alice, damn you!’

Alan hurried away.

*

John Thoresby paced in his chamber waiting for his secretary. Michaelo’s tardiness was particularly irritating this morning. Thoresby had decided how to reconcile the King’s request with his own interests and he wished to complete the task. Where was his secretary? Admiring himself in his mirror?

When at last Michaelo arrived he was breathless, his face was flushed, and much to Thoresby’s surprise the hem of his habit was soggy.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Your Grace, there has been a terrible-’ Michaelo shook his head, sat down at the writing desk, and dabbed his face with a cloth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

‘A terrible what, Michaelo? You are all atremble.’

His secretary nodded, blotted his upper lip.

‘Michaelo!’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I wished to catch my breath.’ Michaelo shook his head. ‘It is the marks, Your Grace. And his cloak. He was floating in the moat, not an ale-cask. How does one spill so much ale as to soak an entire cloak? Even stranger, why wear a cloak while drinking?’ Michaelo bowed his head, pressed the cloth to one temple, then the other.

The Archbishop studied his uncharacteristically dishevelled, babbling secretary. ‘Have you overindulged this morning? One of your headaches?’

Michaelo raised his head slowly, frowned up at Thoresby as if puzzled. ‘No, Your Grace. I was making my way here when they discovered him and pulled him from the ditch.’

‘Who was pulled from what ditch?’

‘Did I not say? I pray you forgive me, Your Grace. It was Daniel. Sir William of Wyndesore’s page. Down below the Round Tower. Drowned, Your Grace. Or worse.’

Worse? ‘Drowning is rather final, I should think. What could be worse?’

Michaelo’s brows pulled together. ‘I said nothing to the men who found him. I do not wish to make something of nothing. But there were marks on his wrists. As if his hands had been bound, Your Grace.’

That could be troublesome. But it was the victim’s identity that set off alarms in Thoresby’s head. His secretary had a weakness for handsome youths. ‘Daniel. A rather pretty young man, as I recall. You have not been breaking your vows again, have you, Michaelo?’

The question seemed to clear Michaelo’s head. He sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Your Grace! I was merely walking past.’

‘I do not doubt that, Michaelo, but your agitation bespeaks an attachment.’

Michaelo’s nostrils flared. ‘I kept my distance as always, Your Grace.’

Deo gratias. Thoresby hid a smile as Michaelo lifted his chin, his back stiff with indignation, raised his quill pen and sat with it poised above the parchment.

‘Shall we begin, Your Grace?’

His secretary’s injured feelings reassured Thoresby. ‘Indeed. I have resolved my approach to the letters our King has requested.’

It was a matter of emphasis, Thoresby had decided. Praise those aspects of Wykeham’s service of which the Cistercian abbots least approved — how in his past post of Clerk of Works and presently as Keeper of the Privy Seal the King found him indispensable, which, of course, emphasised Wykeham’s worldly loyalties. The King could not deny it, nor could he deny that Thoresby couched his words as praise. Thoresby smiled to himself as he began to dictate to Michaelo.

Rather elegantly gowned for an early morning walk, her brown hair carefully coiffed beneath a gossamer veil, Alice Perrers swept through the Norman Gate from the upper ward clutching a fur-lined cloak round her shivering body. It was too early to be abroad; the blood was not yet warmed in her extremities. The guard bowed to her. Her page hurried after her carrying a goblet and a flagon of watered-down and delicately spiced wine. Alice intended to wake properly with her usual morning refreshment no matter who had been found floating in the moat. After attending Sir William she must return to the apartments of the ailing Queen and attend her. There would be no time to see to Alice’s own needs. Not that she resented her duty to Queen Phillippa. Alice owed her position to the aged Queen’s affection. But she must also take care of herself — no one else would. She was nineteen years old and would soon lose the bloom of youth that so enchanted the King if she did not have a care for her health. She did not delude herself; she was no beauty. Her power was in her youthful, well-formed body, her understanding of men’s desires, and her cunning ambition.

At the door to Sir William of Wyndesore’s chambers Alice turned, eyebrows raised. ‘Gilbert?’

Her servant rushed forward, shifting the goblet to the hand with the flagon, and rapped sharply. He had learned that to spare his knuckles threw his lady into a temper.

As the door opened, Alice swept past Gilbert into a comfortable yet austere parlour, obviously furnished by a military man: two high-backed chairs, two companion tables, and a chest for storage. The chairs were arranged in front of a large brazier that radiated a pleasant heat from its dark corner. Sir William occupied one of the chairs, his feet stretched out towards the fire. He looked up lazily and nodded. He was a handsome man, over twenty years Alice’s senior but still a physically powerful man with rich dark hair — succumbing to silver streaks, but still abundant. How like him not to rise, Alice thought. When he served under the Duke of Clarence in Ireland had he behaved with such insolence? An intriguing question. She must pursue it. ‘Sir William.’

Wyndesore waved Alice over to the other chair. She sat down with a regal sweep of her skirts. A servant rushed over to place a small table by her. Gilbert came forward, poured the wine.

‘You carry your refreshment with you? As a precaution?’ Wyndesore grinned.

‘I have a particular thirst in the early morning, and, as we decided last night — ’ she glanced up with a coy smile ‘- my cellar is excellent.’ Alice lifted her goblet as if toasting him, then drank.

Wyndesore watched her with amusement. ‘The King’s pampered pet.’

Alice bristled. ‘Not a pet.’

Wyndesore touched his heart and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Alice. I have the clumsy manners of a soldier.’

Alice paid no heed to his false apology.

Wyndesore looked bored with the game. ‘So. Ned Townley. He fancies your maid Mary?’

Alice ran her finger idly round the rim of her goblet. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You have heard about my page?’

Alice made a sad face. ‘Poor Daniel. Sledding. Everyone has been expecting such an accident, but involving a child, not a young man.’ She lifted her eyes slowly. ‘Why do you mention Ned?’

‘Perhaps it was not an accident. Ned Townley threatened Daniel last night — about being with Mary. Was Daniel dallying with your maid?’

‘Sir William! Have you been consulting common gossips?’

Wyndesore leaned forward, impatient with Alice’s teasing. ‘Was he?’

Alice pouted and folded her hands like an obedient child. ‘Daniel had made a pest of himself of late, that I can say, though I dislike speaking ill of the dead. But he was not wooing Mary. That was clearly not his intention.’

Wyndesore sniffed. ‘Why else does a man spend time round a pretty woman?’

Alice feigned surprise at his comment. ‘She cannot be a friend if she is pretty?’ She tilted her head and tsked at Wyndesore.

He laughed.

Alice sipped her wine, serious again. ‘What are you thinking?’

Wyndesore drew his feet back, snapped his fingers for a cup of ale. ‘What I’m thinking does not matter. It’s my men. They think Townley killed Daniel.’ He took a long drink, watching Alice over the rim of his mazer.

Alice shook her head. ‘Ned did no such thing. I can vouch for him, and so can Mary. He was with her last night when I went up to bed — you will recall that was rather late.’ Alice sighed. Mary was a pretty child; Alice had plans for her — and they did not include a nobody like Ned Townley. ‘I have little hope for the preservation of Mary’s maidenhead.’

Wyndesore grinned. ‘There was never any hope for it, Mistress Alice. A pretty girl at court? Come now.’ Wyndesore drank down his ale, took a cloth from his sleeve and wiped his mouth like a gentleman. Manners of a soldier indeed. ‘Well, your word is enough for me, but my men will not agree. They were fond of the lad — he was their pet, I suppose. They’re angry he’s dead, they want blood, and Townley’s a man they delight in hating, with his courtly clothes and his swagger with his fancy daggers.’ Wyndesore laughed at his witticism.

Alice smiled politely; Wyndesore was handsome and powerful, but he was no wit. ‘Ned is also resented because he is Lancaster’s spy. The common folk have no love for the Duke.’ Gilbert refreshed Alice’s goblet. She used the interruption to consider the situation. ‘I wonder whether Ned knows he’s in danger?’

‘You may be sure he does. I’ll warn my men that if any harm comes to Townley, they’ll pay. But he’d be best away from here.’

‘That was not the Duke’s plan for him,’ Alice said. The Duke of Lancaster had left Ned at court, while he fought in Spain, to polish his manners and his skill at letter-writing, informing the Duke of the news at court.

‘Devil take the Duke!’ Wyndesore growled.

Alice winced. Wyndesore should have a care. In Ireland, he had been second in command, too important to offend. But here at the King’s court he was insignificant. And many felt he had betrayed his lord to the King. Men neither respected nor trusted such an opportunist. Wyndesore should tread softly.

‘How goes the King?’ Wyndesore asked, changing the subject.

Alice frowned, glanced towards Wyndesore’s servants. Hers was also a precarious perch at court. As the King’s mistress she was showered with gifts from him and wielded some power. But should he tire of her — or more likely, considering his age, should he die … Alice took great care to be discreet. She trusted her own servant, but what did she know of Wyndesore’s men? How carefully did he choose those who surrounded him? They certainly had no cause to be loyal to her.

Wyndesore snapped his fingers, dispersing the servants. ‘So?’

Alice shrugged. ‘He spits venom at Pope Urban at the moment.’

‘Wykeham is not yet a bishop, I know.’

‘Thomas Cobham has returned from Avignon with the news that His Holiness is pleased to allow Wykeham to handle the temporalities of the seat of Winchester until the successor is named. You can imagine Cobham’s red ears. The poor man was visibly trembling when he entered the King’s presence. And he was far worse before he backed away.’

‘Wykeham seems a suitable man. I do not understand the Pope’s resistance.’

‘All this is just a convenient way for His Holiness to show his power over the King. Two old men hitting each other with sticks.’

They shared a smile.

Smarting from the hostile glances all about him, Ned went in search of Mary’s sympathetic ear. She knew where he’d been last night; she of all people would bristle with righteous indignation on his behalf. He found her sitting by a tall window in Mistress Alice’s parlour, transferring pearls from one of her mistress’s fine dresses to another. Mary was a lovely young woman with a cloud of softly curling, raven-black hair, a face of such sweet innocence Ned had been amazed by the passion with which she’d responded to his kisses from the first, and the tiniest waist he had ever had the pleasure to wrap his arms round. Mary possessed his heart completely. Never again would he tease his friend Owen Archer about his devotion to his wife. Ned understood now.

Mary glanced up at Ned, revealing eyes red from weeping. She sniffed. Her heavenly hazel eyes filled with tears.

Ned dropped down to his knees before her, dismayed. ‘Oh, my sweet Mary, do not weep for me. Their unjust accusations are naught to me.’

Mary put aside her sewing to blow her nose.

‘Let me fetch you some wine,’ Ned offered.

Mary shook her head. ‘No. I must finish my work. Wine will lead to pricks that stain the dresses. You would not suggest it had you ever had the chore of removing bloodstains from fine cloth.’

Always practical, his Mary. Sweet Heaven, how he loved her. Ned took her hands.

Mary snatched them away.

‘What’s this?’ Ned sat back on his heels, confused. ‘You reject my comfort?’

‘Oh, Ned. ‘Tis your stubborn jealousy caused it, you know it is true. Daniel would never have drunk so much if you had not threatened him. Why did you do it? There was no need. No need. I’d told you, I’d sworn you had nothing to be jealous of. Daniel was kind to me, was all. He was my friend.’ Mary sniffed, hiccuped.

His fault? ‘Kind to you, was all, was it? Why? Why was Sir William of Wyndesore’s page so kind to the maid of Mistress Alice Perrers?’

Mary flushed. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Oh indeed. The lowly maid of Mistress Alice could not possibly be considered a friend by the handsome young page of Sir William of Wyndesore.’

‘How did he befriend you, Mary? I cannot think of a reason why Sir William’s page and Mistress Alice’s maid would even meet.’

Mary gasped. ‘Even in death you distrust him! Oh shame, Ned. Shame on you!’ She rose and hurried towards the inner door.

Ned groaned, hurried after her, caught her elbow. ‘For pity’s sake, Mary, we are to be wed. You should be comforting me as the victim of unfounded gossip, not accusing me of something you know full well I did not do.’

Mary stood stubbornly with her back to him, looking down at the floor. Ned heard her catch her breath and knew the tears flowed once more. For a friend? He’d be a fool to believe that! He let go of her arm. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Mary. I have misunderstood. I thought you loved me, but I see my error.’ He strode from the room to the sound of Mary’s sobs. Devil take her, she could be so stubborn. It was Mistress Perrers’s doing, he’d wager. She did not like him — had other plans for Mary, no doubt. He must find a way to free Mary from the whore’s service. He wished Owen Archer were not so far north in York. Ned could use his advice in this.