The Lady Chapel

14

Sleet drummed on the hood of Thoresby's cloak as he hurried down the path to the riverbank. He could already feel the freezing water seeping through his hood and hat to his head. Two servants tottered behind him, balancing a trunk full of papers and gifts on their shoulders. Ned, Thoresby's squire, carried a basket with food and wine for the journey; it was not a long barge trip upriver from London to Windsor, but Thoresby had been too busy to eat since early morning, and it was now mid-afternoon. He cursed as his new boots sank into the mud on the riverbank. The bargeman looked surprised to hear such words coming from the mouth of the Archbishop of York.

"The sorry truth is, I'm more of a Lord Chancellor than an Archbishop," Thoresby said.

"Your Grace?" the bargeman said with a blank face.

"Never mind." Thoresby stepped aside to let the servants past with the trunk. "Let's see whether you can get me to Windsor before I freeze to death."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Thoresby took consolation in the thought that sleet down here in London likely meant snow in York, so he was still the better for being here, wet and cold though he was. He ducked under the canopy. Ned placed a cushion on the thronelike chair in the center of the small enclosure, and Thoresby sat down, arranging his cloak around him for maximum warmth.

"Would you care for some wine, Your Grace?" Ned asked.

"Not yet. Try to get the mud off these boots first, Ned."

While the boy worked at the boots with a stick and a rag, Thoresby sat back and reviewed his business in London. He had met with the second son of an old friend and advised the youth that if he truly wished to retreat as far from temptation as possible-he had been caught in bed with two cousins at once, both married women-he should have his father write to the abbot of Rievaulx, a Cistercian abbey up on the moors. Once up there, the youth might never see another woman as long as he lived. Thoresby had also put his most efficient and trustworthy clerk, Brother Florian, to work searching for records pertaining to Goldbetter and Company. Florian was intrigued to hear that his purpose was to uncover a murderer. In the midst of all that, in just one day Thoresby had ordered three tuns of wine to split between his cellars in York and London, and acquired the boots that were now just damp, no longer muddy.

"God bless you, Ned," Thoresby said, examining his boots. "These cost me as much as your entire wardrobe. Now I can enjoy my wine."

The sleet still came down as they eased up to the dock at Windsor. Thoresby emerged from under the canopy reluctantly, but at least here he stepped off the barge onto wooden planking, blessedly free of mud. On the knoll above rose the castle. Thoresby could see that Wykeham was still at work expanding the structure. William de Wykeham's building projects had won great favor with the King. Wykeham was now Keeper of the Privy Seal, a post that typically led to that of Lord Chancellor. Thoresby had been Keeper of the Privy Seal. He wondered how long it would be before Edward took the Chancellor's chain from his neck and hung it on Wykeham's. A gloomy thought.

In the great hall, roaring fires and much wine warmed the courtiers, and hundreds of candles burned away all memory of the sleet outside. The flames reflected off jewels and brilliant fabrics. Thoresby had heard stories of Edward's first Christmas courts on ascending the throne-modest, plain, quiet, a necessary economy because Edward's father and mother, King Edward II and Queen Isabella, and John Mortimer, Isabella's lover, had emptied the royal coffers. But now, with victories in France bringing booty and ransoms, Edward let the court sparkle.

After Thoresby was thoroughly dry, he sought out Queen Philippa. He was sorry to see that her health was still in decline. The Queen's face, which had always been round and of high color, was now ashen, the flesh sagging. She leaned on a cane to walk about her chamber-a jeweled cane, but a cane nonetheless. The Queen had not been well since a riding accident eight years before, but until now she had managed to mask her limp. Only her finery shone as of old.

Thoresby's heart went out to the Queen. He had always admired her. She had been an inspired mate for Edward, a paragon of all the virtues lacking or weak in the King. Philippa understood what her subjects wished a Queen to be and fulfilled their wishes, and the people loved her for it. Where Edward was quick to anger, Philippa reacted with her head, not her heart. Edward held grudges, Philippa strove to forgive. She had born Edward twelve children; though some had died young, enough had survived to secure the succession and gain valuable allies with carefully arranged marriages. Thoresby felt as if he had known Queen Philippa all his life, certainly all his life at court. She always welcomed him with what seemed sincere pleasure, and her gifts to him were chosen thoughtfully, more personal than opulent.

This afternoon he was not alone with the Queen. By a window sat Alice Perrers, sewing. She wore a gown of pale brown silk that matched her eyes. A babe lay in a basket at her feet. So she'd had the baby, and it was still at court. Thoresby had assumed the baby would be sent away to a well-paid wet nurse as soon as it was born.

Queen Philippa motioned to Thoresby to sit with her. "I am pleased you have come. I have heard that work has begun on your Lady Chapel. I hope it goes well?"

"I have been blessed with talented and efficient masons so far. I hope that one day you might come see the progress we have made since your wedding mass at the minster."

Queen Philippa's eyes were sad as she shook her head. "I do not think, my good friend, that God means me to make such a journey again."

What brave, sad words. Thoresby did not waste his breath with polite denials. Hollow reassurance was pointless with such a woman as the Queen. All in all, it was a sad visit, and when Thoresby left Philippa he was in a gloomy frame of mind. Fortunately, Alice Perrers had not spoken to him. He had not known whether he could trust himself to be polite.

Flaunting the baby like that. How could the Queen permit it? How could she allow the King to make a fool of himself with Alice Perrers?

And what an old fool Edward looked, the once-glorious warrior, stooping a bit now, his golden hair dull and lank, eyes recessed in reddened, wrinkled skin, cheeks puffed from rich food and too much wine.

That is how Thoresby saw Edward when he entered the King's great chamber for dinner. Already seated at the table, Philippa to his right, Alice to his left, the King greeted Thoresby with affection. The Queen smiled sweetly, but said little. They both looked ancient beside Alice Perrers, who was now gowned in crimson, pearls about her neck and in her hair. The gown was cut sinfully low to show off a long, pale neck, softly rounded shoulders, and high, youthful-and, at the moment, lusciously swollen-breasts.

Thoresby tried not to stare at those breasts as he took his seat. Alice might not be beautiful, but she knew how to emphasize the youthfulness of her body.

"Your Grace," Alice said to Thoresby, "I understand that you are adding a Lady Chapel to the great cathedral of York Minster."

The crimson gown accentuated the whiteness of Alice Perrers's skin, but did an odd thing with her amber eyes, giving them a crimson glow. A succubus might have such eyes, Thoresby thought.

"I have begun on the Lady Chapel," Thoresby said.

A thin eyebrow lifted, a smile played at the corners of the generous mouth. "To what do you attribute the recent resurgence of devotion to the Blessed Mother?"

Thoresby did not know what to make of the question. Was it rehearsed, something the King had suggested Alice ask, or was there an intelligence at work? He decided on the safest conversational ploy, turn the question back to her. "As it is so uppermost in your mind, I think it would be far more interesting to hear your thoughts on the subject." He said it politely, with a courteous bow.

The King smiled and nodded, pleased with Thoresby's response.

Alice Perrers sat back in her seat, her eyes momentarily on the cup in her hand. Thoresby noted spots of color on her cheekbones and collarbone. Did the woman take his response as a slight? If so, there was intelligence here indeed.

While Thoresby was still watching, Alice put her cup down on the table and lifted her eyes to his. "My opinion is possibly ill-formed, Your Grace, but I have not had the benefit of education. For what it is worth, I think the people yearn for an intercessor during frightening times, someone beloved of God the Father, who will ask Him to remember that they are but sinful children and although imperfect they are trying. Mary, Mother of God, is the perfect intercessor." Alice dropped her eyes again, but not before Thoresby had seen a challenge in them.

Or bravora. Was he imagining such sophistication in the woman, or was it really there?

"Are these frightening times?" Thoresby asked.

Alice looked surprised. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but you know these are frightening times. I am a child of the plague years. I have lived with the fear of its return all my life. And it does keep returning. We are told that its visitations are punishment for our sins. There was the bad harvest two years ago, and this year. And a war, although blessedly it is fought in France, not here."

"Mistress Alice's points are well conceived, are they not?" Queen Philippa said with an indulgent smile.

The King beamed.

Thoresby had had enough of the upstart. "Indeed they are. And appropriate for one who was orphaned by that dread disease."

Alice did not try to hide her amazement. "You have made a study of me, Your Grace?"

"Not really, Mistress Alice. But one hears these things." He gave her his most benevolent smile. "It is widely held that children of the plague years are more robust and are great survivors, did you

know? Some say that God grants this strength to prove that He has not forsaken mankind, that the Death is but a warning."

"How remarkable," the King said, rising. "But now we must allow the ladies to rest while we attend to business, John."

Thoresby watched Alice rise and walk gracefully out of the chamber with a straight back and high head, supporting Queen Philippa with one arm. There was an assurance about Alice Perrers that disturbed Thoresby's sense of propriety. She did not know her place. She played Queen. A commoner such as she could never rise to be Queen-a commoner who would bring nothing to a match to further the interests of the realm. But Alice Perrers affected a regal air. An arrogance. She was dangerous.

When the King and his Chancellor were alone but for a few trusted servants who were to keep the wine flowing and the fire stoked, the King said to Thoresby, "You have seen Mistress Alice's child, eh, John? Mistress Alice is an extraordinary woman. She bore that boy and missed hardly a day of service to Philippa. For a Christmas gift to Mistress Alice for her attention to duty, I should like to settle some London properties on her."

"London properties?" Thoresby suppressed a groan. "But surely her annuity and the clothes, the jewels, the honor of living at court-surely all this is more than generous already."

"And I mean to be more than generous, John. You know that Mistress Alice is dear to me, second only to Philippa, my dearest Queen. The child is mine, you know. I hope it does not shock you. As my bastard son, he must want for nothing-though of course I can never publicly acknowledge him as mine."

Thank the Lord for that, but the rest was disappointing enough. Thoresby wanted to shake the King, demand how he could insult Queen Philippa in her illness, with such a common, scheming creature. But the Chancellor knew the limits of his sovereign's affections. He might not survive such an outburst.

"I am not shocked to hear of new proof of Your Grace's remarkable fertility," Thoresby said in what he hoped was an affectionately teasing voice.

Edward fell back in his seat and roared with laughter.

Praise be to God, Thoresby still could dissemble convincingly.

"You never disappoint me, John. You never preach." The King sobered. "Did Mistress Alice tell you the child's name?"

"No."

Edward's face lit up in an expansive smile. "He was christened John. After you, for your friendship."

Dear God, make it not so. Surely the boy had been named after Edward's son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Yes, Thoresby was sure that was the case. This was simply a ploy to endear Thoresby to the child.

"I require no reward but your friendship, my King." Thoresby raised his glass. "Let us drink to the young John."

Edward beamed. "I knew you would be pleased."

Thoresby took a long drink. "As to the gift of London property, if you are determined in this, I would advise that the gift be made in private." Thoresby chose his words with care. "Your affection for Mistress Alice is already noted at court. To call more attention to her special standing might cause her difficulties. And in later years the child might bear the brunt."

The King frowned into his cup. "Mistress Alice is a remarkable young woman. To what could they possibly object?"

That was not a question that Thoresby could answer truthfully, much as he yearned to.

"It would be so with anyone. Your courtiers are jealous of your affection. It is their great love for you that makes it so."

Edward finished his wine, waved away the servant who hurried to pour more. "It is late. I am weary." He studied Thoresby's face for a long moment. "You are a good friend to me, John, and I thank you for it. But you need not pamper me. I know that Mistress Alice offends with her sharp wit and canny business sense. My Queen has these abilities, but they are softened by a nurturing gentilesse that makes the people love her."

So Edward was not so blind. Thoresby was relieved. "And Queen Philippa was born to a noble family, my King. That is important to the people. Mistress Alice comes from nowhere."

The King nodded. "Which makes her all the more admirable, John."

"You are a wise man who can see that, Your Grace. The people are not so wise."

"Indeed." The King rose. "We will talk more about the gifts. A list of the properties will be brought to you." Edward began to depart, but turned, with a softened expression, to say, "Philippa and I are most glad to have you here, John. My Queen is unwell, as you can see. We need the comfort of good friends about us."

"I am most honored to be here, Your Grace." Thoresby left after the King, exhausted from his journey and his efforts to be civil to and about Alice Perrers. It would be a long December.

Brother Florian arrived at Windsor on the third afternoon of Thoresby's visit. He was soaked through, having shared a barge with a group of jongleurs who had contrived to fill the enclosed area with their gear and persons before the clerk boarded, forcing him to make the trip as unprotected as the bargeman. Fortunately the sleet of the previous few days had subsided to a chill mist and occasional drizzle, but it was enough moisture to weigh down Florian's cloak and his mood.

"Might one ask, Your Grace, why these papers could not be entrusted to Brother Michaelo, your secretary, who sits so cozily in your chambers in London? Can he really have so much to do with the ordering and shipping of supplies to York that he could not be spared for this journey?" Brother Florian, white-haired and confident from years of experience, was not one to mince words.

"You have asked, Brother Florian, and I am happy to answer." Thoresby smiled. "I do not entrust the papers to Brother Michaelo because I cannot be certain that he will not trade their contents for some of the luxuries he finds irresistible. Whereas Michaelo is very good at the tasks to which I have set him because he knows that he will share in the enjoyment of these items if they reach my houses in Yorkshire. It is all actually quite tidy. Do you not enjoy being indispensable?"

Brother Florian snorted. "Had I been truly indispensable, you would not have passed me over when looking for a secretary to replace Jehannes, Your Grace. It is no doubt Brother Michaelo's Norman wealth that is truly indispensable." Florian raised his cup to his lips, discovered it was empty, and thumped it down with a growl.

"I see that your river voyage chilled your soul, a penance out of all proportion to your petty sins." Thoresby pushed the flagon of wine over to the monk. "We will dine well tonight. That should cheer you."

When Brother Florian had gone away to improve his disposition with prayer and a nap, Thoresby opened the packet of notes and documents and settled back to read. He was pleased to find that Florian had done his usual thorough job.

According to court records, just as Chiriton and Company had informed on Goldbetter, Goldbetter had informed on business partners who had smuggled wool to Flanders to avoid customs fees. Various Goldbetter and Company agents had provided a list of smugglers in exchange for a blind eye to their own less questionable but still not quite legal activities. Ridley and Crounce had been among the agents who provided names, but it was not recorded who had informed on whom.

Florian had included a list of the smugglers who had been sent to the Fleet prison, annotated with information gained at the prison itself. Excellent Florian, to take the time to visit the prison. Most of the smugglers had been released after a brief stay, two were still there because of later information brought against them to compound their sentences, and one had died in prison. The last had been one Alan of Aldborough.

That interested Thoresby. Aldborough was near Boroughbridge, where Will Crounce had lived. Crounce might have been privy to local gossip about Aldborough's business dealings. It was possible that someone in Alan of Aldborough's family was avenging the man's death.

Brother Florian had discovered another interesting fact about Aldborough. After two cups of brandywine, the jailer confided that he had been most surprised when Aldborough sickened and died in two days. Up to that point, he had been remarkably healthy and optimistic.

The next day Thoresby found a courtier who was sending a messenger north and added a letter to Owen Archer to the messenger's load.