Candace Robb: King's Bishop

At the door to the King’s chambers Thoresby paused, checking his clothes, dabbing the sweat from his upper lip and temples, straightening his chain of office, clearing his throat. He then nodded to the door warden to knock. A servant opened the door from within, announced Thoresby. Sweet Heaven, when had the King adopted such ceremony in his own apartments?

Thoresby was disappointed to see William of Wykeham, ascetic and sombre in his clerical robes, already seated near a window, his long, slender hands folded calmly in his lap, heavy-lidded eyes cast discreetly down. Thoresby had thought he was to see the King alone, a chat between old friends.

‘Ah, there you are, John.’ Edward came forward, arms outstretched, stopping short of touching Thoresby. He made a sweeping motion towards the table at which Wykeham sat. ‘Come, sit with us. We have much to discuss.’

A servant brought wine, which Thoresby accepted but let stand for now. Wine taken too soon after activity would bring on a cold sweat, and he must not appear nervous or even uncomfortable in front of Wykeham.

The King settled himself in a well-cushioned chair. As soon as he sat, out came the dagger with which he increasingly expressed himself in conversation, stabbing here, jabbing there. It was as if with the stooping of his once mighty shoulders and the clouding of his once piercing eyes Edward had chosen the dagger to instil fear in his people. ‘So. Well met, my counsellors. You have something for me, John?’

‘I have indeed, Your Grace. Letters for the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx.’ Thoresby pulled them from his purse, handed them to the King’s servant, who waited beside the Archbishop’s chair.

Edward squinted at the documents, then back to Thoresby with raised eyebrows. ‘Already sealed?’

On second thought, Thoresby had decided that the King would see through his crafty prose and had sealed the letters. The King might yet open them, but he might not. Thoresby creased his brow in an expression of concern. ‘You did not wish me to put the seals of chancellor and archbishop on them, Your Grace? Forgive me, I misunderstood. I thought you wished to impress on them the weight of my opinion.’

The King said nothing, holding Thoresby’s eyes with his old power. Thoresby regretted the ploy. Wykeham gave a nervous cough that echoed in the lengthening silence. The floorboards creaked as the servant shifted his weight. Thoresby’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears. The King sat with his back to the window, so that the light caught the coarse white hairs on his ears, the seams in the royal neck.

Oh Edward, Edward, we grow so old. Please, my King, be wise in your last years. Put that she-devil from you and comfort sweet Phillippa , Thoresby prayed silently.

The King suddenly smiled. ‘Of course that was the point, John, and you did well to seal them. You are as competent as ever.’

Now Thoresby yearned for the wine, but he must wait until his heartbeat slowed, else his hands would tremble and give him away.

Wykeham, however, was not so wise. He grabbed his goblet and took a good, long drink, returning it to the table with a nervous clatter.

The King grinned unpleasantly at his protégé. ‘What, William? Did my silence make you nervous?’ He sat back, studied Wykeham, who dropped his eyes to the table directly in front of him. ‘Are you easily bullied, William? How then will you stand up to His Holiness?’ Edward turned to Thoresby. ‘Am I making a mistake, John? Is William too gentle to be my bishop?’ Thoresby thought Wykeham’s rising colour could as easily be caused by anger as by fear. But Edward did not wait for a reply; he closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘God will guide me.’ He opened his eyes, leaned forward, pointed the dagger at Thoresby. ‘Captain Archer is standing ready?’

Thoresby hesitated only a second, accustomed to the shifts in the King’s moods. ‘By now he has received his orders, Your Grace.’

‘And the Archdeacon of York?’

Thoresby bowed towards Edward. ‘And the Archdeacon, Your Grace.’ Calm now, he lifted his cup to his lips, drank deeply.

‘So,’ the King continued, ‘we have the letters, the York contingent, all that is still to do is send the letters north, eh?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Townley, Gaunt’s spy, is to lead the party north.’

Thoresby choked on a second sip of wine, managed to mask it as a cough. John of Gaunt’s spy? Was this Lancaster’s move to foil Wykeham?

Before Thoresby could think of a comment, Wykeham jumped in with a protest. ‘But, Your Grace!’

Edward turned slowly towards Wykeham. ‘You disapprove?’ The ice in his voice was unmistakable.

Wykeham’s already heightened colour deepened. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but Ned Townley … Perhaps you have not heard the rumours, but surely you have heard of the drowning of Sir William of Wyndesore’s page?’

‘Ah.’ The King rolled his eyes. ‘ That nonsense. Mistress Alice assured me that Townley could not be guilty, he lay with her maid that night.’

Thoresby closed his eyes. Mistress Alice. What was she up to?

‘Still, Your Grace, there are those who yet whisper …’ Wykeham began.

‘Indeed. That is just the point, William. He is condemned when he is innocent. Townley is best out of the way until Wyndesore convinces his men of their mistake, or at least until tempers cool. We would not want my son’s spy attacked, would we?’ Edward pointed his dagger at Thoresby again. ‘And his man Archer was Townley’s captain, did you know that, William? Archer was Henry of Grosmont’s captain of archers. Who better to take charge of Townley for now?’

Wykeham’s tall frame trembled. With rage, Thoresby was certain. The privy councillor’s usually expressionless face registered indignant disbelief. ‘Your Grace, I beg you. I must protest for yet another reason.’

King Edward sighed, leaned back in his chair, studied his nails, cleaned one with the tip of his dagger. ‘You grow tedious, William.’

Thoresby drank his wine and thanked his good fortune. The King might rethink his preference for Wykeham if the man proved intractable.

Wykeham licked his lips. ‘Your Grace, I am quite sure that the Duke of Lancaster opposes my promotion. And as Ned Townley is his man, I am frankly uneasy.’

‘So I can see.’ The King glanced at Thoresby. ‘This Townley. Was he not the one who found that rogue Sebastian for me?’

‘With Captain Archer’s aid, yes, Your Grace.’

Edward grinned, turned back to Wykeham. ‘He has been trained to obey orders. He is my son’s man. He will obey me, William.’

Wykeham nodded, lifted his cup to his lips with surprisingly steady hands, and sipped carefully. ‘Who travels north with Ned Townley, Your Grace?’

‘It will be the same as with the other groups I have dispatched. Soldiers, a priest or a friar — several in some cases.’ Edward suddenly pounded the table. ‘I know what will let you rest easy. Don Ambrose will accompany Townley. He is loyal to you, and an Austin friar — though they like to preach against pluralists, here is one devoted to you. That should impress the saintly Cistercians. What do you say, William?’

Thoresby was puzzled. An Austin friar on such a mission?

Wykeham’s long face wore a pained expression. ‘Your Grace, I had thought to take Ambrose into my household.’

‘All the better. Knowing he is to reside in your household on his return, the man will be doubly dutiful.’

Wykeham glanced over at Thoresby, who closed his eyes slowly, opened them, gave one almost invisible nod. Accept the King’s plan. There is nothing you can do .

Wykeham understood. He gave the King a little bow. ‘Forgive me for questioning the plan, Your Grace. I can see now that all will be well.’