The King's Bishop by Candace Robb Page A

far.’
    ‘You arrogant b— When shall we glimpse something of the abbey?’
    ‘Anon.’ Still the eyes challenged.
    Ned had never met with such insolence. ‘What is it? Why do you hate me? What happened in York?’
    ‘I see through your plan, Captain,’ Don Ambrose snarled. ‘You waited until the others were out of sight to ask.’ The pinched mouth spread into a cold grin. ‘You must think me a fool.’ The friar took a step forward.
    Ned fought a desire to punch the smile off the friar’s face. What was his sin? He had done nothing to the man. And that sly, knowing grin. Ned grabbed at a branch, snapped it off the tree, broke it in two across his knee.
    The noise startled the friar. He lunged into the dried leaves and bracken, missing the track. Ned cried out to warn him, but Ambrose yanked at his horse’s reins and continued. As Ned started down the track after him, the friar quickened his pace and stumbled. His horse stumbled. They both began to slide in the dense mat of old leaves, so thick and unstable on the steep slope that neither man nor beast could find a purchase.
    Ned hurried along the path, shouting, ‘Let go the reins, you bloody fool! The horse will crush you!’ He threw the reins of his own steed round a sapling and headed off into the bracken towards Ambrose. But itwas no use with the horse between Ambrose and Ned, and both tumbling slowly, slowly through the leaves.
    Two of the men who had gone on ahead came running back up the track, hesitated as they saw the avalanche upon them. ‘Let go of the reins, Don Ambrose!’ one yelled.
    Ambrose did so. The horse slid a bit farther, but with its head free it managed to twist itself round and dig in its hooves. With a snort, the horse rose and stood panting, its eyes wild. The men managed to grab Ambrose and pull him back on to the track.
    Seeing the immediate danger past, Ned eased down the slope, calmed the friar’s horse, led it back to the track, got his own, led them both down towards Ambrose and his rescuers, who were asking the friar whether he was injured. ‘As long as he can walk, let us continue,’ Ned said. ‘The infirmarian can see to him.’
    Ambrose looked up at Ned with an expression of fear and loathing. ‘You almost had me.’
    Ned shook his head. ‘You almost had yourself, you bloody fool. I tried to warn you.’
    ‘Warn me? Coming after me with a switch?’
    It was no use. ‘Help him down,’ Ned ordered his men. He went on ahead. Damn the man. He now heard faint sounds of a community echoing from down below, the hammer of a smithy, the lowing of cattle. Praised be the Lord. He rode out from under the canopy of trees and came upon the rest of the company, riding their steeds now as the incline lessened, gazing on a huge complex of honey-coloured stone that rose out of the peaceful valley. They moved forward together, still descending, and suddenly, as they rounded a bend, the church towered to the left, tucked on a slight rise above the rest of the buildings, its roof soaring to compete with the bluff beside it.The afternoon sun shone on the lead roof, the tall, arched windows. Ned was almost glad he had come upon it this way, such a dramatic approach.
    But his pleasure was checked by the fear and hatred in Don Ambrose’s eyes. He must ask Abbot Richard to let the friar stay at the abbey. Someone else could escort the man back to York.
    Owen held Gwenllian up, studying her dear face. She laughed and grabbed at his earring. ‘My angel.’ He kissed her, handed her to Lucie. ‘I would remember her just like that.’
    Lucie crossed herself. ‘For pity’s sake, Owen, you speak as if you shall not see her again, yet you insist there is no danger on this mission. Have you lied to me?’
    He cursed himself for voicing his thoughts. ‘I meant only that I wish to burn Gwenllian’s face into my memory so that I might see her whenever I close my eyes.’
    ‘You must take care, Owen. We depend on your return.’ Lucie’s clear