Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

The back door, hung so that the cook did not struggle with it, swung easily inward. Owen and Alfred entered the house silently.

Ned pressed the knife closer, drew another trickle of blood, glanced up at Thoresby, smiled to see him wince. “Why should Bardolph and Crofter admit to anything?”

Thoresby tried to keep his face impassive as he watched Owen creep into the room behind Ned. “They will confess to save their souls.”

“Why worry about their souls now? They knew they were committing sin when they–” Ned stiffened, began to turn his head.

Blind on the left, Owen chose to grab Ned’s right hand, the one holding the dagger at Alice’s throat.

Ned stumbled backwards. Owen spun him round, knocked the dagger from his left hand, and threw him to the ground.

“Alfred, keep him down,” Owen commanded.

Alfred dropped onto Ned.

Alice had slumped forwards. Agnes knelt before her, weeping and dabbing at something with a cloth.

Owen pulled the maid away, saw a crimson stain blooming on the cloth that bound Alice’s arms. When he untied the cloth, her upper left arm bled freely.

Alice touched it. “It is nothing, Captain. I expected far worse.”

“You are a brave woman, Mistress Perrers. I know something about wounds. Both that and the cut on your throat are causing some pain.”

Thoresby noted the light in Alice Perrers’s cat eyes as she studied the scarred face bent towards her.

“A little, yes, Captain. But I can bear it.”

Unable to sleep, Owen paced his bedchamber in the great castle of Windsor. His sleeplessness was not lack of comfort. He had been given an officer’s billet in the lower ward with a brazier that heated the room and two small windows that aired it. It was rather Ned’s fate that set him to pacing. Ned had attacked the King’s mistress, wounded her, no matter that the wounds were superficial, and had therefore been taken into custody. It was impossible that he should be spared. The fool. Had he but stayed with the company he might have been proved innocent and set free.

He might still have a chance. With Bardolph and Crofter under lock and key in Winchester Tower there was the possibility of a confession. Owen’s hope lay in Bardolph. That moment in York when the man had risked discovery to beg Jehannes’s blessing. Panic? The right words, the right mixture of sympathy and suggestion might coax the truth from him. Owen must try.

Hands idly playing with the papers strewn before him, Thoresby listened to Owen’s proposal, a smile gradually brightening his face.

“You are amused?” Owen asked.

Thoresby pushed the papers aside, leaned across the table with an excited air. “If you managed a confession, naming names …” The deep-set eyes shone. “Do your best, Archer. If you can get him to state that Wyndesore gave him the orders–” head flung back, a throaty chuckle.

Owen thought the Archbishop had gone mad. “I do not understand this mood, Your Grace.”

The dark eyes levelled at Owen. “The King could not ignore such an accusation. This would bring Wyndesore down.”

“I had no idea you had such an animosity for the man.”

“Not him. Alice Perrers. The ambitions of both were at stake in this deadly game. The King would cast her out.”

His petty court intrigues again. “I do this for Ned and justice, Your Grace. Not to bring down a lady I barely know.”

“Yes, yes,” Thoresby said, waving aside Owen’s protest. “Michaelo will arrange for your meeting with Bardolph. And he will be your witness. There is a room in Winchester Tower partitioned with a thin wall. Michaelo will be your invisible scribe the other side.”

Bardolph had haunted eyes and stank of fear. He winced when Owen handed him a cup of ale, as if expecting a blow.

“Rest easy. I want to talk, no more.” Owen was grateful for the half-dozen lamps Michaelo had provided. The high window did nothing to freshen or light the tower room. Even here at ground level it was damp, dark, cold. What must the dungeon be like? As Owen studied the man who had spent the past several days down below, he held his breath, listening for Michaelo. Silence. “Go ahead. Drink.”

Peering at Owen, disbelieving, Bardolph shakily raised the cup to his cracked lips.

“They have denied you drink?” Owen asked.

Bardolph gulped, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shook his head.

“Your lips. I thought perhaps …”

“Nay. I lick ’em in the cold.”

Or when nervous, more like. “I have a balm that would help.”

“’Tis no matter.” Bardolph drained the cup.

Owen raised the pitcher. “More?”

“Won’t say no.” But as Owen brought the pitcher forward, Bardolph frowned, as if remembering something, and covered his cup. “Men say you’re Townley’s old friend.”

“Aye, that I am.”

A shake of the shaggy head, as if warding off flies. “How do I know you don’t mean to poison me?”

“Why would I do that, Bardolph?”

Bardolph’s eyes slid sidewise. “Being in gaol makes a man wary.”

“No doubt. But why would I poison you?”

Bardolph sniffed, said nothing.

“Have you done something to Captain Townley?”

The shadowed eyes blinked. Bardolph gripped the cup, confusion clouding his face momentarily. “Our last meeting was not friendly.”

Owen nodded. “No, not friendly. But I could see you meant to smoke him out, not burn him alive. Go on. I’ve shared this pitcher with you and we’re neither of us on the floor, eh? I want to talk to you is all.”

“Why?”

“I would like to understand what drove my friend to attack the King’s mistress.”

Bardolph shook his head. “I know naught what’s between them.” He lifted his hand from the cup, held it out to Owen.

While Owen poured, he considered his next words. Bardolph was no subtle thinker, but neither was he stupid.

“I thank you, Captain,” Bardolph said, raising the cup and nearly draining it. He belched with satisfaction as he set it down. But the hands still trembled.

“What was your business in York?”

Bardolph squinted. “Eh?”

“You were in York?”

The man squirmed. “Who says I was?”

“Don Jehannes, the Archdeacon of York. Was he mistaken?”

Bardolph’s lower lip dabbed at the sweat beading on his upper lip. “I passed through York.”

“And you asked the Archdeacon’s blessing – and forgiveness.”

A wince. The eyes searched the room for a safe reply. “We are all of us sinners in this world, Captain.”

“Aye. That we are, Bardolph, that we are. And you were feeling the weight of your past that day, were you?”

“Sommat like.”

Owen nodded. “As soldiers we live with troubling memories.” He rubbed the scar beneath his patch. “Killed the woman who did this to me. And her man.”

Bardolph studied Owen with sympathetic eyes. “I remember the night you told the tale in York Tavern. You had reason to kill them.”

Owen took a long drink, placed his cup carefully on the table. “Doesn’t help in the middle of the night, when I lie awake wondering about the state of my soul.”

Bardolph squirmed. “Aye. ’Tis worst in the dark.” The lower lip dabbed at the sweaty upper. The eyes looked even more haunted.

“Fair is fair. I’ve told you my nightmare. What’s yours?”

A shake of the head. “I did not ask for your confession.”

Owen settled back on the bench, leaning his head against the wall, stretched out his legs, closed his eyes. “Sometimes a scent brings it back. Blood, salt air and damp earth.” He was quiet a moment, listening to Bardolph’s laboured breathing. “Sometimes I hear them. In my sleep. Their cries. I suppose that’s God’s way of making sure we don’t forget our sins. The memories that haunt us.”