Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

Even Archbishop Thoresby had scars from his early days when he had accompanied King Edward on campaign and travelled far and wide as a negotiator.

Still, what had Michaelo done with his life? Where had he ever been? Was his unmarked body the sign of intelligent caution or a life that had never begun?

Michaelo paced back and forth, shivering, but with no desire to withdraw to his bed. Why this restlessness? Was it his vows? Did he wish to be freed from them? Why would he wish that? A cleric’s life was to his liking, comfortable and organised. He had never desired women; and his taste for men had been tamed into a chaste appreciation of beauty. It was perhaps odd to wear the habit of the Benedictines when he no longer lived among his order, but he was still of the order. What would happen when the Archbishop passed away? Michaelo had been granted special dispensation to serve as Archbishop Thoresby’s secretary. Would he be sent back to St Mary’s? He shivered and crossed himself at the prospect of the cold reception he would find there – too many still alive remembered his earlier self … His fellow Benedictines were a long-lived brotherhood.

The guard passed without comment, disappearing round the side of the inn. As soon as he was out of sight, a door creaked nearby. Michaelo stood still in the dark courtyard, held his breath. A cloaked man headed across the open space towards the stables, glancing round as he moved, a man who did not wish to be observed.

Tingling with a sense of danger, Michaelo followed.

“Two empty pallets, two missing horses, and a man proving precious slow to wake. What were you playing at last night, eh? What were you drinking that you saw naught?” Rufus bellowed at the three men who had stood the night watch.

“I saw the monk,” one replied, shamefaced. “He was pacing to and fro in the courtyard. I thought naught of it.” The guard winced when Rufus raised a hand as if to strike.

But the large hand continued to Rufus’s brow, the fingers soon engaged in rubbing as if to clear the head. “Why would His Grace’s secretary flee with your friend, Captain Archer?”

Owen sat on the counter, draining a tankard of ale to wash down the night. He set down the empty tankard with a clatter. “He’s no friend of mine. Never again shall I count him that. I went through hell to bring him safely to Windsor and he thanks me with flight.” Owen jumped down, kicked a bench out of his way, strode out of the inn. But where to go?

Alfred and Rufus followed cautiously.

“I thought he swore he would go straight to Windsor Castle,” Alfred said.

Owen glowered at the river mist. “Clear night and misty morning. What is God’s purpose in that, I wonder?” And what had possessed Owen to leave Ned with Matthew last night? “I was a fool to trust him.” And a fool to leave him.

“Where might he run, Captain?” Rufus asked. “Surely we cannot expect him in Windsor town, enjoying a brew at the tavern.”

Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch wearily. “Where indeed? Not away from trouble. We cannot hope for that.” Windsor. Ned had vowed to go to Windsor. But castle or town? “Does Mistress Alice Perrers live at court or elsewhere at present, Rufus?”

“Both. At the castle her rooms are near His Grace’s. In the town she has a house on the river. You can see it from the bridge.”

A house on the river. Ned would know the house from Mary. In Windsor town. “The Lord means to confound me,” Owen growled. “Come, men. We must ride as fast we can to Mistress Perrers’s house. There is a ferry before the bridge, eh?”

“You’re thinking he would not trust the bridge-keeper to let him pass?”

Owen nodded. “To the ferry, Captain Rufus.”

Shortly before dawn, a castle guard escorted Brother Michaelo to Archbishop Thoresby’s quarters. Adam, nonplussed by the odd procession, woke his master for instructions.

“Michaelo is here?” Thoresby muttered, rubbing his eyes. “That is as it should be. Why wake me in the middle of the night?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. But he comes with an armed escort. He wished them to follow him back into town. To Mistress Perrers’s house.”

By now Thoresby was reasonably awake. Michaelo and Alice Perrers? “Did he wish them to arrest her, Adam?”

Adam shrugged.

Well, there would be no more sleep this night. “Get me dressed, dammit, boy. But first tell them I am coming.”

There was a commotion in the parlour as Thoresby awaited Adam’s assistance, and Michaelo poked in his head. “Might I dress you, Your Grace, while we talk?”

“You?” Michaelo had always considered it beneath his station to dress Thoresby. “No. Adam shall do it. But stay here and tell me what’s ado. I understand you wished for an armed guard to escort you to the bed of the King’s whore.”

“I wished to save her, Your Grace, not ravish her.”

“Who is ravishing her, then?”

Michaelo stepped into the room, followed by Adam, followed by the guard.

“Remain just outside the door, if you will,” Thoresby barked to the guard. “But do not hesitate to break down the door if I cry out.”

The guard’s look was one of alarm as he slipped out.

Thoresby nodded to Adam to prepare his clothes. “Now, Michaelo, quickly and without drama.”

Michaelo took a seat, impatiently smoothed out the damp hem of his habit. “Captain Archer and company are yet across the Thames, perhaps even now discovering that Captain Townley and I are gone. I was wakeful last night. A curse under which I suffer, as you know–” At Thoresby’s glare, Michaelo nodded. “Forgive me for wandering, Your Grace. I happened to be in the inn yard when Captain Townley slipped to the stables, retrieved something, I do not know what, and then made his way to a ferryman, waking him to demand passage at once across to Windsor town.”

“Indeed? Why did he not cross by the bridge?”

“I doubt he trusted his right of passage, Your Grace.”

“And you followed him?” Thoresby had a delightful image of Michaelo hanging to the edge of the ferry, being dragged through the muddy river water. But he did not look wet, though the journey had certainly taken its toll. “Did you offer to pay your share if invited to accompany him?”

Michaelo sniffed. “I did not. I had no worries about the bridge guard.”

Thoresby stared at his secretary in amazement. “You rode alone? At night? You?”

Michaelo shrugged. “I waited for Townley on the other side and followed him to the house of Mistress Perrers. He is quite convinced that she is the cause of his troubles. I believe he means to kill her. So I hurried to the castle to enlist the aid of guards to come to her assistance. Instead they led me to you like a naughty child who must be punished for being abroad at night.”

Thoresby was alarmed. “My cloak, Adam.” He took Michaelo’s arm. “Did you tell the guards your story?”

Michaelo shook his head. “Of course not. They need not know our business. I merely said I needed an armed escort to accompany me to the home of Mistress Perrers.”

“They have wasted much time. Come.”

Adam opened the door just in time for the Archbishop and his secretary to sweep through.

The maidservant who opened the door to Ned recognised him at once. “Master Townley! Oh dear. Oh. Did you not know about poor Mary? She is–” she wrung her hands “–not here.”

“I know, Agnes. I know all about what has happened here.” Ned clenched his hands, fighting for calm. The river mist swam round him in the open doorway, permeated the house. “I want to see your mistress.”

Agnes clutched the shawl beneath her chin. “’Tis but the middle of the night. I cannot wake her.”