King's Bishop

Twelve

Owen had imagined the grange house in a meadow, with gently rolling hills about it. But in reality it sat in a rock-strewn valley whose steeply sloping sides were choked with thorn trees. ‘Not a place through which I would have chosen to run on a stormy night,’ he said. ‘And Captain Townley was drunk, you say?’

Matthew stood beside him, his face screwed up, remembering. ‘Drunk. Oh, that he was.’ Matthew truly looked a puppy, with his wide, flat nose, receding chin, and huge ears. And when he concentrated he was uglier yet. ‘We came on this place in the storm. In the dark. We none of us knew what to expect. But the friar is mad, Captain Archer, so it did not surprise me, his running off in the storm. I told you how he almost brought his horse down on him when we rode into the vale of Rievaulx. And it was he who led us down the steepest way.’

‘But running off into unknown dangers in a storm is not what you would have expected from Captain Townley?’

Matthew shook his head, almost more of a shiver than a negation. ‘He would have scolded me for even thinking about it.’

That was the problem. As Owen saw it, Ned had not been thinking. Not clearly. The pain of losing Mary would have dulled his mind.

They stood in the covered walkway between the house and the stable, looking down at the rushing stream.

‘Perhaps Don Ambrose was waiting to tell Ned about Mary. Wanted to spare him the sad news for a while …’ Owen suggested.

Matthew turned, looked Owen in the eye. ‘Do you think that? Truly?’

Owen would have liked to think that. He would have liked to think all the missing men awaited them at Rievaulx. But he did not for a moment expect it. ‘No, Matthew, I do not think he meant to spare Ned.’

Owen took off to explore the valley; soon Matthew was puffing up behind him.

‘If you would not mind, Captain, I should like to come.’

Owen shrugged.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘What does Abbot Richard have men searching for in the barn? I cannot say, nor can he. Captain Townley and Don Ambrose? The four men searching for them? A sign of what happened that night? Blood? Ned told you he had wounded the friar in the hand. A good bleeder, the hand. You know, I thank you for joining me. With one eye it’s difficult enough for me to stay upright along the stream and out of the thorns on the slope.’

‘Does it bother you, then, having just the one eye?’

‘Every moment of every day, Matthew. Now come. Talk distracts us from our search.’

Atop one of the ridges, Matthew found a cap. He ran to catch up with Owen, who had wandered on. It was a felt cap with the King’s arms. ‘Several of the men wore these, Captain,’ Matthew said breathlessly. ‘Proud of wearing the King’s livery, they were.’

‘Which men?’

‘Ah. Which ones.’ Matthew screwed up his eyes and clutched the cap to him as if it might prompt his memory. Which it must have done. ‘Gervase, Henry, and Bardolph,’ he suddenly barked with a pleased expression.

Owen took the cap, examined it. No blood, though it was damp from the rains so any blood might have washed out. ‘Show me where you found it.’

Matthew led him back up the slope to a small clearing with a thin layer of brush, so thin that the rock beneath poked through in many places. ‘It was caught in that bush.’ He pointed to the far end of the clearing.

‘Footing would be slippery up here in the rain,’ Owen said. He walked slowly round, poking at the brush, examining the trees. Several small thorns had been trampled, trunks showed signs of reins having been tied to them, including the one beside the bush that had caught the cap. The cap was significant, but what did it tell them? That one man lost a hat and did not think it important to return for it? That he was in a hurry? Involved in a struggle?

‘This sort of clue is almost worse than none at all, eh Matthew?’

The young man looked disappointed. ‘I thought it promising.’

‘How so? It merely tells us they climbed up here, which they should have done. No surprise in that. They were left behind to search for Don Ambrose and Captain Townley, they should have covered this entire valley.’ Owen shook his head. ‘Let us walk over the ridge a bit, see what else we see.’

But it had been days since the incident, days of rain and wind. There might be clues aplenty up there, trampled in the mud, blown beyond their sight, hiding from the men who needed them.

As they scrambled back down the slope towards the ford of the stream, Owen noted a scar in the earth. A mud slide? He paused, looked more closely. The debris below the scar — rocks, uprooted bracken and heather — were appropriate, and Owen almost continued. But there was something else, something towards the bottom of the debris. He crouched down. A muddy piece of cloth. He gave it a tug, which loosened some more dirt and uncovered more cloth, but did not budge it. As if it was attached to something much larger.

Owen looked up at the scar. If he were going to hide a body, not a bad idea. Easy to dig near the stream, easy to mask it as a mud slide. But someone had not counted on the heavy rains since.

He stood up. Matthew was already over the ford, waiting on the other side. ‘Fetch Abbot Richard and the rest,’ Owen shouted. ‘Tell them we must do some digging. Bring shovels or something like.’

Matthew hesitated, looking doubtful.

‘I believe a body lies under this mud slide, Matthew.’

That spurred Matthew up to the house.

Owen spent the wait clearing the debris, but he did not dig. He would first ask Abbot Richard’s permission.

The Abbot arrived before the others, managing to ford the stream without wetting the hem of his habit or letting any mud mar its whiteness. Owen was keenly aware of his own sweat- and mud-stained garments, his dirt-encrusted hands.

‘What is it?’ the Abbot asked, nodding towards the exposed scar. ‘A grave?’

‘That is what I’m thinking, my lord abbot. And I ask your permission to dig it up.’

The cold eyes took in the pile of debris by Owen’s feet. ‘You cleared that from it?’

‘I did.’

‘Then someone meant to hide this.’

‘I’ll not contradict you there.’

The Abbot closed his eyes, bowed his head, pressed his hands together.

Owen crouched down and splashed his face with cool water from the stream, washed off his hands. He took care as he rose not to splash the Abbot.

The Abbot opened his eyes as the rest of the men came across the ford, two with shovels, one with a rake, one a large spoon. ‘We must know who it is, Captain Archer,’ the Abbot said. ‘We must learn whatever the body may tell us. And then bury it once more, in a Christian way.’ He turned to the men. ‘Dig where the Captain orders you.’ Then he stepped back across the ford to wait and pray.

The mud was quickly scraped away, revealing a body, as expected. Ralph dropped his shovel and crossed himself. Matthew stood with his shovel in mid-air and gulped for air, his face ashen. ‘What a stench!’ Curan cried, backing away with his sleeve to his nose, the rake dragging from the other hand. Brother Augustine stepped forward and made the sign of the cross over the body.

Abbot Richard quietly joined Owen. ‘It is just as I feared. And I doubt any prayers were said over him. He was pushed in, covered up.’

It was true. No shroud covered Don Ambrose. No coins covered his eyes. His hands and feet were bound, his mouth open, as if crying out.

Owen nodded. ‘The mud makes it difficult to guess the cause of death. May I cut the habit?’

The Abbot closed his eyes. ‘Do what is necessary.’

Owen knelt, slipped his dagger under the neckline and slit down. He did not need to go far. He could feel the fabric clinging to the body hair. Dried blood did that. He knew that all too well. He ripped the cloth free. Three wounds on the chest. He lifted the hem, examined the friar’s legs and the bottom of his torso. No more wounds. He stood up. ‘He was stabbed three times in the chest.’

The Abbot crossed himself. ‘Captain Townley is known for his skill with a dagger.’

‘Throwing daggers, not stabbing with them. And Captain Townley would not bind the man. He would insist on a fair fight.’

The Abbot sighed. ‘We shall talk later. Let us see to Don Ambrose first.’ He turned to Brother Augustine. ‘Find something to use as a shroud and move him to the barn. We shall set a watch over him until we leave the wretched place.’

‘You will bury him at Rievaulx?’ Owen asked.

‘He was a consecrated priest. He deserves burial in consecrated ground.’

Owen nodded. ‘I had not thought, but it is fitting.’

The afternoon’s grim work had brought a gloom on the company. Owen and his men sat silently round the fire while the monks said their evening office in the next room.

‘Abbot Richard has tried and condemned Captain Townley,’ Matthew said, more to his cup of ale than to the others.

‘I can’t say I blame him,’ Curan said. ‘Quick temper, has Captain Townley.’

Matthew’s shaggy head shot up. ‘So do you, you — ’

‘Men!’ Owen shouted, rising.

‘There are other men missing as well,’ Ralph said. ‘I don’t know as I believe one man overcame him, bound him, stabbed him, and then brought the slope down atop him.’

With that grim recitation of the events, the men grew silent once more.

Later, Abbot Richard sent Brother Augustine and his servant to join the men at the fire and invited Owen into the more private room. Several oil lamps sat on the floor near two benches. A small bottle and two cups sat beside the lamps.

‘Would you take some brandywine?’ Abbot Richard asked.

‘After this day’s business, I should dearly love some,’ Owen said.

The Abbot bent down, filled the cups, handed one to Owen. ‘My compliments on your discovery today, Captain. I doubt I would have noticed that it was no natural slide.’

The comment relaxed Owen. They had progressed beyond their pointless sparring. ‘One-eyed and all, I have trained myself over the past years to make note of things, my lord abbot.’

‘Ah. Your work for Archbishop Thoresby.’

Owen nodded. ‘I propose to escort you back to Rievaulx before we continue our search.’

While the Abbot sipped his brandywine, he fixed his deep-set eyes on Owen. ‘Why is that?’

‘You might be in danger.’

The ghost of a smile. ‘I might indeed. But so might you.’

What was he after? ‘It is my duty to protect you. And you are shifting a body someone wished to hide.’

‘From whom do you think you protect me, Captain Archer?’

Ah. There it was. ‘Perhaps Captain Townley. Perhaps the other men. Perhaps someone we have not yet encountered.’

‘So you accept that your friend might be involved?’

‘As you said this afternoon, he is known for his skill with daggers.’ The Abbot made a move to protest. Owen shook his head. ‘No need to withdraw the comment. It was made and it should be considered. My wife would tell me I am too fond of Ned Townley to trust my judgement.’

The Abbot inclined his head. ‘A wise woman. How are the men?’

‘Truth?’

‘Of course.’

‘Matthew believes you have tried and condemned Captain Townley. Curan is eager to blame the Captain and head back to Windsor. Ralph does not think Don Ambrose’s murder and burial were the work of one man.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think we do not know what happened. I must talk to my captain, hear his story. For all we know — God grant that it is not so’ — Owen crossed himself — ‘my captain, too, lies in this valley.’

‘I misjudged you, Captain Archer.’

‘Indeed you did, my lord abbot.’

‘I gladly accept your escort to Rievaulx.’

They journeyed to Rievaulx without incident. The hospitaller crossed himself at their tidings, shook his head at their unhappy burden. ‘May Our Lord God welcome Don Ambrose into the Heavenly City.’

‘You have seen none of the other men? The search party?’

The hospitaller slowly moved his head from side to side. ‘But there is a shepherd to see you, Captain. He waits in the parlour.’

‘A shepherd? What does he want?’

‘He said his business was with you. I did not press him further. It is not our way.’

Owen stepped into the parlour, nodded to the man in russet tunic and leggings. His hair was grizzled, shaggy as the sheep he tended, and so redolent of them they must often have mistaken him for one of their own.

The man grasped his crook and supported himself as he rose. ‘Captain Archer?’ His voice was gruff with age.

‘And you are?’

‘Nym, sir.’

It seemed wrong for the elderly man to call him ‘sir’. ‘Would you take some refreshment?’

‘I never say no to a drop of ale.’

Owen went to a cupboard and returned with a pitcher and two drinking bowls, poured for both of them, handed a bowl to his guest, who had resumed his seat.

Nym drained the bowl, leaned forward to set it down. The movement was awkward, and Owen noticed the shepherd had a malformed foot. He rose and took the bowl from the shepherd, who nodded in thanks, settling back on the chair.

Owen drank some ale. ‘Brother Hospitaller said you had business with me?’

A subtle nod. ‘It is said you seek six men travelling on the moors.’

‘Five.’

The bushy eyebrows drifted up, a broad shoulder shrugged. ‘You have found one of them?’

Nym obviously knew something. ‘Where did you hear about us?’

‘I was sent to lead you to one who might help.’

‘Where? Who?’

‘Hazel Head Wood. Widow Digby.’

Owen blinked. ‘Magda Digby?’

‘Widow Digby. Aye. Comes up here collecting roots and herbs, seeing to old friends. You know her as midwife in York.’

Owen could not believe his fortune. ‘And she knows something of these men?’

‘Aye, she said so. Sent me to bring you to her.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘Tomorrow would be pleasing to me.’

‘Tomorrow it is.’