Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

“So? Is it Daniel?” The man held the cloak at arm’s length.

Michaelo straightened up, made the sign of the cross over the body. “Yes. Yes, poor lad.” He hurried away without a word about Daniel’s wrists. Better mentioned to someone he could trust.

Sir William of Wyndesore instructed his servants to leave the lad’s body covered and to keep away the curious. Then he went out to speak with his men. He cursed under his breath as pale winter sunlight burned his eyes and a chill wind wrapped icy fingers round his bones. Wyndesore was a tough, seasoned campaigner, powerfully built; but he was no longer young, he had awakened with a head that felt several times its normal size thanks to some fine brandywine last night, and that awakening had been sudden and unpleasant, his servants distraught at the news of Daniel’s drowning. His men were assembled in the outer ward, some hopping from foot to foot trying to get warm, some dabbing their eyes, but many frowning fiercely and demanding Ned Townley.

“Who?” Wyndesore asked his squire.

Alan leaned close. “Ned Townley. He is Lancaster’s spy, left here to be the Duke’s ears while he’s fighting in Castile, so they say.”

“Do they now? So what’s his sin, besides being Lancaster’s spy?”

“I know not. But I saw Scoggins with him last night.”

Wyndesore straightened up, squinted out at his men, picked out Scoggins scowling with the best of them. “Well, Scoggins, what has this Townley done?”

“He’s murdered Daniel, that’s what he’s done, my lord.” The men muttered their approval of Scoggins’s explanation, their combined voices echoing against the stone walls surrounding them.

“You witnessed him doing this, did you?”

Scoggins spat in the mud, shook his head. “Nay, my lord. But I saw the two of ’em last night arguing over one of Mistress Perrers’s maids, that little Mary. And Townley told Daniel he’d pin him to the wall with his daggers if he found him round Mary again. That’s what he said, and that I can swear to, my lord. I called some men to escort him from the hall. He must’ve come back, waited for the lad without.”

Wyndesore closed his eyes. “And was Daniel stabbed?” Scoggins was a gossip and troublemaker, but a good fighter, and loyal. Fiercely loyal. “Eh, Scoggins?”

The man shrugged. “I did not see the body, my lord.”

Wyndesore looked round. “Who did? Who found him?”

“One of the King’s guards,” Alan whispered. “But Bardolph and Crofter helped drag him from the ditch.”

“Crofter!”

A fair, square-jawed man stepped forward. “I saw no stab wounds, my lord. The lad drowned, no doubt of that.”

Wyndesore nodded. “Then enough of this nonsense about Townley.”

Crofter shook his head. “Who’s to say Townley didn’t change his mind and make it look like an accident, my lord? Who’s to say?” His tone was matter-of-fact, not argumentative.

Wyndesore scowled. “Stick to the facts, Crofter.”

Crofter bobbed his head in good-humoured deference. “He drowned, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

But Crofter was not finished. “If it please you, my lord. His cloak reeked of ale. He must have spilled it all over himself. I suppose he might have been too drunk to judge what he was doing, my lord.”

Wyndesore turned to Scoggins. “Was Daniel drunk when he left the hall?”

Scoggins shrugged, looked down at his boots. “A bit, my lord.”

“He was not accustomed to much drink, Scoggins. Did you encourage this?”

Scoggins faced his lord. “I did, my lord, and for that I shall do much penance.”

“So you were drinking, too?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Did someone offer to help young Daniel back to his bed?”

“I did not see him leave, my lord.”

“Too drunk by then?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Wyndesore shielded his eyes against the sunlight as he looked back out at his men. “Go about your morning duties. You will have a chance to pray for Daniel at mass tomorrow morning.” He turned on his heels and marched back inside, shouting for Alan to go wake Mistress Alice Perrers.

“And Ned Townley, my lord?”

“First Mistress Alice, damn you!”

Alan hurried away.

John Thoresby paced in his chamber waiting for his secretary. Michaelo’s tardiness was particularly irritating this morning. Thoresby had decided how to reconcile the King’s request with his own interests and he wished to complete the task. Where was his secretary? Admiring himself in his mirror?

When at last Michaelo arrived he was breathless, his face was flushed, and much to Thoresby’s surprise the hem of his habit was soggy.

“Where have you been?”

“Your Grace, there has been a terrible–” Michaelo shook his head, sat down at the writing desk, and dabbed his face with a cloth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

“A terrible what, Michaelo? You are all atremble.”

His secretary nodded, blotted his upper lip.

“Michaelo!”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I wished to catch my breath.” Michaelo shook his head. “It is the marks, Your Grace. And his cloak. He was floating in the moat, not an ale-cask. How does one spill so much ale as to soak an entire cloak? Even stranger, why wear a cloak while drinking?” Michaelo bowed his head, pressed the cloth to one temple, then the other.

The Archbishop studied his uncharacteristically dishevelled, babbling secretary. “Have you overindulged this morning? One of your headaches?”

Michaelo raised his head slowly, frowned up at Thoresby as if puzzled. “No, Your Grace. I was making my way here when they discovered him and pulled him from the ditch.”

“ Who was pulled from what ditch?”

“Did I not say? I pray you forgive me, Your Grace. It was Daniel. Sir William of Wyndesore’s page. Down below the Round Tower. Drowned, Your Grace. Or worse.”

Worse? “Drowning is rather final, I should think. What could be worse?”

Michaelo’s brows pulled together. “I said nothing to the men who found him. I do not wish to make something of nothing. But there were marks on his wrists. As if his hands had been bound, Your Grace.”

That could be troublesome. But it was the victim’s identity that set off alarms in Thoresby’s head. His secretary had a weakness for handsome youths. “Daniel. A rather pretty young man, as I recall. You have not been breaking your vows again, have you, Michaelo?”

The question seemed to clear Michaelo’s head. He sat up, suddenly alert. “Your Grace! I was merely walking past.”

“I do not doubt that, Michaelo, but your agitation bespeaks an attachment.”

Michaelo’s nostrils flared. “I kept my distance as always, Your Grace.”

Deo gratias . Thoresby hid a smile as Michaelo lifted his chin, his back stiff with indignation, raised his quill pen and sat with it poised above the parchment.

“Shall we begin, Your Grace?”

His secretary’s injured feelings reassured Thoresby. “Indeed. I have resolved my approach to the letters our King has requested.”

It was a matter of emphasis, Thoresby had decided. Praise those aspects of Wykeham’s service of which the Cistercian abbots least approved – how in his past post of Clerk of Works and presently as Keeper of the Privy Seal the King found him indispensable, which, of course, emphasised Wykeham’s worldly loyalties. The King could not deny it, nor could he deny that Thoresby couched his words as praise. Thoresby smiled to himself as he began to dictate to Michaelo.

Rather elegantly gowned for an early morning walk, her brown hair carefully coiffed beneath a gossamer veil, Alice Perrers swept through the Norman Gate from the upper ward clutching a fur-lined cloak round her shivering body. It was too early to be abroad; the blood was not yet warmed in her extremities. The guard bowed to her. Her page hurried after her carrying a goblet and a flagon of watered-down and delicately spiced wine. Alice intended to wake properly with her usual morning refreshment no matter who had been found floating in the moat. After attending Sir William she must return to the apartments of the ailing Queen and attend her. There would be no time to see to Alice’s own needs. Not that she resented her duty to Queen Phillippa. Alice owed her position to the aged Queen’s affection. But she must also take care of herself – no one else would. She was nineteen years old and would soon lose the bloom of youth that so enchanted the King if she did not have a care for her health. She did not delude herself; she was no beauty. Her power was in her youthful, well-formed body, her understanding of men’s desires, and her cunning ambition.