The King's Bishop (26 page)

‘I was busy, mistress. Getting your water.’

Ann was not a practised liar. She’d forgotten to feign surprise about the escape. ‘Do you think me such a fool as to believe you would be so busy pouring water you would not notice a handsome soldier dropping down out of a tree into your kitchen garden?’

Ann snorted in the effort to stifle a laugh. She shook her head. ‘No, mistress.’ She eyed Matthew, dropped her head.

A kiss, Lucie guessed. She saw no need to embarrass the young woman. ‘Never mind, Ann. Just tell me how long ago, and what you noted him wearing, carrying, anything.’

‘By the minster clock, an hour past, Mistress Wilton.’ Ann screwed up her face. ‘I shall lose my job.’

Lucie sighed impatiently. She had no time to comfort the silly woman. ‘If I tell him you have been helpful I doubt the Archdeacon will throw you out for one mistake. But you must help me.’

‘He wore the King’s colours. Took his pack. Oh, he was bleeding badly, Mistress. He should have come to you.’

‘Bleeding badly?’

Ann nodded. ‘A branch caught his leg, opened it up on the inside. He jumped anyway, went running, did not stop to see how bad he was. He’s very strong, Captain Townley is.’

Perhaps not strong enough to ride. Or run quickly. Lucie ordered Matthew to run to the Archbishop’s retainers to tell them to alert the bailiffs and the gatekeepers to hold Ned if he tried to come through and to look out for an injured man.

She did not stay to witness Jehannes’s reception of the news.

Bess Merchet, her starched cap and pressed ribbons riding high as she swept a new chambermaid down the hall to a lesson in dish-washing, stopped in the kitchen doorway at the sight of her pretty neighbour hurrying past the gate looking grief-stricken. Bess rushed out, arms outspread, and gathered a startled Lucie to her. ‘My dear, what is it? Not my godchild, I pray?’

Lucie tried to shake her head, but she was held too snugly against Bess’s fleshy shoulder. ‘Gwenllian is well. It’s Ned. He has run away from the Archdeacon.’

Bess tsked. ‘Well a day, ‘tis not such a bad thing then. Owen will ride forth and find him, quick as can be. You know your man.’

Lucie did indeed. ‘That is the trouble. Owen will be off again today, searching for Ned.’

With a quizzical sound Bess held Lucie away from her until she could see her face, then shook her head. ‘And that’s as must be, Lucie Wilton. How could you think else? How could you go on loving that rogue if he deserted his friend?’ Gripping Lucie’s arm, Bess led her to the tavern kitchen.

Lucie sank down on a bench inside the doorway. ‘Ned has no honour.’

Bess shrugged, pointed the maid towards the tub of soaking dishes on a shelf just outside the door. ‘Show me what you can do with that,’ she said, waited until the young woman pushed up her sleeves and set to it, then returned to Lucie. ‘Honour is oft a deadly virtue; sense is what keeps a man alive. Ned has the sense to know he’s a pawn and unimportant to the likes of the Archbishop and the King. They are anxious for someone to punish. It matters naught to them whether they accuse the right man.’

‘Ned knows Owen will come after him.’

‘Mayhap ’tis what he hopes. He and Owen might make short work of finding the true culprits.’ Bess crossed her arms and frowned at Lucie’s silence. ‘Am I right, Lucie Wilton?’

Lucie raised her eyes to Bess’s, shrugged. ‘Of course you are right, Bess, but I’m no happier for it.’

Bess sat down next to Lucie. ‘You told me you’d come to accept Owen’s work for the Archbishop. So why this pouting?’

Why indeed? Why this hot pain in the pit of her stomach? Was it still the dream of the burning village? ‘Before Owen left for the abbeys, I had a nightmare.’ She told Bess of the dream, the angry people shouting for Owen’s and Ned’s blood.

Bess crossed herself. ‘Such a dream is more curse than blessing.’

Lucie nodded. ‘Only afterwards will I know how the dream was to be interpreted. But it is there in the back of my mind. I cannot forget it.’

‘I understand. And yet Owen must go after Ned. You know that.’

Lucie sighed. ‘I know. But first Owen must find
him. Ned’s injured, Bess. He may be hiding in the city, unable to move too far. Who might hide him here?’

Bess frowned. ‘Where to begin? He broke several hearts when he was here last. But the one he returned to when he arrived here last month was Matilda. Her father runs the stables near Micklegate.’

A nurse and then a horse. Perfect. ‘Can you send your groom for her?’

Bess nodded sharply. ‘By the time you’ve delivered the bad news to Owen, Simon will have her in your kitchen.’

With a grateful hug, Lucie hurried home.

Owen pounded the shop counter with his fist. His face was tight with anger, the scar on his left cheek standing out lividly. ‘And if you had not injured yourself, you would be out of the city by now, eh?’

Ned looked taken aback. ‘I would not! I told you! I have a plan. A way to lure the bastards out of hiding. I need your help.’

‘So you jump out of the Archdeacon’s window? Would it not have been easier on your leg to ask to speak to me? For God’s sake, Ned, Lucie went to talk to you this morning. She would have listened.’

‘The Archdeacon is a coward. He would not allow me the freedom I need.’

‘Ah. We’re to set you free to lure Bardolph and Crofter, is that it?’

‘Yes.’ Ned winced at Owen’s glare. ‘That’s an unforgiving eye you have there, my friend.’

‘Are we still friends?’ Owen asked quietly.

‘God help me. When you take that tone …’ Ned and Owen both looked up as Lucie entered the shop.

‘Sweet Jesu!’ she hurried over to Ned. ‘I am so relieved. I thought’ – she glanced at Owen, saw his
expression – ‘Ah, so did you. Well, no matter.’ She turned back to Ned. ‘The serving girl told me you were injured. Let me see.’ Lucie took a small knife from the counter, knelt down, slit open the blood-soaked legging. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God …’

‘He does not deserve your ministrations, Lucie,’ Owen said. ‘He means to convince us to set him free.’

Lucie glanced up at Ned. ‘You will go nowhere with this leg.’

‘Not soon, I know. I’ve been a fool. But I have a plan to catch the bas— the men who mean to see me hanged. The men who murdered my Mary.’

Owen groaned. ‘You’ll not win me over by tugging at my wife’s heart.’

Lucie closed her eyes, shouted, ‘Peace! We shall talk about it after we have seen to this wound. These wounds. You’ve opened an old one, too.’

‘Aye.’

‘A knife wound?’

‘Don Ambrose. We fought the night he disappeared.’

Lucie rose. ‘I must fetch some warm water and a cloth to clean the wounds.’ She began to step aside to avoid Owen in his pacing trajectory, but he grabbed her shoulder. ‘Husband …’

‘While you two politely discuss wounds, the Archdeacon’s household must be in turmoil. Eh, wife? Or did you say naught when you found his room empty?’

Oh dear.’ The blue eyes widened as they met Owen’s eye. ‘Oh sweet heaven, a turmoil indeed. I sent Matthew to alert your men. They will have the gatekeepers and bailiffs watching for Ned by now.’

Owen let her go and kicked a stool, sending it clattering against the counter. ‘You sent that mewling Matthew to give orders to my men? He’ll tell
Ralph and his men. When they find Ned here they’ll hang him.’

‘For pity’s sake, Owen. Do you always abuse the messenger? It was not I who let Ned slip out the window. It was not I who agreed to have Matthew guard him! And I did just what you would do, did I not? Alerted the city and gatekeepers?’

‘I pray you,’ Ned cried, struggling to stand, ‘I will not be the cause of discord between you. I’ll leave.’

As quickly as Owen’s anger had flared up, it died. ‘Sit down, Ned.’ Ned sat. Owen righted the stool by the counter and sank down on it, elbows on knees, forehead in hands. ‘I have a mind to wash my hands of this matter, Lucie. Jehannes has made a mess of it, first sending Ned out without warning of Don Ambrose’s request, then trusting him to stay put in his house with only Matthew to guard him. ’Tis Jehannes’s affair now. Let him answer to the Archbishop and the King.’

Lucie frowned, shook her head slightly, brought a finger to her lips, then smiled at a customer coming through the doorway. ‘Have a care,’ she whispered, ‘Mistress Tarrington would love to spread word of our arguing in the shop. And of Ned’s presence. I shall take him into the kitchen before she has a good look.’ Lucie nodded to the woman and helped Ned hobble out. ‘See to her.’

Owen rose and beamed at the gossip. ‘How is Will’s leg today, Mistress Tarrington?’

‘Middling. Can you give him naught stronger for the pain?’ The man had been savaged by a wild boar. Master Saurian had recommended amputation at the knee, but Will Tarrington wanted first to try prayer and time. ‘’Tis the thrashing about that’s stopping his healing,’ his wife said. ‘If you gave him something
stronger, he might rest and recover.’ She was a tiny woman with a rasping voice and the beady eyes of a ferret.

Lucie had already given poor Will a salve that was often used to numb a patient before surgery. Owen could do no better for him without endangering his life. ‘My wife has given him her strongest physick for pain, Mistress Tarrington.’

‘I wish to God Master Wilton were alive, he would have helped my Will.’

Owen bit his tongue and waited for Mistress Tarrington to continue.

But the woman surprised him. Tears welled in her beady eyes, her pointy nose reddened. ‘He’ll lose the leg, won’t he?’

Owen wished Lucie were here. He was not good at handling such things. ‘I pray that he does not.’

‘What shall we do without him working at St Clement’s mill?’

‘There’s many a man lost a leg in battle and found ways to move about. And what about yourself? Do you have something to calm you and help you sleep?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Not I, Captain Archer. I must be alert to his cries, mustn’t I?’

‘But a soothing tisane might help calm you and allow you to rest when he’s asleep.’ Owen turned, lifted a jar from the shelf behind him. ‘Balm, mint, and just a touch of valerian root. A pinch heated in a cup of water, strained, and sipped slowly. It will not induce a deep sleep, just soothe you. You must get some rest else you won’t be strong enough to help your husband.’

Mistress Tarrington dropped her head, patted her nose and eyes with her sleeve. ‘God bless you,’ she whispered.

When she had gone, Owen stood a moment, thinking about the frightened woman. Had he snapped at her, he would not have heard what she feared. He slipped back to the kitchen. Lucie looked up from Ned’s leg with anxious eyes. ‘Mistress Tarrington went away content,’ Owen said. He nodded towards Ned. ‘Has he described his intent?’

‘A little. You must listen to him, Owen.’

‘What do you take me for? Of course I shall listen.’

The kitchen door flew open. Ned began to duck, then recognised Bess Merchet.

‘The hussy claims she’s not seen—’ Bess stopped as she recognised Ned. ‘So you’ve set us a merry chase for naught?’

Owen and Ned exchanged puzzled looks.

‘I asked Bess who might help Ned escape,’ Lucie said. ‘She sent Simon to the stables near Micklegate.’

‘Ah.’ Ned nodded. ‘Matilda. I hope you did not mention me in her father’s hearing?’

‘I am sure I do not know.’ Bess stood, arms akimbo, watching Ned with the stern expression she used on her serving girls.

‘Poor Matilda. She’ll not thank me.’

Bess shook her head. ‘Such girls. I’ve had my fill of woolly-brained girls.’

‘Your new kitchen maid displeases?’ Lucie asked.

Bess snorted. ‘Displeases? A dog has more sense.’ She nodded towards Ned, her caps ribbons trembling. ‘And you’ve no sense, neither. What is Captain Archer to say to the Archdeacon?’

What indeed? ‘Some of Tom’s ale might help us sit down and discuss this civilly, Bess,’ Owen suggested. It promised to be a long afternoon.

T
horesby’s new apartments at Windsor were in the north-east corner of the upper bailey, at the edge of the continuing construction of apartments for members of the court that would stretch along the east and south walls to the Black Tower. From his chamber window Thoresby could spy a small corner of sun-drenched vineyard through a section of the east wall that was under repair. After almost a week of scudding clouds and frequent showers, today had dawned with little fog, and by mid-morning the air was warm and sweet. Though the recently pruned vines bore insubstantial leaves as yet, the earth would be warm from the sun. Thoresby could almost smell the rich, pungent aroma. ‘I shall be walking in the vineyard,’ he informed Michaelo.

Brother Michaelo inclined his head. ‘Your Grace. Shall I advise petitioners to return after nones?’ The thin lips fought a smile. Michaelo thought two habits of his master peculiar, his frequent bathing and his long walks.

Thoresby, in turn, found his secretary’s characteristic languor distasteful. ‘You might walk with me. You must feel a prisoner in these chambers.’