The King's Bishop (31 page)

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?’