King's Bishop

Twenty-seven

A chilly dawn rain fell as Wykeham hurried to Winchester Tower in the middle ward. He was acting as confessor to Bardolph and Crofter, condemned for arranging the murders of Daniel and Mary, and carrying out the murders of Don Ambrose, Gervase, and Henry. King Edward thought the councillor’s offer a harmless act of penance for being more disappointed in the outcome of the mission to the Cistercian abbeys than sorry for the deaths. But Wykeham’s motive was morbid curiosity.

To murder three people, arrange for the murders of two others, all for the protection of a lord who, they claimed, knew nothing of these deeds was an act of sublime madness. Had they in good faith believed Wyndesore would wish for such protection? If not, what had inspired such violence? Surely not hatred. They hardly knew their victims. Wykeham could not sleep for the unease the questions aroused.

The guard jerked to his feet, rubbing his eyes, and bowed to Wykeham. He had been nodding, not surprising at this early hour. Wykeham blessed the guard. ‘I am here as confessor to the two men who are to die tomorrow.’

The guard shook his head. ‘They be murderin’ thieves, Domine. Have a care.’

As he gingerly descended the narrow stone stairs, Wykeham wondered what lie the guard had been told; the entire business was still shrouded in mystery, the King still insistent that the marriage of Perrers and Wyndesore be kept a secret.

The guard stopped at a heavy door, used a large key to open it. ‘I shall stand guard, Domine. Call out if they give you trouble.’

Wykeham bowed his tall frame through the low doorway, rose cautiously; his head brushed the ceiling while he yet bent forward. Awkward for a tall man. He wondered who had designed this tower; had it been intended for a prison? Was the low ceiling part of the punishment?

Lifting the lantern to shoulder height, he saw that the condemned men lay at opposite ends of the small room, each asleep on a pile of clean straw. One stirred as the light shone on him. Crofter. The other remained still. A table with two stools stood between them, on it a pitcher and cups, bowls, spoons, and an oil lamp. The men were neither chained nor bound. Wykeham wondered who had seen to their decent treatment — it was comfortable for a dungeon.

‘Who goes there?’ Crofter demanded, struggling to rise.

‘Sir William of Wykeham, come to hear your confession.’

‘We have confessed already.’

‘I am here to shrive you.’

‘The King’s man? Are we such important prisoners, then?’

‘All men’s souls are important to the Lord.’

‘But not the King? Or is His Grace curious? Wants to hear how we grovel?’

Wykeham paid him no heed; the man had cause to be bitter, taking the blame for crimes he may have been ordered to commit. ‘You might confess to me in private before your friend wakens.’

‘We have no secrets, Bardolph and me.’ Crofter glanced towards Bardolph. ‘Still. He isn’t waking.’ He shrugged, rose to his knees, folded his hands. ‘I confess to those sins for which I stand accused.’

‘Do you feel remorse for your sins, Crofter?’

‘I do.’

‘Then why did you commit them?’

Crofter squinted at Wykeham, puzzled. ‘I judged it my duty, sir.’

This had been his claim throughout the past days. He never varied in his explanation. ‘Had Sir William ever ordered you to perform such a task?’

‘He knew naught of this. I’ve said that.’

‘I understand that Wyndesore knew nothing of your scheme, but were there other occasions when he asked you to risk your salvation? Something to convince you he would condone such a solution?’

Crofter shrugged. ‘We are soldiers, sir. ’Tis the sort of thing we do. Only difference is whether the Church has blessed the act, seems to me.’

Wykeham crossed himself.

‘Ever kill a man, sir?’

‘No. God has spared me that need.’

Crofter nodded. ‘That is why you cannot see it. Duty. A soldier’s duty is to defend by force.’

Wykeham wondered who had put that simple-minded idea in the man’s head. ‘Your comrade did not appear to agree with you when he begged forgiveness of the Archdeacon of York.’

Crofter shrugged. ‘Bardolph has ever been a worrier. Not cowardly, mind you. Just thinks too much. Perhaps he asked forgiveness in case we were wrong to protect Sir William in such a way. But you must ask him.’ Crofter rose, stooping slightly under the low ceiling, shuffled over to his mate. ‘Bardolph. Chaplain has come. He’s an important man. He won’t wait.’ Crofter shook his inert friend. Bardolph did not move. ‘Bardolph, did you hear me? Bardolph!’

Alarmed, Wykeham joined Crofter, touched Bardolph’s neck, his wrist, felt no flutter of life. The flesh was cold. He had been a fool not to question the deep sleep. ‘Has he been ill?’

Crofter met Wykeham’s eyes, shrugged. ‘He’s been sweating a lot. Wakeful. ’Tis why I was relieved he slept so sound.’

‘Sweating and wakeful?’

‘Aye. Frightened of dying, frightened of the fires of Hell.’ A deep breath. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘I fear he is. Though not long dead.’ Wykeham shone the lantern on Bardolph, turned his shaggy head this way and that, examined his arms. He saw no obvious signs of violence. The man seemed as if resting peacefully.

But Crofter was too quiet, too calm for a man who had just discovered a friend’s death. Nor would he raise his eyes to Wykeham’s. The privy councillor sent for Owen Archer.

Owen stood at the window staring out between the iron bars to the grey May sky. Rain drummed on the grill; the damp seeped through the chinks in the stone and glistened on the walls like a fine sweat. ‘I once considered myself exiled.’

‘But it is not the same thing at all, is it?’ Ned said wearily. ‘You could return to Wales.’

‘What were the odds, eh?’

‘As high as the odds of my being pardoned, I suppose.’

Owen turned towards his friend, watched as Ned paced back and forth from corner to corner of the tiny cell, working the stiffness from his joints. Tomorrow he must leave for Dover; he would have three days to make his way there and take ship. After that he was an outlaw, subject to immediate execution if caught in the kingdom. It would be a hard ride, with only enough money to buy his way on to a ship as crew. ‘From Lancaster’s spy to this. You’ve been a fool, my friend.’

Ned stopped in front of Owen, grabbed his friend’s shoulders, squeezed them. ‘I did what I felt honour-bound to do. For Mary. I only regret that I involved you and your family. And that the King won’t grant me a few moments at Mary’s grave.’

Owen looked away from the intensely sad eyes. ‘I tried.’

‘I know you did, my friend. I’ll never forget all you’ve done.’

Owen had attempted to sneak Ned out in Alfred’s clothes, but the guards were too well-trained.

‘Where will you go?’

‘Where the wind takes me.’

Forcing himself to meet his friend’s eyes, Owen clasped Ned’s still upraised arms. ‘I shall miss you, despite the fool’s chase you led me.’

Their arms fell away.

Ned resumed his pacing. ‘Neither of her wounds were serious.’

‘It was the threat, not the wounds, Ned. And she protested the King’s initial sentence.’ The King had ordered Ned beheaded, but Alice Perrers had begged for clemency.

‘Aye, she did that. But what of Wyndesore? What will he pay for this?’

Owen turned back to the iron-crossed sky. ‘His men have sworn he knew nothing of their effort to protect him.’

‘He does not deserve her. She is a brave, elegant lady,’ Ned said, sounding wistful.

‘Mistress Perrers?’

‘Aye. Have you ever seen such courage?’

The dreamy look in Ned’s eyes cheered Owen a little. It was more like the Ned he had known as an archer. ‘You said you no longer thought of women.’

Ned shrugged. ‘She liked you. ’Twas plain in those cat eyes of hers.’

‘No doubt she would have looked kindly on anyone come to rescue her.’

‘You deny it for Lucie’s sake?’

Owen laughed. ‘Will you write from exile to tell her?’

A rap on the door. ‘Message for Captain Archer,’ the guard called out.

‘Important man, you are, my friend.’

Owen opened the door.

‘Sir William of Wykeham asks that you come right away, Captain. He found Bardolph dead in his cell.’

‘Murdered?’ Owen asked.

‘The messenger did not say.’

Ned crossed himself. ‘Some hasten their own end, fearing the axe.’

Owen shook his head. ‘In Bardolph’s case I very much doubt it. He was worried for his soul. I doubt he would take his own life.’

‘Crofter?’

‘I am sure of it. Those cold eyes. Let us pray it was less painful than what the King planned.’

‘I cannot share your concern for his comfort.’

Bardolph’s body had been moved to a room with more light. Wykeham greeted Owen, beckoned him over to the table where Bardolph lay. ‘I doubt he died unaided, Captain Archer. But I find no marks about him.’

‘Poison?’

Wykeham shrugged. ‘I have no training in such things. But as your wife is a master apothecary and you have studied the craft, I hoped you might tell.’

‘Only in the case of some poisons is there aught to see, Sir William. And only a foolish man uses such poisons, or a man who need not worry about being punished. But Bardolph’s behaviour and appearance before he died might tell us something.’

‘His comrade said he was sweating and wakeful.’

‘Do you trust Crofter?’

Wykeham grimaced. ‘He seems too calm about the death of his comrade.’

Owen nodded, turned to look Wykeham in the eye. ‘The King’s surgeon might be more knowledgeable in this.’

Wykeham dropped his eyes to his folded hands. ‘We wish to keep this matter as quiet as possible, Captain.’

Adam poured wine for three, set the flagon in front of Thoresby, and departed. Thoresby nodded to Owen and Wykeham, who lifted their mazers. ‘May God grant an end to this plague of murders with Crofter’s death at dawn,’ Thoresby said, ‘though he be guilty only of poor judgement in his loyalty.’ The three drank.

Owen put the mazer down before his thirst was quenched. It was after compline and he must yet tell the chancellor and the councillor what he had learned in an exhausting day of poking and prodding guards and comrades of Bardolph and Crofter. He must stay awake.

‘Shall we ever know the truth of it, Captain?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen glanced up at the councillor to see whether he meant the question in jest; surely he understood by now that the truth was not meant to be known. But the heavy-lidded eyes held no guile. ‘Crofter has ceased to speak to anyone. Neither he nor Bardolph shared confidences with their other comrades, or if they did they frightened them into silence. I did learn this: Crofter’s wife has received the deed for a sizeable property in the fens to hold for her eldest son’s maturity, property that formerly belonged to the Wyndesore family. It is said that Wyndesore did not wish the family to suffer for Crofter’s sins.’

‘He did not wish Crofter to reveal his orders before he died, more like.’ Thoresby said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Owen wondered when Thoresby had aged so. His lids crinkled over his deep-set eyes, he had jowls, though his face had little flesh elsewhere.

Wykeham seemed quite young in contrast. His face was unlined, his eyes were clear and earnest. ‘And Bardolph’s family? Has Wyndesore provided for them?’

‘He had none.’

‘Ah.’ Wykeham sat back in his seat, frowning slightly.

Thoresby nodded. ‘He could not be bought, who had no heirs.’

‘What did you learn from the guards about Bardolph’s condition in his last days?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen allowed himself another sip of wine. ‘They describe him as by turns quiet and frantic, wrapped in blankets with chills and then suddenly throwing them off and crying that he could not breathe, the air was too heavy. I am unsure what he was being fed, but I’ve little doubt he was receiving or had received a slow poison. I witnessed the sweating, thought it fear.’

‘A poison administered by Crofter?’ Thoresby asked.

‘That is my guess, but we’ll never know for certain. As I said, Crofter is suddenly dumb.’

‘You searched Crofter and the room?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘I found nothing. Of course.’

‘But you thought he had been ill with fear.’

‘But now he’s dead. And the men had been travelling with Don Paulus, who is known in some quarters as a herbalist who asks no questions. It is curious that the friar survived his journey with Crofter and Bardolph. Others were not so fortunate.’

‘Have they found Don Paulus?’ Wykeham asked.

‘No.’

‘They must continue to search.’

‘To what end?’ Thoresby demanded, pressing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. ‘He will not speak. Why should he? What would he gain?’

‘We must know whether Crofter poisoned Bardolph,’ Wykeham insisted.

‘For Heaven’s sake, give it up!’ Thoresby cried. ‘No one wishes to know that but you. Bardolph would have been dead come morning. What does it matter if the man who was to die with him hastened the end for him? How would we know whether it was out of fear of exposure or charity? Eh? Speculation. All speculation. We have no proof. We shall never have any proof.’ Thoresby nodded to Owen. ‘You look weary to the bone. I shall keep you no longer.’

‘Weary I am,’ Owen said, rising. He wondered at the Archbishop’s outburst, but not so much that he wished to linger.

After Owen had taken his leave, Thoresby refilled his mazer, passed the flagon to Wykeham. ‘You must pardon my temper. It comes of frustration.’ He shook his head as Wykeham began to reply. ‘The King has commanded me to cease my probing. He wishes for some peace. He will hear no more of this.’

‘Because of Prince Edward’s illness?’

‘Aye. The Queen is concerned by Lancaster’s report that the Prince cannot rise from his bed, though the Prince himself sends word that he is well, recovering as quickly as ever.’

‘It is fortunate that Lancaster is with his brother so we may know the truth.’

‘Fortunate? To frighten the Queen when she is herself so ill?’ Had Thoresby been Phillippa’s son, he would have kept the worry from her. But he did not care to discuss the Queen with Wykeham. ‘I understand you volunteered to be confessor to the condemned men, Sir William.’

Wykeham sat with flagon in hand, one finger tracing the intricate silverwork on the lid. Eyes still on the flagon, he said quietly, ‘I beg you to forgive my accusation that you meant to trick me out of the chancellor’s chain. I feel ill tonight, thinking of six lives lost for an ageing King’s vanity and a soldier’s plotting.’ Slowly, as if fearful it would shatter, Wykeham rested the flagon on the table. He lifted his mazer, raised his eyes to Thoresby. ‘You came to me in friendship and I mistrusted you. May God bless you, my Lord Chancellor, and forgive me for my ignorance.’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘There is no need for forgiveness. What man would welcome the revelation that the jewel he had just won in an honest, exhausting contest had a flaw that rendered it worthless?’

Wykeham’s head shot up. ‘Worthless? Hardly that. Requiring cautious handling, perhaps, but not worthless. I seek to influence the King for the good. His reign has been glorious; it shall be again.’

Thoresby found Wykeham absurdly idealistic for one who had been at court so long. Sadly, he recognised much of himself in the councillor. He was vain. Naïve. Thoresby despaired. There would be no enlightenment for Wykeham. He would push through to the chancellorship. He would work hard, hoping to ensure that justice was served. And slowly, after years of puzzling over the King’s judgements, he would realise how personal were Edward’s decisions, how he saw the law as his to bend and form to his taste. And when the King detected the sorrow in Wykeham’s eyes, the disapproving purse of his lips, he would find another ambitious, clever man, acquire for him a bishopric, and transfer the chain.

‘What saddens you?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I have been foolish. I thought to save you. But you will not be saved.’