by Candace Robb
Owen could not answer that. To murder a woman and set fire to the house in which she lay was a terrible act, but to have done it to teach a lesson or threaten the absent bishop would be even worse. ‘My mind is a muddle.’
Lucie drew his hand to her mouth and kissed it.
He thought to coax the conversation into less dangerous territory. ‘You are a good woman, to bring Poins here. But it means more work in the household.’
‘I cannot deny that. I should not have put off finding a new nurse for the children. It is too much for Kate, with Aunt Phillippa underfoot.’
Owen knew why Lucie had put it off – first she had hoped Phillippa might recover enough to return to Freythorpe, then they had hoped being with the children might balance her. And once Lucie knew she was with child, no one had seemed quite right to take care of the older children and the baby to come.
‘Magda suggested I have someone help while Poins is here,’ said Lucie. ‘She suggested Cisotta.’ Cisotta was a young midwife who had helped Lucie in the first days.
Owen poured a cup of wine, handed it to Lucie. She shook her head.
He slipped into bed beside her, sitting up to drink his wine. ‘You truly want none?’
‘I need no wine to coax me to sleep.’ She turned to face him, though she did not sit up and barely opened her eyes. It was not like her to be so drowsy when so much had happened. ‘It is passing strange, that of all the houses in York, it is Wykeham’s that catches fire, and less than a week after he arrives,’ she murmured.
‘It is a dry autumn.’
‘Still.’
‘I pray you do not dream of the surgery you just witnessed.’
Lucie did not respond. Her breathing was deep and slow.
Four
RUMINATION
Thoresby paced his parlour long after Wykeham had retired for the night. Never had Thoresby disappointed the Church when he might help her and he would not fail her now. He would protect the Bishop of Winchester even against his ally the Duke of Lancaster, putting aside his disapproval of the man himself.
But how? He must try to reconstruct the events since the mishap with the tile a few days earlier. The Pagnell steward had come but a few hours after the incident at the lady chapel with a note from Lady Pagnell angrily denying a rumour that her family was behind it and requesting that under the circumstances Wykeham absent himself from Sir Ranulf’s funeral – as if the bishop had intended to play the uninvited guest. It was the first Thoresby had heard of the rumour. But by the following day even Sir Ranulf’s level-headed daughter Emma Ferriby was caught up in the atmosphere of ill will.
*
After presiding over his old friend’s requiem mass, Thoresby had been restless, unable to apply himself to any task. He had returned to York Minster seeking a quiet moment in the Pagnell chapel to make peace with Ranulf. But he found Emma Ferriby still kneeling before her father’s tomb, her veiled head bowed, her gloved hands pressed in prayer. A wisp of incense hung in the air over the marble effigy, not yet dispelled by the drafts that criss-crossed the great minster.
Thoresby had imagined the family and mourners long dispersed. Not wishing to interrupt Mistress Ferriby’s grief, he began to back away, but a pebble betrayed him.
Emma raised her head, turned towards him abruptly, her back tensed. ‘Who is it?’ As the veil swung away from her face Thoresby saw the marks of her weeping and was even sorrier for having disturbed her.
But the damage had been done. ‘Forgive my trespass. I did not think to find you here still.’
‘You are welcome here, Your Grace.’ Emma had a low voice for such a small woman, a calming voice, even when ragged with emotion, as now.
Thoresby knelt beside her and bowed his head in the prayer that had been his purpose in returning to the minster. His old friend’s death had been difficult to bear, dying in a French prison of a wasting disease while his ransom was being negotiated. Wykeham was sadly right, Sir Ranulf had been too old to return to France and resume the persona he had created thirty years before as a spy for King Edward – his failing memory had betrayed him. Thoresby had warned Ranulf, but the knight had insisted that God called him on the mission. Despite his frailty the old knight had been honourable to the end, refusing to divulge any other names to his captors. For that he had been tortured, Thoresby was sure of it, though diplomatic channels denied it, claiming that it was the heat of summer that had led them to bury Sir Ranulf in haste, saving only his heart, now buried here.
Thoresby had grieved to hear of that last indignity. Ever since he had witnessed the removal of a heart from a corpse, seen how the flesh was torn open, the ribs cracked, he had agreed with Pope Boniface that severing or removing any part of the body was a desecration. It seemed impossible after such mutilation that the body would arise whole on the day of resurrection. Sir Ranulf had not deserved that.
Thoresby’s aged knees began to ache. Emma Ferriby had lifted her head and now studied her father’s tomb. She had taken charge of the stonemason for the work, knowing her brothers would settle for something less than Sir Ranulf deserved, that they had thought him foolish to return to the king’s service in France. Emma honoured his loyalty and courage. As it had been her father’s dream to go on crusade against the infidel, she had ordered his effigy carved as a cross-legged knight, which was the style of many crusaders’ tombs, with heart in hand, which now gave it a terrible poignancy. The face was very like Sir Ranulf’s, even down to the way he squinted his left eye. Emma must have stood by the carver as he worked on the face. Thoresby found it disturbing.
He wondered whether she regretted the accuracy. He glanced at her. ‘Your father was fortunate in his daughter.’
The silk of her veil whispered against the fur trim on her collar as she turned to him. The clothing was too festive for the face. ‘He would not be proud of his family. There has been so much rancour, even at the minster doors. There was little love among us as we knelt for your blessing.’
Thoresby had noticed. Only in blaming William of Wykeham for abandoning Sir Ranulf were the family united.
Emma leaned forward and stretched out a hand to the tomb. ‘I no longer know what to feel about the king. How can I honour a man who so abandoned one of his most faithful servants?’
‘The king did not abandon Sir Ranulf. The Bishop of Winchester was in negotiations –’
‘Do not speak to me of his laggard negotiations!’ Her voice rang out in the church. ‘I would have done better had I gone myself to France,’ she said in a quieter tone. ‘No wonder Wykeham is no longer chancellor.’
This would not do. ‘You must be chilled and exhausted, my child. Even mourning should be done in moderation. Your family will suffer if you sicken. Come to the palace and rest yourself.’ Thoresby rose.
Emma did not move.
Several chantry priests and a handful of lay worshippers now stood outside the openwork wooden screen. Word of Emma’s outburst would spread through the city, tongues would be wagging in the market, in the taverns, in the communal dining halls of the Bedern. She was usually more sensible than this.
‘You say you are fighting for your father’s honour,’ Thoresby said in a quiet voice that he hoped only she would hear. ‘But look at the crowd you have drawn.’
She glanced over at the doorway. ‘Deus juva me.’ She rose, genuflected, crossed herself.
Thoresby led the way past the growing crowd, responding to their bows and curtsies with a slight nod of his head. In the sunlight he realized how pale Emma was and offered his hand. Hers was cold as she rested it in his.
‘I thank you, Your Grace.’
Together they walked through the palace gardens at a measured pace. Thoresby thought he felt her hand warming, either from the sun or his own warmth, it did not matter. He was glad of it.
Thoresby’s recollection was interrupted by the creaking of the parlour door.
Brother Michaelo poked his head round it. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I feared you had falle
n asleep.’
‘Are all the others abed?’
‘Yes, at long last.’
‘Bring me some brandywine.’
Michaelo bowed and departed.
In his mind, Thoresby returned to the day of the funeral, he and Emma Ferriby crossing the garden. When they entered the palace she had withdrawn her hand as Wykeham came forth to greet them, his elegant robes flowing, the jewels on his fingers winking in the shafts of sunlight coming from the high windows.
‘My Lord Bishop.’ Emma did not bow, but held herself straight. Her head trembled, her colour rose.
‘May God be with you on this day of mourning, my child,’ Wykeham said.
‘You must excuse us,’ said Thoresby. ‘Mistress Ferriby was overcome just now in the minster. I have brought her here for comfort.’ He swept her through the door of his parlour that was held open by a servant, ordered wine. Only when the door was safely shut did he look again at Emma. ‘I did not expect him to be in the hall’
‘I had forgotten he was your guest. I had imagined him at his own home in Petergate. I should not have come here. I cannot think how you can welcome the bishop into your house.’
‘My dear Emma, sit down, calm yourself.’
She chose to pace, her silk skirts rustling as she turned and turned again. She had dressed in her finest for the funeral. Her husband was a prosperous merchant, but not so wealthy that his wife commonly dressed in silk. Even her hair beneath the thin veil had been elaborately coiffed for the occasion, held in place by jewelled combs. Today she had gathered all her wealth and will around her to give her strength.
‘I imagine he did not wish to disturb his new tenant,’ said Emma. ‘A member of parliament for the shire – the bishop has cause to stay in the good graces of such a man. Our opinion, on the other hand, is of little consequence to him.’
‘Godwin Fitzbaldric was a member for Kingston-upon-Hull, Emma. He will not enjoy such prominence in York until he rises through the ranks. The bishop knows that.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Two years,’ she cried. ‘Two years the Bishop of Winchester was in negotiations while my father wasted away in prison. And he could not even reclaim Father’s body.’ Tears slipped down her flushed cheeks.
Oh, sweet child, I heed well your frustration. I feel the same. Sir Ranulf was my dear friend. But the Bishop of Winchester must not be brought down by this. ‘Your father understood the risk in what he did.’
‘His king abandoned him.’
The king is inconstant in his affections, yes, I know. ‘If the king admitted to having such men as your father established in French court circles, many more would die. The king needs to move with caution.’
She had been walking away from him, but turned, looking at him with an expression of disbelief.
‘I know they sound like empty words,’ he said. ‘They do to me as well. But it is true, the king must move cautiously in France.’
‘My father was your friend.’
‘He was. And I mourn his passing. But he would agree with me. He did not wish the king to risk the safety of others to save him. That is why he refused to name any other spies.’ Thoresby nodded towards the wine the servant had left. ‘Sit down and warm yourself with some brandywine.’ As Archbishop of York he must support the Church, particularly now. ‘Wykeham has of late suffered for the king’s cause, also.’
‘There are many say parliament was right in their judgement of Wykeham,’ said Emma, ‘that he does not have the talent of diplomacy, much needed in a chancellor. Father suffered for no fault of his own.’
The opinion of a fond daughter. Thoresby did not share it. But it was not his purpose to disillusion Emma.
His silence, however, caught her attention. She had stopped her pacing and, after studying his face for a long moment, sank down on a chair and bowed her head. ‘I have nightmares of Judgement Day.’ Her voice was now but a whisper. ‘Father lies in a pit, watching all the bones round him gather and rise, becoming whole. But he cannot lift his head, nor his arms, his legs will not move. He tries to cry out, but he has no voice.’
Thoresby crossed himself. ‘It cannot be so, Emma. All the saints would suffer likewise.’ It was what he used to comfort himself.
‘The bishop is a coward! He could not even keep track of my father’s ransom money.’
It was true. Someone had altered the documents passed between the family and Wykeham to record a lesser amount offered by the Pagnells. Wykeham had not discovered it until he returned the ransom to the family and they declared it short a considerable sum. ‘Wykeham has made recompense, has he not?’
‘If you mean did he return the entire amount after being convinced of his error, you know that he did. But he can never make recompense for my father’s life.’ Emma pressed a gloved hand to her mouth and with the other hand pressed her heart. ‘And now he insults us with charges of trying to harm him.’
‘Did he behave as if he believed that when he greeted you? It is his retainers, made uneasy by the climate at court, who suspect ill of anyone who crosses him of late.’
And his fear of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Wykeham had insulted the second most powerful man in the kingdom and quaked now at the thought of what form the duke’s vengeance might take.
Michaelo set the brandywine on the table. ‘Your Grace, shall I send your page to bed?’
‘I’d forgotten him. Yes, do that.’
Tonight Wykeham’s two clerics – Thoresby had come to think of them as the bishop’s shadows – had been told to take their dinner where they might, their lord and Thoresby would dine alone. It had been Thoresby’s hope that good wine and a leisurely dinner would warm up the bishop, encourage him to speak more of the court, of the king. Not long ago Thoresby had also been lord chancellor and close to the king. But his feud with the king’s mistress, Alice Perrers, had not sat well with Edward and Thoresby had resigned as chancellor. Although his duties as Archbishop of York called him south often, he felt distanced from the court now, out of touch.
The evening had not gone quite as Thoresby had hoped. Wykeham sat across from him, swirling the wine in his cup, picking at the fish course and staring silently at the fire in the hearth. The strain of court life told on him. He had aged and broadened in the years since they had last sat companionably before a fire, just the two of them. That had been before his promotion to bishop and then lord chancellor. Wykeham had been the king’s privy counsellor and one of the wealthiest clerics in the English Church, thanks to King Edward’s favour. As such he had been much at court, but he had not had the cares of the chancellor’s office. Since then a habit of pursing his lips had etched lines around his mouth and the frown mark between his brows looked as if it penetrated to the bone. Beneath his cap his forehead was broader, his temples silver.
‘Tell me the gossip of the court,’ Thoresby said. ‘How goes the king?’
Wykeham did not answer at once. He took a bite of fish, sipped some wine, as if considering what to say. ‘He is not the man he was.’
‘He is ailing?’
‘God forgive my saying it, but his age is telling. He grows forgetful, loses his temper with no provocation. And the vultures are moving in. The household is ruled by Mistress Alice, who guards the king night and day. It is difficult to get past her.’ Thoresby flinched at the mention of his nemesis. ‘She has grown too powerful since the death of the queen,’ Wykeham concluded.
‘The king should marry,’ Thoresby said.
‘He is too old.’
‘Mistress Perrers does not think so.’
Wykeham grunted.
‘Yet you would return as his chancellor?’ Is the man mad?
‘Once I thought all I wished for was to be Bishop of Winchester. But my king raised me higher, and I saw how I might serve him and all the kingdom. I cannot now forget that vision.’ Wykeham lifted his hand as if to feel the chain of office about his neck and, finding none, dropped it. ‘But you know my situation.’
‘I kn
ow that you agreed to be parliament’s scapegoat for the losses in France.’
A slow blush gave Wykeham some much-needed colour. He attempted a chuckle, but it sounded more like a cough. ‘You are kind to put it so.’
In spring, parliament had refused to consider King Edward’s request for a new tax for the war with France until the clerical ministers were replaced with lay ministers, particularly Wykeham, who was unpopular among the nobles. They blamed the clergy in high office for prolonging the war with France because as Churchmen they did not answer to secular authorities, so they pursued their own interests. The delays counselled by the ministers had allowed France time better to fortify its army and defences. Although the king believed the clergy were merely convenient scapegoats, he had bowed to the will of parliament and asked Wykeham to step down, hoping to replenish his war chest with a new tax. In the end, the king had gained little. He was still in debt to his Italian bankers and the crown of France was ever farther from his grasp.
‘I know my lord king,’ said Thoresby. ‘He heard the demands, looked at you with expectation and you could not deny him.’
Wykeham reached for the wine, took a long drink, set the cup down with a clatter. ‘It is as you say. I could not do less for him.’
‘I warned you – I expect you remember.’
‘You warned me of the court, not parliament.’ Wykeham cut a chunk of bread, dipped it in the fish sauce.
‘I did not expect your problems to come from the people. The king’s war has given them an unfortunate power over him.’
‘It is ever unwise to be ruled by one’s purse.’ Wykeham lifted the dripping bread to his mouth, holding a linen cloth close beneath his chin. ‘I counselled caution, the parliament judged that caution cost too dear.’ As he chewed, he wiped his fingers, then the edges of his mouth. ‘The members of parliament are fools, but the king needs their money.’
The long war with France had depleted the royal coffers and taxed the people to the point where all grew stubborn about further taxes.
