Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Thoresby gave Owen a sideways glance. ‘You enjoy ruining my daydream, Archer. I see the pleasure in your eye. But at least I shall be free to stay in my own house in London. I hope never to see my apartment at Windsor again. Or Alice Perrers.’

‘Ah. Mistress Perrers.’

‘Do I hear a smile in your voice?’

‘I confess I find myself wondering why you despise her so.’

‘Indeed? I have been meaning to ask how you enjoyed your supper.’

‘I felt pampered. A kingly repast, a gracious, witty woman who is more of a beauty than I had been led to expect…’

‘She bewitched you.’

‘Fascinated me, yes. She knows her powers and uses them with consummate skill.’

Thoresby crossed himself. ‘It is all the worse that she is intelligent, a shrewd judge of character. You are quite right, she is absolutely aware of what she is doing. It is all purposeful. And she cares not a whit for her soul.’

‘Perhaps she is still too young.’

‘She is a plague child, Archer. She has faced death since birth.’

‘Well, that might be even more to the point.’

‘You do not despise her, Archer?’

‘Of course I despise her — for Ned’s sake.’

‘ Deo gratias . I began to worry for my godchild.’

Jasper shuffled into the shop, gathered a squealing Crowder into his arms, and plopped down beside Lucie at the counter, cuddling the wriggling kitten.

Lucie recognised the signs of worry. ‘I thought you were helping Owen in the garden.’

‘Aye,’ Jasper muttered glumly.

Lucie put a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye. ‘He has been brusque with you?’

Jasper shrugged. ‘He’s had bad news, hasn’t he? About Ned Townley, wasn’t it?’ His pale eyelashes blinked, fighting tears.

‘No! Gaspare wrote with good news of Ned.’ Which was true. But there was sad news as well. Why of all mornings did the letter come today? It was Gwenllian’s first birthday and they were hosting a dinner in their new hall for her godparents. Lucie had hoped Owen would watch the shop this morning while she helped Tildy and her youngest sister with preparations. But shortly after the messenger had arrived Owen had donned his oldest clothes and gone out to attack the garden. It was true the apple trees in the Corbett garden must be moved; the carpenters would be ready in two days to begin the passageway that would connect the houses and create a courtyard screening the garden from the bustle of Davygate, and the trees were in the way. But Owen suddenly behaved as if they must be moved this morning.

Jasper’s face screwed up in a question. ‘Gaspare has seen Ned?’ He had prayed for Ned ever since he had learned of his exile. No matter how lengthy Owen’s explanations, Jasper was convinced that exile meant death. Lucie had hoped the news from one of Owen’s and Ned’s old comrades would reassure the boy.

‘No, Gaspare has not seen Ned, but he has had a letter from him. Ned has joined the Duke of Lancaster’s household in the Aquitaine.’

Jasper’s face was solemn. ‘Gaspare serves Lancaster, too. Why has he not seen Ned?’

‘Because Ned is at the Duke’s residence, not with his fighting men, Jasper. That is what it means to be of the household.’ Lucie knew even as she spoke that the boy saw this as another adult lie to keep at bay the nightmares that plagued him.

‘Gaspare can neither read nor write.’

The shop bell jingled. Lucie knelt to brush the boy’s flaxen hair from his eyes. ‘Gaspare would use one of the clerks travelling with his company, as most soldiers do.’ She kissed Jasper’s forehead, shook her head at the suspicious look he gave her. ‘You are such a doubting Thomas. I shall leave it to Owen to explain to you. Go back to him, now. But no worrying about Ned.’ She chucked him under the chin and sent him off.

Mistress Ketel, the wife of a Flemish weaver, stood timidly waiting. Lucie greeted her in French and the young woman beamed. Her husband would not allow anything but English spoken in the house so that their children might be fluent; but Katrina had a limited vocabulary. ‘The words tangle in my head,’ she had once explained to Lucie. ‘Frederick says I take a little of this word, a little of that, and create nonsense. God help me, I cannot seem to learn.’

Nor did she look as if she would carry her next child to term. ‘You are unwell, Mistress Ketel?’

‘I am well, Mistress Wilton. It is the baby. She crawled too close to the fire and burned her hand.’

While Lucie filled a jar with a burn ointment she wondered about Katrina’s thinness, her almost grey complexion, her trembling hands. Might it be a wasting sickness? ‘You should see the Riverwoman about little Anna,’ Lucie suggested. ‘She is good with burns.’ And might take Katrina in hand.

Katrina shook her head and crossed herself. ‘Frederick would not approve, Mistress Wilton.’ She thanked Lucie for the salve, paid her money, and hurried away.

A wasting sickness. Gaspare wrote that the Prince of Wales was wasting away. He had been bedridden since spring. The journey through the snow and ice to Najera had weakened the army; many men had died before enjoying the victory. Many more, weakened twice, otherwise had fallen prey to a sickness that purged the body until there was nothing left but skin and bones. It was thought that the Prince had the same sickness, but his courage and faith kept him alive. Owen’s old friend Lief had not been so lucky — hence Owen’s mood. Lucie said a prayer for Agnes, Lief’s widow, and their babe.

Customers kept Lucie occupied for the rest of the morning. As soon as the last one strolled out she closed the shop and hurried out to see the state of the trees. Three were already replanted and staked, and Jasper was soaking them with buckets of water from a wagonload brought up earlier from the river to supplement their well water. Far in the back of the garden Owen was at work on another tree. Lucie crossed herself when she saw the fury with which he threw the dirt, stomped, yanked at the tree when it tilted. She backed out of his way as he went for the cord and stakes, sank down on the bench by the roses to wait for him to exhaust his devils. There would be time enough for him to wash himself for their guests.

And indeed, when Tildy and her sister came out to tell them it was time to dress, Owen called to Jasper to gather the tools while he joined Lucie.

She wiped Owen’s grimy face with her apron. ‘We must don smiles for our daughter now.’

Miraculously, Owen managed a crooked grin. ‘Aye. Lief would not be the cause of gloom on such an anniversary. I have done with my mourning for now.’

It was an assortment of guests that one would find only in such a household, with Owen’s standing as steward, retainer and spy, and Lucie’s as Master Apothecary and the daughter of a knight: John Thoresby, Archbishop of York; Camden Thorpe, Lucie’s guildmaster, and his wife Gwen; Tom and Bess Merchet of the York Tavern; and Lucie’s father, Sir Robert D’Arby, and his sister Phillippa. Magda Digby, who had been midwife at Gwenllian’s birth, had declined, amused that Lucie and Owen had even thought to ask her to sit at table with the Archbishop. ‘Magda has no mind to drink wine with the Carrion Crow, no matter that Bird-eye is his man. Magda has a longer memory than most.’

Thoresby, conspicuous in his Archbishop’s robes, offered a toast to Sir Robert, ‘Who in his delight at the news that his daughter was with child gave her and her worthy husband this gracious property.’

Sir Robert, who stood in the window of the new hall watching his sister fuss with the children out in the garden, bowed and held up his glass with an apologetic glance at Lucie, who had not at first been keen on his extravagant gift.