Candace Robb: King's Bishop

Well, he was a fool if he meant that, Thoresby thought. Something odd was behind this plan. He could not help suspecting his old enemy, Alice Perrers.

Early the following day Thoresby received an invitation to dine with Wykeham. He had expected the invitation; it had been obvious that the King’s choice of escorts for the journey to Fountains had disturbed the privy councillor. Thoresby accepted the invitation with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

He made his way to Wykeham’s quarters in the early afternoon, amused by their location in the same tower in which Wykeham had resided as Clerk of Works, supervising the renovation and expansion of the King’s castles. Wykeham lived among the guards, lesser clerics, and servants. As Keeper of the Privy Seal, it was an inappropriate residence. Thoresby assumed it artful humility.

The building was at least of sturdy stone, and the windows were glazed. It was not one of the typical lower ward wattle and daub structures that periodically burned. A clerk led Thoresby up to the main chamber. The Archbishop bowed his head and stepped through the doorway; within, he brought his head up to gaze round in surprise. It was a far more comfortable room than he had expected, of generous size, with a curtained bed in the corner to the left of the doorway, a brazier and a table with chairs nearby, a writing-desk beneath a south-facing window.

‘The councillor is up in his workroom,’ the clerk said, leading Thoresby up yet another flight. Thoresby entered the room and paused, amazed. On makeshift counters along the wall and tables in the middle of the room stood models — towers, turrets, stairways, porches, window tracery, archways, gates, a small house, a mill — some tall, some quite small, some visible only by peering behind or over one of the others. Thoresby slowly wandered through the maze, marvelling at the care that had been taken with even the simplest model. He touched nothing for fear he might do damage. Few of the models seemed intended for display — most were unpainted, made from salvaged wood, stones, obviously whatever came to hand — but all had been assembled with careful measurement.

Was this Wykeham’s purpose in inviting him here, to his rooms: to give Thoresby a glimpse of his heart? For surely this was evidence of the overriding passion of Wykeham’s life. But why would Wykeham care to impart this to him?

Thoresby found his host at the far end, kneeling in front of a clever model of the Round Tower. The tower stood on a mound fashioned from layers of mud and pebbles. ‘Welcome to my workroom,’ Wykeham said as he noticed Thoresby standing behind him.

‘This is a remarkable collection.’

Wykeham nodded. ‘Years of my life.’ As he rose, unfolding his tall, angular body, his knees made popping sounds. ‘I knelt too long. This tower is always cold and damp. I should pull up a stool, but that requires planning, and I never know what will catch my attention.’

Thoresby could understand. His eyes were drawn here and there, making new discoveries. ‘You are considering repairs to the tower?’

Wykeham glanced back at the model he’d been studying and shook his head. ‘No. I was thinking of Daniel’s accident.’ He crouched down again, picked up a wooden peg approximating the page, Daniel, and placed it at the top of the mound. The moment he took his hand away, the peg tumbled down the slope. ‘You see, that is the problem. One does not easily stand there, certainly not in the snow. Not to mention the fact that if he had climbed the mound he would have left footprints, yet there were none that I could see, only the scar of his fall.’

Thoresby considered that. ‘Daniel fell from somewhere on the tower itself?’

Wykeham rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps.’ He placed the figure atop the tower, let it tumble from above. It hit the slope halfway down and followed an erratic course.

‘You believe Ned Townley is guilty?’

Still crouched before the model, studying it, Wykeham shook his head. ‘No. It is not that.’ He pointed to the top of the mound, where the tower rested. ‘The snow melts up there during the day, freezes once more come nightfall. By the time I asked to examine it, I could no longer distinguish the scar or any footprints.’

Thoresby found Wykeham’s curiosity surprising. ‘You climbed round the tower looking for footprints?’

Wykeham straightened up again. ‘I do not seek to point a finger at Ned Townley. What I do not like, cannot account for, is the lack of interest in finding the cause of the lad’s death.’

‘You do not believe it was an accident?’

Wykeham shrugged. ‘I cannot discount an accident. But what I do not believe is that the page got drunk, walked out into the night and was inspired by the snow to try sliding down the mound. If he’d been drunk, he would have given up any attempt to climb the mound with the first slip; drunks have no patience.’

‘So he climbed the steps.’

Wykeham shook his head. ‘Had he climbed the steps up to the tower and walked round, he would have slipped closer to the steps.’ Wykeham leaned over, pointed to the location of the scar in the snow. ‘His fall occurred out of sight of any of the guards. Did you note that?’

Thoresby was surprised by Wykeham. He seemed a different person from the man who had made the King so impatient. More confident. ‘You have considered this with care.’

Wykeham shrugged. ‘God forgive me, but it is the tiny details that fascinate me. In incidents as well as buildings.’

Thoresby crouched down, studied the mound, the tower. It was true, the guards were stationed out of sight of that very spot. He rose. ‘So tell me this. If the lad did not climb the mound, and he did not gain access to the tower, and he did not try skirting it, what happened?’

Wykeham threw up his hands. ‘I do not know.’

‘If it was murder, how was it carried out?’

Wykeham shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

Thoresby stared down at the model, feeling a bit of a fool for thinking of none of this himself.

‘I built this model when the King spoke of heightening the tower, but now I doubt that will happen in his lifetime.’ Wykeham’s voice was sad.

Thoresby turned back to his host. ‘The funds have been expended for the war in France?’

Wykeham’s expression matched his voice. ‘The war has emptied the coffers. Whatever we finally win from France, it will have cost too dearly.’

‘In lives as well as building projects.’

Wykeham turned a startled eye on the Archbishop. ‘You cannot think I am unaware of that?’

Thoresby held up his hands, palms out, shook his head. ‘Forgive me. I intended no insult. We may be tearing at the same bone, but I do not think you a heartless man.’

Wykeham bowed slightly, then motioned towards the steps. ‘Shall we descend and sit comfortably? Peter has wine waiting for us, and in a little while he will amaze us with a pie he has coaxed out of the guards’ cook.’

Thoresby followed his host down the narrow stairs. As he took a seat by the fire, he reached out towards the heat, rubbing his hands together. He had grown quite cold up in the workroom. ‘I was not aware that the post of Clerk of Works went to men educated in architecture, appropriate though that may be. I thought it usually a political appointment.’

Wykeham smiled as he settled into the chair nearest the brazier and turned it at an angle to the table, facing the fire. ‘My knees,’ he explained. Peter stepped forward to pour the wine. ‘Not all Clerks of Works have shared my interest in architecture. But when I was appointed, the King had plans for much building.’ The sadness had crept back into Wykeham’s voice.