The King's Bishop (40 page)

‘I have heard you argued for exile rather than execution.’

Alice’s right hand, on which an amethyst ring twinkled, rose to silence Owen. ‘Since I could not
save Ned from exile, I have provided him with letters of introduction. They should help him find service in the Aquitaine, if not with Lancaster, then with someone suitable.’

A generous act, were it not for the fact that Alice’s reputation, her standing at court had been saved by the death of Ned’s lady. Owen saw that Alice Perrers expected gratitude; instead he tasted gall. He lifted his goblet. ‘To your efforts on Ned’s behalf.’

Alice tilted her head quizzically. ‘Drink to my efforts? No. Let us drink to Ned’s future.’

‘Odd to drink to such an uncertain thing as my friend’s future.’

The amber eyes studied Owen over the rim of the exquisite goblet. Alice sipped, set the goblet down. ‘You are not pleased. How have I offended?’ Her look of dismay was almost convincing.

‘You have caused Ned immeasurable pain. You owe him far more than letters.’

A hand to her delicate throat. ‘Indeed? ‘ How did she manage a blush? Or was it controlled anger? ‘What do I owe him?’

Owen was intrigued now. How far would she take this act of innocence? ‘You owe Ned Mary’s life. But of course it is impossible to bring her back.’

‘You accuse me of Mary’s death?’ The question was a whisper. The eyes glistened with tears. The too bare bosom moved as with a restrained sob.

‘You might have protected her. And warned Ned and Don Ambrose of their danger. To my mind you are as guilty of the deaths as your husband is.’

The painted lips opened slightly in surprise. ‘My husband? Who told you of that?’

‘Do you know, Ned was sent away without a
chance to visit Mary’s grave.’ Owen closed his eyes, bowed his head.

‘I did what I could.’

Owen glanced up, surprised by the emotion in the quiet voice.

But Alice had regained control. She lifted an embroidered napkin, dabbed at her lips. ‘Surely you understand the power of the men involved? Not just the King. Wyndesore, too.’

‘Are you saying that power excuses murder?’

‘I am saying that I have little freedom, Captain. I am in the clutches of two powerful men.’

Owen glanced round the room. ‘A comfortable clutch.’

A becoming rose flushed her skin from neckline to veil. ‘Thoresby has poisoned your mind against me.’

Owen set down his goblet, rose with a courteous bow. On the contrary, Mistress Perrers, His Grace does not care to speak of you. I thank you for your hospitality.’

Alice rose also. ‘He does speak of me. I know that he does. What does he plan, Captain?’

Owen feasted on her one last moment. ‘Our King is a fortunate man, Mistress Perrers. I thank you for a delightful evening.’

Alice crossed to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, looked into his eye, then kissed him on the lips, a lingering kiss. When she stood back from him, her smile was that of a cat who has just tasted of forbidden cream. ‘Mistress Wilton is also fortunate.’

‘I think, Mistress Perrers, you have nothing to fear from the Lord Chancellor. He tires of court and would be quit of it.’

‘God go with you, Owen Archer.’

As Owen walked back through the castle precinct
he thought it a good thing that for Ned he must hate Alice Perrers.

Thoresby sat quietly, reading the compline service, when Adam tiptoed into the chamber. ‘What is it, lad?’ the Archbishop asked wearily.

‘The Queen sends for you. She asks that you come at once.’

‘So late in the evening?’ Was she ill? Did she send for him for confession? ‘I shall be there at once.’

The Queen sat on her canopied bed, swathed in silk. She held her right hand out to Thoresby while her left hand stroked a puppy that lay curled on her lap. Two ladies of the chamber fussed with pillows and a tray of wine. ‘Sit here, where I might speak quietly,’ Phillippa said, patting the top of a chair pulled up beside her. Her round face had some colour this evening, the bags under her eyes were less evident. But she trembled when she moved, as if weak.

Thoresby sat, troubled by this new symptom, yet relieved by the normal domestic activity in the room. ‘God be thanked that you are well, my lady.’

‘Well?’ Phillippa shrugged. ‘God has spared me, though I would not say I am well. Still, I shall not complain. I have had a long, happy life.’ She nodded for a servant to pour wine, then waved her away. ‘We would have a moment of quiet,’ she said sharply in her accented French. Ladies and servants melted away. Phillippa sat back, arms crossed, pursed her lips, shook her head. ‘And where is your chain of office?’ Even now, her voice stem, her head trembled.

‘Forgive me, my Queen, but I felt myself unworthy …’

‘Nonsense. Have we been friends or have you offered me empty courtesies, John?’

‘We are friends, my Queen.’

‘Then do me the courtesy of speaking true. You grow weary of court. Heaven knows it is a thing of which we all grow weary soon enough.’

‘I would retire to the north, my lady. I wish to devote my last years to God.’

Phillippa closed her eyes, lay her head back on the pillows. ‘I understand, John. I do understand. It is a wish I share.’ She lay there quietly a moment, then opened her eyes, sat forward, reached for Thoresby’s hand. He grasped her swollen hand, looked into her watery eyes. ‘Do not break Edward’s heart. Remain chancellor until Wykeham wins his bishopric. Do this for Edward. And for me.’

The hand trembled in his grasp. Thoresby bowed his head over it. ‘Whatever you wish, my Queen.’

Owen laughed in the face of the man who asked him whether the rumour about Thoresby was true, that he had resigned as Lord Chancellor. And then, returning to his room, he settled back with a flagon of ale and considered the likelihood. He had soon decided it might be true. Was very likely true. For who would fabricate such a fabulous story that was yet possible, though none but Owen was likely to know what was in Thoresby’s heart? Owen knew of the Archbishop’s deteriorating relations with the King, which had been greatly affected by the ever-growing influence of Alice Perrers. Owen also knew how time weighed on the Archbishop’s shoulders. He had watched Thoresby painfully ease himself out of a chair after sitting overlong at supper, pause halfway up stairs to catch his breath, pass his hand over his brow and push the wine away. Thoresby felt his mortality.

But when Thoresby sent for Owen, he wore the chain of office.

Then the rumours were untrue. You yet wear the chain.’

Thoresby glanced down at the heavy links. ‘I resigned, that is true enough. But the Queen persuaded me to stay yet a while. Until Wykeham can truly assume the title. Queen Phillippa grows worse with each passing season. I could not refuse the gentle lady.’

Owen shrugged as he sank into a chair, stretched his legs. ‘I had hoped you summoned me to prepare for a journey.’

Thoresby smiled. ‘Despair not. I shall not trap you at Windsor indefinitely. I intend to depart tomorrow for York.’

‘Tomorrow?’ That smacked of flight.

‘Can you be ready?’

Owen felt light-headed. ‘I shall count the hours, Your Grace.’ They were pleasant hours, now he knew he was leaving. He dined with the poet Chaucer and his wife, a round apple of a woman with a practical tum of mind that complemented her husband’s dreaminess. While the husband described all at court with amusing anecdotes, she tempered the humour with analyses of their importance to the King. They had parted with promises of a meeting some day that would include Lucie.

Michaelo did not think the departure a moment too soon. His Grace had agreed to keep the chain of office until Wykeham’s confirmation, but he still insisted on delegating the work that kept him in London to his staff at Westminster. Michaelo prayed that they were well away when the King called for Thoresby and
discovered Brother Florian instead. He feared the King’s roar.

Nor did he wish to be at Windsor when the gossip about Archer’s private supper in Mistress Perrers’s apartments reached the King. Tongues wagged about the handsome captain who had used his charms to convince Mistress Perrers to beg the King for Ned Townley’s life. Or was it Townley who had been her lover?

It was never safe to be in the household of those who aroused the court’s interest. Thoresby’s abrupt decision to leave had lifted Michaelo’s spirits.

Now Owen rode beside a brooding Thoresby, who kept glancing back at the grand castle, which appeared a mirage in the morning fog.

‘Are you worried it will disappear from your life for ever, Your Grace? Or do you expect to see Wykeham raise yet another tower before you are out of sight?’

Thoresby chuckled. ‘You have heard of the words one of the King’s clerks discovered on an inner wall of the new buildings at Windsor?’

Owen had.
This made Wykeham
. ‘Aye. But they say he explains it as meaning that without the chance to prove his worth as Clerk of Works on such a grand project, he never would have risen so high.’

‘He is a good man, Archer. But foolish. An eager pup.’

A bit old for a pup.’

‘I live for the day when I am truly through with court.’

‘You will not be quite rid of it, even when Wykeham wears that chain. As Archbishop you will still be on the King’s council, eh?’

Thoresby gave Owen a sideways glance. ‘You enjoy
ruining my daydream, Archer. I see the pleasure in your eye. But at least I shall be free to stay in my own house in London. I hope never to see my apartment at Windsor again. Or Alice Perrers.’

‘Ah. Mistress Perrers.’

‘Do I hear a smile in your voice?’

‘I confess I find myself wondering why you despise her so.’

‘Indeed? I have been meaning to ask how you enjoyed your supper.’

‘I felt pampered. A kingly repast, a gracious, witty woman who is more of a beauty than I had been led to expect…’

‘She bewitched you.’

‘Fascinated me, yes. She knows her powers and uses them with consummate skill.’

Thoresby crossed himself. ‘It is all the worse that she is intelligent, a shrewd judge of character. You are quite right, she is absolutely aware of what she is doing. It is all purposeful. And she cares not a whit for her soul.’

‘Perhaps she is still too young.’

‘She is a plague child, Archer. She has faced death since birth.’

‘Well, that might be even more to the point.’

‘You do not despise her, Archer?’

‘Of course I despise her – for Ned’s sake.’

‘
Deo gratias
. I began to worry for my godchild.’

J
asper shuffled into the shop, gathered a squealing Crowder into his arms, and plopped down beside Lucie at the counter, cuddling the wriggling kitten.

Lucie recognised the signs of worry. ‘I thought you were helping Owen in the garden.’

‘Aye,’ Jasper muttered glumly.

Lucie put a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye. ‘He has been brusque with you?’

Jasper shrugged. ‘He’s had bad news, hasn’t he? About Ned Townley, wasn’t it?’ His pale eyelashes blinked, fighting tears.

‘No! Gaspare wrote with good news of Ned.’ Which was true. But there was sad news as well. Why of all mornings did the letter come today? It was Gwenllian’s first birthday and they were hosting a dinner in their new hall for her godparents. Lucie had hoped Owen would watch the shop this morning while she helped Tildy and her youngest sister with preparations. But shortly after the messenger had arrived Owen had donned his oldest clothes and gone out to attack the garden. It was true the apple trees in the
Corbett garden must be moved; the carpenters would be ready in two days to begin the passageway that would connect the houses and create a courtyard screening the garden from the bustle of Davygate, and the trees were in the way. But Owen suddenly behaved as if they must be moved this morning.

Jasper’s face screwed up in a question. ‘Gaspare has seen Ned?’ He had prayed for Ned ever since he had learned of his exile. No matter how lengthy Owen’s explanations, Jasper was convinced that exile meant death. Lucie had hoped the news from one of Owen’s and Ned’s old comrades would reassure the boy.

‘No, Gaspare has not seen Ned, but he has had a letter from him. Ned has joined the Duke of Lancaster’s household in the Aquitaine.’

Jasper’s face was solemn. ‘Gaspare serves Lancaster, too. Why has he not seen Ned?’

‘Because Ned is at the Duke’s residence, not with his fighting men, Jasper. That is what it means to be of the household.’ Lucie knew even as she spoke that the boy saw this as another adult lie to keep at bay the nightmares that plagued him.

‘Gaspare can neither read nor write.’

The shop bell jingled. Lucie knelt to brush the boy’s flaxen hair from his eyes. ‘Gaspare would use one of the clerks travelling with his company, as most soldiers do.’ She kissed Jasper’s forehead, shook her head at the suspicious look he gave her. ‘You are such a doubting Thomas. I shall leave it to Owen to explain to you. Go back to him, now. But no worrying about Ned.’ She chucked him under the chin and sent him off.