by Candace Robb
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?’
Twenty-Five
A Remarkably Brave Lady
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.
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.’
‘You need do naught but stand back from the door. I shall wake her.’ Wake her so she knows death is near.
‘You wake her? You shall not!’ Agnes set down her lamp with a clatter and rushed to close the door against the intruder.
Ned pushed; Agnes stumbled backwards. ‘Sit and behave, Agnes, and no harm will come to you.’
Whimpering, Agnes sank down on a bench near the door.
Ned grabbed the lamp and peered round the room. Little to see in the dim light, but there was no need. He saw it all in his mind, Mary sitting by the hearth, bent over her sewing… ‘Mistress Perrers sleeps up in the solar?’
‘Aye.’ Agnes sniffled. ‘With little John. You must not hurt little John.’
Would Mary have borne a raven-haired son? ‘The child sleeps in the same room?’
‘A partition separates the nurse and John from my mistress.’
It was enough information. Ned climbed the open, ladderlike stairs awkwardly, his wounded leg dragging behind the other. Another thing for which to curse Perrers. At the top, Ned came face to face with the mistress.
‘Down the stairs,’ Alice hissed, a knife flashing a warning. ‘I will not have you frightening the boy.’
Armed though she was, Ned was taken aback by how young and vulnerable Alice Perrers seemed without her courtly trappings. Still, while he backed down the stairs he looked for a perch for the light so he might draw both his daggers. He had reached his goal and would have his revenge.
The ferryman cursed as he was once again wakened from a deep sleep by his equally cranky wife. ‘You see to them, woman. I cannot go till I’ve had me sleep. It matters nowt who they be.’
‘They be King’s men, Colm. They want to know who you ferried tonight. And they say you must ferry them straightaway, else the King will have your head!’
‘He’s got everything else, why not that?’ Colm grumbled, but he pulled himself out of bed, rising to find a stranger in his doorway. ‘King’s man? A one-eyed rogue?’ Colm spat on the floor.
Owen lifted Colm up by the cloth of his shift. ‘You shall row us across as soon as you are clothed, and you will be silent all the way, Ferryman,’ he said. ‘The man you ferried over earlier may be murdering one of the Queen’s ladies at this very moment.’
Alice ordered Agnes to stoke the
fire. It now burned smokily. Even so, it produced some warmth. Yet Alice still clutched a length of cloth round her shoulders, much as Agnes had done. Her hair, pulled back from her face by an embroidered cap, tumbled in brown waves down her back. Not as beautiful as Mary’s raven hair. But the King’s bitch looked young with her hair down. Young, but never innocent. The cat eyes were far from innocent.
‘I understand why you blame me, Ned,’ Alice was saying. ‘But I, too, am the victim of Sir William.’
‘Why were Wyndesore’s men after me?’
A thin eyebrow raised. So calm. ‘Captain Archer has said nothing?’
What was this? Owen knew the cause and had not said? ‘What are you talking about?’
‘My secret marriage. Poor Mary and Daniel were witnesses. I have no proof, but—’
‘You married Wyndesore?’
A modest lowering of the lashes, a brief nod. ‘But the King would call it treason to speak of it.’
Did he believe it? ‘What had I to do with it?’
Alice shrugged. ‘Mary might have confided in you?’
Ned closed his eyes, wiped sweat from his brow. ‘And Don Ambrose?’
‘Officiated.’
Ned shook his head. ‘No matter. You handed Mary over to Wyndesore, that’s enough for me to know.’
‘I did not plan for her to have aught to do with him.’
‘Oh, aye, you planned to marry her off to someone better than me. She told me. But Wyndesore got to her first.’
‘I meant to help Mary. Ensure that she had a good life.’
‘Then why did you choose her as witness? You might have chosen Cecily or Isabeau as witness.’
‘Sir William chose her, not I.’
‘Stinking cow.’ Ned took a step towards Alice. She flashed her knife. He reached out and knocked it from her hand, enjoying the expression of alarm on her face. ‘Who murdered Mary?’
Alice pulled tight her shawl, a protective gesture, shook her head. ‘Some of Sir William’s men, or men for hire. I swear I do not know.’
‘I do not believe you, Mistress Perrers.’ Ned began to toss his daggers from hand to hand.
Thoresby ordered the two guards who accompanied them to stand on either side of the door, out of sight but not of earshot. He would pretend he and Michaelo had come without escort.