Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

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.”

“I have no intention of adding to my household, Your Grace.”

An eyebrow raised. “No? Hm.” The broad shoulders twitched under the exploring hands of the tailor. “Why did he dine with you?”

“I thought to cheer Captain Archer. Chaucer is one of the few folk at court can tease laughter from my grim spy.”

“Ah.” The King nodded. “Your Welsh archer. Discourage that friendship, John. Spies should not become friends. Tomorrow they may need to betray each other.”

“I am finished, Your Grace,” the tailor murmured. He clumsily folded the cloth and backed out of the room, bobbing obsessively.

“A runt of a tailor. The French are all runts,” Edward muttered. “So.” The fading blue eyes rose to Thoresby’s suddenly solemn face. “What is amiss, John? Your good cheer strikes a false note. Something troubles you.”

Thoresby sucked strength from deep within, used it to lift the heavy chain from his shoulders and, holding it out before him, voiced the words he had rehearsed throughout the night. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I believe it is God’s will that I resign the chancellorship. I grow too old and vague to serve you well and wisely.” He handed the chain to the servant who hovered at the King’s shoulder.

The King narrowed his eyes, gazing on the chain dripping through the servant’s outstretched fingers. Slowly, Edward raised his head to Thoresby, his lined face flushed unattractively with anger. “God’s will, John? And what of my will? What of your King’s will? Is there treason in your heart? Do you agree with the upstart Austins who claim I forfeit my right to rule when I fall from grace? You condemn me for Alice, John. I know that you do. And I know what you’ve been about with your spy, trying to save the bastard who attacked Alice. So that he may try again!”

Jesu , what could Thoresby say to that? “My stepping down has nothing to do with Mistress Perrers. Nor did I make enquiries to annoy you, Your Grace. I merely wished to know the truth.”

The blue eyes narrowed, sharp chin lifted. “You know too much and you grow frightened, John, that is the truth of it. Because you have divulged Alice’s secret? Is that what worries you so?”

“I have not spent a lifetime at court without learning the wisdom of silence, Your Grace.” Or of lies carefully chosen.

“Who knows of Wyndesore and Alice? Your ferret Florian? Your Welsh spy? Your elegant secretary?”

“None of them, Your Grace. My sole confidant has been your privy councillor.”

“Wykeham? You are the sly one. You stink of the moors. Perhaps that is where you belong. Leave me.”

As Owen lifted his hand to knock on the door he felt an excitement that surprised him. A private supper with Mistress Alice Perrers. A rare privilege. She had sent word that she wished to thank him for coming to her aid against Ned, whom she knew to be Owen’s friend. How could he refuse?

Thoresby had raised an eyebrow, pronounced Owen a brave man.

“Brave? To dine with a beautiful lady?”

“To dine with the King’s lady. In private.”

Owen remembered the look in the cat eyes, the look that even Ned had noted. Should he be wary?

Alice Perrers rose from a thronelike chair as Gilbert showed Owen into the gaily lit chamber. Her silk gown matched the candlelight; her eyes glowed with it. Her hair, caught up with gold netting sprinkled with amethysts, shone gold and red. A trick of light and jewels, yet so like the colour of Lucie’s hair that Owen wondered about Alice’s purpose. But she had never seen Lucie.

“God be with you, Captain Archer,” Alice said. She had a deep, resonant voice that caressed the ear. “I have ordered a feast fit for the courageous man who saved me.”

Owen felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web – by his own fascination. There was something compelling in her eyes, voice, movements. “It was my duty, Mistress Perrers.”

Alice smiled sweetly. “You are modest, Captain. Come. Sit. Gilbert, pour the wine.” Her silk gown whispered as she moved gracefully, gesturing for Owen to sit, resuming her own seat.

Candle-light reflected off silver spoons and plates, Italian glass goblets. The table at which Gilbert stood ready to serve was laden with costly covered serving dishes from which came mouthwatering aromas. Owen had thought Thoresby’s table grand, but it was nothing compared with this. And surely there was far more food here than two could eat.

“Who else joins you this evening?”

Alice’s delicate eyebrows lifted in surprise, then her entire face brightened with amusement. “No one else. Please, do sit down, Captain.” She waved Owen into the chair opposite her. “I have heard much about you that intrigues me.” As they sipped their wine and Gilbert served, Alice entertained Owen with stories she had heard about him, some accurate, most not, but all complimentary.

Owen, feeling more and more as if he were being wrapped up in a silky cocoon, at last begged Alice to tell him something of her own life. She told him of her foster parents, how jolly life had been among their large brood, how confusing it had been when her uncles had taken her away, put her in a convent school. Owen assumed he was meant to pity her, but looking round at the splendour of her apartment at court, he found it difficult.

“My wife and I took in an orphan,” he said.

“But you have a child of your own.”