The King's Bishop (13 page)

The Abbot’s expression had been enigmatic, though he kept his voice kindly enough. ‘Don Ambrose told me he asked the Archdeacon of York to relieve him from his duty to accompany you, but as he could not break an oath of silence to explain his request, it was not granted.’

Ned stared at the Abbot, dumbfounded. Archdeacon Jehannes had not told him. Nor had Owen. ‘I did not know.’

The Abbot smiled.

Ned saw the Abbot was amused by what he perceived to be a clumsy lie, as well it might seem. It was incomprehensible why the Archdeacon had withheld information critical to the peace of the company. ‘I swear I did not know!’

Still Abbot Richard smiled.

What curse had befallen Ned that he was so misunderstood? By his gift of pleasing speech Ned always drew people to him, like a flower draws bees, a candle moths. Many had so described his gift. Why was he suddenly unable to speak on his behalf and be believed? Abbot Richard seemed determined to mistrust him.

‘Come now, Captain Townley. It would be foolhardy for the Archdeacon to keep such a request from the captain of the company.’

‘Indeed it was!’

The Abbot’s smile grew tired. ‘You have made the friar swear silence and he fears you will accuse him of breaking that oath. It is quite obvious.’

‘But not true, my lord abbot. Not true.’ What could Ned say to convince the Abbot of his ignorance in the matter?

Abbot Richard pressed his hands together, shrugged. ‘You must search your conscience for the truth in this, my son. It is between you and God.’ He had risen from the table.

‘It is between me and Don Ambrose,’ Ned said to the Abbot’s retreating back.

They had not spoken of it again. But Ned felt not
only the friar’s eyes on him, but the Abbot’s. Constantly. It was enough to make a man mad.

The trees bent in the wind, the brush flattened. The travellers pulled their hoods low over their faces and leaned close to their beasts for warmth. At last the rain came, cold, sharp, penetrating. Cloaks were soon sodden and slapped wetly against the flanks of the steeds. It was with a hoarse cheer that the forward rider announced the grange house and barn were in sight.

Mercifully, a fire had been left to smoulder under a layer of ashes. The men stirred it into flames and added dry wood. Ned looked round, counting the company. All there. He bowed his head and silently gave thanks. He did not need the Abbot to blame him for another mishap. Ropes were strung from the rafters and the wet clothes hung to dry overnight. It was a shivering, weary company that crowded round the fire to chew on bread and salted fish. The men spoke of other miserable journeys, as if to convince themselves that this, too, would pass. At last, bellies sufficiently filled, the company bedded down for the night. Ned offered the main room with the fire to the Abbot and his monks, but Richard chose the far room, explaining that white monks were not accustomed to sleeping in heated rooms.

Nor was Ned. He fell asleep with his nostrils full of the stench of damp wool and his own sweat. Still, it was a small price to pay for dry clothes in the morning.

Someone shook Ned, pulled him out of a dream of marching to battle in the hot sun. He jerked awake, shot up to attack, met a restraining hand.

‘
Benedicte
.’ Don Ambrose knelt over him, backlit by the fire.

‘What the hell… ?’ Ned reached for his daggers.

Ambrose put a hand over Ned’s. ‘Peace, Captain Townley. I would speak with you alone. Please. Come out to the stables with me.’

‘Out to the stables?’ Ned rubbed his eyes. The room was so curséd smoky and his lids so heavy with sleep he had trouble keeping them open. ‘We can talk here. I have no wish to go out in the rain.’

The friar put a finger to his lips. ‘We cannot talk here, among our sleeping companions. I pray you come quickly. The way to the stable is roofed, you will stay dry. We must resolve the trouble between us.’

Grumbling at the friar’s choice of nights to interrupt his sleep, Ned was enticed by the prospect of peace. And by the covered arcade connecting the house with the stables – at least he would not be soaked again. ‘I will come.’ Ned wiped his sweaty chest with the blanket, pulled on his chemise and leggings.

Ned and Don Ambrose moved silently among the sleeping men. Outside, the rain fell steadily, but the wind had died down. ‘Clear tomorrow, I wager,’ Ned said, pausing to fill his lungs with fresh air. The moon cast little light through the clouds. The landscape revealed itself to Ned’s ears rather than his eyes. Behind him, the stream they’d crossed on arrival boiled over rocks. Nearby, water gurgled in a gutter, pushing round some obstacle, and dripped from the eaves, hitting the rocky ground with wet plops. Ned heard the stable door open and shut and turned to follow, thought better of it. It was too dark to be walking round unfamiliar surroundings without a
lantern; and he did not fancy sitting in the dark with a man who distrusted him. He returned to the grange house for a light.

Back at the stable, Ned opened the door cautiously, shifting the lantern in his hands to open the shutter. The horses whinnied softly as the light moved over them. Where was the friar? Ned set the lantern on a shelf just within and was closing the door when something grazed him on the back of the neck. He whirled round. Don Ambrose lunged forward. Ned threw his arm up to protect his face from the friar’s dagger while reaching for his own with his other hand. His dagger was not there. Of course not. He had not expected an attack. The friar came at Ned again, this time shouting, ‘You’ll not advance yourself with my blood!’

Ned kicked out. The friar stumbled, then righted himself enough to butt Ned in the groin with his head. As Ned fell back, the dagger grazed his leg. ‘Bloody idiot!’ He lunged at Ambrose, gripped his right wrist and shook the dagger out of his hand. The friar twisted out of his grasp and rolled over the dagger. Ned stood, pulled the friar up by the back of his habit, grabbed for his right arm, thinking Ambrose had retrieved the dagger. But it was still on the floor. Ned stepped on it, Ambrose tried to kick his foot away. They toppled, Ned grabbed the knife, sliced across the palm of the hand that tried to steal it from him. ‘What is wrong with you?’ Ned cried. ‘I’m here to protect you, you bloody bastard!’

‘Protect me?’ Don Ambrose spat at Ned. He held his bleeding hand away from his habit. ‘Poor Mary. She thought you loved her. Who did it, Townley? A friend left behind?’

Ned sat on the ground pressing the wound in his
thigh. ‘What are you blathering on about? And why did you ask to stay in York? Why didn’t you just disappear?’ He started to rise. Ambrose kicked him in the face and went running out into the night. Ned rolled over, spitting blood. ‘Damned good fighter for a friar.’ On the ground near him was the pouch the friar kept close to him. Ned picked it up as he climbed to his feet, then staggered back to the house clutching the pouch against his bleeding thigh. He left the lantern behind.

Matthew, his second in command, woke as Ned stumbled towards him.

‘Come, Matthew. I need you to tend a wound.’

Their rustling woke the other men. Outraged to hear what had happened, two ran out into the night after Don Ambrose.

Ned cursed himself for the foolishness of going off with a man who so obviously despised him. What was it he’d cried? Something about advancing himself with the friar’s blood? What did that mean? And what did Mary have to do with the friar? While Matthew cleaned and bound the wound, Ned fidgeted and fretted.

‘Why not open the pouch, Captain? See what the friar guarded so well, then left behind,’ Matthew suggested.

Ned opened the courier pouch. A breviary; a few coins; a seal; wax; a letter, seal broken. He unfolded the paper, spread it out where the light might illuminate it, squinted over the words. Reading did not come easily to Ned, but fortunately the hand was clean. Or unfortunately …

Matthew glanced up as Ned moaned. ‘What is it, Captain? What’s ado?’

‘Mary. My Mary.’ Ned raised his eyes, stared at the terrible image the words had conjured.

‘What of Mary?’

Ned moved his eyes to Matthew, tried to focus on him rather than his nightmare vision. ‘They have killed her,’ he whispered, for such a thing should not be spoken aloud.

Matthew crossed himself. ‘What are you saying?’

Poor Mary. She thought you loved her. Who did it … a friend left behind?
‘He thought I had her murdered,’ Ned whispered.

Matthew reached into his medicine pouch, drew out a bottle of brandywine, dropped it on Ned’s lap. ‘Drink some of this, Captain. You are shivering.’

Ned glanced down at the bottle, but did not touch it. ‘Mary is drowned.’

‘Someone wrote this to Don Ambrose?’

Ned nodded slowly. ‘Another friar. Paulus. He says he saw her. Told no one. “God will lead them to her, not I.”’

‘This friar wrote to Don Ambrose and told him he had let your Mary drown?’

A movement in the next room brought Ned back to the present. He stuffed the letter in his waistband and picked up the bottle. He took a drink, coughed.

‘Why did he carry such a letter? Why would someone write to him about Mary?’ Matthew asked.

‘The bastard carried this letter from York and never a word to me.’

Abbot Richard approached, his right hand outstretched, his eyes fixed on Ned. ‘Give me the letter you hid in your belt, Captain Townley.’

Ned stared up at him. What did these churchmen care about Mary? How was her death any of their business? How would Abbot Richard misinterpret
this? It was clear that Ned had been wronged, but the Abbot would find a way to blame him. Already his voice, eyes and that outstretched hand accused.

Ned took another drink. ‘What letter?’

The Abbot looked right at the spot where it pressed into Ned’s side. ‘That one.’

Ned touched it, shrugged. ‘It has naught to do with our mission.’

‘You can read?’

Ned bristled. ‘I can indeed.’

‘Most admirable.’

‘Most necessary in my work for the Duke.’

‘What have you stolen from Don Ambrose?’

‘Stolen? Don Ambrose attacked the Captain,’ Matthew protested.

The Abbot did not look at Matthew. ‘You conceal the letter at the risk of your immortal soul, Captain Townley.’

‘At the … You do not understand, my lord abbot. I have done nothing but read a letter that should have been shared with me. The friar –’

The Abbot turned to Matthew. ‘You say Ambrose attacked the Captain?’

‘Aye, my lord. I have cleaned a deep wound in the Captain’s leg.’

‘Where is Don Ambrose now?’ the Abbot demanded.

‘Crofter and Bardolph are searching for him,’ Matthew said.

Abbot Richard turned back to Ned. ‘What did you do with him?’

Despair pressed down on Ned’s head and shoulders, twisted his gut, pulled him away from this pointless interrogation. He took another drink, stared into the fire.

The Abbot laid a hand on Ned’s shoulder, shook him. ‘What did you do with Don Ambrose?’

Ned shrugged out of the Abbot’s grasp. ‘For pity’s sake, he woke me. Asked me to come to the stables, he would make peace. So I followed.’

‘And attacked him? What is in the letter? Why did you take it from him?’

‘He attacked me. Hid while I went for a lantern, hit me from behind.’

‘A friar bested a seasoned soldier?’ The Abbot closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘It would go better for you if you spoke the truth, Captain Townley.’

‘I am telling the truth,’ Ned said. ‘But you are not listening. You chatter and jape at me like a bird does a cat for merely being in the garden.’

‘Indeed. Like the cat, it is your nature to attack. It is unlikely the birds would attack the cat. Give me the letter.’

Ned saw no gain in refusing any longer. He pulled the letter out, handed it to Abbot Richard. ‘If you were not already set against me you would find it odd that such a letter would be exchanged between two friars.’

The Abbot’s servant shone a lantern on the letter. Quickly the Abbot read, his disapproving lips moving slightly, then pursing as the eyes lifted to meet Ned’s. ‘We must search for Don Ambrose.’

‘Two men are already out looking,’ Matthew said.

‘If they return empty-handed, four will stay behind to search, the rest will continue with me – and Captain Townley, who will be kept under guard at all times.’

It was Matthew who protested. Ned knew better.

The Abbot looked amused. ‘You are loyal to your Captain, but you shall soon see your error. It is plain that Don Ambrose told the Captain of Mary’s death,
then ran from Captain Townley’s rage. Or perhaps the Captain attacked Ambrose. God shall reveal all in good time.’

‘He knew nothing of Mary’s death until he read the letter.’

‘And how did he get Don Ambrose’s pouch? The pouch he guarded so jealously?’ the Abbot demanded of Matthew.

‘Don Ambrose dropped it, my lord abbot.’

Abbot Richard tilted his head. ‘Come now, my son. After guarding it so carefully, he dropped it and ran?’ He shook his head.

Ned silently emptied the skin, trying to obliterate the image of Mary floating in the Thames. But there was not enough drink in the world to do so.