by Candace Robb
He’d noticed that Joan had straightened a little, subtly widening the distance between them, and her hand had grown heavy in his.
‘You think I have no cause to worry for my family, Your Grace?’
He read disappointment in her eyes and hastened to add: ‘I did not say that. A pilgrimage to Canterbury, with the intention of making a vow to rule wisely and with God’s guidance – that I would advise you to make, my lady. You might also contribute to the lady chapel at York Minster in memory of your husband’s grandfather.’
She warmed to his suggestions, pressing his hand. ‘I shall do so, Your Grace. A pilgrimage and an offering. Yes, these seem fitting gestures of atonement. I am most grateful for your counsel, my good lord of York.’
After Joan’s departure, Brother Michaelo brought Thoresby some more honeyed water, helping him to drink.
‘I could not help but hear you mention your lady chapel, Your Grace,’ he said, with a knowing look.
Thoresby felt himself blush. ‘Shameless, I admit. But it was worth it to see that look in your eyes once more, Michaelo. Well worth it.’
‘What look, Your Grace?’ Michaelo asked, feigning innocence.
Thoresby chuckled, Michaelo joining him, until Thoresby had a fit of coughing that reminded them both of their impending separation, and both grew solemn.
‘I forgive you, Michaelo. How could I not, when faced with the results of my own surrender to temptation?’
‘I do not deserve your forgiveness, Your Grace,’ Michaelo whispered, bowing his head.
Irritated to have to use breath to force a kindness on his secretary, Thoresby said, ‘I have no patience for humility. Accept my forgiveness and be done with it.’
‘May God watch over you, my lord,’ Michaelo murmured, and began to leave.
‘Stay a moment. I am brusque because I am uncomfortable with my own part in your surrender, Michaelo. I have neglected your spiritual needs. Benedict said that your superior, and that is me, should use every curative skill, as a wise physician does, bringing in wise counsellors for you, showing you the way to humble reconciliation. I witnessed your severe penance years ago and chose to believe that was enough, despite the arrogance that gradually reasserted itself in your character. I recommend you to Dom Jehannes. He is a good man, and a worthy counsellor.’
‘Your Grace,’ Michaelo whispered, ‘the fault is all mine.’
Thoresby shook his head. ‘After I am gone, I pray you find peace in Normandy. Now go. I am tired.’
Michaelo covered his face and hurried from the chamber.
Princess Joan had said her brief farewells, accompanied by Sir Lewis, Sir John and Lady Sybilla. Thoresby had managed to preside over the little gathering from a comfortable chair – it was pleasant to sit by the window and feel the sun on his back. He blessed their journey and bade them pray for his soul. As soon as they withdrew, he admitted to Magda that he was ready to return to his bed.
As the sounds of the princess’s departure receded in the hall, Thoresby gave a great sigh, settling back deeper into the cushions.
‘I have survived the princess’s visit.’ He winced at the breathless quality of his speech.
‘Quiet now, Thy Grace,’ said Magda.
‘She wants Archer to join her household, you know,’ Thoresby whispered. ‘What do you think of that? He would remain in Yorkshire – listening for her. Occasionally Sir John would ride north to receive his report. Do you think he will agree? He would be richly rewarded for his service. I’d need have no concern for the comfort of his family.’
‘Magda has no opinion in this, though she thinks the princess might do best not to mention her young peacock when proposing it. As for thou, see to thyself. Rest. In a few days Bird-eye will return with his family. Thou shouldst save thy voice for the children, eh?’
‘Michaelo tells me that Archer took it very hard, Gilbert’s betrayal.’
‘The princess’s visit weighed heavily on Bird-eye in many ways, Thy Grace. He has much healing to do.’
‘I would like to know that he’s well provided for.’
‘Rest.’
Alfred had suggested that Owen go home for a few days before returning with Lucie and the children.
‘The men will be on their best behaviour, after witnessing a hanging of one of their own,’ he reasoned. He looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot.
‘You grieve as much as I do,’ Owen said. ‘When I return, you hasten to York to see your lady, eh?’
Alfred had agreed. Now he came to help Owen carry his packs out to his waiting horse. ‘You have a companion for the journey.’
‘I’ve invited no one to ride with me.’
‘He says that you need the company. He’s to cheer you.’
Slinging a pack over his shoulder, Owen stepped out into the yard. Leaning against a second horse was Geoffrey Chaucer.
‘You were not on the barge this morning?’
‘Apparently not.’ Geoffrey grinned. ‘I look forward to more of Tom Merchet’s finest ale. And I want to confer with your wife Lucie about what I might use to clean the ink from my fingers – and clothes. My Pippa would be most grateful.’
To his surprise, Owen felt a little better about the journey. ‘Then let us be off to York.’
For their journey by barge to Bishopthorpe, Lucie’s family was blessed with a crisp autumn day, the foliage along the riverbank bright with colour, the garden through which they approached the palace a delight to Gwenllian and Hugh, with leaves to kick and toss. Lucie had dreaded this journey, but the weather and their companion had cheered everyone. She liked Geoffrey Chaucer the moment she set eyes on him, and she did not change her mind with longer acquaintance. His expressive face was almost always lit with amusement, even when of a sardonic flavour, his short legs and arms seemed always in motion, and his conversation always surprised her with perceptions that challenged her own. The children loved him, and he kept a close watch on Owen, yanking him out of his moods with japes or challenges that rarely failed.
She knew that the tragedy of Lady Eleanor and Gilbert’s execution had shaken Owen to the core. In their lovemaking he had clung to her as if to a lifeline; she wished that he could weep and cleanse himself. Her own dreams had been haunted by memories of her mother’s unhappiness, so like Lady Eleanor’s. Both had met bloody, tragic endings, powerless to help themselves.
In the doorway to the palace stood Brother Michaelo, drawn and subdued. But he brightened on seeing them, warmly welcoming them, and he escorted them at once to the chamber next to the great hall where Thoresby held audience from a great bed with bright silk hangings and cushions. For a moment she caught her breath and could not breathe out, shocked at the sight of the diminished John Thoresby propped against a pile of cushions. But his smile was a benediction, and so was Magda Digby’s open-armed greeting. Gwenllian was soon sitting on the bed beside her godfather, and Hugh at his feet, telling him about the wondrous barge journey.
Owen stood near the window, his back to it, with a fond smile on his face. Magda stood beside him, her arm round his waist. Alisoun sat on a chair beside Thoresby, Emma asleep in her arms. Jasper stood shyly next to Lucie on the opposite side of the bed, uncertain of his role. Geoffrey had stayed in the hall.
Thoresby had just announced to Gwenllian and Hugh that they were to have some hawks at Freythorpe Hadden, and that there was a young one that his falconer was training especially for Hugh. Lucie felt Jasper stir beside her, and, when Gwenllian slipped off the bed to grab his hands and repeat the news to him, he seemed as excited as she was.
Hugh turned questioning eyes towards Lucie. ‘Can I play with a hawk?’
Lucie laughed. ‘Jasper, why don’t you ask Alisoun to escort the three of you to the mews to see the birds?’
It took little more urging. When the room was quiet once more, Lucie sat on the bed, taking Thoresby’s bony hand.
‘You are so good to our children, Your Grace.’
‘It has been a great pleasure f
or me to watch them grow, Lucie. No doubt you have heard that I gained a daughter of late. You shall meet her at supper in the hall. She will leave soon to return to her convent. I shall miss her.’ He paused for breath. ‘Your stepson, Jasper – I would like to give him something that would please him. You must look around in the next few days and choose an object – perhaps you might note what catches his eye? I regret that I’ve not accorded him the attention I have my godchildren.’
Lucie’s emotions overwhelmed her at that request, and she lay her head on Thoresby’s shoulder and wept, while he held her close to him.
‘Sweet Lucie. You have repaid me a hundredfold for my patronage of you regarding your guild status. Your marriage, your family – thinking of you has comforted me in the darkest hours.’ He lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Blessings on you and all your family. I ask only that you think of me now and then, and pray for my soul’s redemption.’
Behind her she heard Owen clear his throat, but did not turn to him, allowing him the privacy to weep if his pride allowed him to do so.
After supper, Owen was summoned to Thoresby’s chamber. They sipped wine while talking of Owen’s family and Alisoun’s maturing, and then they grew quiet for a while.
‘You’ve often sat in judgement over me,’ Thoresby said, breaking the silence. He lifted a trembling hand to stop Owen’s protests. ‘I’ve no doubt that it was your righteous anger that protected you from those who would have kept you in Wales, that and your devotion to Lucie and your children.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I never regretted recruiting you, Archer. In faith, I never doubted your loyalty, no matter how much my orders chafed.’
‘Your Grace.’ Owen bowed his head, fighting for composure.
‘How fitting for Wykeham to rake us through the coals one last time, eh, Archer?’
Owen heard the smile in Thoresby’s voice and felt safe raising his head. ‘One last time for you, perhaps,’ he managed to say, in a steady voice.
Thoresby chuckled weakly. ‘I’ve written to him, and sent a copy of the letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, strongly advising Wykeham to reward you for your efforts on his part, on these several occasions, with a manor that abuts some of the Freythorpe fields. I seem to recall he has land there, and, if not, he is the man to arrange it.’
‘Your Grace!’ Freythorpe Hadden was Lucie’s inheritance from her father, which would pass on to their son Hugh. Owen owned no land.
‘I think you would like having property of your own to leave to your children. Not that I imagine you retiring to your country estate. Your conscience is too strong – it will overrule your desire for peace. Princess Joan favours you, and I am certain the city of York will ask you to stand as bailiff. My successor will no doubt try to coerce you into being his captain – Gilbert was a fool to think Neville would prefer him to you. Even Wykeham might expect something in return for the land. You will have no peace. But you will thrive, Archer, you and your lovely family.’ His breath had deteriorated into a pitiful wheeze.
‘You leave me with a mixed blessing, Your Grace,’ said Owen.
‘You expected me to do otherwise?’ Thoresby managed a weak smile.
‘It has been an honour to serve you, Your Grace,’ said Owen. He dared say no more.
‘God go with you, Owen Archer.’
EPILOGUE
St Leonard’s Day, Sunday, 6 November 1373
Magda, Michaelo and Ravenser sat by Thoresby’s great bed. The archbishop had been dozing for a while when, suddenly, he opened his eyes and requested a little wine to wet his mouth. Ravenser did the honour, gently lifting his uncle’s head and holding the cup to his lips.
When Thoresby lay back against the cushions, he reached for Magda’s hand.
‘Have you thought of what I might leave to you, my friend?’
‘The memory of thy friendship will be most precious to Magda,’ she said. But, seeing his gathering frown, she added, ‘Sir Richard suggested an ass and cart from thy stables, and Magda agreed that she and Alisoun might make good use of that.’
Thoresby nodded and, turning his gaze on Ravenser, said, ‘See that it is done.’ He looked on all three of them with a trembling smile. ‘God go with you, my dear friends.’ And after a last shuddering breath, he was still.
Magda gently closed his papery eyelids. ‘May thou rest in peace, Old Crow. May thy god embrace thee.’
Ravenser rose and kissed his uncle’s forehead.
Brother Michaelo’s long withheld sobs, though muffled, broke the gentle peace of the room.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WHEN I CAST John Thoresby, Archbishop of York, in the first Owen Archer novel, I did not expect to grow fond of him. Now here I sit mourning him. I’ve learned, through him, a drawback of writing about real historical figures – their lives can end all too soon, before I’m ready to part with them. Once he caught my heart, I dreaded the years ticking over towards his historical death. He was one of those rare gifts to a novelist, a character who seemed to write his scenes. From the beginning, he flowed from my imagination. He was always reliable.
I have been aware for the past few books in the series that John Thoresby died on 6 November 1373 at his palace of Bishopthorpe after a long illness. In order to cheer myself, knowing that this book would encompass that sad date, I decided to fill his palace with interesting people. A visit from the beautiful Princess of Wales coupled with a last irritation from William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, seemed just the thing. For Owen, I wanted to introduce future possibilities – I did not want to suggest that the death of the Archbishop of York brought with it my main character’s retirement. I’m not nearly finished with Owen and Lucie.
In the course of my research, reading about Thoresby’s last days and the bequests mentioned in his will teased me with possible relationships. But for the sake of a manageable plot, I might have crowded the palace with his relatives and others mentioned in that document. I settled for one enticing figure, Idonea de Brunnom, a nun at Hampole, to whom Thoresby bequeathed 100 shillings – I thought it plausible she might be his natural daughter.
As I contemplated the situation I’d set up – Princess Joan and her company staying at the palace – I saw that I had all the ingredients for a type of book that Agatha Christie would recognise: the country-house mystery, in which a group of people with wide-ranging motivations for visiting are, in a sense, marooned in a large house in the country and suddenly one dies, then another, in suspicious circumstances. The game was afoot. I enjoyed wrapping up the investigation with a variation on the classic gathering in the library in which the detective explains all – a nod to Hercule Poirot (I have a special relationship to Agatha Christie, as we share the same birthday).
The death of the Archbishop of York, the man who ranked second in the Catholic Church in England at a time when it was the religion of the realm, would have been significant at any time, but even more so when peace between Scotland and England was still fragile. The northern shires played a significant role as the buffer between Scotland and the government in Westminster, which, of course, means they also bore the brunt of the Scottish raids, and the Archbishop of York was often called upon to rally defence forces. This is why the northern families, such as the Percies and the Nevilles, had become so important – the king counted on them to secure that territory. The Percies had been prominent in the north for a long time, but the Nevilles, although they had held public offices for generations, were only now rising to prominence in the central government. It would seem to follow that a Neville as Archbishop of York would increase the family’s stature – whether Alexander Neville accomplished this will be seen in later books in this series.
The marriage history of Princess Joan, known in her lifetime as the Fair Maid of Kent, is complex. King Edward I had two wives – by his first wife he sired his heir, the future King Edward II; by his second wife he sired Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent. Joan was Edmund’s daughter. When he was executed in 1330 by his hal
f-brother’s queen and her lover, his daughter Joan was brought up for a while at court and then in the household of William Montague, Earl of Salisbury. In 1340, at the age of twelve, already known for her beauty, she secretly betrothed herself to a member of Salisbury’s household, Thomas Holand; but, while her betrothed was off fighting in Prussia, her guardian married her to his son and heir, also named William Montague. It’s not entirely clear whether Joan doubted the validity of her betrothal to Thomas or whether she was merely too young and intimidated by her guardian to reveal her previous engagement. When Thomas returned in late 1341 or early 1342, William refused to give Joan up, and it was only after capturing a man of high rank in the war with France and securing a considerable ransom that Holand could afford petitioning the pope. Montague held Joan incommunicado for a while. When, at last, he was coerced to permit Joan to speak on her own behalf, she acknowledged her former betrothal to Thomas. Joan’s marriage to William was declared annulled and she was allowed to marry Thomas in 1349. It was not long after Thomas’s death, in 1360, that Joan entered into yet another secret marriage, this time with Edward, the Black Prince. When King Edward learned of this, he was angry, to put it mildly, as he had been planning to use the marriage of his eldest son and heir to form a powerful political alliance. But, acknowledging that Joan and Edward were two consenting adults and therefore their vows were legitimate, the king resigned himself to the match – but he dissolved the clandestine marriage, ordered them to do a penance, and then had them retake their vows in an official state ceremony once papal dispensation was granted (for Joan and Edward were second cousins).
As foreshadowed in the novel, Joan is widowed in 1376. As mother to the heir apparent, she would have been grateful for advice such as Thoresby gave her in this book as to whom her son, Richard, might trust. He was eventually crowned King Richard II.
