King's Bishop

Twenty-four

Owen’s company continued south, following Wyndesore’s men and the friar. The pace was swift. Owen wondered whether Ned was sleeping in the woods, as they were, or finding nightly comfort in the abandoned cottages that dotted the countryside, grim reminders of the terrible toll of the plague. They had just ridden past a village of collapsing buildings, some weed-choked shells, others partially roofed. Considering how his own legs rubbed against saddle and steed, Owen knew Ned must be in agony with the pace. Unless he had found some trick of riding in an odd position, his wound would surely have reopened. Loss of blood, continual pain — how strong would Ned be by the time Bardolph and Crofter reached him? But they were not the ones controlling the pace. Ned must know what he was doing.

His head thick with pain, Ned yearned to stop, but early that morning he and Matthew had detected a fire upwind. Creeping close, they’d discovered their pursuers — Bardolph and Crofter, falling right in with the plan. But Ned was puzzled by the addition to their company, the black-robed friar. Might it be Don Paulus, the bastard who had left Mary floating in the Thames? Should Ned attack now? He itched to do that. But they were two against three, and Ned was weak from the wound which stained his bandages though bound as tight as he could manage. The scar had long since torn, the wound reopened. Ned regretted having talked Owen into staying behind him. Together they would have fallen upon the three with no doubt as to the outcome. But he would not attempt an assault with Matthew — he was too hesitant a fighter.

Now, as he rode, Ned fought the temptation to stop at an inn, pay good coin for a private room, slake his terrible thirst and then close his eyes on the spinning, too-bright world, rest his pounding head. He feared his pace had slowed, and his frequent pauses at streams to refill his water-skin were surely costing him time. In fact, he was puzzled why Bardolph and Crofter had not already overtaken him. They had camped so near him last night; was it possible they were unaware of how close they were?

And then he saw a tumble of crumbling buildings, one a substantial ruin. He, Matthew, and the horses might easily hide in there and take a day to gather strength, then move on in pursuit of today’s pursuers. Ned suggested it to Matthew, who judged it a wise move.

As evening fell, the forest canopy hastening the night, Brother Michaelo noted that he had seen no signs of riders ahead for some time. Alfred and Owen agreed. All were uneasy. They reined in together to consider.

‘Do you think they knew we followed? Perhaps hid to let us pass?’ Michaelo suggested.

Alfred scratched his straw-coloured hair and pulled on his nose. ‘’Twas the farm gone to weeds we passed, mid-afternoon.’ He nodded. ‘That’s when last I noticed movement ahead.’

Owen remembered the farmhouse. It had reminded him of one in Normandy, recently gutted by fire. He, Ned, Gaspare, Bertold and Lief had spent a hellish night hiding within, amongst the ashes and splintered wood, waiting for enemy scouts to pass by. It might have touched Ned’s memory, too, coaxing him to stop there, rest his leg. The ruins had been sufficiently intact to hide them.

Michaelo was nodding. ‘I recall nothing since.’ He and Alfred looked to Owen for a decision.

‘We turn round, pick our way there in the dusk.’

Walter of Coventry at last arrived at the camp of Sir William of Wyndesore, soaked, chilled to the bone and exhausted. For the last few hours of the ride he had been composing in his head a letter of complaint to Mistress Alice Perrers, insisting on more generous pay for bringing this letter so far. To be fair, she could not have known that Sir William had quit Alnwick Castle to go on patrol with his men up into the Cheviot Hills. Walter had not come prepared for late snow in the higher elevations. He would be laid low with a fever, he had no doubt. The additional funds would compensate for lost income. The money should by rights come from Sir William; but knowing the soldier’s foul temper, Walter preferred to make his complaint to the lady.

Sir William greeted him with a grunt and snatched the letter from his gloved hands, stood with his back to the tent opening, examining the seal by what little daylight there was. ‘Good.’ He broke the seal, read with the squint and moving lips of one who does not read with ease. Walter, curious what business the King’s mistress might have with the handsome but surly soldier, moved closer in hopes of reading the man’s lips.

Too late. A snort. ‘Women. Always fretting over things they don’t understand. Huh. I’ve dealt with worse.’ Wyndesore glanced up through heavy brows, noticed Walter’s intent gaze. ‘Still here, are you?’

Walter cleared his throat. ‘A matter of supplies, Sir William. I had not provisioned for a mountain journey …’

‘Alan! Give the messenger what he requires. I’ll not have him dying in the mountains. He’s served me well.’

Rising to follow the squire, Walter bobbed his head at Sir William. ‘God speed, Sir William.’

‘Aye. Off with you, now.’

As they picked their way through the slush to the cook’s tent, Alan asked, ‘The letter you carried. From Mistress Perrers?’

‘Aye.’

Alan nodded. ‘I am glad he’s sending you off with supplies. That bodes well for us all.’

Walter could imagine life in camp with a commander such as Wyndesore.

After Matthew had cleaned Ned’s wound and bandaged it as best he could, Ned had dosed himself with some wine and lain down to nap. ‘Keep your eyes on the edge of the wood, Matthew. They will come from there if they come.’

But they did not. Bardolph and Crofter had ridden in straight from the road, bold as could be. By the time Matthew had spotted them setting up camp, he and Ned could no longer slip out of the house without being seen.

Ned cursed Matthew as he struggled to the mossy hole that had once been a window. But seeing the activity, he shrugged. ‘They may not know how close we are, just thought to stop early tonight. This could be where we carry out the plan, Matthew, if Owen and the others are riding right behind them. We must be prepared for battle.’

They retreated into the shadows and ate some dried meat, drank enough wine to quench their thirst, no more, and then settled in to wait. The daylight faded. Ned crept back to the lookout. A small campfire lit the twilight. There was but one figure sitting beside it.

‘I am much afraid we have eased ourselves into a trap, Matthew.’ Ned drew his daggers. ‘Come. Let us use the shadows to our advantage.’

As Owen and his companions drew near the derelict farmhouse, Alfred rode on ahead to scout. The three had caught sight of what appeared to be a substantial campfire, guessed that perhaps the King’s men were upon them.

As he rode closer, Alfred’s uneasiness mounted. He had to fight not to cough in the smoky air; it was no mere campfire up ahead. Dismounting and tethering his horse at the edge of the wood, he put a cloth to his face and crept among the tumbledown farm buildings to the farmhouse. As the lopsided ruin came into view he halted, crossed himself. The bonfire was heaped before the door; a fire built with a base layer of dry wood and plenty of it, creating enough heat now to burn damp wood, making a smoky, slow-burning fire. The sort used to smoke someone out of an enclosed space. As Alfred watched, the rotting wood round the door caught fire.

Feeding the flames was the black-robed Don Paulus.

Alfred ducked behind an outbuilding. Somewhere before him, most likely in the house, he could hear the terrified horses.

With a pounding heart, Alfred crept back to his horse and led it into the wood where he mounted and galloped back to Owen and Michaelo.

With cautious, exploring steps Owen and Michaelo crept through the dark wood. Alfred had gone round the front, his mission to incapacitate Don Paulus, then soak a blanket in the pond by the outbuildings and throw it upon the fire. For Owen the way was doubly difficult; a man with both eyes has poor sight at night, but a man with a single eye is almost as good as blind. And with the increasing smoke, the one eye must blink far too often. Michaelo was soon way ahead of Owen. How odd to depend on Thoresby’s secretary to assist him in saving Ned. Owen pressed a damp cloth to his nose and mouth as the smoke thickened. Sweet Heaven. Let them find the bloody bastards before Ned died of a lung full of hellfire.

Michaelo had paused, his hands out, palms up. Owen hurried towards him. They were now at the edge of the clearing directly behind the house. It was a nightmare scene, the ruin haloed in firelight which weirdly illuminated the billowing smoke. The crisp crackle of the blaze was shattered now and again by the cries of the terrified horses within.

‘Step out farther,’ Michaelo said.

As Owen did, he understood Michaelo’s stance. It had begun to rain. A good, steady rain. ‘Let us pray it is enough to slow the fire.’

‘Two men,’ Michaelo said, pointing to a darkness Owen could not yet make out, his eye still affected by glancing at the fire.

They edged forward cautiously, staying within the thickest smoke. Blinking rapidly, Owen now made out the two figures, one on either side of a yawning opening through which the flames were visible.

‘The bastards await Ned and Matthew.’

Michaelo crossed himself. ‘And their horses.’

Suddenly a horse rushed from the opening, knocking over one of the men in its desperate escape. ‘Now!’ Owen shouted, pushing forward. ‘Get the one on the ground.’

Owen leapt aside as the second horse came crashing through a burning wall. Mud splashed up at him as he landed in a puddle. He looked up, kicked out in time to trip a man lunging for him. Grabbing the muddy figure, Owen rolled him over, wincing as he discovered the man’s dagger. He knelt on the man’s gut and snapped the wrist to the ground, grabbed the knife, held it at the man’s throat.

A groan. ‘You’ve broken my arm.’

Only then did Owen know his opponent. ‘Only your wrist, Crofter.’ The man’s throat was tempting; but Crofter had much talking to do. ‘Is Townley still in the house?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Crofter spat in Owen’s eye.

Owen slid the knife across the throat more gently than he would have liked, then shifted his weight to the knee on Crofter’s groin, dug in, grinning at the curses Crofter spewed forth.

Nearby someone was winding a rope round an inert body. Owen prayed it was Bardolph on the ground.

Once Brother Michaelo had landed on the fallen man, he hesitated. It had been so long since he had indulged in a brawl he was uncertain what should be his next move. The man moaned, clutched his head. Michaelo reached down, found the rock the man’s head had struck when he fell. Lifting it high, he brought it down at the nape of the man’s neck with a prayer of thanks that God had shown him the way.

After Michaelo had bound the unconscious man, he limped over to assist Owen — Bardolph’s struggle had bruised the monk in muscles he’d forgotten he had.

The King’s men complained when they paused only briefly at twilight to refresh themselves.

‘We must move ahead,’ Rufus said. ‘There’s a storm coming, and a scent upon the air I do not like.’

He sent the scouts forward with less rest than the others. They returned shortly with news of a friar lying in front of a burning house and two horses crashing through the wood.

When they reached Don Paulus, he did not at first respond to their presence. At last he lifted his head, trembling. There was dried blood on his forehead. Geoff helped the friar rise, but the poor man fell on one leg and cried out, ‘God bless you, men, but they’ve done for me. Leave me. Find the two who did this to me. God would wish you to stop them before they injure another innocent soul.’

‘Where are they?’ Rufus asked.

Don Paulus closed his eyes, pressed his forehead gingerly. ‘Behind the house.’

Leaving a skin of wine for the wounded friar, Rufus led his men round the burning house.

The rain came down hard now, finally waking Alfred. He groaned, rolled over, coughed until his lungs burned.

‘You’ll feel better now.’ Someone knelt beside him in the damp straw, handing him a bucket. ‘It’s rain water. Drink all you can.’

Captain Townley. Alfred tried to say the name, managed a croak.

‘No talking. Just drink. You swallowed too much smoke wrestling with the friar.’

Alfred grabbed the bucket and drank. ‘Must help them,’ he managed to whisper after enough water.

‘All is well, Alfred. The King’s men have come. Matthew’s helping Owen and Michaelo. So just drink deep and save yourself. You did a good night’s work.’

Upwind from the fire Owen stood guard over the trussed-up men. Nearby, Rufus’s men were setting up camp for the night. Suddenly two pairs of boots approached.

Owen peered from beneath the rain-heavy cloak he held over his head to shield his eye from the smoke and the steady downpour. He groaned to see Ralph and Curan. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘We ride with the King’s men, as is proper. Where’s Townley?’

‘Somewhere nearby, I hope. Do you still think him guilty? After what Wyndesore’s men have done this night?’

‘This proves only that they want Townley dead,’ Curan said. ‘And if he murdered Gervase and Henry, we mean to succeed where they failed.’ He moved close to Ralph.

Rufus, sensing trouble, slogged through the ashy mud, shouted to Ralph and Curan to fetch the friar, find him some shelter while the rest searched for the missing men. The two went off grumbling.

‘Captain Archer. I would speak with you and your companions in my tent.’ Rufus motioned two of his men forward. ‘They will guard Wyndesore’s men now.’

Owen, Brother Michaelo, and Matthew followed him without protest, eager to be out of the rain for a while.

‘What happened here? Why had you separated?’ Rufus demanded.

‘Townley and his second left us at Bishopthorpe to lure Bardolph and Crofter after them,’ Owen said.

‘Why?’

‘He is convinced they committed the murders of which he’s accused, and now they are after him.’

‘Why?’

Good God. What could Owen say? ‘Politics. Some trouble between Lancaster and Clarence.’

Rufus grunted. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He turned to Matthew. ‘Where is your captain?’

Matthew looked pathetic, with a filthy bandage holding up a broken arm and half his hair burned to a stubble. ‘He dragged Captain Archer’s man away from the fire, into one of the outbuildings. Too much smoke.’

‘And now he’s bolted, no doubt.’

‘Permit us to search for him,’ Owen said quietly.

Rufus grunted. ‘Nay. I’ll put my men to it. I want Townley bound. Curan is right, what Wyndesore’s men have done does not prove Townley’s innocence.’

Michaelo stepped forward, managing his usual haughty dignity even with muddy clothes, a split lip, and a pronounced limp. ‘I have papers from the Lord Chancellor entrusting Captain Townley to Captain Archer.’

Rufus studied Michaelo. ‘I thought I knew you. The chancellor’s secretary.’

Michaelo gave a little bow.

‘So where are these papers?’

‘Back with my horse.’

Rufus nodded at Michaelo. ‘So it was the chancellor plotted to make a fool of me?’

‘His Grace means to see that Townley has the opportunity to clear himself.’

‘It is for the King to decide that. We shall escort your party to Windsor.’

‘I have no objection to that,’ Owen said. ‘But I ask you to allow Captain Townley to ride unshackled.’

Rufus shrugged. ‘If we find him. But you will have charge of him.’

‘We shall find him. And I shall watch him.’

Rufus nodded. ‘He would not slip away easily.’ He gestured towards some camp stools round a makeshift table. ‘Sit, have some wine. It has been a long night; it will be longer still.’

Shortly after the wine was poured, Ned appeared with Alfred, each seemingly propping the other upright.

‘Your men are about to come through and announce the flight of Don Paulus,’ Ned said. He leaned against a tent post, closed his eyes, caught his breath. Alfred unceremoniously sank to the ground, wheezing.

By morning it was established that Don Paulus had slipped away with his horse and those of Bardolph and Crofter.

‘And how to decide what direction?’ Rufus rubbed his cold hands over the fire outside his tent and yawned. ‘He is not our concern. We must forget him, head for Windsor.’

Though Ned cursed, Owen realised that Rufus was right. ‘As far as we know, Don Paulus has committed no crimes, has sought merely to save his own neck.’

‘He fed the fire, the bastard,’ Alfred protested.

‘We cannot know whether he did it willingly or under duress,’ Rufus said. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to ask him before you beat him?’