The Guilt of Innocents Read Free Page B

flew as people’s tempers rose.
    Jasper recognised the speaker – he was frequently escorted from the York Tavern for drunkenness.
    A bargeman spoke out. ‘The schoolmaster was not on the river when Drogo fell. Brother Henry is right, he was too cold at first for his wounds to bleed.’
    Brother Henry knelt and gently cleaned Drogo’s face, then rose and quietly said, ‘My Lord Abbot, I would take him to the infirmary where he will be warmer, and send for Captain Archer to come look at his wounds.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘The colour of the skin is not as it should be. I believe he was cut with a poisoned blade.’
    The abbot paused for a heartbeat, then turned to Jasper. ‘Can you find the captain for us?’
    With a nod, Jasper set out in the direction of the abbey gates, shivering now not only with the cold, but also about the miserable result of his fellows’ actions and the jagged tempers of the people.
    *      *      *
    Now Drogo whimpered in pain and cursed his mate for plucking him from the kind waters of the Ouse. He cursed him for bringing back the pain, the threads of fire that radiated ever farther out from his wounds, torturing him for the sins for which he’d already been shriven by God and the river. My girls – God protect my daughters and my wife .
    Owen Archer had spent the afternoon in the barracks of Archbishop Thoresby’s guards with Alfred, his second in command. For almost eight years they had worked together protecting the archbishop and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, the north-western section of the city surrounding the archbishop’s palace, York Minster, and the school and residences connected to both. Owen’s duties had often been extended to include protecting other dignitaries who had asked for the archbishop’s protection – as the second most powerful representative of the Church in England and former Lord Chancellor of the realm, John Thoresby was a man of influence.
    But even the powerful slow with age, and as Thoresby had been ailing for the past year he no longer travelled to Westminster or King Edward’s court, but rather spent his time now in Yorkshire. Today Owen and Alfred had been discussing the logistics of Thoresby’s imminent move to his palace of Bishopthorpe for Advent. In addition to his other duties, Owen was steward of Bishopthorpe;he had just returned from his monthly visit to the estate and was informing Alfred, who was to lead the half-dozen guards who would attend the archbishop, of changes, projects in progress, and new considerations for guarding the archbishop in his failing health.
    Alfred, who had been frowning down at his hands and occasionally nodding, suddenly interrupted Owen’s monologue. ‘I don’t understand why His Grace wishes to bide at Bishopthorpe in this season. There’s such a wheezing in his chest, and that palace sits right on the Ouse, it’s damp and chill.’ Alfred shivered. ‘There will be flood waters soon, mark me. It’s no place for His Grace.’ He took off his cap, his pate shiny where it had once held a shock of straw-coloured hair, and scratched his scalp, leaving trails of reddened skin.
    Owen agreed with Alfred; a mere fortnight past Thoresby had returned to the city saying he wished to escape the late autumn rains on the river; but he later confided that he could not bear the isolation of Bishopthorpe for long. ‘His Grace means by returning to Bishopthorpe to appease Dean John. They complain he’s spent too much time in the city of late.’
    Although Thoresby was Archbishop of York, the dean and the chapter of canons were the administrators of the great cathedral and its properties, and his chancellor was in charge of the schools. They had become accustomed to littlesupervision by their archbishops and felt threatened by Thoresby’s frequent and extended residence in the city.
    ‘But His Grace has spent the better part of the year at Bishopthorpe,’ said Alfred.
    ‘Aye. It’s his frequent