The Nun's Tale by Candace Robb

he did not care.
    He sought out Brother Michaelo, found him sitting quietly at his table outside Thoresby’s parlour.
    ‘Any word from Alfred or Colin?’
    ‘Nothing, Your Grace.’
    ‘Where are our guests?’
    ‘Sir Richard and Sir Nicholas went out, Your Grace. I did not ask where.’
    ‘Good. I am going to bathe. See that I’m not disturbed.’
    Michaelo’s eyes swept Thoresby from head to foot. ‘Bathe, Your Grace?’
    Even the fastidious Michaelo could not understand bathing when clean. But Thoresby would be damned if he would explain to his secretary. ‘No interruptions.’
    Michaelo raised an eyebrow. ‘No interruptions, Your Grace.’
    Thoresby went into his parlour, checked through the documents Michaelo had arranged in order of urgency and judged none of them to require an immediate reply. He climbed the back stairs to his bedchamber. Two servants, Lizzie and John, balanced a large pot between them, tilting it towards a wooden tub. Steaming water poured out. Lizzie’s face was red from the heat and exertion; John was soaked in sweat. An unpleasant task, lugging pots of boiling water up the stairs on a warm June afternoon.
    The pot empty, the two lowered it to the floor, pausing to wipe their faces. Lizzie leaned on the canvas dome that extended over half the tub to protect the bather from drafts. She jumped as she turned and saw the archbishop, ‘Your Grace, we’ve only begun to fill it,’ she said breathlessly.
    ‘Indeed. Carry on.’ He left them and headed for the hall. As he descended the stairs, he heard a familiar voice arguing with Michaelo at the outer door.
    ‘They’ve been attacked while out on his business, you – I must see His Grace at once.’
    ‘Forgive me, Captain Archer, but that is impossible. His Grace is not to be disturbed.’
    A voice unfamiliar to Thoresby said quietly, ‘Leave it, Owen, just tell this man where they are and come away.’
    ‘Damn it, Lief, he’ll want to know. It’s why we’ve sped from Knaresborough, this nunnery business.’
    Thoresby had heard enough to be curious. ‘What is it, Michaelo?’
    The secretary hurried in, sniffing with indignation to find Archer and two other men, obviously soldiers, at his heels. ‘Captain Archer has news of Alfred and Colin, Your Grace. I tried to tell him you were not to be disturbed, but you see –’
    Owen pushed forward, his face grim. ‘We have taken them to St Mary’s infirmary, Your Grace.’
    ‘I take it they have been injured,’ Thoresby said quietly.
    A flash of anger in Owen’s good eye. ‘Both. Alfred has lost much blood from several wounds, but Wulfstan says he will mend quickly. Colin, however, is in God’s hands. He has a head wound and cannot be roused. Brother Wulfstan says there is little he can do for him.’
    The watcher must have bested them. But with help, surely. ‘How did you come upon them?’
    ‘Alfred and Colin were attacked down by the river. A good Samaritan saw Alfred dragging Colin into Skeldergate and took them up in his cart. We met them at the bridge and escorted them through the crowd.’ Owen gestured towards his comrades. ‘Lief, Gaspare, and the archers surrounded the cart and protected it.’
    Thoresby nodded. ‘I thank you for escorting them and bringing me this news. I shall go see them.’ He began to leave, then paused to add, ‘Lest you blame me for my ruthless use of my men, as you are wont to do, remember that it was you recommended them for this duty.’ He took satisfaction in seeing Owen’s anger doused. ‘Now go home to your wife, Archer. I shall send for you tomorrow.’ Thoresby nodded to Lief and Gaspare. ‘The chamberlain has prepared quarters for you at the castle. You should be quite comfortable.’
    When the three had departed, Michaelo asked, ‘You will bathe first?’
    ‘Later. Gilbert shall accompany me to the abbey. Call for him.’
    Owen escorted Gaspare, Lief, and the five archers to York Castle.
    Gaspare had been quiet and glum as they