The King's Bishop (34 page)

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘God bless you. I shall send Gilbert with the deeds in the morning.’

Thoresby smiled as they parted. It would be enlightening to see the extent of Alice Perrers’s holdings.

In the morning, Thoresby had Adam watch Alice’s movements. When Alice left the Queen’s apartments on an errand, Thoresby presented himself to the Queen’s receiving chamber. Phillippa sat with her legs cradled in soft cushions, her feet draped with a silk coverlet. Apparently shoes were a pain she endured only when necessary these days. Her face was swollen and unnaturally flushed. Yet the Queen welcomed Thoresby with a sweet smile as usual. ‘Come, sit near me. You have become a stranger to
these rooms, my friend. The King works you day and night, I fear?’

‘And now Mistress Perrers.’

‘Ah. Yes. I assured her she might trust you with her secret.’

Thoresby glanced at the lady in waiting who hovered nearby. ‘You are kind to show such faith in my discretion, my lady.’

‘I know that you are not fond of Alice.’ Phillippa waved away his protests. ‘It is kind of you to look into these matters for my sake.’ She turned to her lady, asked for her to leave them for a moment. ‘Talk with the gardener. Coax some early blooms from him.’

When they were alone in the large, yet comfortable chamber, Thoresby grinned at the Queen. ‘You enjoy this intrigue.’

The bloodshot eyes brightened. ‘It provides diversion.’

‘Sir William of Wyndesore. Such an unpleasant choice for Mistress Perrers. Would you have encouraged her in her intent? Had you known, of course?’

The Queen closed her eyes, pursed her lips. ‘Sadly, it is a common fault in otherwise shrewd women; they spy a rogue, sense danger, and think it love.’ She shook her head. ‘Happily for me I fell in love with the best of men.’

‘You have been blessed in your marriage.’

‘It is a rarity, such perfection.’ Phillippa smiled. ‘Even now, when I am not pleasant to look on and move with the gait of a crippled beast.’

‘You are the beauty you ever were, my Queen.’

Phillippa patted Thoresby’s hand. ‘Alice is unhappy. No, that is too weak a word for it. She is cursed in her lot. Sir William is a ruthless man. He has defamed Lionel, my precious son.’ Tears glittered, the
cracked lips trembled. She had a particular affection for her second son.

Thoresby took the plunge. ‘So you had not blessed the marriage? Who had the temerity to tell you? Who told the King?’

‘That Austin friar of whom the privy councillor thought so highly.’ She frowned, having forgotten the name.

‘Don Ambrose?’

Phillippa nodded. ‘Yes. Poor man. May he rest in peace.’ She crossed herself. ‘He told Edward. It was Alice’s request. You see, almost at once she saw her mistake. She hoped that Edward would be worried that the marriage would look like a reward to Sir William for revealing Lionel’s errors in Ireland, that he would order its dissolution. But alas, Edward thought it a good match. Rather than dissolving it, he chose simply to keep it secret until the problems in Ireland are forgotten.’

Poor man indeed. Don Ambrose must have feared for his life many times before it ended.

O
wen’s company continued south, following Wyndesore’s men and the friar. The pace was swift. Owen wondered whether Ned was sleeping in the woods, as they were, or finding nightly comfort in the abandoned cottages that dotted the countryside, grim reminders of the terrible toll of the plague. They had just ridden past a village of collapsing buildings, some weed-choked shells, others partially roofed. Considering how his own legs rubbed against saddle and steed, Owen knew Ned must be in agony with the pace. Unless he had found some trick of riding in an odd position, his wound would surely have reopened. Loss of blood, continual pain – how strong would Ned be by the time Bardolph and Crofter reached him? But they were not the ones controlling the pace. Ned must know what he was doing.

His head thick with pain, Ned yearned to stop, but early that morning he and Matthew had detected a fire upwind. Creeping close, they’d discovered their pursuers – Bardolph and Crofter, falling right in with the
plan. But Ned was puzzled by the addition to their company, the black-robed friar. Might it be Don Paulus, the bastard who had left Mary floating in the Thames? Should Ned attack now? He itched to do that. But they were two against three, and Ned was weak from the wound which stained his bandages though bound as tight as he could manage. The scar had long since torn, the wound reopened. Ned regretted having talked Owen into staying behind him. Together they would have fallen upon the three with no doubt as to the outcome. But he would not attempt an assault with Matthew – he was too hesitant a fighter.

Now, as he rode, Ned fought the temptation to stop at an inn, pay good coin for a private room, slake his terrible thirst and then close his eyes on the spinning, too-bright world, rest his pounding head. He feared his pace had slowed, and his frequent pauses at streams to refill his water-skin were surely costing him time. In fact, he was puzzled why Bardolph and Crofter had not already overtaken him. They had camped so near him last night; was it possible they were unaware of how close they were?

And then he saw a tumble of crumbling buildings, one a substantial ruin. He, Matthew, and the horses might easily hide in there and take a day to gather strength, then move on in pursuit of today’s pursuers. Ned suggested it to Matthew, who judged it a wise move.

As evening fell, the forest canopy hastening the night, Brother Michaelo noted that he had seen no signs of riders ahead for some time. Alfred and Owen agreed. All were uneasy. They reined in together to consider.

‘Do you think they knew we followed? Perhaps hid to let us pass?’ Michaelo suggested.

Alfred scratched his straw-coloured hair and pulled on his nose. ‘’Twas the farm gone to weeds we passed, mid-afternoon.’ He nodded. ‘That’s when last I noticed movement ahead.’

Owen remembered the farmhouse. It had reminded him of one in Normandy, recently gutted by fire. He, Ned, Gaspare, Bertold and Lief had spent a hellish night hiding within, amongst the ashes and splintered wood, waiting for enemy scouts to pass by. It might have touched Ned’s memory, too, coaxing him to stop there, rest his leg. The ruins had been sufficiently intact to hide them.

Michaelo was nodding. ‘I recall nothing since.’ He and Alfred looked to Owen for a decision.

‘We turn round, pick our way there in the dusk.’

Walter of Coventry at last arrived at the camp of Sir William of Wyndesore, soaked, chilled to the bone and exhausted. For the last few hours of the ride he had been composing in his head a letter of complaint to Mistress Alice Perrers, insisting on more generous pay for bringing this letter so far. To be fair, she could not have known that Sir William had quit Alnwick Castle to go on patrol with his men up into the Cheviot Hills. Walter had not come prepared for late snow in the higher elevations. He would be laid low with a fever, he had no doubt. The additional funds would compensate for lost income. The money should by rights come from Sir William; but knowing the soldier’s foul temper, Walter preferred to make his complaint to the lady.

Sir William greeted him with a grunt and snatched the letter from his gloved hands, stood with his back
to the tent opening, examining the seal by what little daylight there was. ‘Good.’ He broke the seal, read with the squint and moving lips of one who does not read with ease. Walter, curious what business the King’s mistress might have with the handsome but surly soldier, moved closer in hopes of reading the man’s lips.

Too late. A snort. ‘Women. Always fretting over things they don’t understand. Huh. I’ve dealt with worse.’ Wyndesore glanced up through heavy brows, noticed Walter’s intent gaze. ‘Still here, are you?’

Walter cleared his throat. ‘A matter of supplies, Sir William. I had not provisioned for a mountain journey …’

‘Alan! Give the messenger what he requires. I’ll not have him dying in the mountains. He’s served me well.’

Rising to follow the squire, Walter bobbed his head at Sir William. ‘God speed, Sir William.’

‘Aye. Off with you, now.’

As they picked their way through the slush to the cook’s tent, Alan asked, ‘The letter you carried. From Mistress Perrers?’

‘Aye.’

Alan nodded. ‘I am glad he’s sending you off with supplies. That bodes well for us all.’

Walter could imagine life in camp with a commander such as Wyndesore.

After Matthew had cleaned Ned’s wound and bandaged it as best he could, Ned had dosed himself with some wine and lain down to nap. ‘Keep your eyes on the edge of the wood, Matthew. They will come from there if they come.’

But they did not. Bardolph and Crofter had ridden in
straight from the road, bold as could be. By the time Matthew had spotted them setting up camp, he and Ned could no longer slip out of the house without being seen.

Ned cursed Matthew as he struggled to the mossy hole that had once been a window. But seeing the activity, he shrugged. ‘They may not know how close we are, just thought to stop early tonight. This could be where we carry out the plan, Matthew, if Owen and the others are riding right behind them. We must be prepared for battle.’

They retreated into the shadows and ate some dried meat, drank enough wine to quench their thirst, no more, and then settled in to wait. The daylight faded. Ned crept back to the lookout. A small campfire lit the twilight. There was but one figure sitting beside it.

‘I am much afraid we have eased ourselves into a trap, Matthew.’ Ned drew his daggers. ‘Come. Let us use the shadows to our advantage.’

As Owen and his companions drew near the derelict farmhouse, Alfred rode on ahead to scout. The three had caught sight of what appeared to be a substantial campfire, guessed that perhaps the King’s men were upon them.

As he rode closer, Alfred’s uneasiness mounted. He had to fight not to cough in the smoky air; it was no mere campfire up ahead. Dismounting and tethering his horse at the edge of the wood, he put a cloth to his face and crept among the tumbledown farm buildings to the farmhouse. As the lopsided ruin came into view he halted, crossed himself. The bonfire was heaped before the door; a fire built with a base layer of dry wood and plenty of it, creating enough heat now to
burn damp wood, making a smoky, slow-burning fire. The sort used to smoke someone out of an enclosed space. As Alfred watched, the rotting wood round the door caught fire.

Feeding the flames was the black-robed Don Paulus.

Alfred ducked behind an outbuilding. Somewhere before him, most likely in the house, he could hear the terrified horses.

With a pounding heart, Alfred crept back to his horse and led it into the wood where he mounted and galloped back to Owen and Michaelo.

With cautious, exploring steps Owen and Michaelo crept through the dark wood. Alfred had gone round the front, his mission to incapacitate Don Paulus, then soak a blanket in the pond by the outbuildings and throw it upon the fire. For Owen the way was doubly difficult; a man with both eyes has poor sight at night, but a man with a single eye is almost as good as blind. And with the increasing smoke, the one eye must blink far too often. Michaelo was soon way ahead of Owen. How odd to depend on Thoresby’s secretary to assist him in saving Ned. Owen pressed a damp cloth to his nose and mouth as the smoke thickened. Sweet Heaven. Let them find the bloody bastards before Ned died of a lung full of hellfire.

Michaelo had paused, his hands out, palms up. Owen hurried towards him. They were now at the edge of the clearing directly behind the house. It was a nightmare scene, the ruin haloed in firelight which weirdly illuminated the billowing smoke. The crisp crackle of the blaze was shattered now and again by the cries of the terrified horses within.

‘Step out farther,’ Michaelo said.

As Owen did, he understood Michaelo’s stance. It had begun to rain. A good, steady rain. ‘Let us pray it is enough to slow the fire.’

‘Two men,’ Michaelo said, pointing to a darkness Owen could not yet make out, his eye still affected by glancing at the fire.

They edged forward cautiously, staying within the thickest smoke. Blinking rapidly, Owen now made out the two figures, one on either side of a yawning opening through which the flames were visible.

‘The bastards await Ned and Matthew.’

Michaelo crossed himself. ‘And their horses.’

Suddenly a horse rushed from the opening, knocking over one of the men in its desperate escape. ‘Now!’ Owen shouted, pushing forward. ‘Get the one on the ground.’

Owen leapt aside as the second horse came crashing through a burning wall. Mud splashed up at him as he landed in a puddle. He looked up, kicked out in time to trip a man lunging for him. Grabbing the muddy figure, Owen rolled him over, wincing as he discovered the man’s dagger. He knelt on the man’s gut and snapped the wrist to the ground, grabbed the knife, held it at the man’s throat.

A groan. ‘You’ve broken my arm.’

Only then did Owen know his opponent. ‘Only your wrist, Crofter.’ The man’s throat was tempting; but Crofter had much talking to do. ‘Is Townley still in the house?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Crofter spat in Owen’s eye.