King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  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.’

  ‘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 ange
r? ‘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 pu
p.’

  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.’

  Epilogue

  Jasper 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.