Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

But what sort of mother would send her children away while she remained in the city to see to her business? Gwenllian and Hugh would be frightened. They needed her. How could she have done this? Was she an unnatural mother?

Owen broke into her thoughts. ‘They are my children, too, Lucie. If I had been certain that keeping them here was the best thing to do, I would have fought for it.’

Lucie took a deep breath. In a steadier voice she asked, ‘Have you heard aught from Archbishop Thoresby?’

‘Not a word. I imagine him spending the whole day praying in the Queen’s chambers. And praying in his own chamber at night. He has no time to write to his steward.’ Owen was the steward of Bishopthorpe, the archbishop’s manor south of York.

‘He will take the Queen’s passing very hard, should it come to that,’ Lucie said.

‘There was a time when I would have found a sinful pleasure in that. But now I pity him.’

‘… Until you are the butt of his foul humour.’

‘Oh aye.’

‘You heard about the fire yesterday?’

‘Magda smelled it. I feared for you.’

Lucie touched the back of Owen’s neck. ‘I worried about you on the river.’

Comrades on the road, because they are thrown in such intimate company, are away from their regular business, and have time to while away, will oft talk of things they might not otherwise. As Richard de Ravenser dined with his uncle, Archbishop Thoresby, at an inn on their journey to York, the nephew plucked up the courage to ask, ‘What is the trouble between you and Mistress Alice Perrers? Do you- Had you hoped-’ The chill in his uncle’s eyes silenced Ravenser.

Thoresby speared a piece of meat, chewed, washed it down with wine, then at last leaned on the table with one elbow and looked his nephew in the eye. ‘As the Queen’s man, how can you ask? Every breath Perrers takes near the Queen poisons the air. It has killed her.’

‘But surely it is the King who-’

‘Hush, you foolish man! That is treasonous talk.’

Ravenser nervously looked round. ‘That is not in my heart.’

Thoresby pushed his trencher aside, handed his knife to the servant who stood behind him, and took in turn a linen cloth with which he thoughtfully wiped his lips. ‘Let us turn our minds to something more pleasant. Your troubles in York.’

‘I hardly consider them pleasant.’

‘Ah. But one might resolve them.’

‘How? The revenues from the Petercorn diminish every year. It is not only the bad harvests. The King releases more and more people from the debt.’ Ravenser felt his supper curdling in his stomach just thinking of the nightmare. ‘And then this year you had so generously offered the revenue from the Lammas Fair. Alas. The pestilence has killed that hope.’ He wiped his brow. ‘But worst of it are the corrodians. You know how long I have argued against the sale of corrodies. A quick and fatal source of money. And now my warnings are turned against me.’

‘An irony, to be sure. I fear you cannot count on the canons to assure people that you had warned them against corrodies.’

‘Hardly.’

‘How did such a rumour begin, Richard? Who spread the news of your financial troubles?’

The very question Ravenser dreaded. Not that he knew the original source, but he had a suspicion about who had kept the rumour alive. He did not find it easy to lie to his uncle. But he thought it best in the circumstances: the man was dead now; it was best forgotten. ‘Only the canons should have such knowledge.’

‘Indeed.’ Thoresby let the word resonate for a moment. Ravenser detected doubt in his tone. ‘Do you trust your canons? You have disagreed with them over the years.’

A deep breath, steady now. Ravenser would speak only truth. ‘I trust them to understand the importance of St Leonard’s good name. But tongues wag. A servant overhears. Or a corrodian. I have turned people away who wished to purchase corrodies. They do not always understand my position. But you know as well as I that if the people wish to believe rumours, no matter how absurd, there is little one can do to dissuade them.’

Thoresby signalled his servant to pour wine. ‘I thought perhaps this malicious rumour might have politics as its purpose. But you think not?’ He asked the question in a coaxing tone.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Yes.’

Ravenser stared down at his cup. How did his uncle know he had not told him all? He wondered whether his uncle could hear his stomach churning.

He did not know why he was so hesitant to voice his suspicions, particularly to his uncle, a man of much more experience. The archbishop might suggest a remedy. Or reassure him that his sense of guilt was unfounded. Ravenser lifted his cup, drank. Unwise. He felt his bowels loosen. ‘You must excuse me.’ He rose.

Thoresby nodded towards the remnants of their meal. ‘Greasy meat. Do you wish for an escort? One of my men-’

‘There is no need,’ Ravenser said, and hurried out the back way.

The episode was enough to convince him he must tell his uncle about a ridiculous argument with William Savage, the late mayor.

Savage had arrived at their meeting dressed too warmly for the April day, in heavy mayoral robes and hat. A foolish formality in such weather, Ravenser had thought, so no doubt considered necessary to press some point.

‘Sir Richard.’ Savage bowed slightly. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed man with a sanguine complexion, always looking as if he had stayed too long in the sun, even in winter. He was large, but not portly; a man who did justice to the elegant mayoral robes. Ravenser noticed that he clutched a linen cloth in his hand; it would be needed at his brow. ‘God bless you for agreeing to this meeting,’ Savage said. ‘I am most grateful.’

Had Ravenser had a choice? He had not considered the possibility. ‘Please, put yourself at ease.’ Ravenser indicated a chair by the window. ‘Sit and share some wine.’

With a flourish of musty robes, Savage sat and dabbed at his forehead.

When the wine had been poured and the servant dismissed and still the mayor had not declared his purpose, Ravenser inclined his head. ‘Do you come on official business, my lord mayor?’

Savage set down his cup, his hand and eyes lingering on it momentarily as he collected his thoughts. Then he met Ravenser’s curious gaze. ‘I come on a private matter, Sir Richard. My wife’s mother has recently been widowed, and although we are much concerned for her and wish to ease her through this difficult time, she is in need of more attention than we can give her from day to day.’ The mayor’s expression changed subtly, a raising of the eyebrows, lowering of the corners of the mouth, as if pleading. ‘We hope, indeed we pray that you will accept her as a corrodian of St Leonard’s-’ He held up his gloved hand as Ravenser opened his mouth to speak. ‘We shall pay a fair price, Sir Richard. We should not think of asking favours.’

Not asking favours. And yet Ravenser knew full well that the Savage house could accommodate another person, and its considerable staff could see to the dowager’s needs. The mayor simply did not wish his wife’s mother to burden them with a long illness. ‘Forgive me, Master Savage, but I must disappoint you. St Leonard’s is no longer selling corrodies.’

The mayor’s blue eyes narrowed even as his mouth expanded in a smile. He lifted his hands, palms upwards in supplication. ‘But surely, Sir Richard, in certain cases-’

‘Again, I must disappoint you. Even His Grace Our King has been refused corrodies for his retainers.’ Ravenser nodded at the surprise registered on his guest’s face. ‘Indeed, you see the firmness of my resolve. It is a matter of survival. The selling of corrodies once seemed a sound financial scheme, but it has proved disastrous. The quality of our care appears to prolong life, you see. And with a corrody being a fixed sum … Well, to be blunt, the corrodians outlive their subsidies and become a burden on the house.’ Even as Ravenser spelled this out he heard his uncle Thoresby’s voice warning him against explaining oneself. Thus is an argument twisted and prolonged .