King's Bishop

Seven

The afternoon sun brightened the solar and Alice hummed as she dressed. She liked it best here, her small house by the Thames. Though it was close to the river and wattle and daub above the first storey, the house seemed warmer than her chambers in Windsor Castle. Perhaps it was the absence of watchful eyes and incessant whispers. Here she could quietly enjoy the fruits of her labours.

Though Alice hummed, she was not gay. She awaited the King, who was coming to see their son John and to discuss the boy’s education. He had chosen a household for John in which the boy would be tutored and brought up as a gentleman. Alice did not like parting from her son — he was but two years old. But he was the King’s son, bastard or no, and must be raised properly.

Lifting John from his play in the sunbeam, Alice cleaned his face and then carried him to the window. From her vantage point on the second storey, she spied a cart clattering up the slope from the river, driven by a man in the livery of the castle guards. In the cart was a draped bundle the shape of a body. A fisherman followed, his head bowed, his gait melancholy. Beside him walked William of Wykeham. Alice crossed herself. A week past, Mary’s pack had been found down by the river. Since then Alice had waited in dreadful certainty.

As Alice watched the curious procession, the King’s party drew up beside them. Wykeham hurried to the King, who leaned from his saddle with a grave face. Handing John to his nurse, Alice hurried from her private chamber down the ladder to the parlour. ‘The King and his privy councillor are without, Gilbert,’ she called to her servant. ‘Invite them in.’

Alice called to Katie to bring John. The child fussed as his nurse lifted him. He preferred to descend the ladder from the solar by himself. But it would not do to greet the King in ripped and soiled clothes. In the end, John discovered that Katie’s arms were a perfect launch for leaping into the outthrust arms of King Edward as he entered with his company and William of Wykeham.

‘Praise God, what a strapping fine lad!’ the King roared, throwing back his head and laughing. John’s chubby hands clasped the King’s wool-clad shoulders.

Alice stood back, taking in the sight. Her son was as fair as his father had once been, pale blond hair, hazel eyes, a straight body, long in the limbs. You could see John was a Plantagenet. He had a promising future, for the King doted on him. And she would ensure that future while the affection lasted. For the King could be inconstant in his affections.

Edward spun round with John, who giggled and hung on to his father’s beard.

Wykeham cleared his throat. ‘My lady …’

Alice gestured towards a cushioned window seat. ‘Come. Sit beside me and tell me of the curious group I saw without. Who is the fisherman? What is in the cart?’ She fought to keep her tone light.

Wykeham glanced questioningly at the King.

Edward’s face changed. He handed the confused child to Alice, who handed him to the nurse.

‘Come back when I call for you, Katie,’ Alice said.

John chirped, reaching back towards the King as Katie carried him off.

But Edward had turned away, the boy already forgotten. John screwed up his face and let out a howl of disappointment. The nurse hurried up the ladder with him.

Gilbert had pulled up a high-backed armchair for the King, who settled down into it, comfortably at home. Alice returned to her seat on the bench beneath the window. Wykeham went to the door, called to someone, paused, returned with the fisherman, who bobbed nervously when he realised he was brought before the King.

Edward turned to Alice, levelled his faded blue eyes at her, leaned over and took her hand. ‘We have news of your maid, Mistress Alice.’ He turned to Wykeham. ‘William?’

Alice brought her free hand to her throat, glanced over at the King’s councillor.

Wykeham’s eyes flicked towards Alice, back to the fisherman. ‘This man found her, Your Grace.’

The King nodded. ‘And you identified her?’

Wykeham closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I did, Your Grace.’

‘Sit down, William. It is civilised to sit at eye level with a person when you give them evil news.’

Wykeham lowered his long body on to the bench beside Alice, who sat stiffly at the edge. ‘Mistress Alice …’ He hesitated.

Alice pressed her hands together. ‘This fisherman has found Mary. Which means she was in the river. Drowned.’

Wykeham nodded, his eyes discreetly on Alice’s shoe.

Alice pressed cold fingers to hot eyelids. ‘How long?’

The councillor cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps ever since she went missing. She was caught in the weeds in an inlet. This good man found her early this morning.’

Alice glanced up at the man who pressed one dirty foot down on the toe of the other as if so to force himself to remain in this uncomfortable place. His hair and clothes were grimy, but his face was clean, as were his hands. Alice rose and took his hand. ‘God bless you for ending my search, however horrible the outcome,’ she said. ‘Has she been much — Have the fish — ‘Sweet Heaven, why did she ask such a thing? She could see by the distress in the fisherman’s eyes that Mary was not whole. Alice shook her head. ‘No. Do not tell me. God bless you.’

‘Give him a purse for his troubles,’ the King shouted to his servant by the door.

The fisherman grinned, showing healthy teeth but for a broken one on the top and a gap on the bottom. ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured. ‘My Lady. Father William.’

‘You may go now, Rafe,’ Wykeham said.

The man gladly hurried out, the servant following.

Alice turned to Wykeham. ‘Thank you for going down to the river, councillor. I would fain not see Mary so.’

The eyes upturned to her were sympathetic. ‘I deemed it best you did not see her,’

Alice shivered, aware of the river flowing just below the garden, its icy waters blackening as the sun set.

The King rose and put an arm round her. ‘Let us save John’s future for another day. Are there any women from court might keep you company tonight in your grief?’

‘No,’ Alice whispered. ‘I am best alone tonight.’

Owen bought drinks for Ned and his company at the York Tavern to observe his friend with the men he’d travelled with from Windsor. Having been a captain of archers, Owen had developed a sixth sense for troublemakers. He took a dislike to two of them, large, coarse men who seemed to itch for a brawl. Bardolph and Crofter. He would warn Ned to watch them. Ned’s second, Matthew, looked like a clumsy pup and acted much the same. Completely devoted to his master. The others were nondescript. All looked to be good fighters. One was lacking a thumb and two fingers on his right hand. ‘Dagger tricks?’

A puzzled look, then a blush. ‘Nay. Helping my father at the sawmill. And your eye? A lass poke it out for winking?’

Owen slapped him on the back. He liked a man who let you have it with wit, not muscle. ‘We’re even now, Henry.’

‘In faith, Captain. Tell us the story.’

Owen groaned.

Bess Merchet, never far away when her handsome neighbour graced her tavern, leaned over. ‘’Tis a good story. Give us a treat.’

Ned lifted his cup to Owen and nodded.

So for the hundredth time Owen found himself telling the sad tale of betrayal that had led him here from his comfortable, honourable career as captain of archers in the service of the great Henry of Grosmont. He told them of the Breton jongleur whose life had been spared on Owen’s orders; and how the following night Owen had found him in camp slitting the throats of the prize hostages. When Owen had attacked, the jongleur’s leman had come from behind and in the struggle dealt the blow that blinded him.

‘How did they die?’ Crofter asked.

‘Swiftly. By my hand,’ Owen said quietly. He did not like the gleam of approval in the fair man’s eyes. ‘But enough about me. There are far more heroic tales to tell about Captain Townley.’ And so the evening went, fighting men showing off their battle scars. What else were such permanent reminders of death good for?

Gwenllian’s cries broke Lucie free from her nightmare. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, wondered how long she had slept.

Owen turned on his side. ‘Bad dream?’

‘Are you asking me? Or Gwenllian?’

‘You. You were thrashing round. I almost woke you.’

The bad dream had left her edgy. ‘Almost woke me? There’s no almost about it. You’ve lain there and let Gwenllian cry so long she dragged me from my sleep. And listen to her. She is hoarse! Why did you not comfort her?’ Lucie rocked the cradle with one hand. The movement was not enough to quiet Gwenllian.

‘You’re the one she wants,’ Owen said. ‘She’s hungry.’

Would that it were so simple. ‘How do you know? Oft-times when she’s wakeful she refuses to nurse. She wants to be held and walked. You can do that.’

‘You sing to her, too.’

‘You are the one with the voice of an angel.’

‘But I don’t know the songs you sing to her.’

‘She is not particular, Owen. It is our voices that comfort her, not the words. Now come round here. Pick her up.’

‘But you are up now.’

‘Owen …’

He rose with a sigh, shrugged into a linen chemise, picked up the squalling child. Gwenllian hiccuped, grabbed her father’s finger, and quieted to a feeble whimper. Owen began to walk.

Lucie, more awake now, propped herself up and smiled at the incongruities in the scene, Owen’s scarred face bent over the perfect face of his daughter, who looked no more than a doll pressed against his broad chest. ‘What keeps you awake?’

‘I have decided I cannot withdraw the captaincy from Ned. I put myself in his place and I cannot insult him so. Perhaps I was too hasty in offering it to him, but now I have and he shall not suffer from my hasty tongue.’ When Lucie said nothing, Owen glanced over at her. ‘You disagree.’

‘Ned would accept whatever you decide without question, Owen. But I knew you were set in this. I do not know why you pretended otherwise.’

‘You are angry.’

‘No. In truth, I merely tire of the subject.’ Gwenllian had been up most of the previous night with a mysterious complaint, and Lucie with her. She knew that her mood was partly lack of sleep.

‘I should not bother you with my problems.’

‘Of course you should. We are husband and wife. Your problems are my problems.’

‘You think he will come to harm. Or fail me.’

Remembering her dream, Lucie shivered and hugged herself. ‘I pray my fears are unfounded. Ned is a good man. He is our friend. All I said was that he would accept your decision.’

‘I know that he would. But it would be there between us, Lucie. Offered, then withdrawn. He would feel the sting. I cannot do that to Ned.’

‘Then you should not. Have I argued?’

Gwenllian chose that moment to register her complaint that Owen had stopped his pacing. ‘Hush, Gwenllian, hush,’ he murmured, gently rocking her as he resumed his pacing.

Lucie slipped back down under the blankets and fell asleep.

Come morning, Lucie clearly recalled her nightmare and wondered whether to tell Owen. If it was merely the outgrowth of her fears she should not, because Owen trusted her dreams and she did not wish to influence him by turning her own reasoning — however sound — into portents. Lucie took care to tell him only those dreams she truly believed to be warnings, answers to her prayers for guidance.

In the dream, Lucie stood on a hill watching Owen descend towards a burning village, his longbow ready. Lucie could hear nothing, not the crackle of the fire down below nor the whisper of the breeze that blew smoke into her eyes. And then, all of a sudden, sound engulfed her. She stood in the midst of a crowd murmuring and gesturing angrily. They did not appear to see her. Their eyes were fixed on the village, and now Owen and Ned, their clothes smudged and bloody, their arrows spent, came out from the cloud of smoke that surrounded the village.

‘’Tis them,’ a woman said. ‘They be the ones, Father. They be the murderers.’

‘No!’ Lucie screamed. But the woman did not hear her. Lucie threw herself at the woman, crying, ‘It was not them. Owen went down to find Ned.’

The woman stared ahead, her arm outstretched, her finger pointed towards Owen and Ned. Lucie pounded the woman’s chest, tore at her hair. But the woman did not notice. How could Lucie touch the woman and yet the woman feel nothing? The woman pushed Lucie aside and began to move forward with the others. Lucie fell and was trampled by the surging crowd.

She crossed herself as she sat over her morning ale.

‘What is it, Mistress Lucie?’ Tildy asked. Owen was still abed, having slept only after Lucie had woken to give Gwenllian her early morning feed.

‘Remembering a nightmare is all, Tildy. You should have seen Owen last night, walking Gwenllian, cooing at her.’ Lucie smiled at the memory.

‘He’s a good father is the Captain. He worries if Gwenllian as much as frowns. Talks to her whenever he’s near her. Mine was nothing like. I think he looked at me for the first time when I was grown. Saw this mark I’ve had on my face since birth and said, “What’s this, girl? Did you fall?” ‘Tildy touched the red birthmark that spread across her left cheek. ‘But the Captain is different. He’ll fret all the while he’s gone that Gwenllian will forget him.’

‘Owen worries too much.’

Tildy shrugged. ‘There’s no changing a man’s nature. The Captain is just a worrier. ‘Tis naught to be done about it.’

No changing a man’s nature. Lucie wondered. Had Ned steadied, as Owen thought? ‘Some say a man is changed by love. You would disagree?’

Tildy rolled her eyes. ‘Women marry rogues believing that. I hope I’m never so daft.’

When Ned’s company had arrived in York, Don Ambrose had left them to stay with his fellow Austin friars in their house on Lendal. He would join the company once more for the journey to Rievaulx. Or would he?

Don Ambrose read through the letter he had just received, dropped it, stared off across the cloister. Sweet Heaven, he had been right. He sat quite still, staring at nothing, considering what he must do.

For surely this letter was a sign that God had not forsaken Ambrose. Had it been delayed one day, it would not have reached him before he departed York. It must be a sign from God that he might still save himself.

No time to lose; he snatched up the letter. He must speak to Archdeacon Jehannes at once.

Owen leaned on the counter, watching Lucie attack a dried root with mortar and pestle. ‘Would you like help, or are you doing away with someone?’

She looked up, startled. ‘I did not hear you come down.’ Her hair was slipping from her kerchief. There was a dusting of powder on her nose where she must have rubbed it.

With a soft cloth Owen wiped her nose, kissed it. ‘Want some help?’

Lucie pushed the work towards him. ‘You are welcome to it.’

He bent to it. ‘What was your dream last night?’

‘Last night? Something about a fire. Can’t remember.’

Owen glanced up, caught Lucie biting her lower lip. ‘About Ned, was it?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘Thank you for last night. I needed sleep.’

‘I told you I should not leave.’

‘It cannot be helped, Owen, and there’s an end to it.’

Owen studied her with his good eye. She hugged herself and turned to study the wall of jars. ‘A nightmare, it was. Tell me about it.’

Lucie shook her head. ‘I was just dreaming my worries, Owen. The dream meant nothing.’

Jehannes looked up from his work with poorly hidden impatience as Harold stood aside for Don Ambrose. There was much to do before tomorrow’s departure. Letters to write, last minute orders to give Harold. ‘Benedicte,’ Jehannes said.

‘Benedicte,’ Ambrose replied.

Jehannes motioned the friar to be seated. ‘You are prepared for tomorrow’s departure?’

Ambrose leaned forward, pressing the table with his fingertips. ‘It is of that I wish to speak, Father. I pray you relieve me of the mission. I would remain in York.’

Holy Mary, Mother of God. ‘You would remain in York? Why is that?’ Jehannes had not guessed that Ambrose was of a nervous humour, but there was no denying the beads of sweat standing out along the friar’s receding hairline. And he did not face Jehannes directly, but up through his lashes.

‘Forgive me, but I cannot say, Father. I assure you that I mean to harm no one in this.’

Cannot say. That made the cause clear. ‘Your superiors object to your support of William of Wykeham, I presume. They took their time protesting.’

Ambrose’s eyes widened in surprise and dismay. ‘Oh no, no, they have nothing to do with my request.’ He dropped his gaze to the fingers that pressed down on the table. ‘It is a … personal matter, Father.’

Jehannes sat back, steepled his hands. The man appeared to be lying. An Austin friar had no personal business. And the Austins hated rich pluralists like Wykeham. His sweat and his indirect look were not signs of nerves then, but deceit. Well, he would not have it. If Jehannes had to swallow his pride on the King’s business, so did the friar before him, and all the friars in his house if that was the truth of it. ‘I am sorry, but I have my orders, as you do yours. The King chose you to accompany us. I have neither the time nor the inclination — you have given me no motivation, you must admit — to release you and find another. You ride to Rievaulx tomorrow. If you do not, you shall be guilty of a grievous sin.’

Ambrose pressed his hands together. ‘Then please, Father Jehannes, allow me to accompany you to Fountains. Send someone else to Rievaulx.’

Jehannes was a patient man, but today was not the day to try him. ‘You do not wish to cross the moors, is that it? Rievaulx has been situated in the moors since the conception of this mission. Why did you not protest before?’

The friar’s hands kneaded each other. ‘It is not the moors. Truly.’ At least now he looked Jehannes in the eye. ‘I pray God you heed me. I must not travel with the company to Rievaulx.’

‘So it is the company to which you object. Any particular person? Or the lack thereof?’

Ambrose sat back, obviously seeing Jehannes was losing his patience and realising that he must answer the question with care.

‘Well?’

Ambrose shook his head. ‘I cannot explain. If I am wrong I might slander an innocent soul.’

A most revealing reply. Jehannes guessed that the friar objected to Ned Townley, having been poisoned against him in Windsor. ‘The men have been carefully chosen. I shall accept no objections. You are dismissed. God go with you, Don Ambrose. And if you do not ride with the party to Rievaulx on the morrow, you shall answer to the King.’

The prior of the York Austins shook his head at Don Ambrose. ‘And no wonder the Archdeacon refused to grant your request. In the name of our prior provincial so shall I. A personal matter, indeed. The King chose you and you must obey. It will benefit our order to have a member in Wykeham’s household, a man with the King’s ear. I cannot in truth think of a reason you might give that would change my mind, save divine intervention. And I am sure you would admit if you’d had a vision.’

‘I have had no vision.’

‘Then you must go, Ambrose. God grant you a speedy and safe return.’

Ambrose bowed his head. Safe. He would make sure of that. It was up to him now.