King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4) Read online

  Mary put aside her sewing to blow her nose.

  ‘Let me fetch you some wine,’ Ned offered.

  Mary shook her head. ‘No. I must finish my work. Wine will lead to pricks that stain the dresses. You would not suggest it had you ever had the chore of removing bloodstains from fine cloth.’

  Always practical, his Mary. Sweet Heaven, how he loved her. Ned took her hands.

  Mary snatched them away.

  ‘What’s this?’ Ned sat back on his heels, confused. ‘You reject my comfort?’

  ‘Oh, Ned. ‘Tis your stubborn jealousy caused it, you know it is true. Daniel would never have drunk so much if you had not threatened him. Why did you do it? There was no need. No need. I’d told you, I’d sworn you had nothing to be jealous of. Daniel was kind to me, was all. He was my friend.’ Mary sniffed, hiccuped.

  His fault? ‘Kind to you, was all, was it? Why? Why was Sir William of Wyndesore’s page so kind to the maid of Mistress Alice Perrers?’

  Mary flushed. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Oh indeed. The lowly maid of Mistress Alice could not possibly be considered a friend by the handsome young page of Sir William of Wyndesore.’

  ‘How did he befriend you, Mary? I cannot think of a reason why Sir William’s page and Mistress Alice’s maid would even meet.’

  Mary gasped. ‘Even in death you distrust him! Oh shame, Ned. Shame on you!’ She rose and hurried towards the inner door.

  Ned groaned, hurried after her, caught her elbow. ‘For pity’s sake, Mary, we are to be wed. You should be comforting me as the victim of unfounded gossip, not accusing me of something you know full well I did not do.’

  Mary stood stubbornly with her back to him, looking down at the floor. Ned heard her catch her breath and knew the tears flowed once more. For a friend? He’d be a fool to believe that! He let go of her arm. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Mary. I have misunderstood. I thought you loved me, but I see my error.’ He strode from the room to the sound of Mary’s sobs. Devil take her, she could be so stubborn. It was Mistress Perrers’s doing, he’d wager. She did not like him – had other plans for Mary, no doubt. He must find a way to free Mary from the whore’s service. He wished Owen Archer were not so far north in York. Ned could use his advice in this.

  Two

  Matters of Conscience

  York, March 1367

  Owen Archer laughed as his daughter pulled at his eye patch, then his beard, her efforts accompanied by a low, throaty laugh. ‘You’ve a grip to make an archer proud,’ Owen said.

  His wife’s head was bowed over the rows of seeds. ‘I’d thought Gwenllian might learn my profession,’ Lucie said. She had been named Master Apothecary after the death of her first husband, Nicholas Wilton. ‘But Gwenllian is to be an archer, not just carry your name?’ Lucie retained her first husband’s surname to acknowledge that she held her position as Nicholas’s widow, not Owen’s wife. ‘It is settled at five months?’

  Owen walked over to Lucie, peered over her shoulder. ‘She shall learn the art of the longbow if she wishes. If everyone in this household becomes your apprentice, you will have little to do and will lose your skill. Some of those seeds look as if water got to them.’

  Lucie shrugged. ‘The river damp is ever a problem. So Gwenllian is to serve under you as one of the Archbishop’s retainers?’

  ‘Never that,’ Owen snapped.

  Lucie glanced up, hearing the change in her husband’s voice, and caught the tell-tale twitch in his left cheek. ‘You are angry, I know, though I do not understand it. Surely you knew you would owe His Grace service?’ At Christmas, Archbishop Thoresby had named Owen captain of his retainers and Steward of Bishopthorpe, his palace south of the city. ‘Why did you accept the posts if you meant to go into a rage whenever he called upon you?’

  Owen met Lucie’s eye and said simply, ‘It seemed an honour at the time.’

  ‘And so it was. And is.’ Lucie did not look away.

  But Owen’s eye slid from Lucie to his daughter. He lifted Gwenllian into the air and murmured, ‘What makes you prouder – Owen Archer, Spy, or Captain Archer, Steward of Bishopthorpe?’

  Gwenllian gurgled as she tilted towards him, grabbing for his face.

  Bess Merchet hummed a tune as she made her way back to the York Tavern from market. As she approached Wilton’s apothecary she noted Owen Archer striding off in the direction of the minster. By the time he’d turned up Stonegate he had ignored the greetings of two neighbours, a singular lapse in courtesy for Owen. Bess read it as the aftermath of a heated argument in the household, certainly not a rarity, but odd at this early hour, when Tildy, Jasper, and Gwenllian would be witnesses. She hurried home to drop her purchases off with the cook, then slipped next door to see whether Lucie needed a friend’s perspective.

  Tildy greeted her at the kitchen door holding Gwenllian on her hip. ‘Oh bless you, Mistress Merchet, you are the answer to my prayers.’ She handed Bess the baby, who immediately grabbed one of the ribbons on Bess’s cap. ‘Mistress Lucie has gone into the shop to give Jasper some instruction and the broth needs stirring.’ Jasper was Lucie’s apprentice, an orphan who was considered part of the family.

  Bess bounced and chucked her godchild and followed Tildy into the kitchen. ‘You are in need of an extra hand round here, I can see that, Tildy. Has your mistress done aught about hiring another girl?’

  Tildy shook her head. ‘Most days I find a hand ready when I need it. And Gwenllian is often in the shop with Mistress Lucie and Jasper. But Jasper dropped something that must be swept up with care, so Gwenllian stayed with me.’

  Bess considered all the facts. ‘The Captain is off to the minster?’

  Tildy nodded as she wiped her hands and took up a long wooden spoon to stir the bubbling broth.

  Lucie came through the beaded curtain. Gwenllian immediately screwed up her face and began to bawl for her mother.

  Bess handed the squirming, squealing baby into Lucie’s outstretched arms. ‘She has you all dancing to her tune, Lucie. Have a care she does not become a burden.’

  ‘You mind the inn, Bess, I shall mind my daughter,’ Lucie said with a smile as she settled on a cushioned chair by the fire to nurse Gwenllian.

  Bess sat down near Lucie and kept her peace until the child was ready to be winded. ‘Owen went off in quite a temper.’

  Lucie rubbed Gwenllian’s back. ‘His Grace has a mission for him, something that will take him away. ’Tis nothing unusual, but you would think Archbishop Thoresby had ordered Owen to slay us all in our sleep. He is convinced that all the evil in the world will be unleashed on this house as soon as he steps away.’

  Bess sniffed and nodded vigorously. ‘I thought as much. Thoresby’s retainers stopped at the inn last night. I guessed they had been here too.’ She closed her eyes, made more connections. ‘From London, eh? There are rumours John Thoresby will not be chancellor much longer.’

  Lucie nodded towards the shelves behind Bess. ‘Look at the silver cup he sent for his godchild.’

  Bess was not surprised by the change of subject. Lucie had been raised in a convent school and abhorred gossip, probably the only pupil who had taken the warnings against gossip to heart. Bess turned round to see the cup, rose with an exclamation. It was an extravagant gift for a child, obviously meant as a keepsake, not to use. ‘I am glad that Owen bit his tongue and agreed to the Archbishop’s offer to stand as her godfather. Already Gwenllian has riches to carry her comfortably through life.’ The cup was exquisitely decorated with doves and flowers. Bess used her apron as a cloth to protect it from fingerprints as she turned it this way and that. ‘So. What does Owen fear will happen?’

  ‘He says he cannot leave me with a babe in arms and an apprentice who is but eleven years old. Who will protect us?’ Lucie tucked the now sleeping baby into her cradle. ‘We have gone round and round about it. I cannot make him see reason. We live in a walled city surrounded by friends, under the protection of a powerful guild, and surely God will watch over Owen�
�s family while he is serving the Archbishop.’ Lucie settled back in the chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. ‘He hovers over us, Bess. He will drive me mad.’

  Bess nodded. ‘I saw it coming while you still carried Gwenllian. Remember his silences, the frowns when he thought you did not see him? You thought he was sorry he was to be a father.’

  Lucie smiled, remembering. ‘How wrong I was.’ Owen had been worried that a child would be frightened by his scarred face and his patch. ‘And how wrong he was; Gwenllian adores him.’ Lucie sighed. ‘I had hoped that he might thus see the futility of worry.’

  Bess smiled at her friend. Level-headed Lucie expected all mankind to think as she did. ‘A worrier is a worrier, Lucie. Wait for Owen to change and you will go mad. So, what is this mission?’

  ‘He is to escort Archdeacon Jehannes and a small company to Fountains Abbey. The King wishes to convince the Cistercian abbots to support Sir William of Wykeham as Bishop of Winchester. The Archdeacon will carry letters from the King, from Thoresby as chancellor, and from Wykeham himself, I trust.’

  Bess sat forward. ‘Thoresby is doing this for Wykeham, the man poised to take his place as chancellor? I thought John Thoresby loved his power.’

  Lucie reached down, smoothed her daughter’s unruly hair, dark and soft as down. ‘It is strange. But with the King so keen on Wykeham’s promotion, Thoresby has little choice but to support the effort.’

  ‘So Owen is off to make plans with Jehannes?’

  ‘More likely to complain. I pray God Jehannes has his usual calming effect on my husband.’

  ‘It is passing strange Owen complains so about his work for the Archbishop, yet grows bored when he is too long at home.’

  Lucie smiled, though her blue eyes were melancholy. ‘Owen is a riddle, Bess, one that I doubt I shall ever solve. To him, Captain of Archers was a noble profession. Spying for the old Duke of Lancaster was the least he could do for his lord’s loyalty in keeping him in his service after he lost the sight in his left eye. But his work for the Archbishop of York—’ she shook her head. ‘He thinks a man of God has no business retaining spies. In Owen’s opinion Thoresby is too much the Lord Chancellor and not enough the man of God.’

  Bess leaned over and patted Lucie’s arm. ‘Then if the rumours that Wykeham is to become chancellor prove true, Owen might be a happier man.’

  Lucie chuckled. ‘Trust you to find the bright side of gossip, Bess. But the Archbishop of York is still a powerful political force. Owen will still be called away. And worry all the while.’

  ‘You know, Lucie, if an obsession to protect his family is the only thing you find to fault in your husband, you are a lucky woman.’

  ‘You will not find me denying that.’

  Jehannes paced his parlour, hands clasped behind his back. When Owen was shown in, the Archdeacon spun round, hurried forward, arms outstretched, his youthful face brightening. ‘Bless you for coming so quickly, my friend,’ Jehannes said breathlessly, putting an arm round Owen’s shoulders. ‘Please, sit with me by the fire.’ Though outside the day was warm, the stone house had not yet caught the heat, being in a dark street.

  Owen settled into the chair, stretched out his long legs, steepled his hands before him. ‘I am curious about what is not explained in the letter.’

  Jehannes sat down stiffly, perched at the edge of his seat. He nodded towards a flagon of wine and two goblets. ‘Take some refreshment while we talk. We shall eat afterwards.’

  Owen leaned over to pour. ‘And you?’

  Jehannes frowned, shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ He looked agitated. Owen had rarely seen him like this. ‘As I presume His Grace informed you, we are to carry letters to the abbots of Fountains and Rievaulx.’ Jehannes tapped the arms of the chair as he spoke.

  Owen leaned back with his wine. ‘That is the mission. But what is behind it?’

  Jehannes cleared his throat. ‘You have heard that the King has named Wykeham to the see of Winchester?’

  Owen nodded. ‘And Pope Urban has refused to approve it. That should please the Archbishop.’

  Jehannes flashed a tight smile.

  ‘What is your role in this?’

  Jehannes raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I am to add my voice to the arguments in favour of Sir William of Wykeham.’

  Considering the Archdeacon’s agitation, Owen doubted it was that simple. He would return to that. Of Wykeham he knew only that the King’s partiality to the man was owing to his architectural talent. Many at court claimed he was a commoner who had finagled his way into the King’s confidence, but Owen imagined they were simply jealous. ‘I agree with His Holiness that a bishop should be a devout man of God.’

  ‘That is precisely the irony of the situation,’ Jehannes said. ‘Wykeham may be a devoted churchman. But His Holiness sees only the number and value of the benefices Wykeham holds, all gifts from the King, particularly his position as Keeper of the Privy Seal. And, of course, everyone knows that the appointment is the first step towards his promotion to Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘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 circumstan
ces 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.’

  Three

  A hushed Argument

  Delayed 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.