Candace Robb - King's Bishop

When at last Michaelo arrived he was breathless, his face was flushed, and much to Thoresby’s surprise the hem of his habit was soggy.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Your Grace, there has been a terrible-’ Michaelo shook his head, sat down at the writing desk, and dabbed his face with a cloth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

‘A terrible what, Michaelo? You are all atremble.’

His secretary nodded, blotted his upper lip.

‘Michaelo!’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I wished to catch my breath.’ Michaelo shook his head. ‘It is the marks, Your Grace. And his cloak. He was floating in the moat, not an ale-cask. How does one spill so much ale as to soak an entire cloak? Even stranger, why wear a cloak while drinking?’ Michaelo bowed his head, pressed the cloth to one temple, then the other.

The Archbishop studied his uncharacteristically dishevelled, babbling secretary. ‘Have you overindulged this morning? One of your headaches?’

Michaelo raised his head slowly, frowned up at Thoresby as if puzzled. ‘No, Your Grace. I was making my way here when they discovered him and pulled him from the ditch.’

‘ Who was pulled from what ditch?’

‘Did I not say? I pray you forgive me, Your Grace. It was Daniel. Sir William of Wyndesore’s page. Down below the Round Tower. Drowned, Your Grace. Or worse.’

Worse? ‘Drowning is rather final, I should think. What could be worse?’

Michaelo’s brows pulled together. ‘I said nothing to the men who found him. I do not wish to make something of nothing. But there were marks on his wrists. As if his hands had been bound, Your Grace.’

That could be troublesome. But it was the victim’s identity that set off alarms in Thoresby’s head. His secretary had a weakness for handsome youths. ‘Daniel. A rather pretty young man, as I recall. You have not been breaking your vows again, have you, Michaelo?’

The question seemed to clear Michaelo’s head. He sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Your Grace! I was merely walking past.’

‘I do not doubt that, Michaelo, but your agitation bespeaks an attachment.’

Michaelo’s nostrils flared. ‘I kept my distance as always, Your Grace.’

Deo gratias . Thoresby hid a smile as Michaelo lifted his chin, his back stiff with indignation, raised his quill pen and sat with it poised above the parchment.

‘Shall we begin, Your Grace?’

His secretary’s injured feelings reassured Thoresby. ‘Indeed. I have resolved my approach to the letters our King has requested.’

It was a matter of emphasis, Thoresby had decided. Praise those aspects of Wykeham’s service of which the Cistercian abbots least approved — how in his past post of Clerk of Works and presently as Keeper of the Privy Seal the King found him indispensable, which, of course, emphasised Wykeham’s worldly loyalties. The King could not deny it, nor could he deny that Thoresby couched his words as praise. Thoresby smiled to himself as he began to dictate to Michaelo.

Rather elegantly gowned for an early morning walk, her brown hair carefully coiffed beneath a gossamer veil, Alice Perrers swept through the Norman Gate from the upper ward clutching a fur-lined cloak round her shivering body. It was too early to be abroad; the blood was not yet warmed in her extremities. The guard bowed to her. Her page hurried after her carrying a goblet and a flagon of watered-down and delicately spiced wine. Alice intended to wake properly with her usual morning refreshment no matter who had been found floating in the moat. After attending Sir William she must return to the apartments of the ailing Queen and attend her. There would be no time to see to Alice’s own needs. Not that she resented her duty to Queen Phillippa. Alice owed her position to the aged Queen’s affection. But she must also take care of herself — no one else would. She was nineteen years old and would soon lose the bloom of youth that so enchanted the King if she did not have a care for her health. She did not delude herself; she was no beauty. Her power was in her youthful, well-formed body, her understanding of men’s desires, and her cunning ambition.

At the door to Sir William of Wyndesore’s chambers Alice turned, eyebrows raised. ‘Gilbert?’

Her servant rushed forward, shifting the goblet to the hand with the flagon, and rapped sharply. He had learned that to spare his knuckles threw his lady into a temper.

As the door opened, Alice swept past Gilbert into a comfortable yet austere parlour, obviously furnished by a military man: two high-backed chairs, two companion tables, and a chest for storage. The chairs were arranged in front of a large brazier that radiated a pleasant heat from its dark corner. Sir William occupied one of the chairs, his feet stretched out towards the fire. He looked up lazily and nodded. He was a handsome man, over twenty years Alice’s senior but still a physically powerful man with rich dark hair — succumbing to silver streaks, but still abundant. How like him not to rise, Alice thought. When he served under the Duke of Clarence in Ireland had he behaved with such insolence? An intriguing question. She must pursue it. ‘Sir William.’

Wyndesore waved Alice over to the other chair. She sat down with a regal sweep of her skirts. A servant rushed over to place a small table by her. Gilbert came forward, poured the wine.

‘You carry your refreshment with you? As a precaution?’ Wyndesore grinned.

‘I have a particular thirst in the early morning, and, as we decided last night — ’ she glanced up with a coy smile ‘- my cellar is excellent.’ Alice lifted her goblet as if toasting him, then drank.

Wyndesore watched her with amusement. ‘The King’s pampered pet.’

Alice bristled. ‘Not a pet.’

Wyndesore touched his heart and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Alice. I have the clumsy manners of a soldier.’

Alice paid no heed to his false apology.

Wyndesore looked bored with the game. ‘So. Ned Townley. He fancies your maid Mary?’

Alice ran her finger idly round the rim of her goblet. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You have heard about my page?’

Alice made a sad face. ‘Poor Daniel. Sledding. Everyone has been expecting such an accident, but involving a child, not a young man.’ She lifted her eyes slowly. ‘Why do you mention Ned?’

‘Perhaps it was not an accident. Ned Townley threatened Daniel last night — about being with Mary. Was Daniel dallying with your maid?’

‘Sir William! Have you been consulting common gossips?’

Wyndesore leaned forward, impatient with Alice’s teasing. ‘Was he?’

Alice pouted and folded her hands like an obedient child. ‘Daniel had made a pest of himself of late, that I can say, though I dislike speaking ill of the dead. But he was not wooing Mary. That was clearly not his intention.’

Wyndesore sniffed. ‘Why else does a man spend time round a pretty woman?’

Alice feigned surprise at his comment. ‘She cannot be a friend if she is pretty?’ She tilted her head and tsked at Wyndesore.

He laughed.

Alice sipped her wine, serious again. ‘What are you thinking?’

Wyndesore drew his feet back, snapped his fingers for a cup of ale. ‘What I’m thinking does not matter. It’s my men. They think Townley killed Daniel.’ He took a long drink, watching Alice over the rim of his mazer.

Alice shook her head. ‘Ned did no such thing. I can vouch for him, and so can Mary. He was with her last night when I went up to bed — you will recall that was rather late.’ Alice sighed. Mary was a pretty child; Alice had plans for her — and they did not include a nobody like Ned Townley. ‘I have little hope for the preservation of Mary’s maidenhead.’