Candace ROBB - The King’s Bishop

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.

“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.”