The Riddle of St Leonard's Read Free Page B

serenaded by a lute-plucking lover. Thoresby could not so enjoy himself this day, on his way to what might be his last audience with Queen Phillippa.
    *
    Windsor Castle shimmered in the summer heat but, within, the thick stone sweated and gave off a damp chill. Aromatic fires burned everywhere to ward off the pestilence, creating a fog in some of the passageways. Continuous Masses were said for the people, and once a day a procession wound from St George’s Chapel around the lower ward, through the Norman Gate, and around the upper ward, with a benediction said at the royal apartments before the procession returned to the chapel. Servants with any signs of fever were sent to wait out their illness outside the castle. Only those necessary to or summoned by the King or Queen and who appeared in good health were allowed into the royal apartments.
    Ravenser entered the Queen’s chamber with trepidation. He had always come here on the Queen’s business, at her bidding. This was different. This was his business, instigated by his missive to the Queen explaining his situation. The worst of it was that now it seemed a trivial matter to put to a dying Queen.
    But she had graciously invited him. And now she waved him to her side with a red, swollen hand.
    ‘Your Grace,’ Ravenser knelt at her side.
    ‘Come. I have little time for ceremony at present, my good Receiver.’
    ‘Forgive me for intruding …’
    She grunted to silence him. ‘I have little head for state affairs at present. I have prayed over this and believe it is God’s will that you go north and put your house in order. You are best away from the city and court at such a time.’
    ‘Your Grace, you are most kind. I shall entrust the purse to my best clerk in my absence.’
    The Queen lay her head back on the silky mound of pillows. A lady-in-waiting made herself known and showed Ravenser out.
    Tears shimmered in the Queen’s eyes. ‘My dear John, old friend.’ She pressed Thoresby’s hand, released it. ‘Pray for me.’
    ‘I beg the same of you.’
    ‘Help Edward when I am gone. He will need you.’
    Thoresby did not say that the King had not called upon him for anything outside his duties as archbishop in a long while. This was neither the time nor the place. But he did have a request. ‘I would be your confessor. Stay beside you until …’ He could not say it.
    Phillippa’s rheumy eyes glistened with tears. ‘No. I could not bear it. With Wykeham I do not feel this pain.’
    So it was true. William of Wykeham, Lord Chancellor and Bishop of Winchester, was the Queen’s confessor in her last days. Thoresby had not believed it. To hide his dismay, he told Queen Phillippa of his plan to complete the Lady Chapel.
    ‘Alas, Sherburne. Is it not a lovely house?’
    ‘I have many such houses. But the minster does not have a complete Lady Chapel. The quarries near York are depleted of the stone I need. And I wish to complete it now. So that you may come north to see it.’
    Phillippa patted his hand. ‘That will not be, my friend. Too many who were too young to die have gone. It is my turn. God may let Richard recover if I go quietly.’ Her eldest son, the Black Prince, had suffered a wasting sickness for two years. Her second son Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had died the previous year, and her third son’s wife, the lovely Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, had died in the autumn. Many said it was the weight of sorrow that had finally broken the Queen’s spirit.
    ‘I would stay with you, confessor or no.’
    Phillippa closed her eyes, gave one imperious shake of her swollen head. ‘You must go north. Complete your Lady Chapel. Perhaps it may yet save York from the pestilence.’
    Thoresby and Ravenser dined at the King’s table on the evening before their departure. As the roast was set before them, a messenger hurried into the hall. He went straight to the King and knelt behind his chair. Edward turned stiffly, leaned, nodded. The messenger gave his news