The King's Bishop Read Online Free PDF

serving under Archbishop Thoresby?’
    Jehannes looked surprised. ‘Never. He is a good man.’ When Owen’s eyebrow rose, the Archdeaconshrugged. ‘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.’

Three
A hushed Argument
     
    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 oneanother 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 themore. 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.