The King's Bishop (38 page)

Owen found it difficult to pity the man with so much blood on his hands. ‘Sir William ordered you to do this. And because of that accidental slaying in Dublin, you obeyed.’

‘No.’ The woolly head rocked from side to side. ‘He knew naught of this.’

‘Why did these men need to die?’

‘Ask Crofter.’

‘I am asking you, Bardolph.’

‘Something to do with honour. And ours, being his men. Crofter said we must do this.’

‘Wyndesore’s honour?’

‘He is our lord.’

‘And you did all this without his knowing?’

‘Aye. Crofter said we must.’

‘And you do all Crofter tells you?’

‘He’s smart.’

‘I am surprised, Bardolph. You seem to be a man with a conscience.’

A shrug.

‘Did you tell the friar something to make him fear Townley?’

‘Nay. ‘Twasn’t us. But we used his fear.’

‘Mary and Daniel. What of them?’

Bardolph stopped rocking. His eyes slid to the partition. ‘What was that noise?’

‘Rats. Surely they visit you below?’

‘’Tis a hellish place.’

‘What did you have to do with the deaths of Mary and Daniel?’

‘We didn’t touch those two. Had others see to them.’

‘Two innocent young people and you never asked why?’

A shrug. ‘Crofter said we must.’

Crofter snorted. ‘Knew he would fall apart. But he wouldn’t’ve told you we had orders, because we didn’t.’

Owen doubly despised this man, for the murders and for pulling Bardolph down into the mire. ‘Then what made you do it?’

A sly smile. ‘Sir William’s a good lord. When he has good fortune, so do his men. I heard there were some knew something might ruin him. They had to be silenced. For the good of us all.’

‘Sir William told you this?’

A roll of the eyes. ‘He’s not one to complain. I keep my ears pricked, is all.’

‘And you took it upon yourself to murder – how many, Crofter?’

‘You’re the cunning spy, Captain. I’ll leave it to you to count ‘em.’

Thoresby paced his parlour. ‘Damn them. How can two common soldiers confound my purpose?’ He threw Michaelo’s account down on the table. ‘Damn them.’

‘They will soon be dead, and damned I’m sure, Your Grace,’ Owen said. He yearned for a long sit with a tall tankard of Tom Merchet’s ale.

‘I fear she has won, Archer. Her stench is everywhere at court.’

The man was obsessed. ‘This has naught to do with Alice Perrers. Wyndesore is far more a demon than she is.’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘You are wrong there. It has everything to do with her.’

A
chilly dawn rain fell as Wykeham hurried to Winchester Tower in the middle ward. He was acting as confessor to Bardolph and Crofter, condemned for arranging the murders of Daniel and Mary, and carrying out the murders of Don Ambrose, Gervase, and Henry. King Edward thought the councillor’s offer a harmless act of penance for being more disappointed in the outcome of the mission to the Cistercian abbeys than sorry for the deaths. But Wykeham’s motive was morbid curiosity.

To murder three people, arrange for the murders of two others, all for the protection of a lord who, they claimed, knew nothing of these deeds was an act of sublime madness. Had they in good faith believed Wyndesore would wish for such protection? If not, what had inspired such violence? Surely not hatred. They hardly knew their victims. Wykeham could not sleep for the unease the questions aroused.

The guard jerked to his feet, rubbing his eyes, and bowed to Wykeham. He had been nodding, not surprising at this early hour. Wykeham blessed the
guard. ‘I am here as confessor to the two men who are to die tomorrow.’

The guard shook his head. ‘They be murderin’ thieves,
Domine
. Have a care.’

As he gingerly descended the narrow stone stairs, Wykeham wondered what lie the guard had been told; the entire business was still shrouded in mystery, the King still insistent that the marriage of Perrers and Wyndesore be kept a secret.

The guard stopped at a heavy door, used a large key to open it. ‘I shall stand guard,
Domine
. Call out if they give you trouble.’

Wykeham bowed his tall frame through the low doorway, rose cautiously; his head brushed the ceiling while he yet bent forward. Awkward for a tall man. He wondered who had designed this tower; had it been intended for a prison? Was the low ceiling part of the punishment?

Lifting the lantern to shoulder height, he saw that the condemned men lay at opposite ends of the small room, each asleep on a pile of clean straw. One stirred as the light shone on him. Crofter. The other remained still. A table with two stools stood between them, on it a pitcher and cups, bowls, spoons, and an oil lamp. The men were neither chained nor bound. Wykeham wondered who had seen to their decent treatment – it was comfortable for a dungeon.

‘Who goes there?’ Crofter demanded, struggling to rise.

‘Sir William of Wykeham, come to hear your confession.’

‘We have confessed already.’

‘I am here to shrive you.’

‘The King’s man? Are we such important prisoners, then?’

‘All men’s souls are important to the Lord.’

‘But not the King? Or is His Grace curious? Wants to hear how we grovel?’

Wykeham paid him no heed; the man had cause to be bitter, taking the blame for crimes he may have been ordered to commit. ‘You might confess to me in private before your friend wakens.’

‘We have no secrets, Bardolph and me.’ Crofter glanced towards Bardolph. ‘Still. He isn’t waking.’ He shrugged, rose to his knees, folded his hands. ‘I confess to those sins for which I stand accused.’

‘Do you feel remorse for your sins, Crofter?’

‘I do.’

‘Then why did you commit them?’

Crofter squinted at Wykeham, puzzled. ‘I judged it my duty, sir.’

This had been his claim throughout the past days. He never varied in his explanation. ‘Had Sir William ever ordered you to perform such a task?’

‘He knew naught of this. I’ve said that.’

‘I understand that Wyndesore knew nothing of your scheme, but were there other occasions when he asked you to risk your salvation? Something to convince you he would condone such a solution?’

Crofter shrugged. ‘We are soldiers, sir. ’Tis the sort of thing we do. Only difference is whether the Church has blessed the act, seems to me.’

Wykeham crossed himself.

‘Ever kill a man, sir?’

‘No. God has spared me that need.’

Crofter nodded. ‘That is why you cannot see it. Duty. A soldier’s duty is to defend by force.’

Wykeham wondered who had put that simple-minded idea in the man’s head. ‘Your comrade did not
appear to agree with you when he begged forgiveness of the Archdeacon of York.’

Crofter shrugged. ‘Bardolph has ever been a worrier. Not cowardly, mind you. Just thinks too much. Perhaps he asked forgiveness in case we were wrong to protect Sir William in such a way. But you must ask him.’ Crofter rose, stooping slightly under the low ceiling, shuffled over to his mate. ‘Bardolph. Chaplain has come. He’s an important man. He won’t wait.’ Crofter shook his inert friend. Bardolph did not move. ‘Bardolph, did you hear me? Bardolph!’

Alarmed, Wykeham joined Crofter, touched Bardolph’s neck, his wrist, felt no flutter of life. The flesh was cold. He had been a fool not to question the deep sleep. ‘Has he been ill?’

Crofter met Wykeham’s eyes, shrugged. ‘He’s been sweating a lot. Wakeful. ’Tis why I was relieved he slept so sound.’

‘Sweating and wakeful?’

‘Aye. Frightened of dying, frightened of the fires of Hell.’ A deep breath. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘I fear he is. Though not long dead.’ Wykeham shone the lantern on Bardolph, turned his shaggy head this way and that, examined his arms. He saw no obvious signs of violence. The man seemed as if resting peacefully.

But Crofter was too quiet, too calm for a man who had just discovered a friend’s death. Nor would he raise his eyes to Wykeham’s. The privy councillor sent for Owen Archer.

Owen stood at the window staring out between the iron bars to the grey May sky. Rain drummed on the grill; the damp seeped through the chinks in the stone
and glistened on the walls like a fine sweat. ‘I once considered myself exiled.’

‘But it is not the same thing at all, is it?’ Ned said wearily. ‘You could return to Wales.’

‘What were the odds, eh?’

‘As high as the odds of my being pardoned, I suppose.’

Owen turned towards his friend, watched as Ned paced back and forth from corner to corner of the tiny cell, working the stiffness from his joints. Tomorrow he must leave for Dover; he would have three days to make his way there and take ship. After that he was an outlaw, subject to immediate execution if caught in the kingdom. It would be a hard ride, with only enough money to buy his way on to a ship as crew. ‘From Lancaster’s spy to this. You’ve been a fool, my friend.’

Ned stopped in front of Owen, grabbed his friend’s shoulders, squeezed them. ‘I did what I felt honour-bound to do. For Mary. I only regret that I involved you and your family. And that the King won’t grant me a few moments at Mary’s grave.’

Owen looked away from the intensely sad eyes. ‘I tried.’

‘I know you did, my friend. I’ll never forget all you’ve done.’

Owen had attempted to sneak Ned out in Alfred’s clothes, but the guards were too well-trained.

‘Where will you go?’

‘Where the wind takes me.’

Forcing himself to meet his friend’s eyes, Owen clasped Ned’s still upraised arms. ‘I shall miss you, despite the fool’s chase you led me.’

Their arms fell away.

Ned resumed his pacing. ‘Neither of her wounds were serious.’

‘It was the threat, not the wounds, Ned. And she protested the King’s initial sentence.’ The King had ordered Ned beheaded, but Alice Perrers had begged for clemency.

‘Aye, she did that. But what of Wyndesore? What will he pay for this?’

Owen turned back to the iron-crossed sky. ‘His men have sworn he knew nothing of their effort to protect him.’

‘He does not deserve her. She is a brave, elegant lady,’ Ned said, sounding wistful.

‘Mistress Perrers?’

‘Aye. Have you ever seen such courage?’

The dreamy look in Ned’s eyes cheered Owen a little. It was more like the Ned he had known as an archer. ‘You said you no longer thought of women.’

Ned shrugged. ‘She liked you. ’Twas plain in those cat eyes of hers.’

‘No doubt she would have looked kindly on anyone come to rescue her.’

‘You deny it for Lucie’s sake?’

Owen laughed. ‘Will you write from exile to tell her?’

A rap on the door. ‘Message for Captain Archer,’ the guard called out.

‘Important man, you are, my friend.’

Owen opened the door.

‘Sir William of Wykeham asks that you come right away, Captain. He found Bardolph dead in his cell.’

‘Murdered?’ Owen asked.

‘The messenger did not say.’

Ned crossed himself. ‘Some hasten their own end, fearing the axe.’

Owen shook his head. ‘In Bardolph’s case I very much doubt it. He was worried for his soul. I doubt he would take his own life.’

‘Crofter?’

‘I am sure of it. Those cold eyes. Let us pray it was less painful than what the King planned.’

‘I cannot share your concern for his comfort.’

Bardolph’s body had been moved to a room with more light. Wykeham greeted Owen, beckoned him over to the table where Bardolph lay. ‘I doubt he died unaided, Captain Archer. But I find no marks about him.’

‘Poison?’

Wykeham shrugged. ‘I have no training in such things. But as your wife is a master apothecary and you have studied the craft, I hoped you might tell.’

‘Only in the case of some poisons is there aught to see, Sir William. And only a foolish man uses such poisons, or a man who need not worry about being punished. But Bardolph’s behaviour and appearance before he died might tell us something.’

‘His comrade said he was sweating and wakeful.’

‘Do you trust Crofter?’

Wykeham grimaced. ‘He seems too calm about the death of his comrade.’

Owen nodded, turned to look Wykeham in the eye. ‘The King’s surgeon might be more knowledgeable in this.’

Wykeham dropped his eyes to his folded hands. ‘We wish to keep this matter as quiet as possible, Captain.’

Adam poured wine for three, set the flagon in front of Thoresby, and departed. Thoresby nodded to Owen and Wykeham, who lifted their mazers. ‘May God grant an end to this plague of murders with Crofter’s
death at dawn,’ Thoresby said, ‘though he be guilty only of poor judgement in his loyalty.’ The three drank.