King's Bishop

Fifteen

Owen, Ned and Matthew spent the night in Magda’s cottage; both Ned and Matthew were nursing sore noses and split lips from encounters with the other men that had failed to restore Ned’s good name. Magda had ordered the separation so that she might have peace.

It was a crowded cottage. Magda shared it with a young woman, Tola, who was great with child. It was her imminent lying-in that prevented Magda from returning to York in Owen’s company.

Owen had seen little of the young woman until this evening. He talked to her while she prepared a meal for the five of them. Her husband was busy with the lambing and glad that Magda had come to assist Tola in the birth of their first child.

‘Why did you send all the way to York for a midwife?’ Owen asked. ‘Have you none up here?’

Tola, her back to Owen as she sprinkled dried herbs into the broth, said simply, ‘We thought it best.’ Thus had she answered all Owen’s attempts to converse with her. A woman of few words. One might suspect her of being simple but for the eyes. The few times Owen had found her watching him it was because he had felt her gaze. As intense as Magda’s.

As Owen lay in the dark much later, he noted something else: many of Tola’s features were very much like Asa’s. Asa and Magda. Of course. Lucie would have seen it sooner, recognised the relationship, no doubt.

He rose. Magda had gone out when everyone else had settled for the night. Owen found her at the edge of the clearing, sitting on a stone, her head thrown back to study the night sky.

‘Thou shalt be back among thy family soon, Bird-eye. Art thou glad?’

‘You know that I am.’

‘What keeps thee wakeful? Dagger-thrower’s ill fortune?’

‘Magda, is Ned telling me the truth about how he came to be here?’

Magda said nothing. Owen glanced over at her. She had resumed her star-gazing.

‘You have nothing to say?’

‘Nay. ‘Tis not for Magda to tell thee whether or no thy friend can be trusted. Thou canst judge for thyself.’

Owen raised his eye to the stars. ‘Matthew believes that the sky over the River Thames is different from this sky.’

‘The pup fears the moors, aye.’ Magda patted Owen’s knee. ‘Many do.’

‘Why is your daughter living up on the moors? And why do they call you Widow Digby up here?’

‘Magda’s daughter, eh? And who might she be?’

‘Asa.’

A wheezing laugh warmed the darkness. ‘Thou hast a habit of spying now, eh? So how didst thou guess?’

‘I see both of you in Tola.’

‘Tola looks more like Digby than Magda.’

‘Potter? Not at all.’

‘Nay, Bird-eye, Potter’s father.’

‘He was a shepherd?’

‘Aye.’

‘But folk say you have always lived on the Ouse.’

‘Aye.’

‘You did not live with your husband? And yet you took his name.’

The wheezing laughter was his only answer.

‘Tell me about him.’

‘What wouldst thou hear? Magda was needed in York, Digby had his sheep.’

‘Asa lived with her father, Potter with you?’

‘Aye. They chose. Asa was ever her father’s child, at peace alone, up on the moors. Potter liked the river.’

‘But Asa, too, is a healer.’

Magda snorted. ‘Healer? Asa plays with the dark arts as if they cannot hurt her. Spells. Potions. Foolish Asa. Magda warned her, but she hears nothing Magda says.’ The old woman rose, brushed off her clothes. ‘To bed. Thou shouldst sleep, Bird-eye. A long ride lies before thee, with angry men.’

Owen rose. ‘When I asked Tola why she sent all the way to York for a midwife, she said they “thought it best”. Why did she not tell me you were her mother’s mother?’

Magda stood before Owen, hands on hips, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘Thou knowest nothing of the moorland folk. Why spew out thy heart to a stranger?’

‘Moorland folk, or the Digby clan?’

Magda shook her head again, motioned for him to come along.

Owen followed, knowing full well he had learned all he would about the Riverwoman for now. It was enough to ponder as he fell asleep.

Archdeacon Jehannes had returned to York anxiously guarded by Owen’s man Alfred and the rest of the men who had not accompanied Owen and Abbot Richard. After sending a messenger to Archbishop Thoresby with the sad tale of his journey, Jehannes settled into his customary routine. Several days after his return he spent a long morning with the master mason discussing the slow progress on the minster’s Lady Chapel. Archbishop Thoresby would be disappointed, but the problem was with the quarry, not with the masons. Soon, very soon, they must find another source, particularly for the larger stones. There was no other as near, which meant higher costs for transportation. And funds were dwindling; Jehannes was embarrassed to admit that Archdeacon Anselm had been more successful in filling the minster coffers.

Frustrated, wanting to delay writing yet another unpleasant letter to the Archbishop, Jehannes decided to spend the afternoon in the city doing errands. Perhaps he would add a visit to Lucie Wilton. He had not spoken with her since she’d received Owen’s letter. She might have some insight into what had happened.

The day was overcast but with an invigorating breeze. Jehannes set off with his clerk Harold. It was Thursday, market day, and though they were well away from the market square they found the streets crowded. As they left the minster gate and entered Stonegate, a man approached, hood up, head down, hands behind his back. Jehannes noticed him because he walked as if lost in thought, a quiet island in the midst of the bustling market day crowd. Possibly sensing eyes upon him, the man lifted his. When he met Jehannes’s gaze, the man gave a little cry and turned to run away. Jehannes chided himself for intruding on the man’s reveries.

But then, just as suddenly, the man spun back, dropped to his knees before Jehannes, bowed and raised his folded hands over his head. ‘I beg you, Father, give me your blessing,’ he said.

Jehannes did not find it an unusual request. What puzzled him was the cry and the momentary turning away. Nevertheless, he laid his hands on the man’s head and gave his blessing.

‘May God forgive me my sins,’ the man said, crossing himself. He rose and kissed Jehannes’s hand. ‘Bless you, Father.’

‘Do you wish to come to me at the minster and make confession?’

The man shook his head. His hood slipped back.

There was a familiarity about the eyes, the voice. Might that explain the odd behaviour? A disconcerting thought, that he might have hesitated to approach Jehannes in particular. ‘Do I know you?’ Jehannes asked.

The man shook his head, pulled up his hood, and slipped back into the crowd.

‘Harold, who was that?’

‘I did not recognise him.’

The crowd had begun to jostle them. It was unwise — and difficult — to stand still in the street on market day. ‘Come, Harold, let us make our visit to Mistress Wilton before we go to market.’ Jehannes hoped that by talking to Lucie Wilton and thereby putting the incident out of his mind, he might trick himself into remembering where he had seen the man before.

Seated at a table by the garden window, supporting a sleeping Gwenllian on her lap with her left arm, Lucie was making notes in the shop ledger when Archdeacon Jehannes appeared in the kitchen doorway. Lucie had left the door ajar to catch the fresh air.

‘How lovely! Forgive me for not rising to greet you, Father, but as you see I cannot.’

‘Forgive me for interrupting your work, Mistress Wilton.’ Jehannes stepped back as if to leave.

‘Oh, please do not desert me so soon. Tildy is at market, Jasper is minding the shop, and I need cheering. Come, sit and tell me how Owen looked when you left him. It is three weeks and more since he headed north with you and I am eager for news of him.’

‘You had the letter?’ Jehannes asked, stepping inside. Harold followed him.

‘Yes, but he hardly told me how he looked, and he told me very little about how he felt.’ Jehannes looked decidedly uncomfortable about that. ‘How he felt about Ned Townley.’

‘Oh. The poor man.’

Lucie nodded towards Harold. ‘How is the earache?’

The young clerk put a hand to his right ear and nodded. ‘Much better, Mistress Wilton. I have slept these past nights without pain.’

‘I hope you cover your head with your cowl whenever you go out in this wind. It is important to protect your ears.’

‘I do, Mistress Wilton.’

Jehannes sat down opposite Lucie. ‘Tell me why you need cheering.’

Lucie wished she had not said that. She felt rather foolish telling the Archdeacon of York she missed her husband. She watched silently as he reached over and gently touched Gwenllian’s hand. When the baby curled her chubby fingers round Jehannes’s forefinger and pressed it to her face, his face glowed with joy. Lucie relaxed. Here was a man who understood matters of the heart.

‘’Tis a bittersweet sadness. I am missing my husband.’

Jehannes’s smile was kind. ‘Did he tell you in his letter about the bird trapped in the nave at Fountains?’

‘No.’

Jehannes told the story, his finger all the while clasped firmly in Gwenllian’s hand.

‘Did the bird escape?’

‘When I returned later that day, I heard nothing. And the door was still ajar.’

Lucie smiled. The simple story had cheered her. ‘Would you like to hold Gwenllian?’

The Archdeacon looked surprised. ‘I shall not frighten her?’

‘We can but try.’ Lucie rose, put the baby in his arms.

Gwenllian opened her eyes, screwed up her face to cry. Jehannes folded his hands round her and began to rock, all as if he had done it many times before. Gwenllian relaxed, blinked a few times, then closed her eyes and slept once more.

‘You are good with children.’

‘I am fond of them.’

‘You were a good friend to Jasper when he was in need.’

‘He is a bright lad. You were good to take him in.’

Always the compliment must be returned. Lucie closed up the ledger, offered Jehannes and Harold some ale. They were quiet while she poured. ‘It is a sad business about Ned,’ Lucie said, sitting down once more.

Jehannes’s eyes darkened. He lowered the cup he had raised to his lips to drink. ‘I blame myself. I should have gone to Owen and Ned when Don Ambrose came to me. God grant that no evil comes of my mistake.’

Lucie regretted broaching the subject. She had forgotten the Archdeacon’s part in it. But now that she had erred… ‘You blessed Ned’s company the day he rode from York, did you not?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Jehannes gazed down into his untasted ale.

‘Did Don Ambrose behave oddly then?’

The smooth brow crinkled in thought. ‘A little. I see it now that I look for it. But at the time I thought him uncomfortable with the soldiers. They can be …’ he shrugged.

Lucie laughed. ‘Owen asked me recently if he was so rude in manner and speech when we first met. Did Don Ambrose seem uneasy with all the men?’

Jehannes shrugged. ‘Not that day, but earlier I had noted he kept his distance from Bardolph and — ’ Jehannes’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. ‘That was him. Today.’

‘Who?’

‘Bardolph.’ Jehannes told her of the encounter in Stonegate. ‘I could not place him, but there was something familiar. And now it is so plain. Without a doubt.’ He took a drink.

‘Just Bardolph? None of the others?’

‘Just him. What was he doing here in York? Alone? Out of livery?’

‘You must find out.’

Jehannes nodded.

Lucie reclaimed Gwenllian, who immediately began to scream. Above the din, Lucie said, ‘You must send someone to search for Bardolph before he has time to leave the city.’

Jehannes rose to go. ‘I am such a fool.’

Lucie shook her head. ‘You are no fool, Father. God bless you for coming. Please come back and tell me what happens.’ As she watched the two hurry from the yard she shook her head at her improved spirits. But at last they might leam something.

John Thoresby did not like the rumour. It was said that Wykeham and the King had met with the Duke of Burgundy, a valuable prisoner of war who was held in comfortable quarters in London. According to the rumours, the King had offered Burgundy his freedom in exchange for using his influence on Pope Urban in the matter of the seat of Winchester. Thoresby did not find it surprising; the King had a penchant for creative finance. What irked Thoresby was that if the rumours were true, all the trouble at Fountains Abbey had been for naught. That made his blood boil.

And what a mess the meeting with the abbots at Fountains had been. Jehannes had written a full account. Though the outcome, the abbots’ refusals to support Wykeham, was just what he had wished, Thoresby did not like the complications with Ned Townley and the Austin friar. They would be found, no doubt, but the situation required Archer to remain up north, and Thoresby had hoped to lure him down to court. Something was wrong, something that had begun with the death of Wyndesore’s page, and Thoresby wanted to get to the bottom of it.

Archer’s letter had been of more interest than Jehannes’s. Archer had asked for details about the death of Alice Perrers’s maid and copied the contents of Don Paulus’s letter to the missing Don Ambrose. Thoresby must find an opportunity to speak to Mistress Perrers. It was said that she mourned her maid; her maid’s death would be a delicate subject to broach, but he suspected Mistress Perrers’s curiosity would outweigh her distress. If indeed her sorrow was sincere.

First things first. Thoresby needed to learn more about the friars. There could be no doubt the two were concealing something. Wykeham — he might prove knowledgeable; he had intended Don Ambrose for his household.

Thoresby waited until the King left the high table that evening, for the momentary commotion as the first wave of courtiers departed — hurrying towards rest or more private play — and those left behind reshuffled into more intimate parties. During the bustle, Michaelo was dispatched to invite Wykeham, seated at an adjoining table, to join Thoresby. While he waited, Thoresby entertained himself watching Alice Perrers dodge fawning courtiers seeking favours. Her back straight as a pike, head held high, precious stones in her gold circlet and sewn into her amber silk gown and veil glittering in the torchlight, those cat eyes sly and knowing. Notoriety made some slouch and slink, but not Alice Perrers. As her servant held open the tapestries at the end of the hall, Perrers turned; the cat eyes moved right to Thoresby. She smiled, inclined her head slightly, and slipped through the opening, the same through which Edward had disappeared. How had she felt his eyes upon her when so many others shared his curiosity? Thoresby crossed himself.

Wykeham approached with a nervous gait, his face flushed with colour.

Thoresby straightened, put Perrers out of his mind. ‘You are kind to join me.’

Wykeham nodded. ‘You are kind to invite me.’ The privy councillor folded his tall, angular body into the seat beside Thoresby, adjusted his flowing sleeves. The colours might be dark and dignified, but the cut was courtly.

‘Is it true about Burgundy?’ Thoresby asked. Wykeham’s surprise made the Archbishop smile. ‘I see that no one was to hear.’

‘I thought your spy was up on the moors.’

‘A wise chancellor has ears wherever they are needed. But if you prefer not to speak of it, never mind. It is about another matter I wished to talk.’

‘How did you hear?’

Thoresby motioned to Michaelo to bring them wine. ‘It is difficult to avoid the gossip, try as I will.’

Wykeham took out an embroidered cloth and dabbed his upper lip. The gesture was graceful, so mannered as to hide its purpose. But Thoresby could see the sweat on the councillor’s face. Wykeham’s manners grew more courtly with each day, but so did the tension that accompanied his position. Was it worth it, Thoresby wondered? Michaelo set a cup of wine before Wykeham, another in front of Thoresby.

‘I understand the mission to Fountains was fraught with misfortune,’ Wykeham said, sliding the cloth back up his sleeve.

‘Misfortune?’ Thoresby sipped his wine. ‘Far less innocent than misfortune, I think.’

The privy councillor ignored his cup, leaned towards Thoresby with interest. ‘Less innocent?’ He glanced round as if worried that someone might overhear.

‘We are quite alone at this end of the high table, I assure you.’

Wykeham’s smile was refreshingly sheepish. ‘Forgive me. But, as you just pointed out to me, rumours spread with such speed at court.’

Thoresby laughed. ‘You are right. Let us have done with the posturing. Abbot Monkton has written to His Grace the King and you have read his account. Being a thorough man, the Abbot will have included a copy of the letter Don Paulus sent your friend, Don Ambrose. It is of that that I wish to speak with you.’

‘My friend Don Ambrose?’ Wykeham shook his head. ‘I thought to take him into my household but — ’ He waved the matter aside. ‘No matter. The letter, yes.’ Now he picked up the cup of wine and took a drink. ‘I found it puzzling, Don Paulus’s behaviour reprehensible. But you obviously see something more — malevolent?’

Malevolent. A fitting word. ‘Do you not find it strange that the friars should take such an interest in the death of Ned Townley’s betrothed?’

‘Betrothed?’ Wykeham sat back, still holding his cup of wine. ‘I am sure I heard of no such vows.’

Thoresby grew impatient. Did Wykeham mean to question every word in their conversation? ‘Perhaps not betrothed, perhaps the vows were more private than that. But that is not my point.’ The privy councillor had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘The point is that from the time Don Ambrose received the letter in York he behaved as if he expected trouble from Townley. Now why was that, do you suppose?’

‘In faith, I do not understand Don Ambrose’s behaviour. I am anxious to talk to him. He has much to explain before he joins my household.’

‘Was he, perhaps, ill at ease in supporting you against his fellow Austins? Might he have met with disapproval in York?’

Wykeham seemed suddenly distracted, fussing with one of his flowing sleeves, adjusting it so that it lay smoothly along the arm of the chair. Thoresby did not recall the privy councillor paying such attention to his clothes in the past. At last, apparently satisfied with his adjustments, Wykeham met Thoresby’s eyes. ‘I take full blame for all the trouble regarding my favour with the King.’

Jesu, give me patience. Thoresby pressed the bridge of his nose with both forefingers. ‘Quite noble, but beside the point. I am looking for facts, not apologies, Councillor.’

Wykeham made a wry face. ‘I never know with you, Chancellor.’

Thoresby laughed. Wykeham joined him. They lifted their cups and drank.

‘So.’ Wykeham drew out the embroidered cloth, dabbed his lips. ‘Facts. Don Paulus has disappeared. Did you know?’

‘I had heard. Vanishing is becoming quite the fashion at court.’

‘This Paulus has a habit of disappearing, it seems. A herbalist who does not practise discretion.’

A herbalist. Thoresby tucked that away. ‘Do you know when he departed Windsor?’

Wykeham shook his head. ‘Alas, no. By the time I knew to look for him, he was gone. But how long before …’ he shrugged.

Truth? Thoresby thought so. ‘Pity.’

‘I have asked the King for some men to help me search for him. His Grace has agreed.’

‘The King is generous. Why are you so interested? Because you feel responsible?’

‘And to know my enemies, if that proves to be the case.’

‘You learn quickly.’

Wykeham sipped his wine. ‘I understand that Townley accused Don Ambrose of attacking him.’

‘He did.’ What was he getting at? And when had the councillor taken control of this quizzing?

Wykeham flicked at an invisible speck on his sleeve. ‘To be honest, that is so unlikely that it makes me doubt the rest.’

The averted eyes said otherwise. ‘Come now. Even Abbot Richard of Rievaulx attests to Don Ambrose’s strange behaviour. What is there to doubt?’

‘That Townley had not seen the letter until that night, or heard about the drowning and Paulus’s failure to act until after Ambrose’s supposed attack.’

‘Do you have evidence to support these suppositions?’

‘No.’

Thoresby was disturbed by his own sense of relief. He was worried that Wykeham knew more than he. What in Heaven’s name was wrong with him? ‘In any case, what difference would it make if Townley had known of his lady’s drowning before that night?’

‘Townley has a quick temper, they say. A violent temper.’

‘One might say that of any soldier.’

‘But not of Austins, I should think.’

‘No. They slink away.’

Wykeham sniffed.

Thoresby had expected a chuckle. So be it; the man was bent on a point. ‘What are you suggesting, Councillor?’

‘It is far more likely that Townley attacked the friar, perhaps merely because he wore the robes of the man who had seen his lady floating in the Thames and had left her there as food for the fish.’ Wykeham winced at the indelicacy of his own words. ‘Forgive me.’

Fascinating to witness the metamorphosis of a decent man into a hardened courtier. ‘So you are inclined to believe Ned Townley attacked Don Ambrose. So?’

Wykeham sighed. ‘So I have won an argument. An empty victory.’ Pressing his fingers to his temples, Wykeham rose. There were dark hollows beneath his eyes that had not been there before. ‘I shall share with you what I learn about Don Paulus, Chancellor. And now I must say good-night.’

Long after Wykeham departed, Thoresby sat in his chair, sipping his wine and examining his feelings. He had watched such a play of emotions wash over the councillor’s face — pride, fear, ambition, uncertainty, regret. One might almost pity him. But how hypocritical, when Thoresby’s own insecurity had made him play a silly game with the man. When had Thoresby himself become such a courtier?