King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Just him. What was he doing here in York? Alone? Out of livery?’

  ‘You must find out.’

  Jehannes nodded.

  Lucie reclaimed Gwenllian, who immediately began to scream. Above the din, Lucie said, ‘You must send someone to search for Bardolph before he has time to leave the city.’

  Jehannes rose to go. ‘I am such a fool.’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘You are no fool, Father. God bless you for coming. Please come back and tell me what happens.’ As she watched the two hurry from the yard she shook her head at her improved spirits. But at last they might leam something.

  John Thoresby did not like the rumour. It was said that Wykeham and the King had met with the Duke of Burgundy, a valuable prisoner of war who was held in comfortable quarters in London. According to the rumours, the King had offered Burgundy his freedom in exchange for using his influence on Pope Urban in the matter of the seat of Winchester. Thoresby did not find it surprising; the King had a penchant for creative finance. What irked Thoresby was that if the rumours were true, all the trouble at Fountains Abbey had been for naught. That made his blood boil.

  And what a mess the meeting with the abbots at Fountains had been. Jehannes had written a full account. Though the outcome, the abbots’ refusals to support Wykeham, was just what he had wished, Thoresby did not like the complications with Ned Townley and the Austin friar. They would be found, no doubt, but the situation required Archer to remain up north, and Thoresby had hoped to lure him down to court. Something was wrong, something that had begun with the death of Wyndesore’s page, and Thoresby wanted to get to the bottom of it.

  Archer’s letter had been of more interest than Jehannes’s. Archer had asked for details about the death of Alice Perrers’s maid and copied the contents of Don Paulus’s letter to the missing Don Ambrose. Thoresby must find an opportunity to speak to Mistress Perrers. It was said that she mourned her maid; her maid’s death would be a delicate subject to broach, but he suspected Mistress Perrers’s curiosity would outweigh her distress. If indeed her sorrow was sincere.

  First things first. Thoresby needed to learn more about the friars. There could be no doubt the two were concealing something. Wykeham – he might prove knowledgeable; he had intended Don Ambrose for his household.

  Thoresby waited until the King left the high table that evening, for the momentary commotion as the first wave of courtiers departed – hurrying towards rest or more private play – and those left behind reshuffled into more intimate parties. During the bustle, Michaelo was dispatched to invite Wykeham, seated at an adjoining table, to join Thoresby. While he waited, Thoresby entertained himself watching Alice Perrers dodge fawning courtiers seeking favours. Her back straight as a pike, head held high, precious stones in her gold circlet and sewn into her amber silk gown and veil glittering in the torchlight, those cat eyes sly and knowing. Notoriety made some slouch and slink, but not Alice Perrers. As her servant held open the tapestries at the end of the hall, Perrers turned; the cat eyes moved right to Thoresby. She smiled, inclined her head slightly, and slipped through the opening, the same through which Edward had disappeared. How had she felt his eyes upon her when so many others shared his curiosity? Thoresby crossed himself.

  Wykeham approached with a nervous gait, his face flushed with colour.

  Thoresby straightened, put Perrers out of his mind. ‘You are kind to join me.’

  Wykeham nodded. ‘You are kind to invite me.’ The privy councillor folded his tall, angular body into the seat beside Thoresby, adjusted his flowing sleeves. The colours might be dark and dignified, but the cut was courtly.

  ‘Is it true about Burgundy?’ Thoresby asked. Wykeham’s surprise made the Archbishop smile. ‘I see that no one was to hear.’

  ‘I thought your spy was up on the moors.’

  ‘A wise chancellor has ears wherever they are needed. But if you prefer not to speak of it, never mind. It is about another matter I wished to talk.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  Thoresby motioned to Michaelo to bring them wine. ‘It is difficult to avoid the gossip, try as I will.’

  Wykeham took out an embroidered cloth and dabbed his upper lip. The gesture was graceful, so mannered as to hide its purpose. But Thoresby could see the sweat on the councillor’s face. Wykeham’s manners grew more courtly with each day, but so did the tension that accompanied his position. Was it worth it, Thoresby wondered? Michaelo set a cup of wine before Wykeham, another in front of Thoresby.

  ‘I understand the mission to Fountains was fraught with misfortune,’ Wykeham said, sliding the cloth back up his sleeve.

  ‘Misfortune?’ Thoresby sipped his wine. ‘Far less innocent than misfortune, I think.’

  The privy councillor ignored his cup, leaned towards Thoresby with interest. ‘Less innocent?’ He glanced round as if worried that someone might overhear.

  ‘We are quite alone at this end of the high table, I assure you.’

  Wykeham’s smile was refreshingly sheepish. ‘Forgive me. But, as you just pointed out to me, rumours spread with such speed at court.’

  Thoresby laughed. ‘You are right. Let us have done with the posturing. Abbot Monkton has written to His Grace the King and you have read his account. Being a thorough man, the Abbot will have included a copy of the letter Don Paulus sent your friend, Don Ambrose. It is of that that I wish to speak with you.’

  ‘My friend Don Ambrose?’ Wykeham shook his head. ‘I thought to take him into my household but – ’ He waved the matter aside. ‘No matter. The letter, yes.’ Now he picked up the cup of wine and took a drink. ‘I found it puzzling, Don Paulus’s behaviour reprehensible. But you obviously see something more – malevolent?’

  Malevolent. A fitting word. ‘Do you not find it strange that the friars should take such an interest in the death of Ned Townley’s betrothed?’

  ‘Betrothed?’ Wykeham sat back, still holding his cup of wine. ‘I am sure I heard of no such vows.’

  Thoresby grew impatient. Did Wykeham mean to question every word in their conversation? ‘Perhaps not betrothed, perhaps the vows were more private than that. But that is not my point.’ The privy councillor had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘The point is that from the time Don Ambrose received the letter in York he behaved as if he expected trouble from Townley. Now why was that, do you suppose?’

  ‘In faith, I do not understand Don Ambrose’s behaviour. I am anxious to talk to him. He has much to explain before he joins my household.’

  ‘Was he, perhaps, ill at ease in supporting you against his fellow Austins? Might he have met with disapproval in York?’

  Wykeham seemed suddenly distracted, fussing with one of his flowing sleeves, adjusting it so that it lay smoothly along the arm of the chair. Thoresby did not recall the privy councillor paying such attention to his clothes in the past. At last, apparently satisfied with his adjustments, Wykeham met Thoresby’s eyes. ‘I take full blame for all the trouble regarding my favour with the King.’

  Jesu, give me patience. Thoresby pressed the bridge of his nose with both forefingers. ‘Quite noble, but beside the point. I am looking for facts, not apologies, Councillor.’

  Wykeham made a wry face. ‘I never know with you, Chancellor.’

  Thoresby laughed. Wykeham joined him. They lifted their cups and drank.

  ‘So.’ Wykeham drew out the embroidered cloth, dabbed his lips. ‘Facts. Don Paulus has disappeared. Did you know?’

  ‘I had heard. Vanishing is becoming quite the fashion at court.’

  ‘This Paulus has a habit of disappearing, it seems. A herbalist who does not practise discretion.’

  A herbalist. Thoresby tucked that away. ‘Do you know when he departed Windsor?’

  Wykeham shook his head. ‘Alas, no. By the time I knew to look for him, he was gone. But how long before …’ he shrugged.

  Truth? Thoresby thought so. ‘Pity.’

  ‘I have asked the King for some men to help me search
for him. His Grace has agreed.’

  ‘The King is generous. Why are you so interested? Because you feel responsible?’

  ‘And to know my enemies, if that proves to be the case.’

  ‘You learn quickly.’

  Wykeham sipped his wine. ‘I understand that Townley accused Don Ambrose of attacking him.’

  ‘He did.’ What was he getting at? And when had the councillor taken control of this quizzing?

  Wykeham flicked at an invisible speck on his sleeve. ‘To be honest, that is so unlikely that it makes me doubt the rest.’

  The averted eyes said otherwise. ‘Come now. Even Abbot Richard of Rievaulx attests to Don Ambrose’s strange behaviour. What is there to doubt?’

  ‘That Townley had not seen the letter until that night, or heard about the drowning and Paulus’s failure to act until after Ambrose’s supposed attack.’

  ‘Do you have evidence to support these suppositions?’

  ‘No.’

  Thoresby was disturbed by his own sense of relief. He was worried that Wykeham knew more than he. What in Heaven’s name was wrong with him? ‘In any case, what difference would it make if Townley had known of his lady’s drowning before that night?’

  ‘Townley has a quick temper, they say. A violent temper.’

  ‘One might say that of any soldier.’

  ‘But not of Austins, I should think.’

  ‘No. They slink away.’

  Wykeham sniffed.

  Thoresby had expected a chuckle. So be it; the man was bent on a point. ‘What are you suggesting, Councillor?’

  ‘It is far more likely that Townley attacked the friar, perhaps merely because he wore the robes of the man who had seen his lady floating in the Thames and had left her there as food for the fish.’ Wykeham winced at the indelicacy of his own words. ‘Forgive me.’

  Fascinating to witness the metamorphosis of a decent man into a hardened courtier. ‘So you are inclined to believe Ned Townley attacked Don Ambrose. So?’

  Wykeham sighed. ‘So I have won an argument. An empty victory.’ Pressing his fingers to his temples, Wykeham rose. There were dark hollows beneath his eyes that had not been there before. ‘I shall share with you what I learn about Don Paulus, Chancellor. And now I must say good-night.’

  Long after Wykeham departed, Thoresby sat in his chair, sipping his wine and examining his feelings. He had watched such a play of emotions wash over the councillor’s face – pride, fear, ambition, uncertainty, regret. One might almost pity him. But how hypocritical, when Thoresby’s own insecurity had made him play a silly game with the man. When had Thoresby himself become such a courtier?

  Sixteen

  An Invitation to Dine

  Thoresby’s chambers at Windsor were in the new wing near the royal apartments, large and comfortable, with a hearth that served both the parlour and bedchamber. Queen Phillippa had seen to his placement here, one of her many acts of generosity towards him. Alice Perrers occupied the mirror apartment at the other end of the long hallway, also the Queen’s choice. Did Phillippa ever regret inviting Alice into her household?

  Tonight Thoresby and Alice would dine in the Archbishop’s parlour. Quite civilised, enemies dining on food from the royal kitchen, fine wine from Thoresby’s cellar, warmed by a fire burning in the hearth, the torches along the wall lighting the elegant tapestries depicting such courtly activities as tournaments and dancing in the great hall. Would Alice notice the tapestries? He remembered Archer’s first visit to his London chambers, the hawk eye studying the hunt tapestries that had been designed for the parlour. Thoresby did not recall Alice studying these when she had visited him in his old quarters in the lower ward. He certainly could not remember noting the decoration in Alice’s parlour when he had returned her visit; but she had been distraction enough.

  She would not distract him tonight. Thoresby meant to impress Alice with his courtly manners, allow her every opportunity to display her infamous wit. He meant to sit back and watch, and listen, and make her so comfortable she would speak to him of Mary’s death.

  Thoresby’s page, Adam, staggered into the room with a basket loaded with the first items for the supper. Michaelo followed him in. Already the table was covered with a linen cloth, Thoresby’s finest Italian goblets, silver platters, spoons, even a bowl of dried, fragrant herbs from Lucie Wilton’s garden to scent the room. Adam now drew several bottles from the basket, a ripe cheese, a loaf of pandemain.

  Thoresby was well pleased.

  Michaelo proffered a tall, narrow bottle.

  ‘Your family’s liqueur?’ Thoresby asked.

  ‘I thought the occasion might warrant it.’ Michaelo lifted an inquiring eyebrow. His family was known for this exquisite concoction, but the last time Thoresby had heard of it was when someone had used the intense flavour to mask an unsavoury, dangerous additive.

  Though it was true that Thoresby would have liked to see the last of Alice Perrers, a man in his position had to take subtler action. ‘It is quite safe?’

  Michaelo smirked. ‘I assure you it is. A heady mixture of herbs and honey, nothing more. However, should you require …’

  ‘I do not.’

  Michaelo erased the smile.

  Thoresby glanced at the other items. ‘You have outdone yourselves, both of you.’

  Still nonplussed by the rebuff of his attempt to amuse, Michaelo bowed stiffly. ‘These are merely the accessories, Your Grace. Adam will fetch the kitchen servants to deliver the hot dishes after Mistress Perrers arrives.’

  ‘Let us hope she warms to the hospitality.’

  ‘If all is well, I shall leave the remaining preparations to Adam,’ Michaelo said, pausing by the door until Thoresby waved him away.

  Adam opened the door with a flourish, bowing low to Gilbert and his lady. The young servant stepped back to allow Mistress Perrers a sweeping entrance. Resplendent in crimson velvet and silk, pearls sprinkled on the costly gown, in her hair, and on her transparent veil, Alice Perrers made the most of her arrival. The colour, Thoresby knew, had been chosen to be provocative. Which it was, it was.

  ‘You do me honour, Mistress Perrers,’ Thoresby said.

  ‘My Lord Chancellor, it is I who am honoured.’ Her voice matched her gown, all silk and velvet. ‘But will you not call me Alice? You did so when I entertained you in my chambers.’ Her smile was playful.

  Thoresby had not invited Alice Perrers for a evening of cat and mouse. He wondered whether honesty might halt the game. ‘I was drunk and discourteous at that meeting,’ he said. ‘I did not invite you to dine with me in order to repeat my shameful behaviour, but rather to begin again.’ The last part was not entirely honest, but it was plausible, and it suited his purpose.

  The cat eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘You are a man of many surprises. ’

  ‘Might we try to begin again?’

  ‘Certainly, Your Grace.’ She made the formal address sound intimate.

  While they dined, Thoresby kept to pleasantries about court, details about the wine, amusing stories of York. Alice, for her part, also kept to light topics, though she seemed unable to resist flirting with her eyes and gestures. It was not until the fish and venison had been removed that Thoresby turned to the real discussion.

  ‘I have not had the opportunity to extend my condolences at the loss of your maid, Mary.’ At once the cat eyes lost their sparkle. ‘I understand she was more ward than servant.’

  Alice dropped her head, took a moment to reply. ‘I was fond of Mary.’

  ‘She was attending you at your house in town when it happened?’

  Without looking up, Alice shook her head. ‘No.’ Now she raised her head. The cat eyes glistened, but with tears, not amusement. Thoresby could not remember having seen her thus before. ‘The silly girl had fallen in love with Ned Townley, as I am sure you know,’ Alice said, her voice strained. ‘I opposed the match. I pushed her too far. She ran away.’ She dropped her eyes.

  ‘You blame yourself?
’ An unexpected twist.

  Alice gestured towards Adam. ‘If your servant were to run from you, would you not feel responsible?’

  ‘Forgive me for mentioning it.’ His apology was surprisingly sincere.

  Alice lifted her cup, sipped the liqueur. ‘Why are we speaking of Mary’s death?’

  Never so deeply in mourning that she let down her guard. ‘I wondered whether you had heard of Ned Townley’s disappearance after reading a puzzling letter about Mary’s drowning?’

  A flush of discomfort. ‘I have heard rumours. Have you read the letter?’

  So she had not. Interesting. ‘I have. In fact, one of my men copied the contents. Would you like me to read it?’

  A moment’s hesitation. ‘Please do.’

  Thoresby found the pause, the tight voice, most intriguing. Apprehensive? Was the King withholding this information from his mistress? Or was this a sign of a more serious rift? Thoresby nodded to Adam, who disappeared into the next room for the letter. He had staged it thus so neither Alice nor her servant might see in which trunk Thoresby kept his papers. Perhaps an unnecessary precaution. Nevertheless …

  While awaiting the letter, Thoresby told Alice of Don Ambrose’s behaviour on the journey to Rievaulx.

  ‘Don Ambrose?’ Alice’s hand moved up to her throat, her eyes mirrored the surprise in her voice.

  He had indeed cracked Alice’s seemingly impregnable shell. ‘You had not heard of Don Ambrose’s part in this?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘An Austin friar. That is all I heard.’

  Adam returned with Owen’s letter. Thoresby read his transcription of Don Paulus’s letter. As he finished, he glanced up, saw an Alice drained of colour. ‘You are shocked.’

  ‘How could he be so cruel as to leave her there?’ Her voice was a whisper, her cat eyes were wide, battling tears.

  Thoresby resisted a desire to console her. ‘Precisely why I wished you to hear it, Mistress Perrers. I thought you might be able to tell me why Don Paulus would write such a letter. Two things puzzle me – the assumption that Don Ambrose will understand why he neither pulled Mary from the river nor told anyone what he had seen, and why Ambrose and Paulus concerned themselves with Mary at all.’