Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

Alice sat back on her heels. “You little fool. You do not understand your fortune. I know what it is to be an orphan. I know the uncertainty.” Her parents had died of the plague the year Alice was born. Until her uncles had devised the plan to educate her and call in favours to establish her at court, she had been brought up by a merchant and his wife, whose own children oft reminded Alice of her temporary status in their home. Alice knew all about uncertainty. She took Mary’s hands in hers. Cold hands. The child was not eating. “Trust me, Mary. I want what is best for you. And I can give it to you.”

“Then help me be with Ned. He loves me and I love him, Mistress Alice. He will take care of me.”

Alice dropped Mary’s hands, rose. “For pity’s sake, think , Mary. He has no money but that given him by Lancaster. No house, no land, no name.”

Mary sat up straight, chin jutting forward. “Townley is a fine name.”

Heavens but the child’s heart was loyal. Most inconvenient. “You are not so simple as that, Mary. You know what I mean. The name brings nothing with it.”

“I don’t care.”

“No, not now. And why should you? But you will care soon enough – when the babes come. They must be fed, clothed, kept warm and safe.”

Mary folded her arms across her chest. “I shall marry no one but Ned.”

Alice shook her head at the girl’s stubbornness. “We shall see about that.”

“You would treat me as your uncles treated you? You would make me a whore?”

Alice slapped Mary’s face. “You do not win an argument with insults. Now get to your chores. I cannot abide slothfulness.”

A whore. Did Mary hear nothing? Alice meant to find a good husband for Mary, not a royal lover.

It was early evening, a time Mary saved for chores that required either thought or space, as Cecily and Isabeau accompanied Mistress Alice to the great hall for supper. The silence of this time of day was a particular blessing. Cecily and Isabeau could not abide silence; they filled any room they inhabited with incessant chatter and the rustle of their lovely clothes as they paced, fidgeted, rearranged, fussed. Ned had often kept Mary company during these quiet hours while she completed her chores, entertaining her with tales of his life of action. Mary must not think of that now, for thoughts of Ned churned up the sea of emotion she was trying to ignore while she finished her work.

Tonight Mary was rearranging Mistress Alice’s gowns and shifts in the wide, shallow chest that allowed the gowns to be laid flat. The contents had shifted when the chest had been moved a few days before. Mary shook out the shifts and shawls, folded them with care and stacked them on a bench; then, one at a time, she lifted the gowns of softest wool, silk, and velvet out of the chest and arranged them on Mistress Alice’s bed. Then one by one she returned the gowns to the chest, lovingly smoothing them with her hands. On top she placed the folded linens, shawls, and stockings.

All the while Mary had been thinking about her plan. Now she knelt down and prayed for courage. It was a brief prayer. She must not dally, else Mistress Alice might return before she was away.

Mary gathered some clothes and sundries and put them in a leather pack. She moved quickly with an efficiency born of Mistress Alice’s frequent impulsive decisions to leave court and move to her house in town. For protection, Mary took the knife Ned had given her, an elegant weapon with an ivory hilt that arched into the neck of a swan. She tucked the knife into her girdle; she wanted it quick to hand in case of trouble. Tonight she was travelling only the length of the King’s castle, but it was dark, and Daniel’s death was on her mind. Best to have a weapon handy.

Now she was ready. Donning her cloak, she bid a silent farewell to her comfortable life and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor.

As she left the protection of the building, Mary pulled up the hood of her cloak and hugged her pack to her for extra warmth. The knife pressed against her hip, giving her a sense of security. Her plan was to stay concealed in Ned’s old room until dawn, then hide near the gate and wait for a party of servants or merchants to mask her departure through the castle gate. She had once thus escaped the castle to meet Ned down on the Thames; it should not be difficult. There was nothing about her appearance to call attention to herself. The journey beyond Windsor would be more difficult, but it was her only hope – to make her way to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary in York, where she knew she would be safe until Ned returned.

Mary stood uncertainly in the dark courtyard of the upper ward, wondering how best to sneak down into the lower ward. To her right loomed the motte and bailey of the Round Tower and the gate through which she usually passed; the gatekeeper knew her and might question her carrying a pack at this time of the evening. She remembered that at the opposite side of the ward, farthest from the river, the builders had cleared a narrow path between the wall and the edge of the ditch, just wide enough for one person pushing a cart of bricks or timber. It was dark there, made darker still by the huge earthwork that blocked out any light from the inhabited parts of the castle wards. Mary shivered as she chose the dark path. It frightened her, but for her plan to succeed she must not be seen.

Early the following morning Sir William of Wyndesore made ready to depart for the Scottish border, where he was to assist in protecting the Marches. Alice did not know why Sir William must leave now, before Easter. She had looked forward to watching him joust. He was impressive in his fearlessness. She could imagine him on the battlefield. Tall, steely eyed.

This morning his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Mary’s had been yesterday. Impetuous Mary. Where could she have gone? Alice had sent Gilbert out at first light to search the castle precinct for her. So far he had found only Mary’s dagger in the lower ward.

“You are gathering wool, Mistress Alice,” Wyndesore said.

She shook herself. “I am indeed, Sir William. I am remembering a certain strong knight, the firelight reflected in his eyes.” She handed him his stirrup cup with a smile. “Your eyes betray your late night. Perhaps it is best that you leave court. You will get some rest.”

He grinned, took a long drink. “You are most generous, Mistress Alice.”

Alice looked round, noticed that Wyndesore’s squire was busy securing one of the pack-horses. “Sir William, I must speak to you privately.”

Wyndesore glanced round, nodded, drew her to the side of his horse away from the crowd, gave her waist a little squeeze. “Why did you not ask it last night?”

She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close. “I did not wish to spoil the evening.”

“Spoil the evening? What is amiss?”

“My maid, Mary – she disappeared last night.”

Wyndesore looked unconcerned. “She is off keeping a vigil for her lover in some chapel.”

“No, Sir William. She took clothing. I fear she has gone in pursuit of Ned Townley. His party is far from the castle by now, I should think?”

Wyndesore drank down the wine, handed Alice the cup. “Too far for her to catch up, if that is what you ask.” He gazed off in the distance for a moment, then nodded. “So you think she’s gone after him? I suppose it is the sort of thing she might do.” He shook his head. “Poor, foolish girl. If she does not find him, she will find trouble instead.” He touched Alice’s cheek. “I shall keep a watch out for her as we ride north.”

Alice straightened the brooch on Wyndesore’s cloak. “Nothing must happen to her, Sir William.”

Wyndesore took Alice by the shoulders, looked her in the eye. “She has removed herself from your protection, Mistress Alice. By her own free will. You cannot be to blame if aught happens.”