Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

“You seem to know a great deal about me.”

“The chancellor is proud of his godchild.”

Owen’s scar itched, reminding him that he must tread this web with care, that it could be deadly no matter how charming the weaver. Alice Perrers knew too much about his family. He was not here merely as a courtesy.

When they had progressed from the meat to a plate heaped with dates and nuts, Alice remarked, “I imagine you are puzzled why I insisted on a private meeting.”

“I did wonder whether it was wise, when courtiers take such pleasure in gossip.”

Alice inclined her head slightly. “I wished to tell you that I tried to convince the King that Ned Townley had reason to act as he did. But His Grace did not find it sufficient cause. He insisted on exile.”

“I have heard you argued for exile rather than execution.”

Alice’s right hand, on which an amethyst ring twinkled, rose to silence Owen. “Since I could not save Ned from exile, I have provided him with letters of introduction. They should help him find service in the Aquitaine, if not with Lancaster, then with someone suitable.”

A generous act, were it not for the fact that Alice’s reputation, her standing at court had been saved by the death of Ned’s lady. Owen saw that Alice Perrers expected gratitude; instead he tasted gall. He lifted his goblet. “To your efforts on Ned’s behalf.”

Alice tilted her head quizzically. “Drink to my efforts? No. Let us drink to Ned’s future.”

“Odd to drink to such an uncertain thing as my friend’s future.”

The amber eyes studied Owen over the rim of the exquisite goblet. Alice sipped, set the goblet down. “You are not pleased. How have I offended?” Her look of dismay was almost convincing.

“You have caused Ned immeasurable pain. You owe him far more than letters.”

A hand to her delicate throat. “Indeed?” How did she manage a blush? Or was it controlled anger? “What do I owe him?”

Owen was intrigued now. How far would she take this act of innocence? “You owe Ned Mary’s life. But of course it is impossible to bring her back.”

“You accuse me of Mary’s death?” The question was a whisper. The eyes glistened with tears. The too bare bosom moved as with a restrained sob.

“You might have protected her. And warned Ned and Don Ambrose of their danger. To my mind you are as guilty of the deaths as your husband is.”

The painted lips opened slightly in surprise. “My husband? Who told you of that?”

“Do you know, Ned was sent away without a chance to visit Mary’s grave.” Owen closed his eyes, bowed his head.

“I did what I could.”

Owen glanced up, surprised by the emotion in the quiet voice.

But Alice had regained control. She lifted an embroidered napkin, dabbed at her lips. “Surely you understand the power of the men involved? Not just the King. Wyndesore, too.”

“Are you saying that power excuses murder?”

“I am saying that I have little freedom, Captain. I am in the clutches of two powerful men.”

Owen glanced round the room. “A comfortable clutch.”

A becoming rose flushed her skin from neckline to veil. “Thoresby has poisoned your mind against me.”

Owen set down his goblet, rose with a courteous bow. “On the contrary, Mistress Perrers, His Grace does not care to speak of you. I thank you for your hospitality.”

Alice rose also. “He does speak of me. I know that he does. What does he plan, Captain?”

Owen feasted on her one last moment. “Our King is a fortunate man, Mistress Perrers. I thank you for a delightful evening.”

Alice crossed to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, looked into his eye, then kissed him on the lips, a lingering kiss. When she stood back from him, her smile was that of a cat who has just tasted of forbidden cream. “Mistress Wilton is also fortunate.”

“I think, Mistress Perrers, you have nothing to fear from the Lord Chancellor. He tires of court and would be quit of it.”

“God go with you, Owen Archer.”

As Owen walked back through the castle precinct he thought it a good thing that for Ned he must hate Alice Perrers.

Thoresby sat quietly, reading the compline service, when Adam tiptoed into the chamber. “What is it, lad?” the Archbishop asked wearily.

“The Queen sends for you. She asks that you come at once.”

“So late in the evening?” Was she ill? Did she send for him for confession? “I shall be there at once.”

The Queen sat on her canopied bed, swathed in silk. She held her right hand out to Thoresby while her left hand stroked a puppy that lay curled on her lap. Two ladies of the chamber fussed with pillows and a tray of wine. “Sit here, where I might speak quietly,” Phillippa said, patting the top of a chair pulled up beside her. Her round face had some colour this evening, the bags under her eyes were less evident. But she trembled when she moved, as if weak.

Thoresby sat, troubled by this new symptom, yet relieved by the normal domestic activity in the room. “God be thanked that you are well, my lady.”

“Well?” Phillippa shrugged. “God has spared me, though I would not say I am well. Still, I shall not complain. I have had a long, happy life.” She nodded for a servant to pour wine, then waved her away. “We would have a moment of quiet,” she said sharply in her accented French. Ladies and servants melted away. Phillippa sat back, arms crossed, pursed her lips, shook her head. “And where is your chain of office?” Even now, her voice stem, her head trembled.

“Forgive me, my Queen, but I felt myself unworthy …”

“Nonsense. Have we been friends or have you offered me empty courtesies, John?”

“We are friends, my Queen.”

“Then do me the courtesy of speaking true. You grow weary of court. Heaven knows it is a thing of which we all grow weary soon enough.”

“I would retire to the north, my lady. I wish to devote my last years to God.”

Phillippa closed her eyes, lay her head back on the pillows. “I understand, John. I do understand. It is a wish I share.” She lay there quietly a moment, then opened her eyes, sat forward, reached for Thoresby’s hand. He grasped her swollen hand, looked into her watery eyes. “Do not break Edward’s heart. Remain chancellor until Wykeham wins his bishopric. Do this for Edward. And for me.”

The hand trembled in his grasp. Thoresby bowed his head over it. “Whatever you wish, my Queen.”

Owen laughed in the face of the man who asked him whether the rumour about Thoresby was true, that he had resigned as Lord Chancellor. And then, returning to his room, he settled back with a flagon of ale and considered the likelihood. He had soon decided it might be true. Was very likely true. For who would fabricate such a fabulous story that was yet possible, though none but Owen was likely to know what was in Thoresby’s heart? Owen knew of the Archbishop’s deteriorating relations with the King, which had been greatly affected by the ever-growing influence of Alice Perrers. Owen also knew how time weighed on the Archbishop’s shoulders. He had watched Thoresby painfully ease himself out of a chair after sitting overlong at supper, pause halfway up stairs to catch his breath, pass his hand over his brow and push the wine away. Thoresby felt his mortality.

But when Thoresby sent for Owen, he wore the chain of office.

“Then the rumours were untrue. You yet wear the chain.”

Thoresby glanced down at the heavy links. “I resigned, that is true enough. But the Queen persuaded me to stay yet a while. Until Wykeham can truly assume the title. Queen Phillippa grows worse with each passing season. I could not refuse the gentle lady.”

Owen shrugged as he sank into a chair, stretched his legs. “I had hoped you summoned me to prepare for a journey.”