Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Not that it mattered; Michaelo would not be mingling with courtiers today. He would be hunched over a writing-desk preparing letters from the Archbishop to the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx, letters recommending William of Wykeham to the see of Winchester. A depressing task, for if the King succeeded in having the appointment confirmed, Wykeham would be poised to replace Archbishop Thoresby as Lord Chancellor. A dreary thought. Not that it was not an honour to be secretary to the Archbishop of York; but an archbishop was not so London-bound as the chancellor. Michaelo sighed at the prospect of more time in York. He preferred Thoresby in his dual role. If winter seemed endless here, it was far worse up north. His only hope of salvation from such a bleak future was that despite letters enthusiastically recommending Wykeham for the bishopric the Pope would stand firm in his determination to make Wykeham the first casualty in his war against pluralism. Pope Urban believed that the practice of conferring on clergy multiple benefices resulted in neglected parishes and pampered clergy who paid more heed to their debts to their benefactors than to their responsibilities to their flocks. His Holiness referred to William of Wykeham as the richest pluralist in England. Which was apparently quite true.

A shout from below the Round Tower startled Michaelo from his thoughts; he straightened suddenly, tottered, regained his balance. Three men at arms ran towards the commotion. The man who had called the alarm stood over the ditch that bordered the motte on which the tower squatted. The snow that blanketed the steep slope was scarred as if something had slid down from the top. Curiosity propelled Michaelo closer.

When he was but ten feet from what was now a small crowd, Michaelo saw three men lifting a body from the ditch. The lifeless form dripped ice, water and filth. The heavy rains had filled the ditch, making it a shallow moat, and the freeze had crusted it with ice. Poor soul must have slipped into the freezing water and drowned in a cold stupor before he got his wits about him to crawl out. But how had he come to be on the slope?

One of the men lifted what looked like a cloak from the mud, sniffed it, handed it to his companion. ‘Smell this, would you?’

His companion sniffed, recoiled. ‘Phew! Better in the tankard than soaked into the wool. What did the lad do, dive into the barrel?’

‘Drank a bellyful and thought he’d try sledding, I’d wager.’

Ah. Now Michaelo understood the scar in the snow. Sledding down the motte, unable to stop — a scenario many a mother had rehearsed with her wayward children in the past months, warning them of the danger. ‘Who is he?’ Michaelo called out.

‘Daniel. The page of Sir William of Wyndesore.’

‘Are you certain?’ Michaelo knew Daniel. A sweet-faced, gentle lad.

‘Looks like Daniel to me,’ the man said.

Michaelo pressed closer still, cutting across the mud without a thought now for his boots. The lad lay on the ground, eyes opened wide, his hair caked with mud, his arms outspread. As Michaelo squatted beside the body to lift the stiff hair from the face, he noticed something that did not belong on a drowned man: red welts on the wrists, just visible beneath the sleeves of the lad’s tunic. Michaelo wanted to push up a sleeve for a better look, but he resisted. He brushed back the hair, gently closed the lad’s eyelids.

‘So? Is it Daniel?’ The man held the cloak at arm’s length.

Michaelo straightened up, made the sign of the cross over the body. ‘Yes. Yes, poor lad.’ He hurried away without a word about Daniel’s wrists. Better mentioned to someone he could trust.

Sir William of Wyndesore instructed his servants to leave the lad’s body covered and to keep away the curious. Then he went out to speak with his men. He cursed under his breath as pale winter sunlight burned his eyes and a chill wind wrapped icy fingers round his bones. Wyndesore was a tough, seasoned campaigner, powerfully built; but he was no longer young, he had awakened with a head that felt several times its normal size thanks to some fine brandywine last night, and that awakening had been sudden and unpleasant, his servants distraught at the news of Daniel’s drowning. His men were assembled in the outer ward, some hopping from foot to foot trying to get warm, some dabbing their eyes, but many frowning fiercely and demanding Ned Townley.

‘Who?’ Wyndesore asked his squire.

Alan leaned close. ‘Ned Townley. He is Lancaster’s spy, left here to be the Duke’s ears while he’s fighting in Castile, so they say.’

‘Do they now? So what’s his sin, besides being Lancaster’s spy?’

‘I know not. But I saw Scoggins with him last night.’

Wyndesore straightened up, squinted out at his men, picked out Scoggins scowling with the best of them. ‘Well, Scoggins, what has this Townley done?’

‘He’s murdered Daniel, that’s what he’s done, my lord.’ The men muttered their approval of Scoggins’s explanation, their combined voices echoing against the stone walls surrounding them.

‘You witnessed him doing this, did you?’

Scoggins spat in the mud, shook his head. ‘Nay, my lord. But I saw the two of ‘em last night arguing over one of Mistress Perrers’s maids, that little Mary. And Townley told Daniel he’d pin him to the wall with his daggers if he found him round Mary again. That’s what he said, and that I can swear to, my lord. I called some men to escort him from the hall. He must’ve come back, waited for the lad without.’

Wyndesore closed his eyes. ‘And was Daniel stabbed?’ Scoggins was a gossip and troublemaker, but a good fighter, and loyal. Fiercely loyal. ‘Eh, Scoggins?’

The man shrugged. ‘I did not see the body, my lord.’

Wyndesore looked round. ‘Who did? Who found him?’

‘One of the King’s guards,’ Alan whispered. ‘But Bardolph and Crofter helped drag him from the ditch.’

‘Crofter!’

A fair, square-jawed man stepped forward. ‘I saw no stab wounds, my lord. The lad drowned, no doubt of that.’

Wyndesore nodded. ‘Then enough of this nonsense about Townley.’

Crofter shook his head. ‘Who’s to say Townley didn’t change his mind and make it look like an accident, my lord? Who’s to say?’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not argumentative.

Wyndesore scowled. ‘Stick to the facts, Crofter.’

Crofter bobbed his head in good-humoured deference. ‘He drowned, my lord.’

‘Thank you.’

But Crofter was not finished. ‘If it please you, my lord. His cloak reeked of ale. He must have spilled it all over himself. I suppose he might have been too drunk to judge what he was doing, my lord.’

Wyndesore turned to Scoggins. ‘Was Daniel drunk when he left the hall?’

Scoggins shrugged, looked down at his boots. ‘A bit, my lord.’

‘He was not accustomed to much drink, Scoggins. Did you encourage this?’

Scoggins faced his lord. ‘I did, my lord, and for that I shall do much penance.’

‘So you were drinking, too?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Did someone offer to help young Daniel back to his bed?’

‘I did not see him leave, my lord.’

‘Too drunk by then?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

Wyndesore shielded his eyes against the sunlight as he looked back out at his men. ‘Go about your morning duties. You will have a chance to pray for Daniel at mass tomorrow morning.’ He turned on his heels and marched back inside, shouting for Alan to go wake Mistress Alice Perrers.

‘And Ned Townley, my lord?’

‘First Mistress Alice, damn you!’

Alan hurried away.

*

John Thoresby paced in his chamber waiting for his secretary. Michaelo’s tardiness was particularly irritating this morning. Thoresby had decided how to reconcile the King’s request with his own interests and he wished to complete the task. Where was his secretary? Admiring himself in his mirror?