Joanna stepped backwards, discomfited by the man’s nearness. ‘I changed my mind.’
‘Hm. I reckon you do not represent St Clement’s in offering this relic. You’ve had another change of mind, eh?’
Joanna hesitated. It seemed too soon to come to this point. But she had little choice. ‘I have stolen the relic. I need funds to travel. I mean to find my brother Hugh.’
Longford raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you now?’
He gestured for her to sit by the fire. ‘Wine, Maddy,’ he yelled. He sat back and nodded at Joanna’s muddy habit. ‘You’ll never get warm in those damp clothes. Maddy will loan you something dry.’ He grinned at her.
Joanna thanked him. But his grin did not have a comforting effect.
It had been a year of deluges, and August was no drier. John Thoresby stared gloomily out of the window at the muddy Ouse rushing along the lower garden, the heavy rain pommelling the flowers so that they floated limply in the water pooling in the beds. Of the palaces that had come to Thoresby as Archbishop of York, Bishopthorpe was his favourite. But this summer it was more ark than palace; the roof leaked in almost every room and the water level had risen to threaten the undercroft. Thoresby had rushed back to Bishopthorpe to preside over the Lammas Fair, looking forward to a rest from the endless politics of the royal wedding which had kept him at Windsor. He had been anxious to doff his Lord Chancellor’s chain for a few months, get back to the business of God. But the rain had done its best to ruin the fair and he felt imprisoned in this great, leaking palace. . and no one had good news for him, including the two men sitting by the fire.
One was his nephew, Richard de Ravenser, provost of Beverley Minster. Prominent bones, deep-set eyes, strong chin, a face that might be handsome with more flesh. It was as if Thoresby gazed at his own reflection with years erased. Did his sister look so like him? Or had she stared at him too intently when she carried Richard?
Ravenser’s news was an administrative headache. A nun of St Clement’s, York, had run away and the prioress had not reported the incident. An irresponsible prioress could cause continuous problems.
Across from Thoresby’s mirror image sat a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with a patch over his left eye. Owen Archer had spent July searching for the murderers of a mercer whose body had been found in the minster liberty. He reported no luck — discouraging news, because if Archer could not find the guilty parties, they would not be found.
But Ravenser and Archer were not to blame for their news. Thoresby resolved to put aside his gloom as best he could. ‘Come, gentlemen, it is time to join the other guests for dinner.’
Owen gave Thoresby a questioning look. ‘You are certain you wish me to dine with your friends, Your Grace?’
Thoresby sniffed. ‘Not friends, Archer. We travelled together from Windsor. Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham are canons of Beverley, returning with Richard to satisfy their terms of residency. I could hardly refuse them hospitality when their provost is my nephew.’
Ravenser bowed to his uncle. ‘I am grateful for this, Your Grace. I know that Wykeham is hardly a welcome guest in your house.’
Thoresby lifted his Lord Chancellor’s chain and let it drop against his chest. ‘The man who seeks to relieve me of this weight? Perhaps I should thank him for it. But I confess I smile at him with my teeth clenched. I have got the habit of power.’
Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham stood near the hearth in the great hall, warming their feet by the fire, their insides with wine. Both men lived mostly at court, Nicholas de Louth as a clerk in the service of Prince Edward, William of Wykeham as Keeper of the Privy Seal and King Edward’s chief architect. Louth, a fleshy man, elegantly dressed, chatted amiably with Wykeham. The latter did not call attention to his appearance, but dressed soberly, in shades of grey and brown, and had no marks of distinction save his unusual height. He was soft-spoken, with an earnest intentness about his eyes that might pass for intelligence.
As the five settled at the table, Thoresby spoke. ‘Forgive me if I seem distracted this evening, gentlemen. I have just learned that a nun from St Clement’s Priory in York has died of a fever in Beverley, a nun who had no permission to travel. She disappeared on St Etheldreda’s feast day.’ He watched Louth and Wykeham tally up the days from 23 June. ‘She had been missing more than a month when she died, and the Reverend Mother had not reported her disappearance, nay, had excused Dame Joanna’s absence with a story of illness, a convalescence at home.’
‘She was ill when she fled, then?’ Wykeham asked.
‘No. Though she apparently had a pallor that might be mistaken for illness from fasting and praying through the spring.’
‘Ah. Lovesickness.’ Louth said. He smiled into his wine.
‘On the contrary,’ Thoresby said. ‘Dame Isobel claimed the nun was the sort of young woman who believes that excesses of devotion bring her closer to God.’
The company grew quiet while servants laid out the fish course. As they withdrew, Ravenser shook his head. ‘A serious discrepancy in the story, Your Grace. A devoted nun does not run away.’
‘Where in Beverley?’ Louth asked, obviously caught up in his own thoughts.
Thoresby nodded to his nephew to continue the tale.
‘A man kindly took her in when she collapsed in the street outside his house. She sank into a fever and died. The vicar of St Mary’s Church agreed to bury her at once, fearful she might poison the air.’ Ravenser shook his head, sipped his wine. ‘But the priest wished me to inform His Grace and ask whether the family would want her body brought home to Leeds or whether the convent wished to claim her remains.’
‘Beverley needs occasional excitement to wake it up,’ Louth said with a cheerful grin. He chewed contentedly, his eyes half-closed, a man who enjoyed food and wine, particularly such excellent fare as was served in Thoresby’s household. ‘Who was the kind soul who took her in?’
‘Will Longford.’
Louth leaned forward, suddenly wide awake. ‘Longford? A one-legged bear of a man?’ He dabbed the grease from his chin.
Ravenser shrugged. ‘I have not had the honour of meeting him.’
Thoresby was interested. ‘You know him, Sir Nicholas?’
‘I have had occasion to question Longford for the Prince,’ Louth said. ‘He fought in the Free Companies under du Guesclin.’
‘A peculiar good Samaritan.’ Owen said. ‘I wonder what inspired such a man to tend a sick nun?’
Thoresby found that curious indeed. The Free Companies were bands of renegade soldiers with no national allegiance — though most were abandoned English soldiers — who terrorised the French countryside and then extorted protection money from the frightened people. A most unlikely source of charity.
Louth lifted an eyebrow. ‘An odd sympathy from a man who has most likely raped and killed nuns across the Channel.’
Ravenser nodded. ‘I daresay she was a piteous sight.’ His posture toward Louth indicated an impatience with the man’s behaviour. Thoresby knew his nephew thought Louth a glutton and a fool.
Wykeham sat pensively holding a piece of bread in mid-air. Thoresby wondered what he was thinking. Sensing the archbishop’s eyes on him, Wykeham turned to his host. ‘What drew her to Beverley?’
Thoresby gave a fleeting smile. ‘An excellent question to which I have no answer.’
‘An unfortunate story.’
‘Perhaps her family can enlighten us,’ Louth suggested. ‘What was her name?’
‘Joanna Calverley,’ Thoresby said. ‘I have asked Dame Isobel de Percy to inform her family. Perhaps she will learn something more.’
‘Of Leeds, you said?’ Louth asked.
Ravenser nodded.
‘It is curious,’ Louth frowned. ‘Why did she flee to Beverley, not Leeds?’