Candace Robb: King's Bishop

He might still have a chance. With Bardolph and Crofter under lock and key in Winchester Tower there was the possibility of a confession. Owen’s hope lay in Bardolph. That moment in York when the man had risked discovery to beg Jehannes’s blessing. Panic? The right words, the right mixture of sympathy and suggestion might coax the truth from him. Owen must try.

*

Hands idly playing with the papers strewn before him, Thoresby listened to Owen’s proposal, a smile gradually brightening his face.

‘You are amused?’ Owen asked.

Thoresby pushed the papers aside, leaned across the table with an excited air. ‘If you managed a confession, naming names …’ The deep-set eyes shone. ‘Do your best, Archer. If you can get him to state that Wyndesore gave him the orders-’ head flung back, a throaty chuckle.

Owen thought the Archbishop had gone mad. ‘I do not understand this mood, Your Grace.’

The dark eyes levelled at Owen. ‘The King could not ignore such an accusation. This would bring Wyndesore down.’

‘I had no idea you had such an animosity for the man.’

‘Not him. Alice Perrers. The ambitions of both were at stake in this deadly game. The King would cast her out.’

His petty court intrigues again. ‘I do this for Ned and justice, Your Grace. Not to bring down a lady I barely know.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Thoresby said, waving aside Owen’s protest. ‘Michaelo will arrange for your meeting with Bardolph. And he will be your witness. There is a room in Winchester Tower partitioned with a thin wall. Michaelo will be your invisible scribe the other side.’

Bardolph had haunted eyes and stank of fear. He winced when Owen handed him a cup of ale, as if expecting a blow.

‘Rest easy. I want to talk, no more.’ Owen was grateful for the half-dozen lamps Michaelo had provided. The high window did nothing to freshen or light the tower room. Even here at ground level it was damp, dark, cold. What must the dungeon be like? As Owen studied the man who had spent the past several days down below, he held his breath, listening for Michaelo. Silence. ‘Go ahead. Drink.’

Peering at Owen, disbelieving, Bardolph shakily raised the cup to his cracked lips.

‘They have denied you drink?’ Owen asked.

Bardolph gulped, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shook his head.

‘Your lips. I thought perhaps …’

‘Nay. I lick ‘em in the cold.’

Or when nervous, more like. ‘I have a balm that would help.’

‘’Tis no matter.’ Bardolph drained the cup.

Owen raised the pitcher. ‘More?’

‘Won’t say no.’ But as Owen brought the pitcher forward, Bardolph frowned, as if remembering something, and covered his cup. ‘Men say you’re Townley’s old friend.’

‘Aye, that I am.’

A shake of the shaggy head, as if warding off flies. ‘How do I know you don’t mean to poison me?’

‘Why would I do that, Bardolph?’

Bardolph’s eyes slid sidewise. ‘Being in gaol makes a man wary.’

‘No doubt. But why would I poison you?’

Bardolph sniffed, said nothing.

‘Have you done something to Captain Townley?’

The shadowed eyes blinked. Bardolph gripped the cup, confusion clouding his face momentarily. ‘Our last meeting was not friendly.’

Owen nodded. ‘No, not friendly. But I could see you meant to smoke him out, not burn him alive. Go on. I’ve shared this pitcher with you and we’re neither of us on the floor, eh? I want to talk to you is all.’

‘Why?’

‘I would like to understand what drove my friend to attack the King’s mistress.’

Bardolph shook his head. ‘I know naught what’s between them.’ He lifted his hand from the cup, held it out to Owen.

While Owen poured, he considered his next words. Bardolph was no subtle thinker, but neither was he stupid.

‘I thank you, Captain,’ Bardolph said, raising the cup and nearly draining it. He belched with satisfaction as he set it down. But the hands still trembled.

‘What was your business in York?’

Bardolph squinted. ‘Eh?’

‘You were in York?’

The man squirmed. ‘Who says I was?’

‘Don Jehannes, the Archdeacon of York. Was he mistaken?’

Bardolph’s lower lip dabbed at the sweat beading on his upper lip. ‘I passed through York.’

‘And you asked the Archdeacon’s blessing — and forgiveness.’

A wince. The eyes searched the room for a safe reply. ‘We are all of us sinners in this world, Captain.’

‘Aye. That we are, Bardolph, that we are. And you were feeling the weight of your past that day, were you?’

‘Sommat like.’

Owen nodded. ‘As soldiers we live with troubling memories.’ He rubbed the scar beneath his patch. ‘Killed the woman who did this to me. And her man.’

Bardolph studied Owen with sympathetic eyes. ‘I remember the night you told the tale in York Tavern. You had reason to kill them.’

Owen took a long drink, placed his cup carefully on the table. ‘Doesn’t help in the middle of the night, when I lie awake wondering about the state of my soul.’

Bardolph squirmed. ‘Aye. ‘Tis worst in the dark.’ The lower lip dabbed at the sweaty upper. The eyes looked even more haunted.

‘Fair is fair. I’ve told you my nightmare. What’s yours?’

A shake of the head. ‘I did not ask for your confession.’

Owen settled back on the bench, leaning his head against the wall, stretched out his legs, closed his eyes. ‘Sometimes a scent brings it back. Blood, salt air and damp earth.’ He was quiet a moment, listening to Bardolph’s laboured breathing. ‘Sometimes I hear them. In my sleep. Their cries. I suppose that’s God’s way of making sure we don’t forget our sins. The memories that haunt us.’

‘Some folk aren’t bothered.’ The voice trembled.

Still with his eyes closed, Owen shook his head. ‘I don’t care to be round a man with no conscience. No better than a beast, to my mind.’

‘Beasts. He calls us that.’

‘Who?’

Sharp intake of breath. ‘No one.’

‘Someone calls you and Crofter beasts?’

‘Train us till we snarl and snap like mad dogs, pet us when we kill the right folk, prod us with a pitchfork back into the pit when we act on our own. ‘Tis ever the same.’

‘Is that what you were doing? Acting on your own?’

The brows came together, lower lip over upper. Shake of the head. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Someone called you beasts because you acted on your own?’

A shrug. ‘Trouble in Dublin. Got drunk. We didn’t know who he was.’

‘And Sir William called you beasts?’

‘Aye.’

So Wyndesore had something on them. Promising.

‘You would have nightmares about Gervase and Henry had you seen them after they had been left up on the moor.’ Owen took his time describing the bloated, torn bodies. It made his own stomach lurch. Bardolph sweated freely now in the chilly room, his trembling worsened. ‘I cannot believe Captain Townley would murder them,’ Owen said, ‘leave them like that, then lead me to the site and show me what he had done. Can you, Bardolph?’

The head hung low. ‘You buried ’em?’

‘Aye. Up there on the moors.’

‘God ha’ mercy,’ Bardolph muttered, crossing himself.

‘What I cannot understand is why? Why did Gervase and Henry die?’

‘Ask your friend.’ An attempt at a sneer, but Bardolph almost choked on the words.

‘How can you be so certain it was Townley? For that matter, did you see him murder Don Ambrose? What makes you think he’s such a — beast? I have known him’ — Owen shrugged — ‘a score of years? Almost. And in that time he never to my knowledge committed such a deed.’

‘They say he attacked Mistress Perrers.’