The King's Bishop (5 page)

‘At which time he would no doubt be the King’s man.’

Jehannes nodded. ‘The King’s bishop. Precisely.’

‘I do not believe Archbishop Thoresby sincere in his support of Wykeham.’

Jehannes closed his eyes, pressed his fingers against his lids. ‘You know His Grace too well. In public he proclaims his support; in private he plots with Lancaster to overturn Wykeham. Echoing the Archbishop’s strategy, I am to find subtle ways to remind the abbots why Wykeham is unsuitable.’ He dropped his hands, gave Owen a weary look. ‘I am not a dissembler, my friend. I shall disappoint His Grace.’

Owen was outraged. ‘You are put in an impossible position!’

Jehannes rose to pace again. ‘Impossible indeed.’

‘His Grace is the dissembler. Why can he not do this?’

‘He is Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York. He cannot be pulled away from London and court at a time like this.’

Owen watched his friend pace back and forth several times while he absorbed the information. ‘So what is my part in this?’ he asked at last.

Jehannes paused, gave Owen a puzzled look. ‘Undoubtedly, His Grace recommended you.’

‘That I can see. But why? Why the captain of his retainers leading the escort? He expects trouble?’

Jehannes nodded as he grasped Owen’s point. ‘Oh, yes. Trouble. Yes, I daresay. You must understand that this issue has inspired more than rivalry. It has brought to a head feelings that have divided the Church in this kingdom, one side believing that the Pope has sovereignty over the Church in England, the other that King Edward has sovereignty over all in his kingdom, be they soldiers, farmers, or clergy. A friar has even circulated a paper – anonymously, of course, the coward – declaring that the King has forfeited his right to govern by refusing to pay tribute to the Pope. The King fears that with tempers flaring there might be danger.’

‘And His Grace generously suggested me for the job.’

‘His words were that he trusted you implicitly.’

Owen grinned. ‘His Grace has a honeyed tongue when it is to his purpose. What do you mean to say to the abbots?’

Jehannes shook his head, a desperate look in his eyes. ‘I have no idea. Somehow I must undermine the man while appearing to praise him. I am not in the habit of saying one thing, meaning another. My face and voice will give me away.’

‘It sickens me to hear you berate yourself for being an honest man. For pity’s sake, Jehannes, you are a man of God. You
must
be honest!’

Jehannes smiled at his friend’s indignation. ‘You note His Grace has not asked
you
to dissemble.’

‘He would not dare!’

They shared a laugh over that.

Then Owen grew serious again. ‘Do you ever regret serving under Archbishop Thoresby?’

Jehannes looked surprised. ‘Never. He is a good man.’ When Owen’s eyebrow rose, the Archdeacon
shrugged. ‘As good as the circumstances allow him to be.’

‘That smacks of cynicism.’

‘It is not meant that way, truly. You are a fortunate man to serve His Grace.’

Owen could see that his friend was in earnest. Having nothing polite to reply to that, he chose to move on to practical plans. ‘When will the letters arrive?’

‘I should think fairly soon.’

D
elayed by a bilious stomach, John Thoresby now hurried to a meeting with the King, his robes sailing round him, his eyes squinting to see ten steps ahead. He cursed the indignities of age that made him so much more conscious of his mortal shell than ever before – stomach, eyes, joints. The disintegration of his body seemed to be accelerating of late. So why was he plotting Wykeham’s disappointment? Would it not be a relief were Wykeham to take the chancellor’s chain from round his neck and lighten his load? In comparison, his duties as Archbishop of York were nothing.

Round the corner he hastened, down shallow stone steps, pushed open the heavy door, gasped as the cold, damp air hit him. It was not so much colder without than within, but it was damper, with a brisk wind that rushed the chill to the bone. Down through the winter garden the chancellor walked, a bit slower now, the air sharp in his lungs.

Thoresby slowed as he noticed a couple standing in the shadow of the doorway just ahead, hissing at one
another in loud whispers. He was disappointed that he could not make out their words, for the woman was Alice Perrers. Even with his failing eyesight, Thoresby found her hated form unmistakable. But he could not make out the man’s features. He stepped closer.

Alas, the two caught the movement and quickly separated, rushing in different directions. Disappointed, Thoresby continued through the doorway, consoling himself with the thought that the court might yet be rid of that strident-voiced, meddling commoner, Alice Perrers. In fact, it spurred him on to his meeting and his resolve to deliver to the King his carefully worded letters, calculated to make the abbots uneasy. The ploy was underhand and deceitful, but Thoresby felt the end was to the country’s benefit. He plotted against Wykeham not so much to keep the office of chancellor, as to win Lancaster’s support in his efforts to separate the King from his despised mistress.

Thoresby told himself that he was defending the Queen’s honour, but it was Phillippa herself who had first shown Perrers preference. Had Alice not been the Queen’s favourite, she might never have been placed in such constant contact with the King. The Queen feigned ignorance of the affair by never mentioning it. But everyone at court knew that Perrers’s little bastard was the King’s. It sickened Thoresby to think of the hurt that the kindly Queen hid so well.

The unpleasant truth was that the Queen’s honour accounted for only part of Thoresby’s animosity towards Alice Perrers. The other reason was shameful. He lusted for her. No matter the prayer, the penance, the staunch resolve, when he looked on her his blood ran hot. Which made him hate her all the
more. Her presence at court was a constant torment. And thus he was resolved to rid the court of her. Or to leave himself.

At the door to the King’s chambers Thoresby paused, checking his clothes, dabbing the sweat from his upper lip and temples, straightening his chain of office, clearing his throat. He then nodded to the door warden to knock. A servant opened the door from within, announced Thoresby. Sweet Heaven, when had the King adopted such ceremony in his own apartments?

Thoresby was disappointed to see William of Wykeham, ascetic and sombre in his clerical robes, already seated near a window, his long, slender hands folded calmly in his lap, heavy-lidded eyes cast discreetly down. Thoresby had thought he was to see the King alone, a chat between old friends.

‘Ah, there you are, John.’ Edward came forward, arms outstretched, stopping short of touching Thoresby. He made a sweeping motion towards the table at which Wykeham sat. ‘Come, sit with us. We have much to discuss.’

A servant brought wine, which Thoresby accepted but let stand for now. Wine taken too soon after activity would bring on a cold sweat, and he must not appear nervous or even uncomfortable in front of Wykeham.

The King settled himself in a well-cushioned chair. As soon as he sat, out came the dagger with which he increasingly expressed himself in conversation, stabbing here, jabbing there. It was as if with the stooping of his once mighty shoulders and the clouding of his once piercing eyes Edward had chosen the dagger to instil fear in his people. ‘So. Well met, my counsellors. You have something for me, John?’

‘I have indeed, Your Grace. Letters for the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx.’ Thoresby pulled them from his purse, handed them to the King’s servant, who waited beside the Archbishop’s chair.

Edward squinted at the documents, then back to Thoresby with raised eyebrows. ‘Already sealed?’

On second thought, Thoresby had decided that the King would see through his crafty prose and had sealed the letters. The King might yet open them, but he might not. Thoresby creased his brow in an expression of concern. ‘You did not wish me to put the seals of chancellor and archbishop on them, Your Grace? Forgive me, I misunderstood. I thought you wished to impress on them the weight of my opinion.’

The King said nothing, holding Thoresby’s eyes with his old power. Thoresby regretted the ploy. Wykeham gave a nervous cough that echoed in the lengthening silence. The floorboards creaked as the servant shifted his weight. Thoresby’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears. The King sat with his back to the window, so that the light caught the coarse white hairs on his ears, the seams in the royal neck.

Oh Edward, Edward, we grow so old. Please, my King, be wise in your last years. Put that she-devil from you and comfort sweet Phillippa
, Thoresby prayed silently.

The King suddenly smiled. ‘Of course that was the point, John, and you did well to seal them. You are as competent as ever.’

Now Thoresby yearned for the wine, but he must wait until his heartbeat slowed, else his hands would tremble and give him away.

Wykeham, however, was not so wise. He grabbed his goblet and took a good, long drink, returning it to the table with a nervous clatter.

The King grinned unpleasantly at his protégé. ‘What, William? Did my silence make you nervous?’ He sat back, studied Wykeham, who dropped his eyes to the table directly in front of him. ‘Are you easily bullied, William? How then will you stand up to His Holiness?’ Edward turned to Thoresby. ‘Am I making a mistake, John? Is William too gentle to be my bishop?’ Thoresby thought Wykeham’s rising colour could as easily be caused by anger as by fear. But Edward did not wait for a reply; he closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘God will guide me.’ He opened his eyes, leaned forward, pointed the dagger at Thoresby. ‘Captain Archer is standing ready?’

Thoresby hesitated only a second, accustomed to the shifts in the King’s moods. ‘By now he has received his orders, Your Grace.’

‘And the Archdeacon of York?’

Thoresby bowed towards Edward. ‘And the Archdeacon, Your Grace.’ Calm now, he lifted his cup to his lips, drank deeply.

‘So,’ the King continued, ‘we have the letters, the York contingent, all that is still to do is send the letters north, eh?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Townley, Gaunt’s spy, is to lead the party north.’

Thoresby choked on a second sip of wine, managed to mask it as a cough. John of Gaunt’s spy? Was this Lancaster’s move to foil Wykeham?

Before Thoresby could think of a comment, Wykeham jumped in with a protest. ‘But, Your Grace!’

Edward turned slowly towards Wykeham. ‘You disapprove?’ The ice in his voice was unmistakable.

Wykeham’s already heightened colour deepened. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but Ned Townley … Perhaps you have not heard the rumours, but surely you
have heard of the drowning of Sir William of Wyndesore’s page?’

‘Ah.’ The King rolled his eyes. ‘
That
nonsense. Mistress Alice assured me that Townley could not be guilty, he lay with her maid that night.’

Thoresby closed his eyes. Mistress Alice. What was she up to?

‘Still, Your Grace, there are those who yet whisper …’ Wykeham began.

‘Indeed. That is just the point, William. He is condemned when he is innocent. Townley is best out of the way until Wyndesore convinces his men of their mistake, or at least until tempers cool. We would not want my son’s spy attacked, would we?’ Edward pointed his dagger at Thoresby again. ‘And his man Archer was Townley’s captain, did you know that, William? Archer was Henry of Grosmont’s captain of archers. Who better to take charge of Townley for now?’

Wykeham’s tall frame trembled. With rage, Thoresby was certain. The privy councillor’s usually expressionless face registered indignant disbelief. ‘Your Grace, I beg you. I must protest for yet another reason.’

King Edward sighed, leaned back in his chair, studied his nails, cleaned one with the tip of his dagger. ‘You grow tedious, William.’

Thoresby drank his wine and thanked his good fortune. The King might rethink his preference for Wykeham if the man proved intractable.

Wykeham licked his lips. ‘Your Grace, I am quite sure that the Duke of Lancaster opposes my promotion. And as Ned Townley is his man, I am frankly uneasy.’

‘So I can see.’ The King glanced at Thoresby. ‘This
Townley. Was he not the one who found that rogue Sebastian for me?’

‘With Captain Archer’s aid, yes, Your Grace.’

Edward grinned, turned back to Wykeham. ‘He has been trained to obey orders. He is my son’s man. He will obey me, William.’

Wykeham nodded, lifted his cup to his lips with surprisingly steady hands, and sipped carefully. ‘Who travels north with Ned Townley, Your Grace?’

‘It will be the same as with the other groups I have dispatched. Soldiers, a priest or a friar – several in some cases.’ Edward suddenly pounded the table. ‘I know what will let you rest easy. Don Ambrose will accompany Townley. He is loyal to you, and an Austin friar – though they like to preach against pluralists, here is one devoted to you. That should impress the saintly Cistercians. What do you say, William?’

Thoresby was puzzled. An Austin friar on such a mission?

Wykeham’s long face wore a pained expression. ‘Your Grace, I had thought to take Ambrose into my household.’