Candace Robb: King's Bishop

‘Do you trust Crofter?’

Wykeham grimaced. ‘He seems too calm about the death of his comrade.’

Owen nodded, turned to look Wykeham in the eye. ‘The King’s surgeon might be more knowledgeable in this.’

Wykeham dropped his eyes to his folded hands. ‘We wish to keep this matter as quiet as possible, Captain.’

Adam poured wine for three, set the flagon in front of Thoresby, and departed. Thoresby nodded to Owen and Wykeham, who lifted their mazers. ‘May God grant an end to this plague of murders with Crofter’s death at dawn,’ Thoresby said, ‘though he be guilty only of poor judgement in his loyalty.’ The three drank.

Owen put the mazer down before his thirst was quenched. It was after compline and he must yet tell the chancellor and the councillor what he had learned in an exhausting day of poking and prodding guards and comrades of Bardolph and Crofter. He must stay awake.

‘Shall we ever know the truth of it, Captain?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen glanced up at the councillor to see whether he meant the question in jest; surely he understood by now that the truth was not meant to be known. But the heavy-lidded eyes held no guile. ‘Crofter has ceased to speak to anyone. Neither he nor Bardolph shared confidences with their other comrades, or if they did they frightened them into silence. I did learn this: Crofter’s wife has received the deed for a sizeable property in the fens to hold for her eldest son’s maturity, property that formerly belonged to the Wyndesore family. It is said that Wyndesore did not wish the family to suffer for Crofter’s sins.’

‘He did not wish Crofter to reveal his orders before he died, more like.’ Thoresby said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Owen wondered when Thoresby had aged so. His lids crinkled over his deep-set eyes, he had jowls, though his face had little flesh elsewhere.

Wykeham seemed quite young in contrast. His face was unlined, his eyes were clear and earnest. ‘And Bardolph’s family? Has Wyndesore provided for them?’

‘He had none.’

‘Ah.’ Wykeham sat back in his seat, frowning slightly.

Thoresby nodded. ‘He could not be bought, who had no heirs.’

‘What did you learn from the guards about Bardolph’s condition in his last days?’ Wykeham asked.

Owen allowed himself another sip of wine. ‘They describe him as by turns quiet and frantic, wrapped in blankets with chills and then suddenly throwing them off and crying that he could not breathe, the air was too heavy. I am unsure what he was being fed, but I’ve little doubt he was receiving or had received a slow poison. I witnessed the sweating, thought it fear.’

‘A poison administered by Crofter?’ Thoresby asked.

‘That is my guess, but we’ll never know for certain. As I said, Crofter is suddenly dumb.’

‘You searched Crofter and the room?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘I found nothing. Of course.’

‘But you thought he had been ill with fear.’

‘But now he’s dead. And the men had been travelling with Don Paulus, who is known in some quarters as a herbalist who asks no questions. It is curious that the friar survived his journey with Crofter and Bardolph. Others were not so fortunate.’

‘Have they found Don Paulus?’ Wykeham asked.

‘No.’

‘They must continue to search.’

‘To what end?’ Thoresby demanded, pressing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. ‘He will not speak. Why should he? What would he gain?’

‘We must know whether Crofter poisoned Bardolph,’ Wykeham insisted.

‘For Heaven’s sake, give it up!’ Thoresby cried. ‘No one wishes to know that but you. Bardolph would have been dead come morning. What does it matter if the man who was to die with him hastened the end for him? How would we know whether it was out of fear of exposure or charity? Eh? Speculation. All speculation. We have no proof. We shall never have any proof.’ Thoresby nodded to Owen. ‘You look weary to the bone. I shall keep you no longer.’

‘Weary I am,’ Owen said, rising. He wondered at the Archbishop’s outburst, but not so much that he wished to linger.

After Owen had taken his leave, Thoresby refilled his mazer, passed the flagon to Wykeham. ‘You must pardon my temper. It comes of frustration.’ He shook his head as Wykeham began to reply. ‘The King has commanded me to cease my probing. He wishes for some peace. He will hear no more of this.’

‘Because of Prince Edward’s illness?’

‘Aye. The Queen is concerned by Lancaster’s report that the Prince cannot rise from his bed, though the Prince himself sends word that he is well, recovering as quickly as ever.’

‘It is fortunate that Lancaster is with his brother so we may know the truth.’

‘Fortunate? To frighten the Queen when she is herself so ill?’ Had Thoresby been Phillippa’s son, he would have kept the worry from her. But he did not care to discuss the Queen with Wykeham. ‘I understand you volunteered to be confessor to the condemned men, Sir William.’

Wykeham sat with flagon in hand, one finger tracing the intricate silverwork on the lid. Eyes still on the flagon, he said quietly, ‘I beg you to forgive my accusation that you meant to trick me out of the chancellor’s chain. I feel ill tonight, thinking of six lives lost for an ageing King’s vanity and a soldier’s plotting.’ Slowly, as if fearful it would shatter, Wykeham rested the flagon on the table. He lifted his mazer, raised his eyes to Thoresby. ‘You came to me in friendship and I mistrusted you. May God bless you, my Lord Chancellor, and forgive me for my ignorance.’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘There is no need for forgiveness. What man would welcome the revelation that the jewel he had just won in an honest, exhausting contest had a flaw that rendered it worthless?’

Wykeham’s head shot up. ‘Worthless? Hardly that. Requiring cautious handling, perhaps, but not worthless. I seek to influence the King for the good. His reign has been glorious; it shall be again.’

Thoresby found Wykeham absurdly idealistic for one who had been at court so long. Sadly, he recognised much of himself in the councillor. He was vain. Naïve. Thoresby despaired. There would be no enlightenment for Wykeham. He would push through to the chancellorship. He would work hard, hoping to ensure that justice was served. And slowly, after years of puzzling over the King’s judgements, he would realise how personal were Edward’s decisions, how he saw the law as his to bend and form to his taste. And when the King detected the sorrow in Wykeham’s eyes, the disapproving purse of his lips, he would find another ambitious, clever man, acquire for him a bishopric, and transfer the chain.

‘What saddens you?’ Wykeham asked.

‘I have been foolish. I thought to save you. But you will not be saved.’

Impatient with the tailor’s hesitant tugs and anxious mutterings, the King yanked at the costly cloth, a blue background embroidered with gold garters for his Order. ‘Are you a tailor or a gnat? Fit me and be done with it!’ Edward’s roar was as loud and resounding as ever.

Thoresby had sought the King with a matter that could not be discussed in front of the tailor. And so the chancellor sat near the hearth and attempted to distract the King from the annoying little man so that they might still speak civilly before the day was out. Thoresby fortunately had some fresh anecdotes heard at last night’s dinner with Archer and a courtier whom Thoresby had been surprised to learn was a poet, Geoffrey Chaucer. Leave it to a Welshman to sniff out the bards at court.

‘Master Chaucer has a sly wit,’ Edward said. ‘Clever man. He has the eye of a master tailor when sizing up a man’s worth.’ A meaningful glance at the anxious face focused on the royal shoulders. ‘I find Chaucer useful. I warn you, John, do not think to add him to your staff. Phillippa would not have it.’