The King's Bishop Read Free Page A

and would soon lose the bloom of youth that so enchanted the King if she did not have a care for her health. She did not delude herself; she was no beauty. Her power was in her youthful, well-formed body, her understanding of men’s desires, and her cunning ambition.
    At the door to Sir William of Wyndesore’s chambers Alice turned, eyebrows raised. ‘Gilbert?’
    Her servant rushed forward, shifting the goblet to the hand with the flagon, and rapped sharply. He had learned that to spare his knuckles threw his lady into a temper.
    As the door opened, Alice swept past Gilbert into a comfortable yet austere parlour, obviously furnishedby a military man: two high-backed chairs, two companion tables, and a chest for storage. The chairs were arranged in front of a large brazier that radiated a pleasant heat from its dark corner. Sir William occupied one of the chairs, his feet stretched out towards the fire. He looked up lazily and nodded. He was a handsome man, over twenty years Alice’s senior but still a physically powerful man with rich dark hair – succumbing to silver streaks, but still abundant. How like him not to rise, Alice thought. When he served under the Duke of Clarence in Ireland had he behaved with such insolence? An intriguing question. She must pursue it. ‘Sir William.’
    Wyndesore waved Alice over to the other chair. She sat down with a regal sweep of her skirts. A servant rushed over to place a small table by her. Gilbert came forward, poured the wine.
    ‘You carry your refreshment with you? As a precaution?’ Wyndesore grinned.
    ‘I have a particular thirst in the early morning, and, as we decided last night –’ she glanced up with a coy smile ‘– my cellar is excellent.’ Alice lifted her goblet as if toasting him, then drank.
    Wyndesore watched her with amusement. ‘The King’s pampered pet.’
    Alice bristled. ‘Not a pet.’
    Wyndesore touched his heart and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Alice. I have the clumsy manners of a soldier.’
    Alice paid no heed to his false apology.
    Wyndesore looked bored with the game. ‘So. Ned Townley. He fancies your maid Mary?’
    Alice ran her finger idly round the rim of her goblet. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘You have heard about my page?’
    Alice made a sad face. ‘Poor Daniel. Sledding. Everyone has been expecting such an accident, but involving a child, not a young man.’ She lifted her eyes slowly. ‘Why do you mention Ned?’
    ‘Perhaps it was not an accident. Ned Townley threatened Daniel last night – about being with Mary. Was Daniel dallying with your maid?’
    ‘Sir William! Have you been consulting common gossips?’
    Wyndesore leaned forward, impatient with Alice’s teasing. ‘Was he?’
    Alice pouted and folded her hands like an obedient child. ‘Daniel had made a pest of himself of late, that I can say, though I dislike speaking ill of the dead. But he was not wooing Mary. That was clearly not his intention.’
    Wyndesore sniffed. ‘Why else does a man spend time round a pretty woman?’
    Alice feigned surprise at his comment. ‘She cannot be a friend if she is pretty?’ She tilted her head and tsked at Wyndesore.
    He laughed.
    Alice sipped her wine, serious again. ‘What are you thinking?’
    Wyndesore drew his feet back, snapped his fingers for a cup of ale. ‘What I’m thinking does not matter. It’s my men. They think Townley killed Daniel.’ He took a long drink, watching Alice over the rim of his mazer.
    Alice shook her head. ‘Ned did no such thing. I can vouch for him, and so can Mary. He was with her last night when I went up to bed – you will recall that was rather late.’ Alice sighed. Mary was a pretty child; Alice had plans for her – and they did not include anobody like Ned Townley. ‘I have little hope for the preservation of Mary’s maidenhead.’
    Wyndesore grinned. ‘There was never any hope for it, Mistress Alice. A pretty girl at court? Come now.’ Wyndesore drank down his ale,