The Cross Legged Knight (2 page)

And make him look a fool, with the liquid staining his face, his silk clothing. ‘To my servant, Brother Michaelo.’

The monk bowed and withdrew.

Wykeham fell back into his dudgeon. Ungrateful family, the Pagnells. But they would see, he would not idle away the rest of his life waiting on the likes of Lady Pagnell. The king would have him back.

He shaded his eyes and gazed upon the great minster across the garden. A building project would be to his liking right now. As he rode north he had thought about the ruined church of All Saints in Laughton-en-le-Morthen.
Though it was no longer his prebend, he meant to rebuild it. He rose with a thought to observe the work on the minster lady chapel, a better occupation than wallowing in self-pity.

Wishing to be truly free for a little while, Wykeham watched the household guards for a chance to depart unescorted. He felt like a truant schoolboy as he hurried through the gate and towards the minster. Winded and silently laughing at his foolishness, he almost forgot the grit in his eyes, but soon the burning began anew. He caught his breath and dabbed at his eyes, determined to enjoy this moment alone.

To his left the south side of the minster nave soared above him, to his right St Michael-le-Belfrey cast a late-afternoon shadow. As he rounded the south transept his view of the construction was blocked by a huge mound of stones and tiles butted up against what had been the far south-east corner of the minster before work on the lady chapel began. The church of St Mary ad Valvas had been dismantled to create room for the construction, and the stones and tiles were being reused, though much of them merely for rubble within the walls. Skirting the mound Wykeham saw two men chiselling stones in the mason’s lodge. As he considered whether to interrupt their work a shout startled him.

‘My Lord, drop down and cover your head!’

He did as he was told, and just in time. A heavy clay tile thudded on to the path a hand’s breadth short of him, cracking on impact. He curled into himself so tightly he had difficulty breathing. But he would not lift his head; he dared not. He did not mean to play Saint Thomas Becket to the Duke of Lancaster’s Henry II. He would not be so easily murdered.

O
wen Archer feared the worst as he crouched beside the unmoving figure. ‘My Lord, are you injured?’

As he was searching for a pulse the bishop stirred beneath him. Slowly Wykeham raised his head. ‘Archer, I do not think I am injured.’ He was very pale and his breathing shallow.

By now masons and soldiers crowded round the kneeling pair, and Alain, one of the bishop’s clerks, assisted Owen in helping Wykeham to stand.

‘My Lord –’ Alain shook debris from his master’s robes.

Once on his feet Wykeham held himself erect. ‘I must remove myself from the danger,’ he said, stumbling.

The clerk caught his arm. Excellent reflexes for a man who looked to Owen a pampered noble. The crowd parted for Wykeham and Alain. Owen followed close behind.

Halfway through the palace garden the bishop’s other clerk accosted Owen. ‘Your men were to guard Bishop
William,’ Guy said, shielding his eyes and squinting at Owen. He had the ruined sight and stained fingers of a scholar.

‘Your master has much experience on building sites,’ Owen said. ‘He knows they are unsafe, that he must have a care.’

‘Are you calling him careless?’ Guy demanded.

One of Thoresby’s servants saved Owen, summoning him to the archbishop’s parlour.

‘I shall see to Bishop William,’ Brother Michaelo assured him.

As Owen entered Thoresby’s parlour the ageing archbishop reached down to a fist-sized clump of something on the table before him and poked idly at it, making it flake and finally crumble.

‘Your Grace,’ Owen said.

Thoresby did not look up. ‘Crushed stone,’ he said. ‘Better than a crushed skull, that is what you are thinking.’ Now the archbishop raised his head, fixed his deep-set eyes on Owen. ‘But you must do much better than that, Archer. Wykeham’s enemies must not find him easy prey while he is a guest in my household.’ Aged he might be, but when Thoresby spoke in such a quiet voice it raised the hackles on Owen’s neck as it always had.

‘It might have been an accident, Your Grace.’

‘He must not have accidents while here.’

‘He would have been safe had he not slipped away.’

‘It is your duty to ensure his safety with or without his co-operation.’

A curse rose in Owen’s throat, but he swallowed it back.

‘How did this happen, Archer?’

‘He chafes at such close guard, Your Grace.’

‘Chafes,’ Thoresby growled, turning away. ‘Has there
ever lived a being more dangerous to himself than this obstinate and contradictory bishop? He swallows his pride to appease friends of Lancaster, but rides openly across the country to prove he is not afraid of the duke, belatedly worries about his safety and demands a constant guard, then escapes his guard to prove – what? Damn him.’ The archbishop turned back, his bony face twisted in temper. ‘He won’t be caught here in York, Archer, I won’t have it!’ He pounded the table, flattening the pile of crushed stone.

Owen knew his best defence was silence.

Thoresby pressed his temples and muttered a prayer, composing himself. ‘Perhaps he realizes he has overestimated his importance to Lancaster.’

Owen judged it safe to speak. ‘I do wonder about this issue with the duke. He is sailing home with his new wife, aye, and will be closer to Wykeham than he has been in a long while. But he comes to plot his acquisition of the crown of Castile and León, does he not?’ Lancaster had recently wed Constance, the daughter of the late King Pedro of Castile. ‘He has far more important things to consider than his irritation with the bishop.’

‘Lancaster’s net is wide, his coffers deep, and the number of his retainers greater than that of any man in the realm save his father the king. Wykeham is right to fear him. But I do not understand this chafing you speak of. He asked for my protection. Indeed, he asked for you by name. Have you offended him, Archer?’

‘If I have, I know not how.’ Owen did not like the way Thoresby was studying him.

‘He has asked many questions about your time in Wales. You were working for Lancaster – I’d forgotten that.’

‘On your orders, Your Grace.’ Owen did not believe
Thoresby had forgotten that. He had recommended Owen to the duke. Owen had not gone willingly. The inducement had been the opportunity to accompany his father-in-law Sir Robert on a pilgrimage to the holy city of St David’s, fulfilling a dream that Owen could not deny the elderly man. Owen’s assistance had been Thoresby’s gift to Lancaster to ensure his continuing favour now that Thoresby and the king were at odds.

‘You returned long after the work for which Lancaster said he needed you had been completed.’ Thoresby’s expression grew cold. ‘Perhaps Wykeham knows something I do not, is that it? I did not ask enough questions about that time? Did Lancaster give you any instructions to which I was not privy?’

This was a twist Owen had not anticipated, that Wykeham mistrusted his Lancastrian connections. He prayed Thoresby could not see the twitching of his blind eye beneath the patch. ‘He did not speak of the Bishop of Winchester.’

‘Anything.’

‘He spoke only of the missions you know of.’ It was ludicrous for Thoresby to question Owen so. ‘I chose to serve you rather than the Duke of Lancaster.’

‘That was many years ago. A man can change his mind. What did you do in St David’s?’

‘Your Grace, you know that I remained on the orders of the Archdeacon of St David’s.’

‘I know some of the tale, but I do not believe I know all.’

And Owen did not wish him to know more. For in Wales Owen had been indiscreet – to the point of treason. But it had to do with the desire of his Welsh countrymen to thrust off the yoke of England, not with Lancaster’s machinations. It was quite possible that
Wykeham knew of Owen’s flirtation with treason, having been Lord Chancellor at the time. Owen had thought himself safe. It was over a year ago that he had returned and in that time no one had confronted him about it. Perhaps there had simply been no need to use the information until now.

‘I should perhaps question Brother Michaelo,’ Thoresby said. His secretary had accompanied Owen to Wales, though he had returned to York before Owen was delayed in St David’s.

It was plain Owen must humble himself, not give Thoresby cause to probe. ‘I’ll speak to my men, Your Grace, impress upon them the importance of the bishop’s safety.’

Thoresby lowered himself down into his cushioned chair. ‘Good.’ He pushed the crumbled stone aside. ‘How is your wife?’

‘She has regained much of her strength, Your Grace.’

‘I keep her and all your family in my prayers,’ Thoresby said in a quiet voice that held no threats.

Crouching atop the masons’ scaffolding, Owen Archer looked down on the pile of stones and tiles stacked in the south yard of York Minster, more than thrice a man’s height. He was looking for signs that someone had climbed the mound and waited for the Bishop of Winchester to walk past two days earlier. But it was no good – Owen needed to get closer. Holding on to the scaffolding with one hand, he stepped down on to the pile and balanced there, testing its stability. A few tiles moved, but he was able to find a reasonably firm footing. Slowly shifting his weight, he lowered himself into a crouch on the stones and tiles.

‘I cannot see you now, Captain,’ shouted Luke, a mason who stood below.

So someone could have hidden up here, out of sight of the bishop as he walked by.

‘Now back up towards the south transept,’ Owen shouted.

Shortly, Luke came into view. ‘I see you now.’

On hands and knees, Owen pressed lower.

‘Gone now.’ The mason laughed self-consciously.

Grabbing a tile, Owen crawled forward with an uneven motion. ‘Now walk towards the chapel again,’ he called.

The mason soon reappeared, and Owen rose a little and tossed the tile, then flattened again. He felt the pile shift beneath him, but kept his head down.

‘Just missed, Captain, and I do not think I would have seen you if I had not known to look.’

Owen sniffed, rolled over onto his side, eased up on his knees. Unless his sense of smell had weakened with his easy life, it was human urine he smelled. A long watch challenged a man’s bladder. Someone might have lain in wait here, though they would have risked being seen. As Owen crawled back towards the scaffolding he was visible to several of the masons at work on the chapel. Surely they would have noted an intruder in such an unusual place. They claimed they had been working on a different wall that day, further down, but the supposed attacker could not have foreseen that. Most baffling was the question of how the person had hoped to predict precisely when Wykeham would wander towards the masons. With his well-known passion for building it was inevitable the bishop would frequent the site while he was staying at the archbishop’s palace next door, but someone would have needed to lurk on the stack indefinitely. Owen thought it unlikely.

‘I am coming down,’ he called.

Once more on the scaffolding he had a view of the city, the Ouse Valley, the Forest of Galtres. He looked away and climbed down. In his youth such heights had not bothered Owen, but since losing the sight in his left eye he did not trust his judgement of just where the edge lay, doubting what he thought he saw.

Some placed the blame for the accident at the feet of Sir Ranulf’s family. Owen could not believe they were involved. Proud they were, and angry about what had befallen Sir Ranulf, but surely they would not stoop to such depths to seek vengeance. Wykeham himself suspected John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster. With the king in his dotage and Prince Edward an invalid, the king’s second living son was eager to establish his power, and weaning the king from Wykeham was rumoured to be a high priority. But Owen could not imagine the duke behind such an act, either. In fact, he thought the incident had probably been an accident, with no one but a careless worker to blame for it.

Luke was waiting at the foot of the scaffolding. ‘I heard you moving around up there. But I do not suppose the bishop would have made note of such noises. He would have thought it was one of us.’

‘You stand by your statement that you saw no one lurking about?’

Luke stiffened. ‘Why should I lie, Captain?’

‘Why indeed.’ Owen silently noted that the mason had answered a question with a question.

Luke reached up – Owen was taller than most men – and touched the beard that followed Owen’s jaw line. ‘Your hair’s so dark, the stone dust shows. It’s on your curly pate as well.’

Brushing dust from his hair, Owen thanked the mason for his assistance and headed for the minster gate. He suspected the mason was holding something
back, perhaps the clumsiness of a fellow worker, but Owen had wasted enough of this fine day. There was much to do in the apothecary garden before the first frost, and he did not want Lucie to grow impatient and see to it herself. She was still weak. Bending still sometimes made her dizzy.

Just before Lammas day Lucie had fallen from a stool while replacing a large jar on a shelf in her apothecary. The jar had badly bruised her left hand and cut her arm as it shattered. But far worse, she had lost the child who would have been born a few months hence. She had bled much during and after the accident, particularly when she lost the child, and her strength had been slow in returning despite Magda Digby’s tisanes of watercress, nettle and beetroot, and her Aunt Phillippa’s additional concoctions of eggs and cabbage. The physicks could not restore her spirit.