King's Bishop (Owen Archer Book 4)

by Candace Robb

  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.

  Customers kept Lucie occupied for the rest of the morning. As soon as the last one strolled out she closed the shop and hurried out to see the state of the trees. Three were already replanted and staked, and Jasper was soaking them with buckets of water from a wagonload brought up earlier from the river to supplement their well water. Far in the back of the garden Owen was at work on another tree. Lucie crossed herself when she saw the fury with which he threw the dirt, stomped, yanked at the tree when it tilted. She backed out of his way as he went for the cord and stakes, sank down on the bench by the roses to wait for him to exhaust his devils. There would be time enough for him to wash himself for their guests.

  And indeed, when Tildy and her sister came out to tell them it was time to dress, Owen called to Jasper to gather the tools while he joined Lucie.

  She wiped Owen’s grimy face with her apron. ‘We must don smiles for our daughter now.’

  Miraculously, Owen managed a crooked grin. ‘Aye. Lief would not be the cause of gloom on such an anniversary. I have done with my mourning for now.’

  It was an assortment of guests that one would find only in such a household, with Owen’s standing as steward, retainer and spy, and Lucie’s as Master Apothecary and the daughter of a knight: John Thoresby, Archbishop of York; Camden Thorpe, Lucie’s guildmaster, and his wife Gwen; Tom and Bess Merchet of the York Tavern; and Lucie’s father, Sir Robert D’Arby, and his sister Phillippa. Magda Digby, who had been midwife at Gwenllian’s birth, had declined, amused that Lucie and Owen had even thought to ask her to sit at table with the Archbishop. ‘Magda has no mind to drink wine with the Carrion Crow, no matter that Bird-eye is his man. Magda has a longer memory than most.’

  Thoresby, conspicuous in his Archbishop’s robes, offered a toast to Sir Robert, ‘Who in his delight at the news that his daughter was with child gave her and her worthy husband this gracious property.’

  Sir Robert, who stood in the window of the new hall watching his sister fuss with the children out in the garden, bowed and held up his glass with an apologetic glance at Lucie, who had not at first been keen on his extravagant gift.

  But she, too, held up her glass. ‘To Sir Robert.’

  All toasted.

  Sir Robert then stepped forward. ‘Let us also toast to the Lord Chancellor’s generosity in providing this splendid wine.’

  ‘The Archbishop, Sir Robert,’ Bess said. ‘His Grace is no longer chancellor.’

  Thoresby had just returned from London, where he had handed the Great Seal and the chain of office to Wykeham.

  Sir Robert scratched his thin white hair and frowned. ‘Ah. Now it comes back to me. My daughter did say something about it. Forgive me, Your Grace.’

  Thoresby held up his cup. ‘No need, Sir Robert. Why should you be bothered to remember the shifting fortunes of court? Let us drink rather to Captain Archer, Mistress Wilton and my beautiful godchild.’

  When they had also toasted the house, the workmen, Owen’s miraculously successful moving of the apple trees, Thoresby stepped forward once more. ‘And lastly, let us drink to Sir William of Wykeham, who is consecrated this day Bishop of Winchester.’

  Camden Thorpe frowned. ‘But, Your Grace, should not the Archbishop of our great city have been included in the ceremony? How is it that you are not at St Paul’s?’

  ‘He is well attended by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the bishops of London and Salisbury. I shall not be missed, Guildmaster.’

  ‘But did you not wish to go?’ Camden asked, a man who delighted in ritual.

  ‘Not when it falls on the first anniversary of my goddaughter’s birth,’ Thoresby said with a gentle smile.

  Owen and Lucie exchanged puzzled looks.

  ‘To the Bishop of Winchester,’ Gwen Thorpe said, raising her glass.

  After the toast, as the guests moved towards the gaily lit table, Bess touched Tom’s arm, and, leaning close, whispered, ‘’Tis a proper house for them.’

  Tom looked round at the glazed casements opened to the garden, the tiled firepit in the middle of the room, the raised platform at the head of the table. He shrugged. ‘Too grand for me. The old kit
chen was more to my liking.’

  ‘Well, they will be glad of the extra room when the next babe comes.’

  Tom glanced over at Lucie, shook his head. ‘Lucie is with child? She looks right slender to my eye.’

  ‘You’ve a good eye for a tiny waist, as always, husband. But mark my words, with His Grace come home to stay there will be ample opportunity for bed sport.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Tom drained his glass. ‘Come, wife, let us join them at table before that fine roast is cold.’

  Author’s note

  Two historical threads entwine in this book: King Edward Ill’s battle to make William of Wykeham Bishop of Winchester, and Alice Perrers’s intriguing relationship with Sir William of Wyndesore. I find William of Wykeham and Alice Perrers complementary souls because of their dependence for their standing on Edward’s affection. I put this thought into the mind of John Thoresby, who balances precariously on the edge of retirement as Lord Chancellor, his close friendship with King Edward having soured over his obvious disapproval of the King’s low-born mistress. And now the King is grooming another commoner, William of Wykeham, to take Thoresby’s place. Historians have treated Wykeham with more kindness than they have Perrers, but both have come down to us with the taint of King’s favourites.

  Froissart, the Flemish chronicler who resided at court at Queen Phillippa’s invitation, said of Wykeham: ‘… everything passed through his hands. He stood so high in the King’s favour that, in his time, everything was done in England by his consent, and nothing was done without it.’1 No doubt an exaggeration, but Wykeham did rise to become Lord Chancellor of England from a modest beginning as King’s chaplain and surveyor of the works at Windsor Castle, and it was his success with the completion of the castle that endeared him to King Edward. During this period the lower ward of the castle was largely rebuilt to house the chaplains who served St George’s Chapel. Timber buildings within the keep, or Round Tower, were rebuilt or renovated to house the royal family (chambers, a hall, and probably a chapel), whilst extensive building in the upper ward was completed. This ward, with the royal apartments and lodgings for courtiers, essentially took its present form at this time. Though modernised, enlarged, refaced over the centuries, much of what we see today stands on the foundations planned by Edward III and William of Wykeham. The work in the upper ward is described thus by the continuator of Ranulph Higden’s Polychronicon:

  About the year of our Lord 1359 our lord the King, at the instance of William Wikham, clerk, caused many excellent buildings in the castle of Windsor to be thrown down, and others more beautiful and sumptuous to be set up … The said William was of very low birth … yet he was very shrewd, and a man of great energy. Considering how he could please the king and secure his goodwill, he counselled him to build the said castle of Windsor in the form in which it appears today to the beholder.2

  I mention in the book an inscription found on a wall in the castle, ‘This made Wickam’3. It is said that when King Edward objected to the inscription, Wykeham explained that he had not meant to take credit for the castle, but rather to acknowledge that its completion was what made his career. This story is probably a myth, but the point is well taken. Windsor was close to the King’s heart. Here it was that he had envisioned his recreation of Arthur’s Round Table. Though that early plan was aborted, it was revised as the Order of the Garter. And Wykeham had seen to it that Edward had a glorious, mighty castle in which his noble order could gather and celebrate chivalry, with a college of chaplains to serve them.

  By the time this book opens, Wykeham is Keeper of the Privy Seal. Now Edward wishes to make him Bishop of Winchester, a sufficiently high office from which to choose a Lord Chancellor. But Pope Urban V stalled in conferring the bishopric on the King’s favourite. Although it appears that enemies of Wykeham (jealous of King’s favours?) had begun a campaign against him, the issue was not entirely personal. Edward had been in continual conflict with the papacy over what he saw as the popes’ meddling with patronage, which the English kings had always claimed as a temporal, not a spiritual matter, and thus in their jurisdiction. With Urban V the conflict was compounded: the Pope wished to cleanse the Church of pluralism (clergy holding multiple benefices, or ecclesiastical livings) and saw Wykeham as the richest pluralist of the time. Edward had, indeed, generously granted benefices to Wykeham; it was a common, convenient way to pay such a cleric without dipping into the royal purse. Hence the stalemate, and a controversy that divided the English Church into two camps.

  In the novel Edward seeks support for Wykeham from the abbots of two major Cistercian abbeys in Yorkshire, Rievaulx and Fountains. While we know that Edward sent at least twenty-five letters to cardinals enlisting their support (actually one to an abbot who was soon to become a cardinal), we have no indication that Abbot Robert Monkton of Fountains and Abbot Richard of Rievaulx were so approached, but it was not a random choice on my part. The Cistercians were not known for blind allegiance to the King of England; their bonds were to their mother house in France. Their support might well have impressed His Holiness.

  Another drama is unfolding, this one in Alice Perrers’s life. Alice was an orphan who began her reign at court in Queen Phillippa’s household. She quickly became a favourite of the Queen, and shortly thereafter of the King. As the King’s mistress, Alice’s situation at court was precarious; in fact, her relationship was one of the great scandals of the times, as I mention briefly in the note to The Lady Chapel. If the birth of her son by the King was greeted with hostility among the courtiers, a young woman of nineteen, no matter how self-possessed, might well have sought a protector who would be bound by law to stay by her side. Alice Perrers had no powerful family to protect her when she fell from favour.

  Historians do not agree about when it occurred, with theories ranging from 1367 to after King Edward III’s death, but at some point Alice married Sir William of Wyndesore, who held command under Lionel, Duke of Clarence, in Ireland from 1362 to 1366. Wyndesore appears to have been as financially cunning as Alice. He returned from his second tour in Ireland in disgrace for extorting money from the people for his military campaigns. It seems that the money allocated to him for his expedition had been shared with Alice before his departure. This would suggest the early closeness of the relationship that I have chosen. But they made public the marriage only after Parliament denounced Alice following King Edward’s death; the couple argued that Alice had been tried as a single woman when she was in fact married, and thus the property Parliament sought to take from her was Wyndesore’s. Alice stated at this time that the marriage had taken place long ago. She and William lived together occasionally thereafter, but only when it was politically expedient. It appears to have been a cold marriage between two ambitious people; William essentially disinherited Alice’s children after her death and made claim to all her property. I begin in this book to unfold my own version of this marriage.

  In reading about Wyndesore (I take this spelling from Burke’s peerage solely to avoid confusion with the castle and town of Windsor), I found it peculiar that a man of whom no one had good things to say rose so quickly upon his return from Ireland with Clarence. In the winter and spring of 1367 the King rewarded Wyndesore with pardon of all debts owed him, granted him a weekly market and yearly fair at Morland (a healthy source of revenue), and made him Joint Warden of the West March towards Scotland. Shortly after the action of this book Wyndesore became Sheriff of Cumberland and Keeper of Carlisle Castle, then returned to Ireland as the King’s Lieutenant for several tours beginning in 1369. A man well rewarded for his soldiering…

  Or was he being rewarded for something else? Might the King have discovered the relationship between his mistress and the soldier and seen it as potentially useful if revealed at the proper time? Meanwhile, he paid Wyndesore well for his silence and kept him busy away from court, whilst Alice remained at Edward’s side. Might this not explain the later chill to the marriage? I think it might, though I doubt the relationship wa
s ever warm except between the covers.

  I do not condemn Alice for her scheming. In the fourteenth century a woman’s best hope for security was to marry well. And yet even this could be temporary, as in the case of Lucie Wilton’s Aunt Phillippa, a childless widow who discovered she had no role when her husband died. Because of this reversal, Phillippa encouraged the marriage that secured Lucie her position as apothecary. Once Lucie proved her skill and was accepted by the guild, she was remarkably secure. Her marriage to Owen neither improved her standing nor reduced it; only her professional integrity could affect it. Lucie did not seek a protector in marrying Owen; she married him for love. Perversely, she is the one who finds a protector. For all Alice Perrers’s scheming, she wound up with a man who would prove more of an adversary than a partner.

  1 Froissart Chronicles, ed. G. Brereton (London: Penguin Books Ltd, 1978), p. 67.

  2 The History of the King’s Works, Vol. 1, The Middle Ages, ed. H.M. Colvin (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1963), p. 877.

  3 The spelling of names was at this time as creative an endeavour as all other spelling. The form of Wykeham’s name that I use is the one I came upon most frequently in twentieth century historical writing.

  Also available from Candace Robb

  The

  Apothecary

  Rose

  An Owen Archer

  Mystery

  Read on for an extract from the first Owen Archer mystery …

  Weeks later, past Twelfthnight, Brother Wulfstan sat beside the brazier in the infirmary, sadly contemplating his hand. First it had tingled, then it had gone numb. With just a fingertip’s worth of the physick. Enough aconite to kill by applying a salve. No wonder ingesting it had killed his friend and now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam. God forgive him, but he had not noticed that he had grown so old and incompetent. And yet here was the proof. Never should an Infirmarian accept a physick prepared by other hands without testing it. And when the patient died, Wulfstan had not thought to test it even then, but had put it on a shelf, ready for the next victim. God forgive him, it was Wulfstan’s own incompetence that had killed his friend, the gentle pilgrim. And now Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop’s ward. Sweet Mary and all the saints, what was he to do?