Candace Robb - The Nun's Tale

At the Skeldergate crossing they were forced to the side of the street by a cart carrying two injured men. ‘I pray ye make way,’ shouted the driver. He squinted at Owen, then his eyes widened in relief. ‘Captain Archer, Sir. Canst thou help me through this crowd to St Mary’s?’

‘Not St Leonard’s Hospital?’ Owen asked as he motioned to Lief, Gaspare, and the five new archers to surround the cart.

‘Nay.’ The driver shook his head. ‘The one who can speak said St Mary’s. “To Brother Wulfstan,” he said.’

Owen peered into the cart. ‘Alfred?’

One of the men, bloody and bleary-eyed, tried to sit up. ‘Captain Archer. I cannot wake Colin. I thought Brother Wulfstan. .’

Owen patted Alfred’s shoulder. ‘Lie down. We shall get you there quickly.’

The eight archers ploughed through the crowd on Ouse Bridge and then down Coney Street, the cart at their centre.

Thoresby returned to the palace in the minster close thirsty, his feet aching from standing. He had spent several hours watching the masons at work on the minster’s Lady Chapel, which would house his tomb. As Thoresby watched the masons raising the walls to Heaven, he meditated on his mortal body and his immortal soul. It humbled him, reminded him that for all his titles and power he was still just one of God’s children.

The King did not like this humour; he thought the North Country was making Thoresby choleric. It was more to the point that King Edward saw Thoresby becoming more a man of God and less a Lord Chancellor, and that was what he disliked. But Thoresby was comfortable with the change. He was the Archbishop of York; he should be a man of God.

During the past winter, Thoresby had suffered a painful lesson in humility when he’d tried to remove the King’s mistress, Alice Perrers, from court. He had met his match in womankind. She had unearthed his most guarded secrets and unleashed emotions he had thought spent. Perrers. A month of prayer in the Cistercian peace of Fountains Abbey had not rid him of a taste for her blood.

Thoresby stopped in the kitchen, helped himself to some early strawberries, and warned Maeve that he would be wanting to bathe so she should begin boiling water. The thought of Alice Perrers made him feel unclean. And now he had heard that the King was campaigning for William of Wykeham, Keeper of the Privy Seal, to get the seat of Winchester when Bishop Edington died. With Perrers in Edward’s bedchamber and Wykeham at his right hand, Thoresby’s enemies were crowding him out, poisoning the King’s mind against him. He wished he did not care.

He sought out Brother Michaelo, found him sitting quietly at his table outside Thoresby’s parlour.

‘Any word from Alfred or Colin?’

‘Nothing, Your Grace.’

‘Where are our guests?’

‘Sir Richard and Sir Nicholas went out, Your Grace. I did not ask where.’

‘Good. I am going to bathe. See that I’m not disturbed.’

Michaelo’s eyes swept Thoresby from head to foot. ‘Bathe, Your Grace?’

Even the fastidious Michaelo could not understand bathing when clean. But Thoresby would be damned if he would explain to his secretary. ‘No interruptions.’

Michaelo raised an eyebrow. ‘No interruptions, Your Grace.’

Thoresby went into his parlour, checked through the documents Michaelo had arranged in order of urgency and judged none of them to require an immediate reply. He climbed the back stairs to his bedchamber. Two servants, Lizzie and John, balanced a large pot between them, tilting it towards a wooden tub. Steaming water poured out. Lizzie’s face was red from the heat and exertion; John was soaked in sweat. An unpleasant task, lugging pots of boiling water up the stairs on a warm June afternoon.

The pot empty, the two lowered it to the floor, pausing to wipe their faces. Lizzie leaned on the canvas dome that extended over half the tub to protect the bather from drafts. She jumped as she turned and saw the archbishop, ‘Your Grace, we’ve only begun to fill it,’ she said breathlessly.

‘Indeed. Carry on.’ He left them and headed for the hall. As he descended the stairs, he heard a familiar voice arguing with Michaelo at the outer door.

‘They’ve been attacked while out on his business, you — I must see His Grace at once.’

‘Forgive me, Captain Archer, but that is impossible. His Grace is not to be disturbed.’

A voice unfamiliar to Thoresby said quietly, ‘Leave it, Owen, just tell this man where they are and come away.’

‘Damn it, Lief, he’ll want to know. It’s why we’ve sped from Knaresborough, this nunnery business.’

Thoresby had heard enough to be curious. ‘What is it, Michaelo?’

The secretary hurried in, sniffing with indignation to find Archer and two other men, obviously soldiers, at his heels. ‘Captain Archer has news of Alfred and Colin, Your Grace. I tried to tell him you were not to be disturbed, but you see — ’

Owen pushed forward, his face grim. ‘We have taken them to St Mary’s infirmary, Your Grace.’

‘I take it they have been injured,’ Thoresby said quietly.

A flash of anger in Owen’s good eye. ‘Both. Alfred has lost much blood from several wounds, but Wulfstan says he will mend quickly. Colin, however, is in God’s hands. He has a head wound and cannot be roused. Brother Wulfstan says there is little he can do for him.’

The watcher must have bested them. But with help, surely. ‘How did you come upon them?’

‘Alfred and Colin were attacked down by the river. A good Samaritan saw Alfred dragging Colin into Skeldergate and took them up in his cart. We met them at the bridge and escorted them through the crowd.’ Owen gestured towards his comrades. ‘Lief, Gaspare, and the archers surrounded the cart and protected it.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘I thank you for escorting them and bringing me this news. I shall go see them.’ He began to leave, then paused to add, ‘Lest you blame me for my ruthless use of my men, as you are wont to do, remember that it was you recommended them for this duty.’ He took satisfaction in seeing Owen’s anger doused. ‘Now go home to your wife, Archer. I shall send for you tomorrow.’ Thoresby nodded to Lief and Gaspare. ‘The chamberlain has prepared quarters for you at the castle. You should be quite comfortable.’

When the three had departed, Michaelo asked, ‘You will bathe first?’

‘Later. Gilbert shall accompany me to the abbey. Call for him.’

Owen escorted Gaspare, Lief, and the five archers to York Castle.

Gaspare had been quiet and glum as they left the minster liberty, but once on the crowded streets he perked up, looking round at the bustling humanity. ‘Tell me again why you chose to serve Thoresby rather than Lancaster — honour, was it?’

‘Kind of you to remind me.’

‘Lancaster would treat you better than that bastard does.’

‘But he’s right. I did recommend Alfred and Colin.’

Lief shook his head. ‘He had no cause to speak to you in that wise and you know it. Spiteful he is. Nasty.’

Owen could not deny that.

Lucie had closed the shop by the time Owen reached home. He opened the garden gate to walk round to the kitchen door, but stopped as he saw Lucie kneeling by the roses, weeding. She wore a simple russet gown with her hair tucked up in a kerchief, a red-gold tendril curling delicately at the nape of her long neck. Owen leaned against the gate, enjoying the quiet moment, the anticipation of their first embrace. Tildy appeared at the kitchen door, grinning broadly. As she opened her mouth to greet him, Owen put a finger to his lips. She giggled and ducked within. Melisende rose from a sunny spot and stretched, padded over to rub up against Owen’s legs and chatter, no doubt demanding some cream for her troubles. Lucie turned, saw Owen and gave a glad cry. She began to rise, one hand to her back. Owen hurried over, lifted her up for a kiss, then stood her on her feet.