Candace Robb: King's Bishop

‘You miss the work?’

Wykeham settled back in his chair. ‘We accomplished a great deal. Improvements to Eltham and Sheen, much of this castle …’ he shrugged. ‘I am content.’

Thoresby glanced over at the bed. ‘You work on the models when you are wakeful?’

Wykeham smiled. ‘When prayer fails to calm me to sleep, yes, I rise, light the lamp, find a problem I have not resolved.’

‘And you eventually grow drowsy?’

Wykeham laughed. ‘A wiser man would choose what made him drowsy, but I am usually still staring at the problem when Peter comes to wake me for mass.’

Thoresby was intrigued. ‘What keeps you awake at night?’

Wykeham leaned forward. ‘We come to the point so quickly. Good. We are both busy men.’ He motioned to Peter for more wine. When it was poured, Wykeham sat bent slightly over his cup for a moment, his long, thin fingers wrapped round it.

Thoresby wondered whether Wykeham was back at the Round Tower, puzzling over Daniel’s death. ‘It is about our interview with the King?’

Wykeham looked up, his eyes no longer sad, but wary. He sat back, tasted his wine, set the cup carefully on the table, as if it were very important to arrange it in a specific position. Only then did he reply. ‘I want to know how you have arranged for the King to send your spy, Captain Archer, and his friend, Ned Townley, on this mission. And why.’ He held Thoresby’s eyes with his.

But the show of strength meant nothing to Thoresby. The substance did. It suggested a surprising insecurity. ‘I was under the impression that our King had no secrets from you.’

The pale face reddened slightly, but the eyes did not waver. That is no answer.’

Thoresby lifted his eyebrows. ‘That is because I have none for you.’

Wykeham sat back with a disbelieving sniff.

Thoresby relented; after all, he had accepted Wykeham’s invitation. ‘In faith, I can answer part of it. His Grace is sending so many small companies out on your behalf that he is running short of trustworthy retainers. I therefore offered the captain of my retainers for this particular mission. York is a natural rendezvous point before riding to Fountains Abbey.’ Thoresby lifted his hands, dropped them. ‘That is all.’

Wykeham glanced aside, obviously annoyed and doubting Thoresby’s words. But he did not challenge them. ‘And Ned Townley?’

‘I had not heard of his involvement until the King announced it to us. For that you might ask Mistress Perrers. Surely she would tell you?’

Wykeham bent over his wine again, his eyes closed.

Thoresby waited.

Without looking up, Wykeham suddenly said, ‘Lancaster thinks I hold too much power already. He has arranged for Townley to make trouble on this mission — I am certain of it.’

Thoresby had imagined the same when he had heard of Ned’s involvement. But since then he had seen the flaw in that idea. ‘Were the mighty Lancaster plotting against you, he would devise a subtler scheme. No, I think you must look to Mistress Perrers for the architect of your uncertainty.’

Now Wykeham looked up. ‘What would be her purpose?’

‘Only God knows her heart, I think.’

Wykeham studied Thoresby. ‘I have heard that there is something between you.’

Thoresby did not wish to comment, but he must not appear to avoid the topic. ‘I make no secret of the fact that I believe her presence at court is an unforgivable insult to the Queen. I have angered the King with my opinions.’

Wykeham swirled the wine in his cup, his lids low while he followed the motion. ‘I doubt you are alone in your feelings.’

He despised her, too? ‘Merely more outspoken than most.’ Thoresby sat back in his chair. ‘What are your suspicions about Daniel’s death?’

Wykeham directed Peter to bring on the food. ‘It is the lack of attention his death brought. A brief outburst against Ned Townley, then — forgive me for bringing her up again, but it is necessary in order to answer your question — Mistress Perrers steps forward and swears that he was with her maid, and then, as if Townley were the only possible culprit, everyone agrees to agree that it was an accident. That is what bothers me.’

Thoresby studied the man. Should he mention Michaelo’s observation about the page’s wrists? And the quantity of ale on the cloak? ‘Have you discussed this with anyone else?’

Wykeham nodded. ‘I brought it to Sir William of Wyndesore’s attention.’

‘And?’

Wykeham’s expression had soured. ‘An arrogant, ill-mannered man, Wyndesore.’

Thoresby grinned. ‘You soon became fast friends?’

Wykeham started, then caught the grin and laughed. ‘Indeed.’ He was quiet while Peter served the food.

Thoresby tasted the pie. ‘The guards are fortunate in their cook.’

Wykeham nodded towards Peter, who sat quietly on a bench against the wall. ‘He is so slender, you would never guess, but Peter lives for his food rather than by it. When he hears of a good cook, he befriends him. I fear he trades gossip from the high table for tasty titbits. But discreetly, choosing with care.’

They ate in silence for a while. As Wykeham paused to refill his cup, Thoresby asked, ‘What did Wyndesore say?’

‘Oh. Wyndesore.’ Wykeham nodded. ‘He could not be bothered with it. “The lad’s dead. Pity. I had trained him well. But he could not hold his drink.” That was it. Not a pause to consider. He had made up his mind and that was that. An appallingly ignorant man to hold such a high station.’

Thoresby raised an eyebrow. Wykeham certainly had made up his mind about Sir William of Wyndesore. ‘No different from most military men.’ Still, he liked the sentiment. This meeting was changing Thoresby’s opinion of his host. ‘Concerning Daniel, my secretary saw the lad’s body as it was carried away.’

Wykeham looked up from his food, leaned forward with interest. ‘Did he notice anything out of place?’

‘Indeed he did. Daniel’s wrists showed signs of having been bound. And his cloak had been soaked in ale. Difficult to imagine how that might happen.’

Wykeham put down his knife, bowed his head, crossed himself.

Thoresby did also. ‘I am afraid I paid it little heed. But your analysis has given me pause.’

‘Do not blame yourself. No one else made note of the wrists. No one else has questioned that it was an accident, except those who dislike Ned Townley and wish him to be guilty.’

Thoresby walked back to his own quarters in a thoughtful mood. Who would have thought the ambitious William of Wykeham would be such a decent, conscientious man? Indeed, he seemed a man admirably suited to the position of bishop, someone with a heart, mind, and soul that worked in concert. He might even make a good chancellor; though Thoresby wondered what he knew of the law.

It was a pity, really, that Wykeham was the King’s man. He would feel the conflicts as Thoresby did, the frustration when a compromise was necessary to please the King, a compromise in morals or justice.

Did Wykeham understand that? Did he see the price of becoming the King’s bishop?

Thoresby paused at his door, shrugged. If he had not been the King’s man, Wykeham would never have risen so high. He could be nothing but the King’s bishop.

Pity. The man would undoubtedly someday regret it. But not now.

Ned spent the days before departure banished to his small room. For your safety , Wyndesore had explained. For his safety. Hah! Sir William meant to torture him. Ned had gone to Brother Michaelo in the hope that Chancellor Thoresby might intercede and recommend his freedom, but the secretary told him it was in his best interest to stay away from Wyndesore’s angry men. In truth, Michaelo’s behaviour towards him had been less than courteous. Everyone condemned Ned despite Mistress Perrers’s testimony that he was with Mary the night of Daniel’s death.