The King's Bishop (39 page)

Owen put the mazer down before his thirst was quenched. It was after compline and he must yet tell the chancellor and the councillor what he had learned in an exhausting day of poking and prodding guards and comrades of Bardolph and Crofter. He must stay awake.

‘Shall we ever know the truth of it, Captain?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen glanced up at the councillor to see whether he meant the question in jest; surely he understood by now that the truth was not meant to be known. But the heavy-lidded eyes held no guile. ‘Crofter has ceased to speak to anyone. Neither he nor Bardolph shared confidences with their other comrades, or if they did they frightened them into silence. I did learn this: Crofter’s wife has received the deed for a sizeable property in the fens to hold for her eldest son’s maturity, property that formerly belonged to the Wyndesore family. It is said that Wyndesore did not wish the family to suffer for Crofter’s sins.’

‘He did not wish Crofter to reveal his orders before he died, more like.’ Thoresby said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Owen wondered when Thoresby had aged so. His lids crinkled over his deep-set eyes, he had jowls, though his face had little flesh elsewhere.

Wykeham seemed quite young in contrast. His face was unlined, his eyes were clear and earnest. ‘And Bardolph’s family? Has Wyndesore provided for them?’

‘He had none.’

‘Ah.’ Wykeham sat back in his seat, frowning slightly.

Thoresby nodded. ‘He could not be bought, who had no heirs.’

‘What did you learn from the guards about Bardolph’s condition in his last days?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen allowed himself another sip of wine. ‘They describe him as by turns quiet and frantic, wrapped in blankets with chills and then suddenly throwing them off and crying that he could not breathe, the air was too heavy. I am unsure what he was being fed, but I’ve little doubt he was receiving or had received a slow poison. I witnessed the sweating, thought it fear.’

‘A poison administered by Crofter?’ Thoresby asked.

‘That is my guess, but we’ll never know for certain. As I said, Crofter is suddenly dumb.’

‘You searched Crofter and the room?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘I found nothing. Of course.’

‘But you thought he had been ill with fear.’

‘But now he’s dead. And the men had been travelling with Don Paulus, who is known in some quarters as a herbalist who asks no questions. It is curious that the friar survived his journey with Crofter and Bardolph. Others were not so fortunate.’

‘Have they found Don Paulus?’ Wykeham asked.

‘No.’

‘They must continue to search.’

‘To what end?’ Thoresby demanded, pressing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. ‘He will not speak. Why should he? What would he gain?’

‘We must know whether Crofter poisoned Bardolph,’ Wykeham insisted.

‘For Heaven’s sake, give it up!’ Thoresby cried. ‘No one wishes to know that but you. Bardolph would have been dead come morning. What does it matter if the man who was to die with him hastened the end for him? How would we know whether it was out of fear of exposure or charity? Eh? Speculation. All speculation. We have no proof. We shall never have any proof.’ Thoresby nodded to Owen. ‘You look weary to the bone. I shall keep you no longer.’

‘Weary I am,’ Owen said, rising. He wondered at the Archbishop’s outburst, but not so much that he wished to linger.

After Owen had taken his leave, Thoresby refilled his mazer, passed the flagon to Wykeham. ‘You must pardon my temper. It comes of frustration.’ He shook his head as Wykeham began to reply. ‘The King has commanded me to cease my probing. He wishes for some peace. He will hear no more of this.’

‘Because of Prince Edward’s illness?’

‘Aye. The Queen is concerned by Lancaster’s report that the Prince cannot rise from his bed, though the Prince himself sends word that he is well, recovering as quickly as ever.’

‘It is fortunate that Lancaster is with his brother so we may know the truth.’

‘Fortunate? To frighten the Queen when she is herself so ill?’ Had Thoresby been Phillippa’s son, he would have kept the worry from her. But he did not care to discuss the Queen with Wykeham. ‘I understand you volunteered to be confessor to the condemned men, Sir William.’

Wykeham sat with flagon in hand, one finger
tracing the intricate silverwork on the lid. Eyes still on the flagon, he said quietly, ‘I beg you to forgive my accusation that you meant to trick me out of the chancellor’s chain. I feel ill tonight, thinking of six lives lost for an ageing King’s vanity and a soldier’s plotting.’ Slowly, as if fearful it would shatter, Wykeham rested the flagon on the table. He lifted his mazer, raised his eyes to Thoresby. ‘You came to me in friendship and I mistrusted you. May God bless you, my Lord Chancellor, and forgive me for my ignorance.’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘There is no need for forgiveness. What man would welcome the revelation that the jewel he had just won in an honest, exhausting contest had a flaw that rendered it worthless?’

Wykeham’s head shot up. ‘Worthless? Hardly that. Requiring cautious handling, perhaps, but not worthless. I seek to influence the King for the good. His reign has been glorious; it shall be again.’

Thoresby found Wykeham absurdly idealistic for one who had been at court so long. Sadly, he recognised much of himself in the councillor. He was vain. Naïve. Thoresby despaired. There would be no enlightenment for Wykeham. He would push through to the chancellorship. He would work hard, hoping to ensure that justice was served. And slowly, after years of puzzling over the King’s judgements, he would realise how personal were Edward’s decisions, how he saw the law as his to bend and form to his taste. And when the King detected the sorrow in Wykeham’s eyes, the disapproving purse of his lips, he would find another ambitious, clever man, acquire for him a bishopric, and transfer the chain.

‘What saddens you?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I have been foolish. I thought to save you. But you will not be saved.’

I
mpatient with the tailor’s hesitant tugs and anxious mutterings, the King yanked at the costly cloth, a blue background embroidered with gold garters for his Order. ‘Are you a tailor or a gnat? Fit me and be done with it!’ Edward’s roar was as loud and resounding as ever.

Thoresby had sought the King with a matter that could not be discussed in front of the tailor. And so the chancellor sat near the hearth and attempted to distract the King from the annoying little man so that they might still speak civilly before the day was out. Thoresby fortunately had some fresh anecdotes heard at last night’s dinner with Archer and a courtier whom Thoresby had been surprised to learn was a poet, Geoffrey Chaucer. Leave it to a Welshman to sniff out the bards at court.

‘Master Chaucer has a sly wit,’ Edward said. ‘Clever man. He has the eye of a master tailor when sizing up a man’s worth.’ A meaningful glance at the anxious face focused on the royal shoulders. ‘I find Chaucer
useful. I warn you, John, do not think to add him to your staff. Phillippa would not have it.’

‘I have no intention of adding to my household, Your Grace.’

An eyebrow raised. ‘No? Hm.’ The broad shoulders twitched under the exploring hands of the tailor. ‘Why did he dine with you?’

‘I thought to cheer Captain Archer. Chaucer is one of the few folk at court can tease laughter from my grim spy.’

‘Ah.’ The King nodded. ‘Your Welsh archer. Discourage that friendship, John. Spies should not become friends. Tomorrow they may need to betray each other.’

‘I am finished, Your Grace,’ the tailor murmured. He clumsily folded the cloth and backed out of the room, bobbing obsessively.

‘A runt of a tailor. The French are all runts,’ Edward muttered. ‘So.’ The fading blue eyes rose to Thoresby’s suddenly solemn face. ‘What is amiss, John? Your good cheer strikes a false note. Something troubles you.’

Thoresby sucked strength from deep within, used it to lift the heavy chain from his shoulders and, holding it out before him, voiced the words he had rehearsed throughout the night. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but I believe it is God’s will that I resign the chancellorship. I grow too old and vague to serve you well and wisely.’ He handed the chain to the servant who hovered at the King’s shoulder.

The King narrowed his eyes, gazing on the chain dripping through the servant’s outstretched fingers. Slowly, Edward raised his head to Thoresby, his lined face flushed unattractively with anger. ‘God’s will, John ? And what of
my
will ? What of your King’s will?
Is there treason in your heart? Do you agree with the upstart Austins who claim I forfeit my right to rule when I fall from grace? You condemn me for Alice, John. I know that you do. And I know what you’ve been about with your spy, trying to save the bastard who attacked Alice. So that he may try again!’

Jesu
, what could Thoresby say to that? ‘My stepping down has nothing to do with Mistress Perrers. Nor did I make enquiries to annoy you, Your Grace. I merely wished to know the truth.’

The blue eyes narrowed, sharp chin lifted. ‘You know too much and you grow frightened, John, that is the truth of it. Because you have divulged Alice’s secret? Is that what worries you so?’

‘I have not spent a lifetime at court without learning the wisdom of silence, Your Grace.’ Or of lies carefully chosen.

‘Who knows of Wyndesore and Alice? Your ferret Florian? Your Welsh spy? Your elegant secretary?’

‘None of them, Your Grace. My sole confidant has been your privy councillor.’

‘Wykeham? You are the sly one. You stink of the moors. Perhaps that is where you belong. Leave me.’

As Owen lifted his hand to knock on the door he felt an excitement that surprised him. A private supper with Mistress Alice Perrers. A rare privilege. She had sent word that she wished to thank him for coming to her aid against Ned, whom she knew to be Owen’s friend. How could he refuse?

Thoresby had raised an eyebrow, pronounced Owen a brave man.

‘Brave? To dine with a beautiful lady?’

‘To dine with the King’s lady. In private.’

Owen remembered the look in the cat eyes, the look that even Ned had noted. Should he be wary?

Alice Perrers rose from a thronelike chair as Gilbert showed Owen into the gaily lit chamber. Her silk gown matched the candlelight; her eyes glowed with it. Her hair, caught up with gold netting sprinkled with amethysts, shone gold and red. A trick of light and jewels, yet so like the colour of Lucie’s hair that Owen wondered about Alice’s purpose. But she had never seen Lucie.

‘God be with you, Captain Archer,’ Alice said. She had a deep, resonant voice that caressed the ear. ‘I have ordered a feast fit for the courageous man who saved me.’

Owen felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web – by his own fascination. There was something compelling in her eyes, voice, movements. ‘It was my duty, Mistress Perrers.’

Alice smiled sweetly. ‘You are modest, Captain. Come. Sit. Gilbert, pour the wine.’ Her silk gown whispered as she moved gracefully, gesturing for Owen to sit, resuming her own seat.

Candle-light reflected off silver spoons and plates, Italian glass goblets. The table at which Gilbert stood ready to serve was laden with costly covered serving dishes from which came mouthwatering aromas. Owen had thought Thoresby’s table grand, but it was nothing compared with this. And surely there was far more food here than two could eat.

‘Who else joins you this evening?’

Alice’s delicate eyebrows lifted in surprise, then her entire face brightened with amusement. ‘No one else. Please, do sit down, Captain.’ She waved Owen into the chair opposite her. ‘I have heard much about you that intrigues me.’ As they sipped their wine and
Gilbert served, Alice entertained Owen with stories she had heard about him, some accurate, most not, but all complimentary.

Owen, feeling more and more as if he were being wrapped up in a silky cocoon, at last begged Alice to tell him something of her own life. She told him of her foster parents, how jolly life had been among their large brood, how confusing it had been when her uncles had taken her away, put her in a convent school. Owen assumed he was meant to pity her, but looking round at the splendour of her apartment at court, he found it difficult.

‘My wife and I took in an orphan,’ he said.

‘But you have a child of your own.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about me.’

‘The chancellor is proud of his godchild.’

Owen’s scar itched, reminding him that he must tread this web with care, that it could be deadly no matter how charming the weaver. Alice Perrers knew too much about his family. He was not here merely as a courtesy.

When they had progressed from the meat to a plate heaped with dates and nuts, Alice remarked, ‘I imagine you are puzzled why I insisted on a private meeting.’

‘I did wonder whether it was wise, when courtiers take such pleasure in gossip.’

Alice inclined her head slightly. ‘I wished to tell you that I tried to convince the King that Ned Townley had reason to act as he did. But His Grace did not find it sufficient cause. He insisted on exile.’