The King's Bishop (16 page)

Owen disliked how he agreed with the Abbot more and more. He leaned over, refilled Matthew’s cup. ‘What was Captain Townley like when you last saw him?’

‘Drunk as a lord, sir,’ Matthew said. ‘I did not like to think of him riding through the moors in such a state.’

‘Nor I.’ The account left Owen with much to ponder. ‘Eat something, Matthew. I will be taking you with me when we escort Abbot Richard to Rievaulx.’

‘Escort him back?’

‘My man Alfred will escort Archdeacon Jehannes back to York. I wish to see where Captain Townley and Don Ambrose disappeared. So I shall lead Abbot Richard’s escort back to Rievaulx when the meeting is over.’

‘I do not know what else I might have done.’ Matthew’s huge eyes implored. He looked like an awkward puppy.

‘I see nothing to blame in your conduct, Matthew.’

A sigh. ‘Abbot Richard hates the Captain.’

‘Aye. You have said that twice now. I doubt he hates him. I doubt he has made much note of him at all. My guess is the trouble between the Captain and the friar came as an opportunity to question the integrity of our mission.’

‘But how can it?’

‘It does not need to make sense to work in his favour, Matthew.’ That Owen had learned from his work for the Archbishop.

Another storm had moved in overnight. Archdeacon Jehannes was chilled when he joined the two abbots in Monkton’s parlour, and the smug expression on Abbot Richard’s face did nothing to warm him.

Owen had agreed that the Abbot of Rievaulx might be friendlier to Jehannes if he attended alone, but it appeared they had been wrong. Jehannes fortified himself with spiced wine and settled in for an unpleasant round of argument. ‘I am sure the issue needs no further explanation,’ he began.

‘No,’ Abbot Monkton said with a smile meant to soften what was to come. ‘In fact, it requires no further discussion.’

Abbot Richard made no effort to mask a smug grin, and Jehannes knew what was coming.

Abbot Monkton winced, as if experiencing, too, the pain he imagined Jehannes must feel. ‘Abbot Richard and I do not agree about Captain Townley and Don Ambrose …’

‘They have nothing to do with my purpose for being here,’ Jehannes said, interrupting. It was either this mild aggression or throw wine in Abbot Richard’s smug face, which would distress Abbot Monkton.

‘The Captain and friar
a
r
e
to your purpose,’ Abbot Monkton said, holding up his hands for silence when Jehannes began to protest. ‘I have prayed over this, my son, and I am quite confident in my assessment. This unfortunate circumstance is a sign given us by God that we are right to stand firm against pluralism.’ He paused as Jehannes shook his head. ‘You cannot see it?’

How could he? There was naught to see. ‘I cannot.’

‘Were Wykeham a simple parish priest, conscientious in ministering to the souls in his care, His Holiness would have readily agreed to his appointment, Wykeham would have been consecrated, and all would have progressed quietly, efficiently. Instead, the King pushes his favourite at His Holiness, a favourite on whom the King has already lavished an array of benefices that bring him indecent wealth, a favourite who has attracted enemies. Naturally, His Holiness sees this as a dangerous situation; such a prominent, wealthy, political man, a man so important to the King, will not suddenly change his allegiance and withdraw his attention from the court to focus on the see of Winchester. His diocese will become a pawn in the King’s hands.’

‘I understand His Holiness’s objections,’ Jehannes snapped. The Abbot tried his patience. Together they had been through all this already. ‘But your point? The connection between this and Don Ambrose’s attack upon Captain Townley?’ Obviously Archbishop Thoresby was going to get his wish and be assisted in his work against Wykeham by these two men, and Jehannes knew he should not protest too strongly. But the argument must make sense. ‘I do not yet see how to explain this connection to the King.’

Abbot Monkton sighed. ‘Patience, my son, patience. Simply put, had the King’s candidate been a simple man of God, these companies of men would not be riding through the kingdom collecting support for him. Because the King’s candidate is already a man of great wealth and power, and none of that his by birth or simple hard work, he is a man with many enemies. The entire situation begs the kind of discord and danger we now see.’

‘Which is precisely our point,’ Abbot Richard added in a falsely sweet tone.

Jehannes did not allow himself to glance at Abbot Richard; it was not his purpose to make an enemy of these men. ‘My lord abbot,’ he said to Monkton, ‘surely you do not think the young lady’s death had anything to do with Wykeham’s advancement?’

‘Not her death, though even that might have been avoided had Captain Townley remained at Windsor, but the letter from Don Paulus to Don Ambrose which so incensed the Captain …’

Jehannes took a deep breath and managed to stay calm and polite throughout the rest of the meeting, which continued far too long. Two questions kept rising to the surface of his mind:
What had the maid to do with Wykeham’s advancement? What was Abbot Richard’s purpose in seizing that connection?
In the end, Jehannes merely smiled and nodded and took his leave with admirable calm and courtesy.

‘Abbot Richard never meant to support Wykeham,’ Owen said. ‘I see no riddle in that. But I too find it puzzling that Mary’s drowning should concern the friars – on that we agree.’

Jehannes paced the guest house parlour, hands behind his back, head bowed forward, brow furrowed. ‘I think we owe it to Captain Townley to find out more about the friars’ interest in his lady’s death,’ he said at last, pausing before Owen.

Owen nodded. ‘I agree. I had begun a letter to the Archbishop for Ned, to learn as much detail of the incident as possible. I shall put the friars’ involvement to him as well.’

Jehannes’s brow suddenly smoothed, his mouth
widened into a smile. ‘Owen Archer, you sly one. You do unto him as he would do unto you.’

Owen slapped his thighs, rose with a grin. ‘Aye, Jehannes. His Grace shall be my spy for a change.’

O
wen had imagined the grange house in a meadow, with gently rolling hills about it. But in reality it sat in a rock-strewn valley whose steeply sloping sides were choked with thorn trees. ‘Not a place through which I would have chosen to run on a stormy night,’ he said. ‘And Captain Townley was drunk, you say?’

Matthew stood beside him, his face screwed up, remembering. ‘Drunk. Oh, that he was.’ Matthew truly looked a puppy, with his wide, flat nose, receding chin, and huge ears. And when he concentrated he was uglier yet. ‘We came on this place in the storm. In the dark. We none of us knew what to expect. But the friar is mad, Captain Archer, so it did not surprise me, his running off in the storm. I told you how he almost brought his horse down on him when we rode into the vale of Rievaulx. And it was he who led us down the steepest way.’

‘But running off into unknown dangers in a storm is not what you would have expected from Captain Townley?’

Matthew shook his head, almost more of a shiver than a negation. ‘He would have scolded me for even thinking about it.’

That was the problem. As Owen saw it, Ned had not been thinking. Not clearly. The pain of losing Mary would have dulled his mind.

They stood in the covered walkway between the house and the stable, looking down at the rushing stream.

‘Perhaps Don Ambrose was waiting to tell Ned about Mary. Wanted to spare him the sad news for a while …’ Owen suggested.

Matthew turned, looked Owen in the eye. ‘Do you think that? Truly?’

Owen would have liked to think that. He would have liked to think all the missing men awaited them at Rievaulx. But he did not for a moment expect it. ‘No, Matthew, I do not think he meant to spare Ned.’

Owen took off to explore the valley; soon Matthew was puffing up behind him.

‘If you would not mind, Captain, I should like to come.’

Owen shrugged.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘What does Abbot Richard have men searching for in the barn? I cannot say, nor can he. Captain Townley and Don Ambrose? The four men searching for them? A sign of what happened that night? Blood? Ned told you he had wounded the friar in the hand. A good bleeder, the hand. You know, I thank you for joining me. With one eye it’s difficult enough for me to stay upright along the stream and out of the thorns on the slope.’

‘Does it bother you, then, having just the one eye?’

‘Every moment of every day, Matthew. Now come. Talk distracts us from our search.’

Atop one of the ridges, Matthew found a cap. He ran to catch up with Owen, who had wandered on. It was a felt cap with the King’s arms. ‘Several of the men wore these, Captain,’ Matthew said breathlessly. ‘Proud of wearing the King’s livery, they were.’

‘Which men?’

‘Ah. Which ones.’ Matthew screwed up his eyes and clutched the cap to him as if it might prompt his memory. Which it must have done. ‘Gervase, Henry, and Bardolph,’ he suddenly barked with a pleased expression.

Owen took the cap, examined it. No blood, though it was damp from the rains so any blood might have washed out. ‘Show me where you found it.’

Matthew led him back up the slope to a small clearing with a thin layer of brush, so thin that the rock beneath poked through in many places. ‘It was caught in that bush.’ He pointed to the far end of the clearing.

‘Footing would be slippery up here in the rain,’ Owen said. He walked slowly round, poking at the brush, examining the trees. Several small thorns had been trampled, trunks showed signs of reins having been tied to them, including the one beside the bush that had caught the cap. The cap was significant, but what did it tell them? That one man lost a hat and did not think it important to return for it? That he was in a hurry? Involved in a struggle?

‘This sort of clue is almost worse than none at all, eh Matthew?’

The young man looked disappointed. ‘I thought it promising.’

‘How so? It merely tells us they climbed up here,
which they should have done. No surprise in that. They were left behind to search for Don Ambrose and Captain Townley, they
should
have covered this entire valley.’ Owen shook his head. ‘Let us walk over the ridge a bit, see what else we see.’

But it had been days since the incident, days of rain and wind. There might be clues aplenty up there, trampled in the mud, blown beyond their sight, hiding from the men who needed them.

As they scrambled back down the slope towards the ford of the stream, Owen noted a scar in the earth. A mud slide? He paused, looked more closely. The debris below the scar – rocks, uprooted bracken and heather – were appropriate, and Owen almost continued. But there was something else, something towards the bottom of the debris. He crouched down. A muddy piece of cloth. He gave it a tug, which loosened some more dirt and uncovered more cloth, but did not budge it. As if it was attached to something much larger.

Owen looked up at the scar. If he were going to hide a body, not a bad idea. Easy to dig near the stream, easy to mask it as a mud slide. But someone had not counted on the heavy rains since.

He stood up. Matthew was already over the ford, waiting on the other side. ‘Fetch Abbot Richard and the rest,’ Owen shouted. ‘Tell them we must do some digging. Bring shovels or something like.’

Matthew hesitated, looking doubtful.

‘I believe a body lies under this mud slide, Matthew.’

That spurred Matthew up to the house.

Owen spent the wait clearing the debris, but he did not dig. He would first ask Abbot Richard’s permission.

The Abbot arrived before the others, managing to ford the stream without wetting the hem of his habit or letting any mud mar its whiteness. Owen was keenly aware of his own sweat- and mud-stained garments, his dirt-encrusted hands.

‘What is it?’ the Abbot asked, nodding towards the exposed scar. ‘A grave?’

‘That is what I’m thinking, my lord abbot. And I ask your permission to dig it up.’

The cold eyes took in the pile of debris by Owen’s feet. ‘You cleared that from it?’

‘I did.’

‘Then someone meant to hide this.’

‘I’ll not contradict you there.’

The Abbot closed his eyes, bowed his head, pressed his hands together.

Owen crouched down and splashed his face with cool water from the stream, washed off his hands. He took care as he rose not to splash the Abbot.

The Abbot opened his eyes as the rest of the men came across the ford, two with shovels, one with a rake, one a large spoon. ‘We must know who it is, Captain Archer,’ the Abbot said. ‘We must learn whatever the body may tell us. And then bury it once more, in a Christian way.’ He turned to the men. ‘Dig where the Captain orders you.’ Then he stepped back across the ford to wait and pray.

The mud was quickly scraped away, revealing a body, as expected. Ralph dropped his shovel and crossed himself. Matthew stood with his shovel in mid-air and gulped for air, his face ashen. ‘What a stench!’ Curan cried, backing away with his sleeve to his nose, the rake dragging from the other hand. Brother Augustine stepped forward and made the sign of the cross over the body.