Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Wyndesore grinned. ‘There was never any hope for it, Mistress Alice. A pretty girl at court? Come now.’ Wyndesore drank down his ale, took a cloth from his sleeve and wiped his mouth like a gentleman. Manners of a soldier indeed. ‘Well, your word is enough for me, but my men will not agree. They were fond of the lad — he was their pet, I suppose. They’re angry he’s dead, they want blood, and Townley’s a man they delight in hating, with his courtly clothes and his swagger with his fancy daggers.’ Wyndesore laughed at his witticism.

Alice smiled politely; Wyndesore was handsome and powerful, but he was no wit. ‘Ned is also resented because he is Lancaster’s spy. The common folk have no love for the Duke.’ Gilbert refreshed Alice’s goblet. She used the interruption to consider the situation. ‘I wonder whether Ned knows he’s in danger?’

‘You may be sure he does. I’ll warn my men that if any harm comes to Townley, they’ll pay. But he’d be best away from here.’

‘That was not the Duke’s plan for him,’ Alice said. The Duke of Lancaster had left Ned at court, while he fought in Spain, to polish his manners and his skill at letter-writing, informing the Duke of the news at court.

‘Devil take the Duke!’ Wyndesore growled.

Alice winced. Wyndesore should have a care. In Ireland, he had been second in command, too important to offend. But here at the King’s court he was insignificant. And many felt he had betrayed his lord to the King. Men neither respected nor trusted such an opportunist. Wyndesore should tread softly.

‘How goes the King?’ Wyndesore asked, changing the subject.

Alice frowned, glanced towards Wyndesore’s servants. Hers was also a precarious perch at court. As the King’s mistress she was showered with gifts from him and wielded some power. But should he tire of her — or more likely, considering his age, should he die … Alice took great care to be discreet. She trusted her own servant, but what did she know of Wyndesore’s men? How carefully did he choose those who surrounded him? They certainly had no cause to be loyal to her.

Wyndesore snapped his fingers, dispersing the servants. ‘So?’

Alice shrugged. ‘He spits venom at Pope Urban at the moment.’

‘Wykeham is not yet a bishop, I know.’

‘Thomas Cobham has returned from Avignon with the news that His Holiness is pleased to allow Wykeham to handle the temporalities of the seat of Winchester until the successor is named . You can imagine Cobham’s red ears. The poor man was visibly trembling when he entered the King’s presence. And he was far worse before he backed away.’

‘Wykeham seems a suitable man. I do not understand the Pope’s resistance.’

‘All this is just a convenient way for His Holiness to show his power over the King. Two old men hitting each other with sticks.’

They shared a smile.

Smarting from the hostile glances all about him, Ned went in search of Mary’s sympathetic ear. She knew where he’d been last night; she of all people would bristle with righteous indignation on his behalf. He found her sitting by a tall window in Mistress Alice’s parlour, transferring pearls from one of her mistress’s fine dresses to another. Mary was a lovely young woman with a cloud of softly curling, raven-black hair, a face of such sweet innocence Ned had been amazed by the passion with which she’d responded to his kisses from the first, and the tiniest waist he had ever had the pleasure to wrap his arms round. Mary possessed his heart completely. Never again would he tease his friend Owen Archer about his devotion to his wife. Ned understood now.

Mary glanced up at Ned, revealing eyes red from weeping. She sniffed. Her heavenly hazel eyes filled with tears.

Ned dropped down to his knees before her, dismayed. ‘Oh, my sweet Mary, do not weep for me. Their unjust accusations are naught to me.’

Mary put aside her sewing to blow her nose.

‘Let me fetch you some wine,’ Ned offered.

Mary shook her head. ‘No. I must finish my work. Wine will lead to pricks that stain the dresses. You would not suggest it had you ever had the chore of removing bloodstains from fine cloth.’

Always practical, his Mary. Sweet Heaven, how he loved her. Ned took her hands.

Mary snatched them away.

‘What’s this?’ Ned sat back on his heels, confused. ‘You reject my comfort?’

‘Oh, Ned. ‘Tis your stubborn jealousy caused it, you know it is true. Daniel would never have drunk so much if you had not threatened him. Why did you do it? There was no need. No need. I’d told you, I’d sworn you had nothing to be jealous of. Daniel was kind to me, was all. He was my friend.’ Mary sniffed, hiccuped.

His fault? ‘Kind to you, was all, was it? Why? Why was Sir William of Wyndesore’s page so kind to the maid of Mistress Alice Perrers?’

Mary flushed. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Oh indeed. The lowly maid of Mistress Alice could not possibly be considered a friend by the handsome young page of Sir William of Wyndesore.’

‘How did he befriend you, Mary? I cannot think of a reason why Sir William’s page and Mistress Alice’s maid would even meet.’

Mary gasped. ‘Even in death you distrust him! Oh shame, Ned. Shame on you!’ She rose and hurried towards the inner door.

Ned groaned, hurried after her, caught her elbow. ‘For pity’s sake, Mary, we are to be wed. You should be comforting me as the victim of unfounded gossip, not accusing me of something you know full well I did not do.’

Mary stood stubbornly with her back to him, looking down at the floor. Ned heard her catch her breath and knew the tears flowed once more. For a friend? He’d be a fool to believe that! He let go of her arm. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Mary. I have misunderstood. I thought you loved me, but I see my error.’ He strode from the room to the sound of Mary’s sobs. Devil take her, she could be so stubborn. It was Mistress Perrers’s doing, he’d wager. She did not like him — had other plans for Mary, no doubt. He must find a way to free Mary from the whore’s service. He wished Owen Archer were not so far north in York. Ned could use his advice in this.

York, March 1367

Owen Archer laughed as his daughter pulled at his eye patch, then his beard, her efforts accompanied by a low, throaty laugh. ‘You’ve a grip to make an archer proud,’ Owen said.

His wife’s head was bowed over the rows of seeds. ‘I’d thought Gwenllian might learn my profession,’ Lucie said. She had been named Master Apothecary after the death of her first husband, Nicholas Wilton. ‘But Gwenllian is to be an archer, not just carry your name?’ Lucie retained her first husband’s surname to acknowledge that she held her position as Nicholas’s widow, not Owen’s wife. ‘It is settled at five months?’

Owen walked over to Lucie, peered over her shoulder. ‘She shall learn the art of the longbow if she wishes. If everyone in this household becomes your apprentice, you will have little to do and will lose your skill. Some of those seeds look as if water got to them.’

Lucie shrugged. ‘The river damp is ever a problem. So Gwenllian is to serve under you as one of the Archbishop’s retainers?’

‘Never that,’ Owen snapped.

Lucie glanced up, hearing the change in her husband’s voice, and caught the tell-tale twitch in his left cheek. ‘You are angry, I know, though I do not understand it. Surely you knew you would owe His Grace service?’ At Christmas, Archbishop Thoresby had named Owen captain of his retainers and Steward of Bishopthorpe, his palace south of the city. ‘Why did you accept the posts if you meant to go into a rage whenever he called upon you?’