King's Bishop

Five

Ned spent the days before departure banished to his small room. For your safety, Wyndesore had explained. For his safety. Hah! Sir William meant to torture him. Ned had gone to Brother Michaelo in the hope that Chancellor Thoresby might intercede and recommend his freedom, but the secretary told him it was in his best interest to stay away from Wyndesore’s angry men. In truth, Michaelo’s behaviour towards him had been less than courteous. Everyone condemned Ned despite Mistress Perrers’s testimony that he was with Mary the night of Daniel’s death.

So Ned spent his days practising with his daggers, throwing them at a straw target until his wrists and eyes ached. Or staring out of his small, unglazed window at St George’s Chapel and especially the yard before it, where men bustled about their tasks with the confidence that God was pleased with their industry. As Ned gazed out on the life in the lower ward he thought back over the past few weeks, examining his behaviour towards Mary and Daniel. Gradually he came to see that his misery was his own fault. It was true that time and again he had discovered Daniel sitting with Mary when he’d gone to call, but he had seen no embraces, no fond touching, no meaningful looks. It was not until after he had lost his temper several times that Mary and Daniel had seemed at all uncomfortable about his finding them together.

Ned had to see Mary before he left, to beg her forgiveness, to ask whether there was any hope for him. Twice he sneaked to her quarters, twice she refused to see him. How could she be so cruel? Was not his beloved to stand beside him when all deserted him?

And then, miracle of miracles, Mary appeared at Ned’s door the afternoon before he was to leave.

‘Mary! Sweet Heaven, I am glad to see you.’ Ned dropped down to his knees, wrapped his arms round her legs before she had time to back away. ‘Mary, my love, forgive me for my foolish jealousy. It was only that I could not imagine a man looking on you and not wanting you as I do. I should have listened to you. I vow I shall be your obedient servant all the rest of my days.’

Mary smoothed his hair. She had the gentlest touch. ‘Peace, my love. Peace,’ she whispered.

My love! Ned rose and, cupping her lovely face in his hands, looked deep into Mary’s eyes. ‘You love me?’

‘You know that I do.’

‘You turned me away, Mary. Twice! I could never tum you away.’

Her sweet eyes swam with tears. ‘Oh, Ned, I have been so miserable!’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

Blessed Mary, Mother of God, thank you for hearing my prayers. Ned covered Mary’s face with kisses. Then, holding her close to him, he edged slowly backwards, drawing her into his room.

Breathlessly, she whispered, ‘I must not stay long. Mistress Alice will miss me.’

‘Just a little while, my love,’ Ned begged as he closed the door with his foot. He let her go, brought the lamp closer to see her.

Mary pushed back the hood of her cloak, shook out her hair. The dark cloud fell softly round her face, tumbled about her white shoulders, which were partially bared by her low-cut gown — his favourite silk. It whispered at her slightest move and gave off her exquisite scent. ‘Say but that you shall remain at Windsor and all is forgiven,’ she whispered, moving towards him.

Bless her innocent heart that beat so softly under those white, white breasts. Ned had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘Sweet Mary, would that I might say yes. Ask me anything else. But I cannot stay; I am ordered north on the King’s business. I must go.’ He reached for her hands.

Mary hid them behind her back. Her face was flushed. ‘Is that truly the only reason you go?’

‘What other reason could there be?’ Ned could think of none.

‘That you fear what Daniel’s friends might do to you.’

Ned’s heart sank. Still she gnawed on that bone between them. ‘You know that is not so, Mary. I am no saint, but neither am I a coward. I do not run from my troubles. In better times you worried that I was incautious.’

Mary bit her lip, which Ned read as a hopeful sign that she was listening. ‘I think the King is sending you away to protect you,’ she said, ‘because Mistress Alice told His Grace that you could not have followed Daniel from the hall that night.’

‘That may be His Grace’s reason, but not mine.’

‘Then stay.’ Mary said it with a thrust of her chin, challenging him. ‘Do not let the King make you act the coward.’

Would that Ned might accept the challenge. He gently pressed Mary’s shoulders. ‘Please, Mary, let us not argue. I must obey the King; I am in his service.’

Mary retreated from him. ‘You are in the service of the Duke of Lancaster.’

Ned nodded. ‘And the Duke left me here at court to learn from and serve the King, his father. Now the King has need of me. The Duke would expect me to obey.’

Mary turned away from Ned, stood with one hand to her chin.

‘Mary?’ Ned whispered.

She tossed her hair, took a deep breath, spun round prettily on her slipper, her silk rustling. ‘Perhaps I can change your orders.’

Ned grinned. ‘You, Mary? And how would you do that?’

She stood quite straight, her hands clasped behind her. ‘Mistress Alice might intercede for us. I shall tell her I cannot bear to be separated from you.’

In her innocence she was but a child. ‘You have forgotten what your mistress thinks of me. She would never succumb to such a plot. She does not support our union. In truth, it may be Mistress Alice who suggested me for this mission. And once I am away up north she will distract you with a more suitable man. A nice, elderly knight who can provide for you.’

Tears swam in Mary’s pretty eyes, her lower lip trembled. ‘I do not want an elderly knight. I would hate that.’

‘People would consider such a man more suitable for you, Mary. Far better than a young spy with neither land nor title.’

Mary’s tears flowed freely now. She wiped them away angrily. ‘You must not go, Ned!’

‘I must, Mary. And it will not be the last time you must accept my absence. If we wed, you must reconcile yourself to a life of separations. As Lancaster’s man I shall often be called away. It is the nature of my work.’

Mary crossed her arms, stomped a pretty foot, hung her head.

Ned stood there stupidly, hands at his sides, wondering how to proceed. Suddenly, in the gathering quiet, he saw Mary shiver, heard a trembling intake of breath. In one stride he had her in his arms.

‘Mary, my dearest love,’ he whispered, ‘I shall return. Never doubt it. With you waiting for me, I could not do otherwise. And when I return we shall be wed.’

She looked up into his eyes. ‘But how long, Ned? How long must you be away?’

He squeezed her hard. ‘Oh, my sweetness, my love.’

Mary clung to Ned. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, drew it off her, tilted her head back. Her tears had stopped. Her mouth parted. He kissed her hungrily. Soon he held her soft, naked body in his arms.

‘I am afraid,’ Mary whispered, pressing herself against him. ‘Oh, Ned, I am so afraid.’

‘You have nothing to fear, my love. I would never hurt you.’

*

Ned woke to the sound of someone quietly weeping. Disoriented, he glanced round, discovered Mary lying beside him with her hands over her eyes. ‘Mary, my love. I am not yet gone. Do not weep while we are so happy.’ He gathered her into his arms. ‘Do you not know how much I love you? Do you doubt that I shall return to you?’

She kissed his chin. ‘I do not doubt you, Ned.’

‘Then what is it?’

She did not answer at once. ‘I shall be so alone without you.’

‘And I without you, my love. But soon we shall be together always.’

‘But while you are gone, Ned. What about while you are gone? Am I strong enough to stand up to Mistress Alice and her ambitions for me?’

‘You have stood up to her so far, my love. I have not played your protector in this. She thinks it beneath her to speak to me.’

Mary sat up with a sigh. ‘I weary of butting heads with Mistress Alice.’

Ned pushed himself up on one elbow, touched a finger to Mary’s cheek, catching a tear on the tip of his finger. ‘You are a strong woman, Mary.’

She attempted a smile, with modest results. ‘Ned, my love. Are you certain that Daniel’s death was truly an accident?’

Ned fell back on to the pillows with a groan. That again! ‘You know I did not do it!’

‘No, no, please, Ned, what I mean is — well, do you believe it was an accident?’ She leaned over him, her hair caressing him. Her eyes did not smile now, nor did they weep. She was quite serious.

Ned wearied of Daniel, even in death. He put a hand over his eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mary. They said he drowned. They accused me of murder. That is all I know for certain.’

Mary lay down facing him, propping her head up on one elbow. ‘Why would it have occurred to them to accuse you? Why did they not assume at once that it had been an accident? Folk drown all the time.’

‘It was because of our argument in the hall. I threatened him. Meaning naught by it, I swear. But I did threaten him — with the daggers.’

‘I have heard no talk of knife wounds,’ Mary said, ‘nor wounds of any sort.’ She grew quiet.

Ned stole a peek at Mary. She was biting her lip, deep in thought. ‘What is it?’

‘He did drown, didn’t he?’

‘I did not see his body.’ Ned stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. ‘Why does it worry you so?’

‘I — ’ Mary looked confused.

Immediately suspicious, Ned grabbed her shoulders. ‘What was between you?’

‘Nothing! For the love of God, Ned, I am fearful because if he was murdered, whoever did it might be in the castle. And I am in the castle. And when you leave, I’ve no one to protect me. No one to run to if I’m frightened.’

Ned pulled her to him, hugged her hard. ‘You have nothing to fear, Mary. You are in the King’s court, under Mistress Alice’s protection. You will be quite safe.’

Alice Perrers returned from an exhausting morning with the ailing Queen to find her bed unmade, her chamber not yet aired.

The elegant Mistresses Cecily and Isabeau sat near the window using the daylight for their embroidery.

‘Where is Mary?’ Alice demanded of them.

Mistress Cecily rolled her eyes. ‘Whimpering on her bed … my lady.’ Cecily always paused on the last two words. It rankled her to serve Alice, who was of lesser birth than she. But as the King’s mistress, mother of his bastard son, Alice must be treated with respect. It was the King himself who had insisted on Alice’s serving women calling her ‘lady’.

‘On her bed? At midday?’

Cecily and Isabeau dropped their eyes to their embroidery, tittering at poor Mary’s misfortune. Their needles did not move. Alice had no doubt they had sat there all the while in their elegant silk gowns and gossiped.

‘Mary is worth ten of you, you lazy ornaments!’ Alice hissed as she left the room. What had Queen Phillippa been thinking when she’d asked Alice to take them into her chambers?

Mary was different. She had been Alice’s choice, an orphan like herself, only two years younger. Alice trusted Mary, understood her lot in life. Ned Townley had upset the balance. He had been warned to stay away, but the damnable man had kept returning, swearing his undying love, turning Mary’s pretty head.

Well, if one considered a handsome man with pretty speech an ideal knight, Ned was that, and more. Lancaster would never have trained him as a spy if he were not brave and cunning. But he was a nobody. And would ever be a nobody. His sort never acquired property. Never advanced in rank beyond captain. Already it was plain that what little money Ned made he squandered on clothes. It was true he had an eye for colour and fabric, but clothes did not appreciate in value. Mary deserved better. Mary required better.

Alice found Mary sitting in a dark, airless room. She threw open the shutters. ‘For pity’s sake, Mary, how can you breathe?’

Mary blinked, then held her hands before her eyes to shield them from the sudden light. ‘Forgive me, mistress.’

Alice knelt down, lifted Mary’s face towards the light, pushing her hair back from her face. ‘Mon Dieu, what a pitiful sight!’ Mary’s lovely face was swollen and red, her eyes bloodshot. ‘Enough of this, Mary! I will stand no more. You must put your knife-thrower out of your mind. I have plans for you.’

Mary twisted out of Alice’s grasp. ‘I shall wed no one but Ned.’

Alice sat back on her heels. ‘You little fool. You do not understand your fortune. I know what it is to be an orphan. I know the uncertainty.’ Her parents had died of the plague the year Alice was born. Until her uncles had devised the plan to educate her and call in favours to establish her at court, she had been brought up by a merchant and his wife, whose own children oft reminded Alice of her temporary status in their home. Alice knew all about uncertainty. She took Mary’s hands in hers. Cold hands. The child was not eating. ‘Trust me, Mary. I want what is best for you. And I can give it to you.’

‘Then help me be with Ned. He loves me and I love him, Mistress Alice. He will take care of me.’

Alice dropped Mary’s hands, rose. ‘For pity’s sake, think, Mary. He has no money but that given him by Lancaster. No house, no land, no name.’

Mary sat up straight, chin jutting forward. ‘Townley is a fine name.’

Heavens but the child’s heart was loyal. Most inconvenient. ‘You are not so simple as that, Mary. You know what I mean. The name brings nothing with it.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘No, not now. And why should you? But you will care soon enough — when the babes come. They must be fed, clothed, kept warm and safe.’

Mary folded her arms across her chest. ‘I shall marry no one but Ned.’

Alice shook her head at the girl’s stubbornness. ‘We shall see about that.’

‘You would treat me as your uncles treated you? You would make me a whore?’

Alice slapped Mary’s face. ‘You do not win an argument with insults. Now get to your chores. I cannot abide slothfulness.’

A whore. Did Mary hear nothing? Alice meant to find a good husband for Mary, not a royal lover.

It was early evening, a time Mary saved for chores that required either thought or space, as Cecily and Isabeau accompanied Mistress Alice to the great hall for supper. The silence of this time of day was a particular blessing. Cecily and Isabeau could not abide silence; they filled any room they inhabited with incessant chatter and the rustle of their lovely clothes as they paced, fidgeted, rearranged, fussed. Ned had often kept Mary company during these quiet hours while she completed her chores, entertaining her with tales of his life of action. Mary must not think of that now, for thoughts of Ned churned up the sea of emotion she was trying to ignore while she finished her work.

Tonight Mary was rearranging Mistress Alice’s gowns and shifts in the wide, shallow chest that allowed the gowns to be laid flat. The contents had shifted when the chest had been moved a few days before. Mary shook out the shifts and shawls, folded them with care and stacked them on a bench; then, one at a time, she lifted the gowns of softest wool, silk, and velvet out of the chest and arranged them on Mistress Alice’s bed. Then one by one she returned the gowns to the chest, lovingly smoothing them with her hands. On top she placed the folded linens, shawls, and stockings.

All the while Mary had been thinking about her plan. Now she knelt down and prayed for courage. It was a brief prayer. She must not dally, else Mistress Alice might return before she was away.

Mary gathered some clothes and sundries and put them in a leather pack. She moved quickly with an efficiency born of Mistress Alice’s frequent impulsive decisions to leave court and move to her house in town. For protection, Mary took the knife Ned had given her, an elegant weapon with an ivory hilt that arched into the neck of a swan. She tucked the knife into her girdle; she wanted it quick to hand in case of trouble. Tonight she was travelling only the length of the King’s castle, but it was dark, and Daniel’s death was on her mind. Best to have a weapon handy.

Now she was ready. Donning her cloak, she bid a silent farewell to her comfortable life and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor.

As she left the protection of the building, Mary pulled up the hood of her cloak and hugged her pack to her for extra warmth. The knife pressed against her hip, giving her a sense of security. Her plan was to stay concealed in Ned’s old room until dawn, then hide near the gate and wait for a party of servants or merchants to mask her departure through the castle gate. She had once thus escaped the castle to meet Ned down on the Thames; it should not be difficult. There was nothing about her appearance to call attention to herself. The journey beyond Windsor would be more difficult, but it was her only hope — to make her way to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary in York, where she knew she would be safe until Ned returned.

Mary stood uncertainly in the dark courtyard of the upper ward, wondering how best to sneak down into the lower ward. To her right loomed the motte and bailey of the Round Tower and the gate through which she usually passed; the gatekeeper knew her and might question her carrying a pack at this time of the evening. She remembered that at the opposite side of the ward, farthest from the river, the builders had cleared a narrow path between the wall and the edge of the ditch, just wide enough for one person pushing a cart of bricks or timber. It was dark there, made darker still by the huge earthwork that blocked out any light from the inhabited parts of the castle wards. Mary shivered as she chose the dark path. It frightened her, but for her plan to succeed she must not be seen.

Early the following morning Sir William of Wyndesore made ready to depart for the Scottish border, where he was to assist in protecting the Marches. Alice did not know why Sir William must leave now, before Easter. She had looked forward to watching him joust. He was impressive in his fearlessness. She could imagine him on the battlefield. Tall, steely eyed.

This morning his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Mary’s had been yesterday. Impetuous Mary. Where could she have gone? Alice had sent Gilbert out at first light to search the castle precinct for her. So far he had found only Mary’s dagger in the lower ward.

‘You are gathering wool, Mistress Alice,’ Wyndesore said.

She shook herself. ‘I am indeed, Sir William. I am remembering a certain strong knight, the firelight reflected in his eyes.’ She handed him his stirrup cup with a smile. ‘Your eyes betray your late night. Perhaps it is best that you leave court. You will get some rest.’

He grinned, took a long drink. ‘You are most generous, Mistress Alice.’

Alice looked round, noticed that Wyndesore’s squire was busy securing one of the pack-horses. ‘Sir William, I must speak to you privately.’

Wyndesore glanced round, nodded, drew her to the side of his horse away from the crowd, gave her waist a little squeeze. ‘Why did you not ask it last night?’

She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close. ‘I did not wish to spoil the evening.’

‘Spoil the evening? What is amiss?’

‘My maid, Mary — she disappeared last night.’

Wyndesore looked unconcerned. ‘She is off keeping a vigil for her lover in some chapel.’

‘No, Sir William. She took clothing. I fear she has gone in pursuit of Ned Townley. His party is far from the castle by now, I should think?’

Wyndesore drank down the wine, handed Alice the cup. ‘Too far for her to catch up, if that is what you ask.’ He gazed off in the distance for a moment, then nodded. ‘So you think she’s gone after him? I suppose it is the sort of thing she might do.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor, foolish girl. If she does not find him, she will find trouble instead.’ He touched Alice’s cheek. ‘I shall keep a watch out for her as we ride north.’

Alice straightened the brooch on Wyndesore’s cloak. ‘Nothing must happen to her, Sir William.’

Wyndesore took Alice by the shoulders, looked her in the eye. ‘She has removed herself from your protection, Mistress Alice. By her own free will. You cannot be to blame if aught happens.’

Alice shook her head. ‘By her own free will, perhaps. But she willed it because I told her that Ned was not good enough for her. I had ambitions for her.’

‘Then she is an ungrateful child. All the more reason why you cannot be to blame.’ Wyndesore touched the tip of Alice’s nose. ‘Forget her, eh?’ He suddenly frowned, cocked his head. ‘’Tis troubling, though, her running away. You said Mary was loyal to you.’

Alice bristled. The touch on the nose was the gesture of a man to a child. ‘She is loyal to me.’

‘More so to Ned Townley.’

Alice shrugged. ‘She is of the age when love for a man blinds a young woman to all else.’

Wyndesore smiled. ‘I cannot imagine you blinded by love!’

‘You are a charmer, Sir William.’

‘And you, Mistress Alice, are not as clever as you think. To run from you is an odd way to show loyalty.’ Wyndesore flicked a finger under Alice’s chin, then moved away from her, prepared to mount.

‘Take care, Sir William,’ Alice said softly. ‘It is a cold, lonely road you travel.’

His glance told her he had heard. She smiled sweetly and waved.

Gilbert continued his search of the castle, asking for news of Mary. Alice waited on Queen Phillippa as usual, but her distracted manner concerned her mistress.

‘What is it, child? What troubles you?’ the Queen asked, leaning forward on her cane.

‘Mary, my maid, disappeared last evening.’

The Queen smiled indulgently. ‘Now, Alice, it is a grand castle and such a dreamer as Mary might lose her way.’

‘I thought of that. But Mary packed clothes, Your Grace. I fear she is running after her lover.’

Now the Queen’s kind face registered concern. ‘Young hearts can be too fond. Too fond. What has been done to find the girl?’

Alice told her of Gilbert’s search and Sir William’s promise to look out for her on the road north.

‘Who is her lover? Where is he?’

‘Ned Townley, one of the men headed north to York on the King’s business.’

The Queen shook her head, her eyes sad. ‘And the child could not stay put. What does she think, that she may travel with her love on the King’s business? Foolish girl.’

Alice dropped her head. ‘I am worried, Your Grace. They argued bitterly over the young man who drowned. What if her lover now rejects her?’

The Queen rested a swollen hand on Alice’s head. ‘My poor child. We waste time. I shall order a full search of the castle and the town.’ The Queen chucked Alice under her chin, kissed her on the forehead. ‘You have a good heart, sweet Alice.’

Oh no, not a good heart. That had been put to rest when Alice’s uncles had taken her from her foster parents and announced that she was to be their key to riches. A good heart would not have come so far, would never have reached the Queen, would never have usurped her in the King’s bed. But sweet Phillippa, born far above Alice’s station, had no need to understand such things.