Candace Robb: The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Equally unnerving was the summons to London that he had just received from his uncle, John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. It seemed an odd time for his uncle to choose to journey to London when he might have remained secluded and relatively safe at Bishopthorpe. Ravenser did not mind the short ride from Westminster to London, but he wished he knew his uncle’s purpose. Presumably he had arrived recently, for Ravenser had heard nothing of his uncle’s presence in the city. Which meant Thoresby’s business with Ravenser had some urgency. He was to attend Thoresby at his house at sext, which gave him little more time to prepare than it would take to arrange for a horse to be brought round.

Juniper wood burned in a brazier near John Thoresby’s chair. In his hand he held a ball of ambergris. The window to his small garden was closed. And this morning he had forgone the bath for which he yearned. He was determined to survive the pestilence and fulfil his oath to complete the Lady Chapel at York Minster.

Thoresby was in London examining the deeds to his palace at Sherburne so that he could ascertain whether he had the right to tear it down for its stones, with which he might complete the chapel. But this morning a missive had arrived that he must discuss with his nephew, Richard de Ravenser.

It was well for Ravenser that he arrived at the prescribed time. Thoresby already felt impatient with his nephew. What was not so clever was Ravenser’s choice of garb: a costly blue silk houppelande and bright green leggings. The silk would be ruined by the man’s sweat, which Thoresby thought considerable. Remarkable that such a slender man could work up such a lather on the brief ride from Westminster.

‘You would rival the peacocks in any garden,’ Thoresby said. It was impossible to tell whether Ravenser blushed, he was already so red. Red, sweaty, dressed like a peacock — and looking with every season more like Thoresby himself, though more pinched in the mouth and desperate round the eyes.

‘Your Grace.’ Ravenser bowed. ‘I came as quickly as I might.’

‘No time to change into something more elegant?’

A surprised look. ‘I confess I dressed whilst awaiting my steed and escort.’ Ravenser frowned down at his clothes. ‘A poor choice?’

‘They tell me that you aspire to my position. Do they speak true, Richard?’

Ravenser glanced at a chair. ‘May I?’

‘You are weary from your ride. Of course.’ Thoresby watched his nephew smooth the back of his garment, flutter the sleeves so they might drape over the arms of the chair. His taste for finery was more suited to court than to chancery or the Church. ‘Wine?’

The Queen’s Receiver glanced up with a guileless smile. ‘That would be a great comfort.’ Thoresby guessed it was the quality of Ravenser’s smile, so unexpected in a man of his status, that pleased the Queen. It made him seem an innocent in a world of ministers cynical from experience.

‘If it is true that your ambitions lie in the Church, I would recommend that you adopt a more clerical look,’ Thoresby said.

Ravenser looked stricken. ‘Your comment about peacocks was not in jest?’

‘Hardly.’

A servant slipped from the corner of the room, poured watered wine into two Italian glass cups, offered one to Ravenser from the tray. He took it, drank thirstily. The servant stood by, ready to refill the cup. After the second, Ravenser sighed happily and drew out a linen cloth to dab at his lips.

Thoresby lifted the offending missive with the tip of his finger, nodded for the servant to hand it to Ravenser. ‘I received this today. I thought you might wish to discuss it.’

Ravenser’s eyes fell to the bottom of the missive, and he frowned. ‘Roger Selby, the mayor? But what of William Savage?’

‘He died in late May. You had not heard? Selby was sworn in on the feast of St Barnabas.’

‘God be thanked,’ Ravenser muttered.

‘Oh? I always found Savage a reasonable man.’

‘The office had gone to his head.’

‘No, it was his heart gave out.’ Thoresby allowed a brief smile.

Ravenser winced.

Thoresby wondered what had transpired between the dead man and his nephew. But he must see to the matter for which he had summoned Ravenser. ‘Read the letter, Richard. We must discuss it.’

As Ravenser read Selby’s letter, he coloured. Thoresby saw it quite clearly now that his nephew had caught his second wind. At last Ravenser dropped the letter on the small table beside him, leaned on one elbow, chin in hand. Not so elegant now.

‘The reputation of York’s religious houses is precious to me, Richard. What do you know of this Honoria de Staines?’

‘Sweet Jesu , uncle, she is a lay sister, no more than a servant to the sisters who tend the sick.’

‘And she has been allowed to carry on her earlier profession in her hours away from the hospital?’

‘No! Savage slandered the hospital without cause. The lay sisters live together under one roof in a house belonging to the hospital. A sinner amongst them would be reported, I am certain.’

‘Tell me about this woman.’

‘Fair and fond of men they say. Her husband went to fight for the King and has not returned.’

‘How did she come to the hospital?’

Ravenser rose, moved behind his chair, leaned his elbows on its back, shook his head. ‘This is all unnecessary. But if anyone is to blame it is my cellarer, Don Cuthbert, he who is in charge when I am away. He believes it his mission to give sinners a second chance. When Mistress Staines came to him and expressed her vocation, he thought it his Christian duty to accept her. I commended him for it.’

Was Ravenser so naïve? ‘I suppose she made a small donation to convince him?’

‘To Cuthbert that would not matter.’

‘I do not recall this saintly man.’

‘You would have no reason. He is rarely away from St Leonard’s.’

‘And there is nothing in this accusation that she still invites men to her bed?’

‘Not unless she shares them with the other lay sisters at their house, no, Your Grace.’ Ravenser’s voice rose slightly.

‘You feel bullied. But you did not consider the potential gossip, did you? Have you encouraged Cuthbert to be so bold with other choices?’

‘No others have come to my attention.’

Someone else’s duty to notice. An ill-advised attitude. ‘What of the comment about the hospital’s financial straits?’

Ravenser wiped his brow. ‘You know of that problem, Your Grace. But how it has become common knowledge …’ he shook his head.

Thoresby considered his nephew. Should he give him advice or let him swim upriver on his own?

Ravenser cleared his throat. ‘I have sent a request to the Queen for an audience. I will ask her permission to ride north to see what I might do to quiet this talk.’

Excellent. There might yet be a higher post for the man.

Ravenser drew out a letter. ‘There is more. My almoner, a man I trust, has told me of another rumour.’ He handed the item to Thoresby.

The archbishop read Don Erkenwald’s missive in which he warned Ravenser of talk of deaths that conveniently eased the hospital’s expenses. Thoresby gave his nephew his sternest look. ‘You swear this is merely a rumour?’

Ravenser put his head in his hands. ‘Christ’s rood, if even you can believe it, I am without hope.’

‘Enough. I go to Windsor myself on the morrow. If you receive an invitation, you are welcome to share my barge.’

Ravenser peered up through his fingers.

Thoresby nodded to him.

Ravenser lifted his head and smiled. ‘You are kind to extend such an offer. How can I thank you?’

‘You will thank me by resolving this business before other reputations are jeopardised, nephew.’