“And you’re disgracing yours,” Sire Philipreplied evenly. “This is a house in mourning, and on theother side of this door is the cause of it. Take your familysquabbling somewhere else. Or better, let it be until youleave Ewelme.”
Sir Clement cast a scornful glance at hisnephew and Lady Anne. “Better to tell them than me!” heretorted. “It’s their disobedience, not-”
“You’re too loud in the near presence of Godand death,” Sire Philip interposed.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, youfield whelp! I know-”
“Enough to mind your manners in theearl of Suffolk’s house, surely.” Sire Philip cut himoff more sharply. Sir Clement drew up short. In thatbrief advantage Sire Philip said as calmly as before, “May Isuggest you and your nephew and ward go to supper quietly now?”
The sideways life of Sir Clement’s mouth wasmore sneer than smile. “You may suggest. And I may doexactly what I want.”
He twitched his head in parody of a bow toSire Philip, then seemed to notice Frevisse for the first time andbowed more credibly to her, then held out his hand demandingly toLady Anne. Her chin jerked up and her lips tightened, but shestepped away from Guy, made a curtsy to Sire Philip and Frevisse,and, spurning the hand, left the antechamber. Sir Clement,pointedly ignoring his nephew, followed her. Guy, darklyflushed and silent, bowed in his turn and went after them.
When they were gone Frevisse said, “Despiteall that, I have the distinct impression Sir Clement was enjoyinghimself.”
“I’m quite sure he was.” Sire Philipturned. The small room’s single low-burning lamp was at hisback; in what shadowed light there was, the deep pockmarks of hisface were not visible, giving him momentarily the handsomeness hewould have had without them. But it was handsomeness withoutexpression as he said, “Strife has always been Sir Clement’sfavorite pastime.”
“You know him, then?”
“He did give the impression of knowing me,didn’t he?”
If there was amusement in Sire Philip’svoice, it was very dry. More than anything, hispolite-and-nothing-else tone and expression told Frevisse that heintended – and expected her – to say no more about what had passedbetween him and Sir Clement.
Matching him in discretion, Frevisse said,“What of his nephew and the girl? There seems to be troublethere.”
“It’s been a while since I had anything to dowith Sir Clement or any of his family. I have no idea whatthat was about, beyond guesses that you can make as well asI.” Now there was very definitely mockery in his tone.
“I daresay I can,” Frevisse said. “Though of course we may both be wrong, it being none of ourbusiness.” She turned back to the chapel to use what littletime she had left for prayers. She noticed Sire Philip didnot follow her; his place beside the coffin remained empty.
Chapter Five
Cardinal Bishop Beaufort put aside the lastof the correspondence and nodded to his clerk. “Have someonetake them in the morning.”
With a bow, the man gathered the pages up andcarried them away. They would be folded and sealed and givenover to a messenger, but none of that need concern Beaufort now hehad read them over and given his signature. He was deeplycommitted to efficiency, and that included having servants he coulddepend on for minor details.
That nonetheless left a great deal for him todo.
Beaufort had come directly to Thomas from ameeting of the Great Council. Nothing of importance had beendecided, as usual, there being too many factions squabbling forcontrol. Never mind that most of the faction leaders wereunable to manage even their own affairs; each had convinced himselfand his followers that without him the government would fall intochaos.
So, generally, it was necessary that Beaufortmanipulate them with such tact that they failed to realize that hewas – far more than they – governing the direction the kingdomwent. Able to judge more deeply and assess more broadly thanmost men both their needs and weaknesses, he was usuallysuccessful.
He had – fully knew and fully admitted tohimself that he had – a drive to power that had taken him nowalmost to the limit of his ambitions. But the ability toforesee what others would do and the effort to bring them to hiswill was tiring upon occasion.
Eyes shut, Beaufort rubbed his forehead withhis large, beringed hand. What he wanted right now was timefor mourning, and there was none. He had taken on the mainburden of overseeing the funeral arrangements because he could see- couldn’t anyone else? – that Matilda was barely holding in onecoherent piece. Beaufort thought the better of her forit. She was a place-proud, tongue-wagging woman who hadlonged for the honors her husband had refused. Beaufort hadlistened to an amused Thomas’ reasons for rising no higher than anesquire, had accepted them but never understood them. Matildahad neither understood nor accepted.
Though their daughter’s marriage to an earland the prospect of noble grandchildren had soothed her somewhat,she had never let Thomas forget what he (and she) could havebeen.
So her efforts to cope with the funeralburden while keeping silent over her own pain was, in Beaufort’sview, more grace and courage than he had expected from her, and hehad willingly taken as much of the burden from her as he could.
But it was a burden, hurting as he washimself with Chaucer’s loss. With Chaucer gone, Beaufort feltfar lonelier than he had felt since he was a child, when his deeplykind, endlessly loving, greatly beautiful mother had gentlyexplained to him the realities of his life – that nowhere inEngland was there anyone like himself except his two brothers andsister, bastard children of the royal duke of Lancaster, fourth sonof King Edward III. Had his father married her before theirbirth – but he could not – they would have had right to the highestplaces in the realm. As it was, they were barred from anyclaim to anything not given them by someone else’s grace. Agrace they were not assured of.
But out of their father’s love for theirmother, the grace had come. Places in their father’s royalhousehold for his two brothers, eventual marriage to an earl forhis sister, and for himself what he had longed for most – learningand the priesthood. Oxford, and then the Church, with abishopric in his early twenties despite his bastardy.
And then long past the time when anyone wouldhave expected it, and to the wonder of all – not least theirchildren – John, Duke of Lancaster, had married the mother of hisbastard children. And King Richard II had legitimized themwith right goodwill and grace.
But John of Lancaster had died not longthereafter, and his eldest son and legitimate heir, Beaufort’s halfbrother, Henry of Hereford, had set Beaufort a problem that couldhave ruined him. Henry of Hereford, as arrogant a man as hadever lived, had always quarreled with his cousin King Richard overmatters trivial and important. It was not that either was sovery wrong, but that they were two very different men. Theirenmity had become a fight for the crown.
Beaufort had been bound to King Richard bytemperment, gratitude, and deep oaths of service and loyalty. But there was also the tie of blood to his half-brother. And- he would admit in his most private moments – a fellow-feelingwith Henry’s ambition to greatness.
He had gone to Thomas, the one man he couldopen his mind to, if not the depths of his heart. Thomas,safely aside from the quandary, had said with warm sympathy, “Ifyou were a less ambitious prelate, you could retreat to yourbishop’s palace and outwait what they’ll do. But you’ve putyourself too far forward, and you’ll have to choose between them orgive up any hope of either of them favoring you any more, whoeverwins.”