Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Jehannes sat down stiffly, perched at the edge of his seat. He nodded towards a flagon of wine and two goblets. ‘Take some refreshment while we talk. We shall eat afterwards.’

Owen leaned over to pour. ‘And you?’

Jehannes frowned, shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ He looked agitated. Owen had rarely seen him like this. ‘As I presume His Grace informed you, we are to carry letters to the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx.’ Jehannes tapped the arms of the chair as he spoke.

Owen leaned back with his wine. ‘That is the mission. But what is behind it?’

Jehannes cleared his throat. ‘You have heard that the King has named Wykeham to the see of Winchester?’

Owen nodded. ‘And Pope Urban has refused to approve it. That should please the Archbishop.’

Jehannes flashed a tight smile.

‘What is your role in this?’

Jehannes raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I am to add my voice to the arguments in favour of Sir William of Wykeham.’

Considering the Archdeacon’s agitation, Owen doubted it was that simple. He would return to that. Of Wykeham he knew only that the King’s partiality to the man was owing to his architectural talent. Many at court claimed he was a commoner who had finagled his way into the King’s confidence, but Owen imagined they were simply jealous. ‘I agree with His Holiness that a bishop should be a devout man of God.’

‘That is precisely the irony of the situation,’ Jehannes said. ‘Wykeham may be a devoted churchman. But His Holiness sees only the number and value of the benefices Wykeham holds, all gifts from the King, particularly his position as Keeper of the Privy Seal. And, of course, everyone knows that the appointment is the first step towards his promotion to Lord Chancellor.’

‘At which time he would no doubt be the King’s man.’

Jehannes nodded. ‘The King’s bishop. Precisely.’

‘I do not believe Archbishop Thoresby sincere in his support of Wykeham.’

Jehannes closed his eyes, pressed his fingers against his lids. ‘You know His Grace too well. In public he proclaims his support; in private he plots with Lancaster to overturn Wykeham. Echoing the Archbishop’s strategy, I am to find subtle ways to remind the abbots why Wykeham is unsuitable.’ He dropped his hands, gave Owen a weary look. ‘I am not a dissembler, my friend. I shall disappoint His Grace.’

Owen was outraged. ‘You are put in an impossible position!’

Jehannes rose to pace again. ‘Impossible indeed.’

‘His Grace is the dissembler. Why can he not do this?’

‘He is Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York. He cannot be pulled away from London and court at a time like this.’

Owen watched his friend pace back and forth several times while he absorbed the information. ‘So what is my part in this?’ he asked at last.

Jehannes paused, gave Owen a puzzled look. ‘Undoubtedly, His Grace recommended you.’

‘That I can see. But why? Why the captain of his retainers leading the escort? He expects trouble?’

Jehannes nodded as he grasped Owen’s point. ‘Oh, yes. Trouble. Yes, I daresay. You must understand that this issue has inspired more than rivalry. It has brought to a head feelings that have divided the Church in this kingdom, one side believing that the Pope has sovereignty over the Church in England, the other that King Edward has sovereignty over all in his kingdom, be they soldiers, farmers, or clergy. A friar has even circulated a paper — anonymously, of course, the coward — declaring that the King has forfeited his right to govern by refusing to pay tribute to the Pope. The King fears that with tempers flaring there might be danger.’

‘And His Grace generously suggested me for the job.’

‘His words were that he trusted you implicitly.’

Owen grinned. ‘His Grace has a honeyed tongue when it is to his purpose. What do you mean to say to the abbots?’

Jehannes shook his head, a desperate look in his eyes. ‘I have no idea. Somehow I must undermine the man while appearing to praise him. I am not in the habit of saying one thing, meaning another. My face and voice will give me away.’

‘It sickens me to hear you berate yourself for being an honest man. For pity’s sake, Jehannes, you are a man of God. You must be honest!’

Jehannes smiled at his friend’s indignation. ‘You note His Grace has not asked you to dissemble.’

‘He would not dare!’

They shared a laugh over that.

Then Owen grew serious again. ‘Do you ever regret serving under Archbishop Thoresby?’

Jehannes looked surprised. ‘Never. He is a good man.’ When Owen’s eyebrow rose, the Archdeacon shrugged. ‘As good as the circumstances allow him to be.’

‘That smacks of cynicism.’

‘It is not meant that way, truly. You are a fortunate man to serve His Grace.’

Owen could see that his friend was in earnest. Having nothing polite to reply to that, he chose to move on to practical plans. ‘When will the letters arrive?’

‘I should think fairly soon.’

Delayed by a bilious stomach, John Thoresby now hurried to a meeting with the King, his robes sailing round him, his eyes squinting to see ten steps ahead. He cursed the indignities of age that made him so much more conscious of his mortal shell than ever before — stomach, eyes, joints. The disintegration of his body seemed to be accelerating of late. So why was he plotting Wykeham’s disappointment? Would it not be a relief were Wykeham to take the chancellor’s chain from round his neck and lighten his load? In comparison, his duties as Archbishop of York were nothing.

Round the corner he hastened, down shallow stone steps, pushed open the heavy door, gasped as the cold, damp air hit him. It was not so much colder without than within, but it was damper, with a brisk wind that rushed the chill to the bone. Down through the winter garden the chancellor walked, a bit slower now, the air sharp in his lungs.

Thoresby slowed as he noticed a couple standing in the shadow of the doorway just ahead, hissing at one another in loud whispers. He was disappointed that he could not make out their words, for the woman was Alice Perrers. Even with his failing eyesight, Thoresby found her hated form unmistakable. But he could not make out the man’s features. He stepped closer.

Alas, the two caught the movement and quickly separated, rushing in different directions. Disappointed, Thoresby continued through the doorway, consoling himself with the thought that the court might yet be rid of that strident-voiced, meddling commoner, Alice Perrers. In fact, it spurred him on to his meeting and his resolve to deliver to the King his carefully worded letters, calculated to make the abbots uneasy. The ploy was underhand and deceitful, but Thoresby felt the end was to the country’s benefit. He plotted against Wykeham not so much to keep the office of chancellor, as to win Lancaster’s support in his efforts to separate the King from his despised mistress.

Thoresby told himself that he was defending the Queen’s honour, but it was Phillippa herself who had first shown Perrers preference. Had Alice not been the Queen’s favourite, she might never have been placed in such constant contact with the King. The Queen feigned ignorance of the affair by never mentioning it. But everyone at court knew that Perrers’s little bastard was the King’s. It sickened Thoresby to think of the hurt that the kindly Queen hid so well.

The unpleasant truth was that the Queen’s honour accounted for only part of Thoresby’s animosity towards Alice Perrers. The other reason was shameful. He lusted for her. No matter the prayer, the penance, the staunch resolve, when he looked on her his blood ran hot. Which made him hate her all the more. Her presence at court was a constant torment. And thus he was resolved to rid the court of her. Or to leave himself.