by Candace Robb
Thoresby told himself that he was defending the Queen’s honour, but it was Phillippa herself who had first shown Perrers preference. Had Alice not been the Queen’s favourite, she might never have been placed in such constant contact with the King. The Queen feigned ignorance of the affair by never mentioning it. But everyone at court knew that Perrers’s little bastard was the King’s. It sickened Thoresby to think of the hurt that the kindly Queen hid so well.
The unpleasant truth was that the Queen’s honour accounted for only part of Thoresby’s animosity towards Alice Perrers. The other reason was shameful. He lusted for her. No matter the prayer, the penance, the staunch resolve, when he looked on her his blood ran hot. Which made him hate her all the more. Her presence at court was a constant torment. And thus he was resolved to rid the court of her. Or to leave himself.
At the door to the King’s chambers Thoresby paused, checking his clothes, dabbing the sweat from his upper lip and temples, straightening his chain of office, clearing his throat. He then nodded to the door warden to knock. A servant opened the door from within, announced Thoresby. Sweet Heaven, when had the King adopted such ceremony in his own apartments?
Thoresby was disappointed to see William of Wykeham, ascetic and sombre in his clerical robes, already seated near a window, his long, slender hands folded calmly in his lap, heavy-lidded eyes cast discreetly down. Thoresby had thought he was to see the King alone, a chat between old friends.
‘Ah, there you are, John.’ Edward came forward, arms outstretched, stopping short of touching Thoresby. He made a sweeping motion towards the table at which Wykeham sat. ‘Come, sit with us. We have much to discuss.’
A servant brought wine, which Thoresby accepted but let stand for now. Wine taken too soon after activity would bring on a cold sweat, and he must not appear nervous or even uncomfortable in front of Wykeham.
The King settled himself in a well-cushioned chair. As soon as he sat, out came the dagger with which he increasingly expressed himself in conversation, stabbing here, jabbing there. It was as if with the stooping of his once mighty shoulders and the clouding of his once piercing eyes Edward had chosen the dagger to instil fear in his people. ‘So. Well met, my counsellors. You have something for me, John?’
‘I have indeed, Your Grace. Letters for the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx.’ Thoresby pulled them from his purse, handed them to the King’s servant, who waited beside the Archbishop’s chair.
Edward squinted at the documents, then back to Thoresby with raised eyebrows. ‘Already sealed?’
On second thought, Thoresby had decided that the King would see through his crafty prose and had sealed the letters. The King might yet open them, but he might not. Thoresby creased his brow in an expression of concern. ‘You did not wish me to put the seals of chancellor and archbishop on them, Your Grace? Forgive me, I misunderstood. I thought you wished to impress on them the weight of my opinion.’
The King said nothing, holding Thoresby’s eyes with his old power. Thoresby regretted the ploy. Wykeham gave a nervous cough that echoed in the lengthening silence. The floorboards creaked as the servant shifted his weight. Thoresby’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears. The King sat with his back to the window, so that the light caught the coarse white hairs on his ears, the seams in the royal neck.
Oh Edward, Edward, we grow so old. Please, my King, be wise in your last years. Put that she-devil from you and comfort sweet Phillippa, Thoresby prayed silently.
The King suddenly smiled. ‘Of course that was the point, John, and you did well to seal them. You are as competent as ever.’
Now Thoresby yearned for the wine, but he must wait until his heartbeat slowed, else his hands would tremble and give him away.
Wykeham, however, was not so wise. He grabbed his goblet and took a good, long drink, returning it to the table with a nervous clatter.
The King grinned unpleasantly at his protégé. ‘What, William? Did my silence make you nervous?’ He sat back, studied Wykeham, who dropped his eyes to the table directly in front of him. ‘Are you easily bullied, William? How then will you stand up to His Holiness?’ Edward turned to Thoresby. ‘Am I making a mistake, John? Is William too gentle to be my bishop?’ Thoresby thought Wykeham’s rising colour could as easily be caused by anger as by fear. But Edward did not wait for a reply; he closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘God will guide me.’ He opened his eyes, leaned forward, pointed the dagger at Thoresby. ‘Captain Archer is standing ready?’
Thoresby hesitated only a second, accustomed to the shifts in the King’s moods. ‘By now he has received his orders, Your Grace.’
‘And the Archdeacon of York?’
Thoresby bowed towards Edward. ‘And the Archdeacon, Your Grace.’ Calm now, he lifted his cup to his lips, drank deeply.
‘So,’ the King continued, ‘we have the letters, the York contingent, all that is still to do is send the letters north, eh?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Townley, Gaunt’s spy, is to lead the party north.’
Thoresby choked on a second sip of wine, managed to mask it as a cough. John of Gaunt’s spy? Was this Lancaster’s move to foil Wykeham?
Before Thoresby could think of a comment, Wykeham jumped in with a protest. ‘But, Your Grace!’
Edward turned slowly towards Wykeham. ‘You disapprove?’ The ice in his voice was unmistakable.
Wykeham’s already heightened colour deepened. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but Ned Townley … Perhaps you have not heard the rumours, but surely you have heard of the drowning of Sir William of Wyndesore’s page?’
‘Ah.’ The King rolled his eyes. ‘That nonsense. Mistress Alice assured me that Townley could not be guilty, he lay with her maid that night.’
Thoresby closed his eyes. Mistress Alice. What was she up to?
‘Still, Your Grace, there are those who yet whisper …’ Wykeham began.
‘Indeed. That is just the point, William. He is condemned when he is innocent. Townley is best out of the way until Wyndesore convinces his men of their mistake, or at least until tempers cool. We would not want my son’s spy attacked, would we?’ Edward pointed his dagger at Thoresby again. ‘And his man Archer was Townley’s captain, did you know that, William? Archer was Henry of Grosmont’s captain of archers. Who better to take charge of Townley for now?’
Wykeham’s tall frame trembled. With rage, Thoresby was certain. The privy councillor’s usually expressionless face registered indignant disbelief. ‘Your Grace, I beg you. I must protest for yet another reason.’
King Edward sighed, leaned back in his chair, studied his nails, cleaned one with the tip of his dagger. ‘You grow tedious, William.’
Thoresby drank his wine and thanked his good fortune. The King might rethink his preference for Wykeham if the man proved intractable.
Wykeham licked his lips. ‘Your Grace, I am quite sure that the Duke of Lancaster opposes my promotion. And as Ned Townley is his man, I am frankly uneasy.’
‘So I can see.’ The King glanced at Thoresby. ‘This Townley. Was he not the one who found that rogue Sebastian for me?’
‘With Captain Archer’s aid, yes, Your Grace.’
Edward grinned, turned back to Wykeham. ‘He has been trained to obey orders. He is my son’s man. He will obey me, William.’
Wykeham nodded, lifted his cup to his lips with surprisingly steady hands, and sipped carefully. ‘Who travels north with Ned Townley, Your Grace?’
‘It will be the same as with the other groups I have dispatched. Soldiers, a priest or a friar – several in some cases.’ Edward suddenly pounded the table. ‘I know what will let you rest easy. Don Ambrose will accompany Townley. He is loyal to you, and an Austin friar – though they like to preach against pluralists, here is one devoted to you. That should impress the saintly Cistercians. What do you say, William?’
Thoresby was puzzled. An Austin friar on such a mission?
Wykeham’s long face wore a pained expression. ‘Your Grace, I had thought to take Amb
rose into my household.’
‘All the better. Knowing he is to reside in your household on his return, the man will be doubly dutiful.’
Wykeham glanced over at Thoresby, who closed his eyes slowly, opened them, gave one almost invisible nod. Accept the King’s plan. There is nothing you can do.
Wykeham understood. He gave the King a little bow. ‘Forgive me for questioning the plan, Your Grace. I can see now that all will be well.’
Well, he was a fool if he meant that, Thoresby thought. Something odd was behind this plan. He could not help suspecting his old enemy, Alice Perrers.
Four
The King’s Bishop?
Early the following day Thoresby received an invitation to dine with Wykeham. He had expected the invitation; it had been obvious that the King’s choice of escorts for the journey to Fountains had disturbed the privy councillor. Thoresby accepted the invitation with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
He made his way to Wykeham’s quarters in the early afternoon, amused by their location in the same tower in which Wykeham had resided as Clerk of Works, supervising the renovation and expansion of the King’s castles. Wykeham lived among the guards, lesser clerics, and servants. As Keeper of the Privy Seal, it was an inappropriate residence. Thoresby assumed it artful humility.
The building was at least of sturdy stone, and the windows were glazed. It was not one of the typical lower ward wattle and daub structures that periodically burned. A clerk led Thoresby up to the main chamber. The Archbishop bowed his head and stepped through the doorway; within, he brought his head up to gaze round in surprise. It was a far more comfortable room than he had expected, of generous size, with a curtained bed in the corner to the left of the doorway, a brazier and a table with chairs nearby, a writing-desk beneath a south-facing window.
‘The councillor is up in his workroom,’ the clerk said, leading Thoresby up yet another flight. Thoresby entered the room and paused, amazed. On makeshift counters along the wall and tables in the middle of the room stood models – towers, turrets, stairways, porches, window tracery, archways, gates, a small house, a mill – some tall, some quite small, some visible only by peering behind or over one of the others. Thoresby slowly wandered through the maze, marvelling at the care that had been taken with even the simplest model. He touched nothing for fear he might do damage. Few of the models seemed intended for display – most were unpainted, made from salvaged wood, stones, obviously whatever came to hand – but all had been assembled with careful measurement.
Was this Wykeham’s purpose in inviting him here, to his rooms: to give Thoresby a glimpse of his heart? For surely this was evidence of the overriding passion of Wykeham’s life. But why would Wykeham care to impart this to him?
Thoresby found his host at the far end, kneeling in front of a clever model of the Round Tower. The tower stood on a mound fashioned from layers of mud and pebbles. ‘Welcome to my workroom,’ Wykeham said as he noticed Thoresby standing behind him.
‘This is a remarkable collection.’
Wykeham nodded. ‘Years of my life.’ As he rose, unfolding his tall, angular body, his knees made popping sounds. ‘I knelt too long. This tower is always cold and damp. I should pull up a stool, but that requires planning, and I never know what will catch my attention.’
Thoresby could understand. His eyes were drawn here and there, making new discoveries. ‘You are considering repairs to the tower?’
Wykeham glanced back at the model he’d been studying and shook his head. ‘No. I was thinking of Daniel’s accident.’ He crouched down again, picked up a wooden peg approximating the page, Daniel, and placed it at the top of the mound. The moment he took his hand away, the peg tumbled down the slope. ‘You see, that is the problem. One does not easily stand there, certainly not in the snow. Not to mention the fact that if he had climbed the mound he would have left footprints, yet there were none that I could see, only the scar of his fall.’
Thoresby considered that. ‘Daniel fell from somewhere on the tower itself?’
Wykeham rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps.’ He placed the figure atop the tower, let it tumble from above. It hit the slope halfway down and followed an erratic course.
‘You believe Ned Townley is guilty?’
Still crouched before the model, studying it, Wykeham shook his head. ‘No. It is not that.’ He pointed to the top of the mound, where the tower rested. ‘The snow melts up there during the day, freezes once more come nightfall. By the time I asked to examine it, I could no longer distinguish the scar or any footprints.’
Thoresby found Wykeham’s curiosity surprising. ‘You climbed round the tower looking for footprints?’
Wykeham straightened up again. ‘I do not seek to point a finger at Ned Townley. What I do not like, cannot account for, is the lack of interest in finding the cause of the lad’s death.’
‘You do not believe it was an accident?’
Wykeham shrugged. ‘I cannot discount an accident. But what I do not believe is that the page got drunk, walked out into the night and was inspired by the snow to try sliding down the mound. If he’d been drunk, he would have given up any attempt to climb the mound with the first slip; drunks have no patience.’
‘So he climbed the steps.’
Wykeham shook his head. ‘Had he climbed the steps up to the tower and walked round, he would have slipped closer to the steps.’ Wykeham leaned over, pointed to the location of the scar in the snow. ‘His fall occurred out of sight of any of the guards. Did you note that?’
Thoresby was surprised by Wykeham. He seemed a different person from the man who had made the King so impatient. More confident. ‘You have considered this with care.’
Wykeham shrugged. ‘God forgive me, but it is the tiny details that fascinate me. In incidents as well as buildings.’
Thoresby crouched down, studied the mound, the tower. It was true, the guards were stationed out of sight of that very spot. He rose. ‘So tell me this. If the lad did not climb the mound, and he did not gain access to the tower, and he did not try skirting it, what happened?’
Wykeham threw up his hands. ‘I do not know.’
‘If it was murder, how was it carried out?’
Wykeham shook his head. ‘I do not know.’
Thoresby stared down at the model, feeling a bit of a fool for thinking of none of this himself.
‘I built this model when the King spoke of heightening the tower, but now I doubt that will happen in his lifetime.’ Wykeham’s voice was sad.
Thoresby turned back to his host. ‘The funds have been expended for the war in France?’
Wykeham’s expression matched his voice. ‘The war has emptied the coffers. Whatever we finally win from France, it will have cost too dearly.’
‘In lives as well as building projects.’
Wykeham turned a startled eye on the Archbishop. ‘You cannot think I am unaware of that?’
Thoresby held up his hands, palms out, shook his head. ‘Forgive me. I intended no insult. We may be tearing at the same bone, but I do not think you a heartless man.’
Wykeham bowed slightly, then motioned towards the steps. ‘Shall we descend and sit comfortably? Peter has wine waiting for us, and in a little while he will amaze us with a pie he has coaxed out of the guards’ cook.’
Thoresby followed his host down the narrow stairs. As he took a seat by the fire, he reached out towards the heat, rubbing his hands together. He had grown quite cold up in the workroom. ‘I was not aware that the post of Clerk of Works went to men educated in architecture, appropriate though that may be. I thought it usually a political appointment.’
Wykeham smiled as he settled into the chair nearest the brazier and turned it at an angle to the table, facing the fire. ‘My knees,’ he explained. Peter stepped forward to pour the wine. ‘Not all Clerks of Works have shared my interest in architecture. But when I was appointed, the King had plans for much building.’ The sadness had crept back into Wykeham’s voice.
Wykeham settled back in his chair. ‘We accomplished a great deal. Improvements to Eltham and Sheen, much of this castle …’ he shrugged. ‘I am content.’
Thoresby glanced over at the bed. ‘You work on the models when you are wakeful?’
Wykeham smiled. ‘When prayer fails to calm me to sleep, yes, I rise, light the lamp, find a problem I have not resolved.’
‘And you eventually grow drowsy?’
Wykeham laughed. ‘A wiser man would choose what made him drowsy, but I am usually still staring at the problem when Peter comes to wake me for mass.’
Thoresby was intrigued. ‘What keeps you awake at night?’
Wykeham leaned forward. ‘We come to the point so quickly. Good. We are both busy men.’ He motioned to Peter for more wine. When it was poured, Wykeham sat bent slightly over his cup for a moment, his long, thin fingers wrapped round it.
Thoresby wondered whether Wykeham was back at the Round Tower, puzzling over Daniel’s death. ‘It is about our interview with the King?’
Wykeham looked up, his eyes no longer sad, but wary. He sat back, tasted his wine, set the cup carefully on the table, as if it were very important to arrange it in a specific position. Only then did he reply. ‘I want to know how you have arranged for the King to send your spy, Captain Archer, and his friend, Ned Townley, on this mission. And why.’ He held Thoresby’s eyes with his.
But the show of strength meant nothing to Thoresby. The substance did. It suggested a surprising insecurity. ‘I was under the impression that our King had no secrets from you.’
The pale face reddened slightly, but the eyes did not waver. That is no answer.’
Thoresby lifted his eyebrows. ‘That is because I have none for you.’
Wykeham sat back with a disbelieving sniff.
