Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

Thoresby smiled. “Despair not. I shall not trap you at Windsor indefinitely. I intend to depart tomorrow for York.”

“Tomorrow?” That smacked of flight.

“Can you be ready?”

Owen felt light-headed. “I shall count the hours, Your Grace.” They were pleasant hours, now he knew he was leaving. He dined with the poet Chaucer and his wife, a round apple of a woman with a practical tum of mind that complemented her husband’s dreaminess. While the husband described all at court with amusing anecdotes, she tempered the humour with analyses of their importance to the King. They had parted with promises of a meeting some day that would include Lucie.

Michaelo did not think the departure a moment too soon. His Grace had agreed to keep the chain of office until Wykeham’s confirmation, but he still insisted on delegating the work that kept him in London to his staff at Westminster. Michaelo prayed that they were well away when the King called for Thoresby and discovered Brother Florian instead. He feared the King’s roar.

Nor did he wish to be at Windsor when the gossip about Archer’s private supper in Mistress Perrers’s apartments reached the King. Tongues wagged about the handsome captain who had used his charms to convince Mistress Perrers to beg the King for Ned Townley’s life. Or was it Townley who had been her lover?

It was never safe to be in the household of those who aroused the court’s interest. Thoresby’s abrupt decision to leave had lifted Michaelo’s spirits.

Now Owen rode beside a brooding Thoresby, who kept glancing back at the grand castle, which appeared a mirage in the morning fog.

“Are you worried it will disappear from your life for ever, Your Grace? Or do you expect to see Wykeham raise yet another tower before you are out of sight?”

Thoresby chuckled. “You have heard of the words one of the King’s clerks discovered on an inner wall of the new buildings at Windsor?”

Owen had. This made Wykeham . “Aye. But they say he explains it as meaning that without the chance to prove his worth as Clerk of Works on such a grand project, he never would have risen so high.”

“He is a good man, Archer. But foolish. An eager pup.”

“A bit old for a pup.”

“I live for the day when I am truly through with court.”

“You will not be quite rid of it, even when Wykeham wears that chain. As Archbishop you will still be on the King’s council, eh?”

Thoresby gave Owen a sideways glance. “You enjoy ruining my daydream, Archer. I see the pleasure in your eye. But at least I shall be free to stay in my own house in London. I hope never to see my apartment at Windsor again. Or Alice Perrers.”

“Ah. Mistress Perrers.”

“Do I hear a smile in your voice?”

“I confess I find myself wondering why you despise her so.”

“Indeed? I have been meaning to ask how you enjoyed your supper.”

“I felt pampered. A kingly repast, a gracious, witty woman who is more of a beauty than I had been led to expect…”

“She bewitched you.”

“Fascinated me, yes. She knows her powers and uses them with consummate skill.”

Thoresby crossed himself. “It is all the worse that she is intelligent, a shrewd judge of character. You are quite right, she is absolutely aware of what she is doing. It is all purposeful. And she cares not a whit for her soul.”

“Perhaps she is still too young.”

“She is a plague child, Archer. She has faced death since birth.”

“Well, that might be even more to the point.”

“You do not despise her, Archer?”

“Of course I despise her – for Ned’s sake.”

“ Deo gratias . I began to worry for my godchild.”

Jasper shuffled into the shop, gathered a squealing Crowder into his arms, and plopped down beside Lucie at the counter, cuddling the wriggling kitten.

Lucie recognised the signs of worry. “I thought you were helping Owen in the garden.”

“Aye,” Jasper muttered glumly.

Lucie put a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye. “He has been brusque with you?”

Jasper shrugged. “He’s had bad news, hasn’t he? About Ned Townley, wasn’t it?” His pale eyelashes blinked, fighting tears.

“No! Gaspare wrote with good news of Ned.” Which was true. But there was sad news as well. Why of all mornings did the letter come today? It was Gwenllian’s first birthday and they were hosting a dinner in their new hall for her godparents. Lucie had hoped Owen would watch the shop this morning while she helped Tildy and her youngest sister with preparations. But shortly after the messenger had arrived Owen had donned his oldest clothes and gone out to attack the garden. It was true the apple trees in the Corbett garden must be moved; the carpenters would be ready in two days to begin the passageway that would connect the houses and create a courtyard screening the garden from the bustle of Davygate, and the trees were in the way. But Owen suddenly behaved as if they must be moved this morning.

Jasper’s face screwed up in a question. “Gaspare has seen Ned?” He had prayed for Ned ever since he had learned of his exile. No matter how lengthy Owen’s explanations, Jasper was convinced that exile meant death. Lucie had hoped the news from one of Owen’s and Ned’s old comrades would reassure the boy.

“No, Gaspare has not seen Ned, but he has had a letter from him. Ned has joined the Duke of Lancaster’s household in the Aquitaine.”

Jasper’s face was solemn. “Gaspare serves Lancaster, too. Why has he not seen Ned?”

“Because Ned is at the Duke’s residence, not with his fighting men, Jasper. That is what it means to be of the household.” Lucie knew even as she spoke that the boy saw this as another adult lie to keep at bay the nightmares that plagued him.

“Gaspare can neither read nor write.”

The shop bell jingled. Lucie knelt to brush the boy’s flaxen hair from his eyes. “Gaspare would use one of the clerks travelling with his company, as most soldiers do.” She kissed Jasper’s forehead, shook her head at the suspicious look he gave her. “You are such a doubting Thomas. I shall leave it to Owen to explain to you. Go back to him, now. But no worrying about Ned.” She chucked him under the chin and sent him off.

Mistress Ketel, the wife of a Flemish weaver, stood timidly waiting. Lucie greeted her in French and the young woman beamed. Her husband would not allow anything but English spoken in the house so that their children might be fluent; but Katrina had a limited vocabulary. “The words tangle in my head,” she had once explained to Lucie. “Frederick says I take a little of this word, a little of that, and create nonsense. God help me, I cannot seem to learn.”

Nor did she look as if she would carry her next child to term. “You are unwell, Mistress Ketel?”

“I am well, Mistress Wilton. It is the baby. She crawled too close to the fire and burned her hand.”

While Lucie filled a jar with a burn ointment she wondered about Katrina’s thinness, her almost grey complexion, her trembling hands. Might it be a wasting sickness? “You should see the Riverwoman about little Anna,” Lucie suggested. “She is good with burns.” And might take Katrina in hand.

Katrina shook her head and crossed herself. “Frederick would not approve, Mistress Wilton.” She thanked Lucie for the salve, paid her money, and hurried away.

A wasting sickness. Gaspare wrote that the Prince of Wales was wasting away. He had been bedridden since spring. The journey through the snow and ice to Najera had weakened the army; many men had died before enjoying the victory. Many more, weakened twice, otherwise had fallen prey to a sickness that purged the body until there was nothing left but skin and bones. It was thought that the Prince had the same sickness, but his courage and faith kept him alive. Owen’s old friend Lief had not been so lucky – hence Owen’s mood. Lucie said a prayer for Agnes, Lief’s widow, and their babe.