by Candace Robb
Dangerous? Thoresby found it almost amusing to think the round little man might bear dangerous tidings. ‘And you, Brother Florian?’ Thoresby asked the white-haired monk. ‘Do you mind being on your feet in the fresh air?’
‘I am yours to command, Your Grace. But I should like to participate. You know that you may trust me to be silent.’
‘Silence may not be sufficient in this instance,’ Don Paulus said, his tone incongruously pleasant.
‘Do not condescend to me, Don Paulus,’ Florian growled.
‘I meant nothing of the sort, I assure you,’ the friar was quick to reply.
‘Then come, gentlemen, let us walk,’ Thoresby said with impatience. Yet he set a slow pace, noted the buds on the vines, the rich soil. ‘Beneath here lies chalk, apparently a benefit to vines, though not much else. A fortunate coincidence, eh?’
Don Paulus replied with a brief exposition on the chalky regions of France and the excellent wine produced. ‘Though of course the climate is gentler; for May, this would be a chilly day in Bordeaux.’
‘You are a herbalist who digs in the soil,’ Thoresby said.
‘I rarely have the opportunity, but yes, I enjoy a day in the garden.’ The friar had withdrawn his hands from his sleeves and clasped them behind him, looking thoughtful. ‘But Brother Florian did not seek me out and bring me here to speak of gardens with the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. Please, Your Grace. Ask me what you would.’ Paulus smiled down at the mounds of manure beneath some of the vines. ‘An experimenter, the vintner here.’
Thoresby found the man’s calm quite remarkable. ‘Why did you disappear, Don Paulus?’
A shrug. ‘I felt it was dangerous to know what I knew and to have communicated with a man marked for death.’ Don Paulus paused, turned to Thoresby with a serious face. ‘More to the point, and even less to my credit, fear drove me to keep silent about the young woman floating in the Thames. I knew I could not help her, I could see she was dead – I have seen enough of death to know it before me – but her soul might have yet lingered. And I did nothing but sign a blessing over her and pray for her soul.’ Paulus closed his eyes, shook his head.
‘And you come forward now?’
‘Come forward?’ Paulus chuckled. ‘In truth, it took much effort on Brother Florian’s part to ferret me out. But then I was perversely relieved to see him. I felt unclean. And I feared that once such cowardice is permitted, it will shortly become habit. I prayed that would not be so, but I feared it was the inevitable outcome. Once soiled, never truly clean. The memory of the stain is in the fabric.’
Thoresby began to suspect the pleasant face masked a dissembler. ‘Come now, Don Paulus, was it not reassuring to discover I had sent Florian? That someone of my stature was concerned about this?’
Don Paulus shrugged. ‘As I said, once soiled …’
Thoresby glanced at Brother Florian, who gave him a sidewise look that promised a good story when they were alone. Thoresby resumed walking. ‘How did you and Don Ambrose meet?’
The hands returned to the sleeves. ‘We studied together at Oxford.’ Paulus now walked with great concentration on his sandalled feet.
‘You were good friends?’
Don Paulus sighed. ‘It is difficult in our order to develop lasting friendships. We move about …’
Irritated, Thoresby cleared his throat.
‘No, Your Grace. We were not good friends.’
‘How did he come to confide in you?’
‘I was at the leper house nearby. He came to me, remembering my knowledge of herbs. He wondered whether I knew of a way to detect poison in food or drink.’
Poison? ‘And why did he seek this information?’
‘At first he told me that he was to join the household of Don William of Wykeham, a man who had many enemies.’
‘Wykeham? Enemies who would poison him? I hardly think so.’
Paulus nodded. ‘I told him that any enemies bold enough to poison the King’s favourite would be paying gold coin that would afford subtle poisons, undetectable by a layman. Or myself, even.’
‘Would they indeed?’
‘Well, I should think so, Your Grace. But it is only a theory. In any case, Ambrose returned a few days later. “What if the victim were not so lofty a person? What if he were one of us?” God forgive me, but that made me curious, for it was clear Ambrose feared for himself. He was a chaplain at Windsor Castle. I considered how easily such a chaplain might be drawn into trouble. So I asked him whom he feared.’ Paulus now glanced round, noted a gardener working in the next row. ‘Perhaps we might continue at the far end?’
They crossed the vineyard in silence.
‘Continue, Don Paulus,’ Thoresby commanded when the friar stood with his hands behind his back, staring, apparently enthralled, at the unfinished wall of the castle, showing no sign of speaking.
The friar started, shrugged, smiled ingenuously. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. The aspect of the castle is so lovely …’
‘Tell me whom Ambrose feared before I have you dumped into the wall as fill,’ Thoresby growled.
Paulus brought his hands forward, clasped before him, and nodded. ‘He feared Sir William of Wyndesore and Mistress Alice Perrers, Your Grace.’
Thoresby recalled the time he had come upon Alice arguing with a man in the courtyard at Windsor Castle. It might have been Wyndesore. He also remembered Alice’s blush when she replied, I know him. ‘An interesting pair. Why did he fear them?’
‘Because, Your Grace, he had married them. In a secret ceremony.’ The friar smiled smugly.
Thoresby was stunned. ‘Impossible.’
Don Paulus threw up his hands. ‘It would seem so, yet Don Ambrose swore it, and he predicted the death of Perrers’s maid after that of Wyndesore’s page. They were the witnesses.’
That gave Thoresby’s stomach a twist. A logical connection, priest and witnesses. But so cold-blooded. ‘Then there is no record of such a marriage?’
‘A written record, Your Grace, which can be silenced more reliably than people.’
‘When Ambrose came to you with this story, neither witness had died?’
‘Only the lad.’
‘Ambrose had feared poisoning. When he learned he was to ride north for the King, did he still fear poisoning?’
A shrug. ‘How can I know everything that was in his mind? He asked that I send a message to our house in York if I heard aught of Mary; he knew she was frightened. She had come to him several times to confess her sins, fearing death was near.’
‘Poor child,’ Brother Florian said, crossing himself.
Ah yes, the difference in rank; Brother Florian had the leisure for pity. Thoresby had to try to absorb all he heard and ask the right questions. Time later for pity. He wished to finish with Paulus, send this horrid little man away. ‘You say Ambrose feared Wyndesore and Perrers? They told him to keep silent?’
‘Which he vowed he would.’
‘And yet he told you.’
‘As I have told you, he came to me about detecting poisons.’
‘Who did he fear would carry out his poisoning?’
‘He did not know. He told me how Townley had quickly been declared innocent by Mistress Perrers after the page was found dead – too quickly, perhaps? So Ambrose was frightened when he heard that Townley was to ride north with him, if he was indeed involved with Mistress Perrers in some way. To make matters worse, two of Wyndesore’s men were in the company.’
Wyndesore. That name kept coming up. ‘After he received your letter in York Ambrose focused his fear on Townley. Perhaps he should have remained fearful of the others.’
‘I think not. One of my order in York tells me the commander of the company from York was a Captain Archer, not only a spy and Townley’s friend but the spouse of an apothecary with access to poisons. No doubt Don Ambrose learned this.’
‘Don Ambrose was not poisoned.’
A momentary hesitation. ‘No?’
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nbsp; Thoresby shook his head. ‘And what of Mary’s death? Surely you do not think Townley had his leman murdered?’
‘How sincere was his love, I wonder? Don Ambrose told me Townley was Lancaster’s man. The Duke’s disapproval of Don William is known in our order; we count him a friend. It seems plausible Townley allowed himself to be caught up in a plot to thwart Wykeham’s ambitions by ruining the mission.’
‘With murder? Townley would not be so cold-blooded.’
Don Paulus shrugged. ‘I came but to tell you what I know, Your Grace, not to argue for it.’
‘Indeed. Let us walk while I consider what you have told me. I may have more questions for you.’ Thoresby must put aside his disbelief and consider the friar’s story. If it was possible, if Alice Perrers had married without the King’s permission – for why else would it be kept secret – then where did the friar’s story dissatisfy? Perhaps in the drawn-out plot against Ambrose. The others had been dispatched quickly and within easy reach. ‘Why send Ambrose north? Why risk his escape?’
‘I am afraid no one thought to tell me, Your Grace.’ A smirk.
Thoresby realised his hands were clenched. He relaxed them at his sides. ‘Any thoughts on the matter?’
‘Ambrose was of higher station than the maid or page. His death might have warranted an investigation.’
‘But it still does.’
‘Perhaps three deaths at Windsor would cause too much gossip?’ Paulus shrugged.
Why did even that slight gesture make Thoresby bristle? What did he despise so in the man standing before him? When this conversation had begun Thoresby had thought Don Paulus much pleasanter than he had earlier imagined him to be, much calmer. He was an actor, but he was useful. They had forced him from his hiding, but he had then co-operated as if he’d meant to all along. And he seemed to be enjoying himself. Brother Florian had expressed pity for the maid he had never seen; this man … Ah. There was a mystery.
‘Don Paulus, how were you able to recognise Perrers’s maid in the river? When had you met her?’
Paulus held up a finger. ‘The very question I expected. I had seen her with her mistress, in the town. I grew curious about Mistress Perrers after hearing Ambrose’s story, and desired to learn more about her. Powerful young woman.’ He shook his head. ‘But who am I to judge? I discovered she had a house in town, near the river. I sold some herbs to her cook, dallied long enough to see the King’s leman. And her maid. The maid was fair. I was heartsick to see her floating in the river, her midnight tresses a graceful cloud round her.’
With every word Thoresby disliked the friar more. ‘You shall stay here at the castle until I release you, Don Paulus. In case I have more questions.’
The friar frowned at Florian. ‘But you said …’
‘Spend your time in penance, Don Paulus. To leave a young woman in the river like that …’ Florian shook his head.
‘See me after you have the friar settled,’ Thoresby called to Florian over his shoulder as he headed back to his apartment. He had an irrational desire to wash his hands.
Tom Merchet led the donkey cart across Ouse Bridge in the late afternoon. On the other side he turned off Micklegate at St Martin’s Lane and stopped in front of a small house that was almost built into the stables behind it. Owen slipped out from beneath a pile of flour sacks in the cart, disappeared into the shadows beneath the jettied second storey. A young woman opened the door to the house, disappeared a moment, then stepped out, basket in hand, glanced round, shut the door, put her hand on Owen’s arm and took off down the lane. Tom clucked to the donkey and began to follow at a slower pace. They crossed Fetter Lane and continued up Bishophill in the direction of the Old Baile.
The Old Baile had been the twin of York Castle across the river before it had fallen into disrepair. It was now under the Archbishop’s jurisdiction, a sometime gaol, the yard occasionally a fairground. The last serious repairs to the buildings and walls had been undertaken forty-odd years before, when King Edward had moved the government of the realm to York while he’d fought the Scots. There were guards on the walls and at the gates, but a determined intruder could find a way in.
As did Matilda, picking her way across the boggy moat on stones, slipping through a breach in the wall behind bracken. Owen almost slipped when a stone proved slicker than anticipated, but he managed to catch himself and suffered only a wet boot.
Within, the bailey stank of damp and urine. Owen stood still, searching the dim waste with his one eye, thinking he had lost Matilda. And then, almost at his shoulder, she whispered, ‘Here is the gate, Captain. It will take your strength to open it.’
He could see only a climbing vine. Matilda took his hand, guided it to an iron ring. He tugged with no result, stood back, wiped his hands on his leggings, blew on them, rubbed them together, then planted himself firmly and tugged once more. The door gave way a few inches. He went through the process once more, made more slight progress.
‘This will take all afternoon,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll push, you pull,’ Tom hissed from the other side.
‘God bless you, Tom.’
They soon had it open, then Tom cautiously led the donkey cart across the rotting planks. Matilda took the lantern from the cart, led the way to a guardhouse, opened the lantern to show them the small room furnished with a cot, a table and chair, a small brazier.
‘Who hides here?’ Owen asked.
Matilda shook her head. ‘Show me how to tend him.’
Owen and Tom helped Ned into the guardhouse, settled him on the cot. From his pack, Owen pulled the ointments. ‘Bring the light closer.’
Matilda crept forward as Owen unwound the bandage. ‘Oh, Ned!’ she knelt down, holding the light over his leg. ‘Is it very painful?’
He snorted. ‘Wasn’t until this butcher took a needle and thread to it.’
Matilda glanced over at Owen. ‘I don’t think I could do that.’
‘It takes a strong stomach, aye,’ Owen said. ‘But you must only clean it, then dab on the ointment. Like this.’ He showed her. ‘And watch for fever, bring him plenty of water, send for me if there is any change. Or trouble.’
She nodded. ‘You can trust me.’
‘I see that,’ Owen said. ‘The usual resident of this den will not return for a while?’
‘No.’
‘You are certain?’
She looked up at Owen, her eyes wide. ‘Is it a simpleton you think me, or a traitor?’
‘Forgive me. I am only worried for my friend.’
‘He will be safe with me.’
Owen rose.
Matilda put the cloths and ointments in her basket.
‘A man in the livery of the Archbishop’s household will await you here this evening,’ Owen told her as she rose. ‘Alfred will stand watch while Ned is here.’
Matilda nodded. ‘I know Alfred.’
Brother Florian touched his folded hands to his nose, hiding a grin. But Thoresby saw it. ‘What amuses you?’
‘The ego of Paulus, thinking he could fool you. Surely he knew I would tell you how I caught him, trying to escape beneath a corpse being removed from the hospital for burial?’
‘Sweet Heaven, no!’
Florian lifted his cup, nodded, drank, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I insisted he borrow a clean habit for the journey, impressing on his superiors that he was to be presented to you, Your Grace.’
‘You divulged my purpose?’
‘Never, Your Grace. I suggested you needed an extra clerk.’
‘Who would believe that man would please me?’
‘Other Austins, Your Grace.’ The sly face broke into a grin.
But Thoresby made little effort to smile. He swirled the wine round in his cup, thinking.
‘His story sounds false to you, Your Grace?’
‘Yes. And no. It is the only explanation I have that accounts for most of what has happened. The flaw is Townley’s being sent away with the friar.’
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bsp; They grew quiet.
Thoresby was the first to speak. ‘Should it be true, we are now in possession of dangerous information.’
Florian raised an eyebrow. ‘He did warn me.’
‘I doubt anyone would connect you with it. As far as I am concerned, you heard naught of this.’
‘Of course.’ Brother Florian drained his cup and slowly eased himself from the bench on which he sat. He never accepted a more comfortable chair with back and arms – too difficult to climb out of.
‘You are leaving?’
‘I have much to do while I am here, Your Grace. And, faith, I can be of little help in this musing stage. I find them for you; I do not pretend to understand them.’
Fortunate man to be able to confine himself to what he excelled in. Thoresby should try that. But it was too late to change. Too late.
Florian turned stiffly at the door. ‘May God protect you, Your Grace.’
‘And you, my old friend.’
Thoresby began to pace as the door closed. His mind was too active. Too full of questions. Was it possible? Would Alice Perrers risk her status at court for the loutish Wyndesore? Thoresby looked forward to his evening with her. How surprised she would be when he told her the rumour he had heard … Or should he mention it? But how else was he to know the truth?
First he must think of a secure hiding place for Don Paulus. Whether or not his tale was the truth, the man was in danger. And dangerous.
Lucie left Jasper in the shop and followed Owen into the kitchen. ‘What will you tell Jehannes?’
Owen sank down in a chair by the fire, ran his hands through his dusty hair. ‘I do not know, Lucie. Am I playing the fool?’
She leaned over, kissed Owen’s forehead, took one of his hands, kissed the palm. ‘You would not rest easy abandoning Ned to his fate.’
‘Am I not risking him all the same? Using him as bait to lure two murderers who are out for his blood?’
‘Perhaps they are not murderers.’
‘Then I am a fool.’
‘No you are not. You will get Ned safely to Windsor, where you will soon discover the truth. I have faith in you, my love.’