Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

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 fallen 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.’