King's Bishop

Twenty-One

In a chill, grey dawn Thoresby knelt in St George’s chapel and listened to the chanting of the office. Sleep escaped him. His mind would not rest; he fidgeted, wanting action. He envied Michaelo, out on the road, headed north — though he did not envy him his companion. Thoresby’s opinion of Don Paulus had not been tempered with the proof of his story.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, I must leave this court. The kingdom was ruled by a lecherous old man who sought the counsel not of his chancellor, trained in law, but of his young, scheming mistress. Was it possible that the King was now too old to rule wisely? Forty years ago they had set Edward on the throne while his father was yet alive, and he had shortly proven himself a worthy successor. But of late he had squandered the wealth of England in his futile attempts to win the crown of France, antagonised most of his councillors with his preference for Wykeham, and insulted the Queen with the presence of Alice Perrers.

There had been several Austin friars, Giles of Rome the first, William of Cremona the latest, who had preached that the authority of a lord was null and void unless he was in a state of grace. Was Edward in such a state? Thoresby thought not. Though it was perhaps a matter of power rather than Edward’s particular weaknesses. Could a man hold power and maintain innocence? Thoresby had long ago decided that was impossible.

He did not consider himself in a state of grace, a situation that bothered him now that he felt his age so keenly, so constantly. Archer had been disillusioned by Thoresby’s ability to bend with the wind; particularly because he had chosen to serve Thoresby rather than Lancaster, expecting an archbishop to be a godly man. He had not found Thoresby so, nor had he accepted Thoresby’s explanation that as Archbishop of York he must weigh matters in light of the good of all his flock, and thus justice became more complex.

But of late Thoresby wondered whether as Archbishop he should look first to spiritual matters. Was that not what Pope Urban actually wished to bring about? Not a petty victory over Edward, but a reformed Church guided by saintly men dedicated to the cure of souls. That was what His Holiness sought. That was why he distrusted Wykeham, a man who owed everything to his secular lord. That was why the Cistercian abbots distrusted Wykeham.

Which was rather hypocritical, as the abbots were tainted themselves; they were powerful men in the kingdom, clever businessmen not above questionable financial practices. In the reign of the King’s grandfather the abbots of Fountains had speculated in future wool yields, almost ruining the abbey’s treasury.

Say what they might, Wykeham, though unarguably the greatest pluralist in the kingdom, was not the greatest sinner.

Was Alice Perrers? She claimed her uncles had set her on her path. Thoresby knew that to be true. He knew of the merchant family who had raised her until her uncles reclaimed her and educated her for court. And so she had made the best of her circumstances. Was that not true of most intelligent, ambitious folk? Had Thoresby not done the same as a second son? He might have been a better man had he followed a cloistered path. But how did one so young develop such cunning as Alice Perrers? Had she now tripped with this marriage? Had her precocious talent proved temporary?

Raising his head to silence, Thoresby realised prime had ended and the chapel was emptying. As he slowly rose, his joints sore from kneeling so long, he noted a tall, familiar figure gliding past. Quietly, Thoresby followed Wykeham from the church. He wished to learn more about the soldier, William of Wyndesore.

Wykeham greeted Thoresby with a puzzled smile, his hands in his sleeves, his nose red in the damp early morning chill, looking as if he had just awakened rather than attended the service. He had not bothered to fuss with his attire, wearing a dark clerical gown with a patched elbow. ‘’Tis early to be about, Your Grace.’

‘I have not slept, so it is late for me, not early.’

‘Not slept, Your Grace? What keeps you wakeful?’

‘In faith, something I would speak of with you. But not here. In your chambers.’

Wykeham smiled. ‘You wish to pass your wakefulness on to me?’

‘Whether or not I wish to, I soon shall.’

‘For those of us who slept, it is far too early for clever speech.’

‘I promise you that what I wish to speak of is not clever.’

Wykeham bowed. ‘Then come along. We shall break our fast together.’

Before Wykeham’s servant, Peter, opened the door, Thoresby warned the councillor that their discussion must not be overheard. Wykeham told Peter to serve them and depart, he might entertain himself as he liked for the next hour. Peter looked disappointed, but did as he was told, leaving them in possession of a fire and ample food.

Without more ado, Thoresby came to the first point of his visit. ‘What do you know of Sir William of Wyndesore?’

Sniffing the cheese set before them, Wykeham nodded to himself and cut a piece, tore off some bread. ‘Why do you ask about Wyndesore?’ He took a bite of the cheese, the bread, chewed with an eye on Thoresby.

‘He has entered into a liaison with Mistress Alice Perrers. I wish to know more of this schemer.’ Close enough to the truth for now.

Wykeham swallowed, washed the dry food down with ale, thought for a moment. ‘Unremarkable family. Good soldier. Nothing brought him to notice until he turned on the Duke of Clarence after the Irish troubles.’

‘Tell me about that.’

A frown. ‘Surely you know about that.’

‘I know the King was furious with the Duke of Clarence, said he was no son of his, antagonising the Irish as he’d done, wasting the treasury. But what was Wyndesore’s role?’

Wykeham considered his cheese. ‘I have no doubt he profited from the war treasury, as did the Duke. They both returned to court better dressed, better horsed. But when the King questioned Wyndesore about the Irish troubles, he blamed them all on the Duke and his bullheadedness, his self-conceit.’ Wykeham nodded at Thoresby’s frown. ‘Oh yes, a delightful man, Wyndesore, as I have said before. How appropriate for him to befriend Alice Perrers.’

‘Why would the King take Wyndesore’s word over his son’s?’

Wykeham shook his head. ‘When Wyndesore first accused Clarence, the King was furious. And then suddenly I heard the King had not only forgiven him, but had pardoned Wyndesore his debts and made him a joint Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland. Had the King discovered evidence of Clarence’s guilt? Had he in some other way come to appreciate Wyndesore?’ Wykeham shrugged his bony shoulders.

Thoresby sat with his cup of ale halfway to his mouth, thinking how tidily it all fitted together. It would seem that Perrers was right, that Wyndesore had convinced the King that this foolhardy marriage might be useful if kept hidden until needed.

‘I have said something that satisfies you?’ Wykeham asked.

Realising how he must look, Thoresby slaked his thirst, put down his cup with decision. ‘I believe I know what brought about the King’s change of heart. But before I speak I must in good conscience warn you that some might stop at nothing to keep it secret.’

‘Indeed?’

‘You were right to question the death of Wyndesore’s page.’

Wykeham pushed aside his food, leaned on the table, his slender fingers entwined. ‘Is it what kept you wakeful?’

Thoresby nodded. ‘Two disturbing conversations since last I slept. One with Don Paulus, one with Mistress Perrers.’

The shadowed eyes widened, a smile softened the long, narrow face. ‘Already I am intrigued. Don Paulus? He is here at the castle?’

Everyone was eager to talk with Don Paulus. Thoresby thought they might not be so keen once they had met the amoral, jolly friar. ‘He was here.’

‘Ah.’ Wykeham nodded. ‘You saw to his disappearance.’

‘I did. And if you choose knowledge over caution, you shall shortly understand why I thought it important.’

The smile vanished. ‘I would know this secret.’

Thoresby nodded, poured himself more ale, settled back in his chair, and as succinctly as possible told Wykeham what he had learned. It was gratifying to watch the privy councillor’s eyes grow rounder and rounder. He had been unaware of the affair.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Wykeham asked when Thoresby raised his cup to his lips, signalling the end of his tale.

‘You chose to hear it.’

‘This is indeed dangerous information — you risk much by repeating it. Why do you trust that I shall not go straight to the King and tell him you have told me? Or to Wyndesore?’

‘Because I do not believe you are the sort of man to betray a confidence, particularly when it is offered in your interest.’

Wykeham tilted his head, studied Thoresby. ‘In my interest? What do you mean?’

‘I must reply by explaining my concern over the state of my soul.’

Wykeham bent over a plate of cold meat, pushed it, too, aside. ‘You wish to use me as a confessor? At table?’

Thoresby laughed. ‘I merely wish you to understand how I came to tell you of the Perrers business.’

‘It has to do with your soul?’

‘When a man comes to the point in his life when his bones ache for no reason other than the rain, or his memory deceives him into thinking he placed something here when it is there,’ — Thoresby shook his head — ‘he thinks much on his state of grace, how he should answer to God if taken suddenly from this mortal shell.’

Wykeham raised his cup to his lips, then paused. ‘Surely you are not thinking on your death?’

‘Of course I am. A wise man thinks on his death from the cradle. But at my time of life I ponder it with a sudden urgency. And I find I am uneasy with what I see.’

‘You are a good man, Chancellor.’

Thoresby gave Wykeham a slight bow. ‘God bless you for your kind words, Councillor. But I know my sins. I have contemplated them time and again. I know that I chose the life at court out of vanity. My parents had thought I would take my vows as a Cistercian, or perhaps a Benedictine, but not a lay priest, then an archbishop. Nor had they planned for me to study law.’

‘Your parents were disappointed in you?’ Wykeham’s eyes more than his voice expressed disbelief.

‘No, I do not mean to say they were not content with my elevation. On the contrary, they were proud of me, glad of the prestige I brought to the family. No, it is I who believe I would have been a better man, a holier man, had I shut myself away from the world.’

Wykeham wiped his knife with a linen cloth. ‘You have recently been to Fountains, I hear. You know the Cistercians have the world in their abbeys. Not precisely what one thinks of when speaking of being shut away from the world.’

‘Indeed. But the intrigues of the court. The compromises one makes in deference to the King, his family, the welfare of the diocese …’ Thoresby lifted his hands, palms up. ‘Surely you see the difference?’

Turning his knife this way and that in the lamplight, Wykeham was satisfied, tucked it into the scabbard at his waist. ‘The Cistercian abbots were quick to find fault with your messengers so that they might exercise their power and prevent my becoming Bishop of Winchester.’

‘Winchester. Yes. And then Lord Chancellor.’

Wykeham sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, faced Thoresby with a level look. ‘Indeed, I believe that is the King’s intention.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘Which is why I wished you to understand what a nest of vipers the court has become.’

An uncomfortable silence as Wykeham held Thoresby’s gaze while his pale face was washed with an angry crimson. ‘You would trick me out of becoming chancellor? You are sly, I grant you that. I almost believed you meant to help me.’

The councillor’s suspicion did not surprise Thoresby. They had not been confidants. ‘In the past months I have watched you, Councillor, and I have come to believe that I formerly misjudged you. You are a good man who hopes to act for the good of the people, for the good of their souls. And I am telling you — awkwardly and unconvincingly, it seems — that you must understand what it means to be the King’s bishop, how impossible it will become to act contrary to the King. For you will owe him everything, and he will not hesitate to remind you.’

Wykeham shook his head as if puzzling over a surprisingly disappointing child. ‘It is not so much your chain of office I seek, Chancellor. It is the see of Winchester. I grew to manhood there, Bishop Edington was my teacher in all things I count best in myself.’

Thoresby raised an eyebrow. ‘You would reject the chancellorship?’

‘No. But it is Winchester I covet.’

Thoresby did not believe him. Though it was said that the see of Winchester was the richest in the kingdom. ‘I did not realise …’

‘No. You would not. It is something personal, and we have not been on such terms.’

Thoresby bowed to Wykeham, began to rise. ‘I understand. You feel I have overstepped the bounds you have set for us.’ He shrugged.

Wykeham lifted a hand, stopping Thoresby, then gestured towards the table. ‘God has provided us this goodly feast. Shall we not give thanks and enjoy it?’

‘Do you wish to do so?’

‘I do.’

Thoresby resumed his seat.

They finished their meal idly wondering about the bones found beneath a floor in an old building being razed for the new construction in the upper ward.

It was not until Thoresby was at the door, taking his leave, that Wykeham said, ‘I am puzzled why Mistress Perrers has not told the King of her suspicions about her husband, the deaths for which she believes him responsible.’ His lean face was drawn, almost pinched. ‘The King would surely wish to know.’

Thoresby put a hand on Wykeham’s shoulder. ‘My noble, godly Wykeham. It is not the sort of information the King welcomes. You would be wise to remain silent. It is enough to know. To watch.’

‘That is impossible. We should do something.’

‘What? We have no proof. And if we did? And the King judges the secret marriage more important? What then?’

‘He would not do so.’

The man had heard nothing Thoresby had said. ‘When you are the King’s bishop, you will understand.’

He felt Wykeham’s eyes on him as he disappeared down the stone steps. But he did not turn, did not retrace his steps to try to explain. He was headed for sleep.

Owen woke when Gwenllian cried out for her midnight feeding. As he lay quietly watching Lucie feed their daughter, he felt a horrible dread. He had so much to lose; what if Ned were not to be trusted? What if he had murdered Don Ambrose? Might Ned have attacked the friar in a fit of rage, as Abbot Richard believed?

No. That would go against Ned’s nature. He had a temper, there was no denying that. Many a time he had bloodied a face, broken a nose. When in his cups, mostly. That was a problem. Matthew had described Ned as drunk that night. But after the friar had disappeared, not before. After Ned had learned of Mary’s death. And who could blame him for drinking to lessen that pain?

Owen turned on to his side, sighed at the dark sky glimpsed through the chinks of the shutters. Try as he might, Owen could not imagine Ned losing his head and attacking Don Ambrose, not unless he had found some sort of evidence that Ambrose had been responsible for Mary’s death.

And how could he have been? Ambrose had been with the party from the beginning.

Lucie put Gwenllian back in her cradle, turned to Owen. ‘You sigh over Ned.’ She brushed back his damp curls, kissed his forehead tenderly.

‘I risk much to help him.’

‘I would do the same for Bess.’

‘Time and again Ned saved my life, I am certain.’

‘Then I am beholden to him.’

‘You cannot imagine the half of it. You did not fight alongside Bess.’

A sudden chuckle.

Owen raised his head, frowning. ‘What can you possibly find amusing in this?’

‘The thought of Bess in battle.’

Owen could not help but smile. ‘She would make an excellent captain.’

‘That she would.’

‘I would not want her for an enemy.’

‘No, nor I.I wonder … Would she wear ribbons on her cap in the field?’

Owen pulled Lucie to him. ‘Thank you for making me smile tonight.’

Lucie nestled close. ‘It is my pleasure. Now rest, my love. Think of Bess going to battle starched and grim.’

Alfred leapt from his chair, dagger in hand.

Owen gave him a kick that sent him sprawling. ‘’Tis your captain, you slugabed. What are you doing inside? You were to stand guard, not sit!’

‘I was awake, wasn’t I? Came for you soon as you stepped within.’ Alfred rubbed his booted groin and spat on the floor beside him.

‘Charming company you’ve provided me with,’ Ned said. He lay on his back on the cot, fully dressed.

‘Outside with you, Alfred,’ Owen barked. ‘I want no one listening from the shadows.’

‘’Tis naught but shadows out there, Captain,’ Alfred complained.

Owen turned slowly, a warning look on his face.

Alfred grabbed his cloak, a shuttered lantern, and hobbled out.

Owen sank down on the chair vacated by Alfred, opened his lantern further to get a better look at his friend. ‘Do you always sleep with your boots on?’

‘Only in hellish surroundings. This is worse than a gaol.’ Ned propped himself up on one elbow. ‘So what’s amiss?’

‘Amiss? My man knows nothing of guarding, that’s what’s amiss.’

Ned grunted. ‘I know you, Owen. An early morning walk means troubling thoughts robbed you of sleep.’

‘I must see Jehannes, give him some explanation for what I have done.’

‘Ah.’

Owen stretched out his legs, tilted the chair back against the stone wall. ‘Tell me again. Why were you chosen for the journey north?’

Ned dropped on to his back, stared at the damp stones above. ‘The ceiling leaks, you know.’ He rubbed his cheeks briskly with his palms as if to wake himself. ‘I believe Alice Perrers arranged it to separate Mary and me.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘No one. But what else makes sense?’

‘Do you believe Mistress Perrers had aught to do with Mary’s death?’

Ned closed his eyes, clenched his fists. ‘Without her interference, it could not have happened. I would have been there to protect Mary, as she wished. As she begged.’

Owen saw the tension in his friend’s face, gave him a moment with his grief. He did not doubt his friend’s feelings for Mary.

‘You are keen to blame the King’s mistress. What do you know of Alice Perrers?’

‘Far more than you might think.’

‘Lancaster is interested?’

‘She is his father’s mistress.’

‘But there are too many males between Lancaster and the throne. Why does he take such an interest?’

‘He believes someone must. His brother Edward lives for the next chance to don his black armour and Lionel is ever busy running from his own troubles.’

‘Tell me about her then.’

‘Mistress Alice was a plague child, born in the year the death first walked among us. It is said such children have unholy strength. Or unholy powers. Many believe the King’s mistress has both. She bewitched the Queen, who took her into her bedchamber; soon she had crossed over to the King’s.’

‘What of her parents?’

‘Landed family. Modest income. Both died of the plague. Uncles placed her with a merchant and his wife who had lost a daughter to the plague. They raised her as their own with a small allowance from the uncles. A sudden family feeling led them to tear her from her foster parents, the only folk she remembered. Put her in a convent school for manners, reading, writing.’

‘Fortunate young woman.’

‘You would not think so to hear her tell it.’

‘This is your Mary talking, isn’t it? Is that how you came to woo her, to spy on Alice Perrers?’

‘May God forgive me. Aye. ’Tis just so. But God soon put it right. Mary won my heart. I did love her, Owen. I would have done anything for her. But the one thing she begged me …’

‘She did not tell you why she wished you to stay?’

Ned shook his head. ‘I wish to God I knew why. What prevented her from confiding in me about her fear?’

‘Wyndesore’s page. What was that about?’

‘He befriended her. When I asked her why, she took it as an insult.’ Ned put his knuckles to his temples, pressed.

‘Pain?’

‘Nothing you might cure.’

‘The deaths of Wyndesore’s page and Perrers’s maid. Any connection?’

‘If there is, I am the last to know.’

‘Bardolph and Crofter, Wyndesore’s men. How can you be certain they are after you?’

‘When we began the journey, Don Ambrose feared them. After York, when he turned against me, they encouraged that, elaborated slights, made him think I placed him in particular danger.’

‘Why?’

‘They believe I murdered Daniel?’ Ned shrugged. ‘Only God knows their black hearts.’

‘Still believe it has to do with your being Lancaster’s spy?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘If they do not come after you, will you give me your word to continue to Windsor?’

A hesitation. ‘You will deliver me up to the Lord Chancellor?’

‘I will.’

Ned nodded. ‘I promise to continue to Windsor.’

Jehannes, Archdeacon of York, paced his parlour, hands clasped behind him. ‘God give me strength. This is an impossible situation, Owen. Impossible.’

Owen wished he were up and pacing, too, but one of them must be calm. He sat with his elbows on his knees, one hand pressing the patch against his left eye, in which a shower of needle pricks alerted him to his own uneasiness. ‘We are merely trying to keep Ned alive until the King’s men arrive for him,’ he said slowly, in the calmest tone he could manage.

Jehannes was suddenly within arm’s length, peering down with an anxious expression. ‘You are certain they will come?’

Owen sat back, stretched his legs. ‘Do you doubt it?’

With an exasperated sigh, the Archdeacon pulled up a chair and sank into it, grasping his knees through his gown. ‘They would take him back to Windsor and put him to death, Owen. The King does not send men after a captain unless he means to do so.’

Owen nodded. What was there to say?

Jehannes touched his palms to his cheeks, as if feeling their heat, then dropped his hands to his sides. ‘I cannot let that happen unless we know he deserves death.’

‘What?’ Owen straightened up, amazed by what Jehannes implied.

‘So.’ Jehannes nodded to himself. ‘Unless the Archbishop has managed to intervene …’ He shook his head. ‘I have never to my knowledge disobeyed my King.’

Owen grinned. ‘Think of it as thwarting a group of soldiers out for blood.’

‘Ralph was here last night, warning me that Townley might count me dangerous. That I might be his next victim.’

Bloody-minded bastard. ‘He seemed a sensible man.’

Jehannes shrugged. ‘He believes Townley murdered his comrades. It is not senseless to feel that such a man is dangerous. It is senseless to take the law into one’s own hands and eliminate the danger.’

‘Senseless and soldierly,’ Owen muttered, wondering how long it would be before Ralph and his companions descended upon the shop. ‘There is no need for you to continue feeding Matthew.’

Jehannes had turned towards the window; now he spun round. ‘You would have him guard Townley again?’

‘No. But I may have need of him.’

‘You will not tell me where you are hiding Townley?’

‘You know you trip over yourself when you attempt a lie.’

Jehannes pressed the bones beneath his brows. ‘What shall I tell the King’s men?’

‘Tell them I’ve removed Ned to Bishopthorpe.’

A frown. ‘Bishopthorpe?’

‘That is all you need tell them.’

Jehannes nodded. ‘Go in peace, Owen. May God watch over you.’