Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

“We ride with the King’s men, as is proper. Where’s Townley?”

“Somewhere nearby, I hope. Do you still think him guilty? After what Wyndesore’s men have done this night?”

“This proves only that they want Townley dead,” Curan said. “And if he murdered Gervase and Henry, we mean to succeed where they failed.” He moved close to Ralph.

Rufus, sensing trouble, slogged through the ashy mud, shouted to Ralph and Curan to fetch the friar, find him some shelter while the rest searched for the missing men. The two went off grumbling.

“Captain Archer. I would speak with you and your companions in my tent.” Rufus motioned two of his men forward. “They will guard Wyndesore’s men now.”

Owen, Brother Michaelo, and Matthew followed him without protest, eager to be out of the rain for a while.

“What happened here? Why had you separated?” Rufus demanded.

“Townley and his second left us at Bishopthorpe to lure Bardolph and Crofter after them,” Owen said.

“Why?”

“He is convinced they committed the murders of which he’s accused, and now they are after him.”

“Why?”

Good God. What could Owen say? “Politics. Some trouble between Lancaster and Clarence.”

Rufus grunted. “I wouldn’t know about that.” He turned to Matthew. “Where is your captain?”

Matthew looked pathetic, with a filthy bandage holding up a broken arm and half his hair burned to a stubble. “He dragged Captain Archer’s man away from the fire, into one of the outbuildings. Too much smoke.”

“And now he’s bolted, no doubt.”

“Permit us to search for him,” Owen said quietly.

Rufus grunted. “Nay. I’ll put my men to it. I want Townley bound. Curan is right, what Wyndesore’s men have done does not prove Townley’s innocence.”

Michaelo stepped forward, managing his usual haughty dignity even with muddy clothes, a split lip, and a pronounced limp. “I have papers from the Lord Chancellor entrusting Captain Townley to Captain Archer.”

Rufus studied Michaelo. “I thought I knew you. The chancellor’s secretary.”

Michaelo gave a little bow.

“So where are these papers?”

“Back with my horse.”

Rufus nodded at Michaelo. “So it was the chancellor plotted to make a fool of me?”

“His Grace means to see that Townley has the opportunity to clear himself.”

“It is for the King to decide that. We shall escort your party to Windsor.”

“I have no objection to that,” Owen said. “But I ask you to allow Captain Townley to ride unshackled.”

Rufus shrugged. “If we find him. But you will have charge of him.”

“We shall find him. And I shall watch him.”

Rufus nodded. “He would not slip away easily.” He gestured towards some camp stools round a makeshift table. “Sit, have some wine. It has been a long night; it will be longer still.”

Shortly after the wine was poured, Ned appeared with Alfred, each seemingly propping the other upright.

“Your men are about to come through and announce the flight of Don Paulus,” Ned said. He leaned against a tent post, closed his eyes, caught his breath. Alfred unceremoniously sank to the ground, wheezing.

By morning it was established that Don Paulus had slipped away with his horse and those of Bardolph and Crofter.

“And how to decide what direction?” Rufus rubbed his cold hands over the fire outside his tent and yawned. “He is not our concern. We must forget him, head for Windsor.”

Though Ned cursed, Owen realised that Rufus was right. “As far as we know, Don Paulus has committed no crimes, has sought merely to save his own neck.”

“He fed the fire, the bastard,” Alfred protested.

“We cannot know whether he did it willingly or under duress,” Rufus said. “I don’t suppose you thought to ask him before you beat him?”

The company stopped for the night at an inn just north of the Thames to clean themselves and see to their wounds; they would cross the river in the morning and ride on into Windsor.

Ned had become increasingly agitated as the day wore on. Now he chose to lie on his pallet rather than sitting below with his fellows over tankards of ale. “’Tis the river, Owen. The scent. Makes me see her, floating there.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Owen had not thought how Ned would be once they reached Windsor. “You will feel better when you’ve visited her grave, old friend.”

Ned said nothing.

“Let me see to your leg before I go down to the men.” As Owen unwrapped the soiled bandage, he shook his head. “This will be a nasty scar, my handsome friend. What will your ladies say?”

“Save your breath. I’ve not thought of ladies since Mary’s death. And I’ll not be cheered.” Ned jerked and took his hands from his face as Owen pressed a hot towel on the wounds. He propped himself up on his elbows to observe. “What are you doing to me?”

“Drawing out the poison.” Owen studied his friend’s face as he waited for the wound to soften with the heat. Ned looked healthier, more like himself than when Owen had found him on the moors. His brown eyes were focused now, but they still shifted uneasily. “What are you plotting now?” Owen wondered.

Ned dropped back on the bed, eyes closed. “I am plotting nothing, for pity’s sake. Did I not give you my word I would go straight to Windsor?”

“Aye, you did.” Owen lifted the hot cloth from the wound, washed it with a calendula rinse to stop the bleeding and encourage the skin to close over it, then rubbed in a soothing marshmallow salve.

“That wash stung as if you were slitting me open again. I begin to wonder whether you mean to heal me or kill me.”

“I did not come all this way to lose you, you fool. I’ve fought for you and have the wounds to prove it. Lucie won’t thank you for that.”

“With all your scars, how will she notice?” Ned opened his eyes, propped himself up again. “I do thank you, old friend. I doubt I’ll ever find a way to repay you.”

“I pray I never need such help.”

“How did you know to come back to the farmhouse?”

“It put me in mind of one in Normandy.”

Ned was quiet, his eyes had a faraway look.

Owen stuffed everything into his pack, rose with a sigh. “And now I’m off in search of a sorely needed ale. Matthew waits without. He is your guard this evening. I am trusting you, in other words.”

“We have fought long and well together, Owen.”

“Aye, that we have.”

“I’ll entertain Matthew with tales of chivalry,” Ned said to Owen’s departing back.

Michaelo could not sleep. He rose from his vermin-infested bed and slipped quietly out of the inn to pace the courtyard and work out the stiffness in his hip and knee. The night was clear and chilly. Exhilarating.

“Who goes there?”

“ Benedicte . ’Tis Brother Michaelo. I would walk a while in the courtyard.”

“God go with ’ee.” The guard walked on.

The excitement of the past week had stirred Michaelo’s blood, made him restless. But for what? Some would say he had a most exciting, varied life. What did he lack? Would he wish to ride through the countryside in search of miscreants as a regular occupation? Indeed not. God had protected him on this journey; but most soldiers died painful deaths. Even if they survived their exploits, they returned with wounds, missing limbs … Old age seemed disagreeable and ugly enough without a body malformed by years of limping or performing every chore with but one hand, or with old wounds and scars that ached in damp weather, grew stiff in the cold.

Consider Captain Archer. A handsome man, but for the scarred cheek and blind eye. Michaelo had noted how often Archer rubbed the scar, pressed the eye beneath the patch. And his left shoulder bothered him, too. Every morning the Captain paced back and forth, shrugging that shoulder round and round to warm it before mounting his steed for the day’s long ride.