Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

Always practical, his Mary. Sweet Heaven, how he loved her. Ned took her hands.

Mary snatched them away.

“What’s this?” Ned sat back on his heels, confused. “You reject my comfort?”

“Oh, Ned. ’Tis your stubborn jealousy caused it, you know it is true. Daniel would never have drunk so much if you had not threatened him. Why did you do it? There was no need. No need. I’d told you, I’d sworn you had nothing to be jealous of. Daniel was kind to me, was all. He was my friend.” Mary sniffed, hiccuped.

His fault? “Kind to you, was all, was it? Why? Why was Sir William of Wyndesore’s page so kind to the maid of Mistress Alice Perrers?”

Mary flushed. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Oh indeed. The lowly maid of Mistress Alice could not possibly be considered a friend by the handsome young page of Sir William of Wyndesore.”

“How did he befriend you, Mary? I cannot think of a reason why Sir William’s page and Mistress Alice’s maid would even meet.”

Mary gasped. “Even in death you distrust him! Oh shame, Ned. Shame on you!” She rose and hurried towards the inner door.

Ned groaned, hurried after her, caught her elbow. “For pity’s sake, Mary, we are to be wed. You should be comforting me as the victim of unfounded gossip, not accusing me of something you know full well I did not do.”

Mary stood stubbornly with her back to him, looking down at the floor. Ned heard her catch her breath and knew the tears flowed once more. For a friend? He’d be a fool to believe that! He let go of her arm. “Forgive me, Mistress Mary. I have misunderstood. I thought you loved me, but I see my error.” He strode from the room to the sound of Mary’s sobs. Devil take her, she could be so stubborn. It was Mistress Perrers’s doing, he’d wager. She did not like him – had other plans for Mary, no doubt. He must find a way to free Mary from the whore’s service. He wished Owen Archer were not so far north in York. Ned could use his advice in this.

York, March 1367

Owen Archer laughed as his daughter pulled at his eye patch, then his beard, her efforts accompanied by a low, throaty laugh. “You’ve a grip to make an archer proud,” Owen said.

His wife’s head was bowed over the rows of seeds. “I’d thought Gwenllian might learn my profession,” Lucie said. She had been named Master Apothecary after the death of her first husband, Nicholas Wilton. “But Gwenllian is to be an archer, not just carry your name?” Lucie retained her first husband’s surname to acknowledge that she held her position as Nicholas’s widow, not Owen’s wife. “It is settled at five months?”

Owen walked over to Lucie, peered over her shoulder. “She shall learn the art of the longbow if she wishes. If everyone in this household becomes your apprentice, you will have little to do and will lose your skill. Some of those seeds look as if water got to them.”

Lucie shrugged. “The river damp is ever a problem. So Gwenllian is to serve under you as one of the Archbishop’s retainers?”

“Never that,” Owen snapped.

Lucie glanced up, hearing the change in her husband’s voice, and caught the tell-tale twitch in his left cheek. “You are angry, I know, though I do not understand it. Surely you knew you would owe His Grace service?” At Christmas, Archbishop Thoresby had named Owen captain of his retainers and Steward of Bishopthorpe, his palace south of the city. “Why did you accept the posts if you meant to go into a rage whenever he called upon you?”

Owen met Lucie’s eye and said simply, “It seemed an honour at the time.”

“And so it was. And is.” Lucie did not look away.

But Owen’s eye slid from Lucie to his daughter. He lifted Gwenllian into the air and murmured, “What makes you prouder – Owen Archer, Spy, or Captain Archer, Steward of Bishopthorpe?”

Gwenllian gurgled as she tilted towards him, grabbing for his face.

Bess Merchet hummed a tune as she made her way back to the York Tavern from market. As she approached Wilton’s apothecary she noted Owen Archer striding off in the direction of the minster. By the time he’d turned up Stonegate he had ignored the greetings of two neighbours, a singular lapse in courtesy for Owen. Bess read it as the aftermath of a heated argument in the household, certainly not a rarity, but odd at this early hour, when Tildy, Jasper, and Gwenllian would be witnesses. She hurried home to drop her purchases off with the cook, then slipped next door to see whether Lucie needed a friend’s perspective.

Tildy greeted her at the kitchen door holding Gwenllian on her hip. “Oh bless you, Mistress Merchet, you are the answer to my prayers.” She handed Bess the baby, who immediately grabbed one of the ribbons on Bess’s cap. “Mistress Lucie has gone into the shop to give Jasper some instruction and the broth needs stirring.” Jasper was Lucie’s apprentice, an orphan who was considered part of the family.

Bess bounced and chucked her godchild and followed Tildy into the kitchen. “You are in need of an extra hand round here, I can see that, Tildy. Has your mistress done aught about hiring another girl?”

Tildy shook her head. “Most days I find a hand ready when I need it. And Gwenllian is often in the shop with Mistress Lucie and Jasper. But Jasper dropped something that must be swept up with care, so Gwenllian stayed with me.”

Bess considered all the facts. “The Captain is off to the minster?”

Tildy nodded as she wiped her hands and took up a long wooden spoon to stir the bubbling broth.

Lucie came through the beaded curtain. Gwenllian immediately screwed up her face and began to bawl for her mother.

Bess handed the squirming, squealing baby into Lucie’s outstretched arms. “She has you all dancing to her tune, Lucie. Have a care she does not become a burden.”

“You mind the inn, Bess, I shall mind my daughter,” Lucie said with a smile as she settled on a cushioned chair by the fire to nurse Gwenllian.

Bess sat down near Lucie and kept her peace until the child was ready to be winded. “Owen went off in quite a temper.”

Lucie rubbed Gwenllian’s back. “His Grace has a mission for him, something that will take him away. ’Tis nothing unusual, but you would think Archbishop Thoresby had ordered Owen to slay us all in our sleep. He is convinced that all the evil in the world will be unleashed on this house as soon as he steps away.”

Bess sniffed and nodded vigorously. “I thought as much. Thoresby’s retainers stopped at the inn last night. I guessed they had been here too.” She closed her eyes, made more connections. “From London, eh? There are rumours John Thoresby will not be chancellor much longer.”

Lucie nodded towards the shelves behind Bess. “Look at the silver cup he sent for his godchild.”

Bess was not surprised by the change of subject. Lucie had been raised in a convent school and abhorred gossip, probably the only pupil who had taken the warnings against gossip to heart. Bess turned round to see the cup, rose with an exclamation. It was an extravagant gift for a child, obviously meant as a keepsake, not to use. “I am glad that Owen bit his tongue and agreed to the Archbishop’s offer to stand as her godfather. Already Gwenllian has riches to carry her comfortably through life.” The cup was exquisitely decorated with doves and flowers. Bess used her apron as a cloth to protect it from fingerprints as she turned it this way and that. “So. What does Owen fear will happen?”

“He says he cannot leave me with a babe in arms and an apprentice who is but eleven years old. Who will protect us?” Lucie tucked the now sleeping baby into her cradle. “We have gone round and round about it. I cannot make him see reason. We live in a walled city surrounded by friends, under the protection of a powerful guild, and surely God will watch over Owen’s family while he is serving the Archbishop.” Lucie settled back in the chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. “He hovers over us, Bess. He will drive me mad.”