Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Lifting the lantern to shoulder height, he saw that the condemned men lay at opposite ends of the small room, each asleep on a pile of clean straw. One stirred as the light shone on him. Crofter. The other remained still. A table with two stools stood between them, on it a pitcher and cups, bowls, spoons, and an oil lamp. The men were neither chained nor bound. Wykeham wondered who had seen to their decent treatment — it was comfortable for a dungeon.

‘Who goes there?’ Crofter demanded, struggling to rise.

‘Sir William of Wykeham, come to hear your confession.’

‘We have confessed already.’

‘I am here to shrive you.’

‘The King’s man? Are we such important prisoners, then?’

‘All men’s souls are important to the Lord.’

‘But not the King? Or is His Grace curious? Wants to hear how we grovel?’

Wykeham paid him no heed; the man had cause to be bitter, taking the blame for crimes he may have been ordered to commit. ‘You might confess to me in private before your friend wakens.’

‘We have no secrets, Bardolph and me.’ Crofter glanced towards Bardolph. ‘Still. He isn’t waking.’ He shrugged, rose to his knees, folded his hands. ‘I confess to those sins for which I stand accused.’

‘Do you feel remorse for your sins, Crofter?’

‘I do.’

‘Then why did you commit them?’

Crofter squinted at Wykeham, puzzled. ‘I judged it my duty, sir.’

This had been his claim throughout the past days. He never varied in his explanation. ‘Had Sir William ever ordered you to perform such a task?’

‘He knew naught of this. I’ve said that.’

‘I understand that Wyndesore knew nothing of your scheme, but were there other occasions when he asked you to risk your salvation? Something to convince you he would condone such a solution?’

Crofter shrugged. ‘We are soldiers, sir. ’Tis the sort of thing we do. Only difference is whether the Church has blessed the act, seems to me.’

Wykeham crossed himself.

‘Ever kill a man, sir?’

‘No. God has spared me that need.’

Crofter nodded. ‘That is why you cannot see it. Duty. A soldier’s duty is to defend by force.’

Wykeham wondered who had put that simple-minded idea in the man’s head. ‘Your comrade did not appear to agree with you when he begged forgiveness of the Archdeacon of York.’

Crofter shrugged. ‘Bardolph has ever been a worrier. Not cowardly, mind you. Just thinks too much. Perhaps he asked forgiveness in case we were wrong to protect Sir William in such a way. But you must ask him.’ Crofter rose, stooping slightly under the low ceiling, shuffled over to his mate. ‘Bardolph. Chaplain has come. He’s an important man. He won’t wait.’ Crofter shook his inert friend. Bardolph did not move. ‘Bardolph, did you hear me? Bardolph!’

Alarmed, Wykeham joined Crofter, touched Bardolph’s neck, his wrist, felt no flutter of life. The flesh was cold. He had been a fool not to question the deep sleep. ‘Has he been ill?’

Crofter met Wykeham’s eyes, shrugged. ‘He’s been sweating a lot. Wakeful. ’Tis why I was relieved he slept so sound.’

‘Sweating and wakeful?’

‘Aye. Frightened of dying, frightened of the fires of Hell.’ A deep breath. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘I fear he is. Though not long dead.’ Wykeham shone the lantern on Bardolph, turned his shaggy head this way and that, examined his arms. He saw no obvious signs of violence. The man seemed as if resting peacefully.

But Crofter was too quiet, too calm for a man who had just discovered a friend’s death. Nor would he raise his eyes to Wykeham’s. The privy councillor sent for Owen Archer.

Owen stood at the window staring out between the iron bars to the grey May sky. Rain drummed on the grill; the damp seeped through the chinks in the stone and glistened on the walls like a fine sweat. ‘I once considered myself exiled.’

‘But it is not the same thing at all, is it?’ Ned said wearily. ‘You could return to Wales.’

‘What were the odds, eh?’

‘As high as the odds of my being pardoned, I suppose.’

Owen turned towards his friend, watched as Ned paced back and forth from corner to corner of the tiny cell, working the stiffness from his joints. Tomorrow he must leave for Dover; he would have three days to make his way there and take ship. After that he was an outlaw, subject to immediate execution if caught in the kingdom. It would be a hard ride, with only enough money to buy his way on to a ship as crew. ‘From Lancaster’s spy to this. You’ve been a fool, my friend.’

Ned stopped in front of Owen, grabbed his friend’s shoulders, squeezed them. ‘I did what I felt honour-bound to do. For Mary. I only regret that I involved you and your family. And that the King won’t grant me a few moments at Mary’s grave.’

Owen looked away from the intensely sad eyes. ‘I tried.’

‘I know you did, my friend. I’ll never forget all you’ve done.’

Owen had attempted to sneak Ned out in Alfred’s clothes, but the guards were too well-trained.

‘Where will you go?’

‘Where the wind takes me.’

Forcing himself to meet his friend’s eyes, Owen clasped Ned’s still upraised arms. ‘I shall miss you, despite the fool’s chase you led me.’

Their arms fell away.

Ned resumed his pacing. ‘Neither of her wounds were serious.’

‘It was the threat, not the wounds, Ned. And she protested the King’s initial sentence.’ The King had ordered Ned beheaded, but Alice Perrers had begged for clemency.

‘Aye, she did that. But what of Wyndesore? What will he pay for this?’

Owen turned back to the iron-crossed sky. ‘His men have sworn he knew nothing of their effort to protect him.’

‘He does not deserve her. She is a brave, elegant lady,’ Ned said, sounding wistful.

‘Mistress Perrers?’

‘Aye. Have you ever seen such courage?’

The dreamy look in Ned’s eyes cheered Owen a little. It was more like the Ned he had known as an archer. ‘You said you no longer thought of women.’

Ned shrugged. ‘She liked you. ’Twas plain in those cat eyes of hers.’

‘No doubt she would have looked kindly on anyone come to rescue her.’

‘You deny it for Lucie’s sake?’

Owen laughed. ‘Will you write from exile to tell her?’

A rap on the door. ‘Message for Captain Archer,’ the guard called out.

‘Important man, you are, my friend.’

Owen opened the door.

‘Sir William of Wykeham asks that you come right away, Captain. He found Bardolph dead in his cell.’

‘Murdered?’ Owen asked.

‘The messenger did not say.’

Ned crossed himself. ‘Some hasten their own end, fearing the axe.’

Owen shook his head. ‘In Bardolph’s case I very much doubt it. He was worried for his soul. I doubt he would take his own life.’

‘Crofter?’

‘I am sure of it. Those cold eyes. Let us pray it was less painful than what the King planned.’

‘I cannot share your concern for his comfort.’

Bardolph’s body had been moved to a room with more light. Wykeham greeted Owen, beckoned him over to the table where Bardolph lay. ‘I doubt he died unaided, Captain Archer. But I find no marks about him.’

‘Poison?’

Wykeham shrugged. ‘I have no training in such things. But as your wife is a master apothecary and you have studied the craft, I hoped you might tell.’

‘Only in the case of some poisons is there aught to see, Sir William. And only a foolish man uses such poisons, or a man who need not worry about being punished. But Bardolph’s behaviour and appearance before he died might tell us something.’

‘His comrade said he was sweating and wakeful.’