The Riddle of St Leonard's by Candace Robb

Archbishop Thoresby, at an inn on their journey to York, the nephew plucked up the courage to ask, ‘What is the trouble between you and Mistress Alice Perrers? Do you— Had you hoped—’ The chill in his uncle’s eyes silenced Ravenser.
    Thoresby speared a piece of meat, chewed, washed it down with wine, then at last leaned on the table with one elbow and looked his nephew in the eye. ‘As the Queen’s man, how can you ask? Every breath Perrers takes near the Queen poisons the air. It has killed her.’
    ‘But surely it is the King who—’
    ‘Hush, you foolish man! That is treasonous talk.’
    Ravenser nervously looked round. ‘That is not in my heart.’
    Thoresby pushed his trencher aside, handed his knife to the servant who stood behind him, and took in turn a linen cloth with which he thoughtfully wiped his lips. ‘Let us turn our minds to something more pleasant. Your troubles in York.’
    ‘I hardly consider them pleasant.’
    ‘Ah. But one might resolve them.’
    ‘How? The revenues from the Petercorn diminish every year. It is not only the bad harvests. The King releases more and more people from the debt.’ Ravenser felt his supper curdling in his stomach just thinking of the nightmare. ‘And then this year you had so generously offered the revenue from the Lammas Fair. Alas. The pestilence has killed that hope.’ He wiped his brow. ‘But worst of it are the corrodians. You know how long I have argued against the sale of corrodies. A quick and fatal source of money. And now my warnings are turned against me.’
    ‘An irony, to be sure. I fear you cannot count on the canons to assure people that you had warned them against corrodies.’
    ‘Hardly.’
    ‘How did such a rumour begin, Richard? Who spread the news of your financial troubles?’
    The very question Ravenser dreaded. Not that he knew the original source, but he had a suspicion about who had kept the rumour alive. He did not find it easy to lie to his uncle. But he thought it best in the circumstances: the man was dead now; it was best forgotten. ‘Only the canons should have such knowledge.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Thoresby let the word resonate for a moment. Ravenser detected doubt in his tone. ‘Do you trust your canons? You have disagreed with them over the years.’
    A deep breath, steady now. Ravenser would speak only truth. ‘I trust them to understand the importance of St Leonard’s good name. But tongues wag. A servant overhears. Or a corrodian. I have turned people away who wished to purchase corrodies. They do not always understand my position. But you know as well as I that if the people wish to believe rumours, no matter how absurd, there is little one can do to dissuade them.’
    Thoresby signalled his servant to pour wine. ‘I thought perhaps this malicious rumour might have politics as its purpose. But you think not?’ He asked the question in a coaxing tone.
    ‘I wish I knew.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ravenser stared down at his cup. How did his uncle know he had not told him all? He wondered whether his uncle could hear his stomach churning.
    He did not know why he was so hesitant to voice his suspicions, particularly to his uncle, a man of much more experience. The archbishop might suggest a remedy. Or reassure him that his sense of guilt was unfounded. Ravenser lifted his cup, drank. Unwise. He felt his bowels loosen. ‘You must excuse me.’ He rose.
    Thoresby nodded towards the remnants of their meal. ‘Greasy meat. Do you wish for an escort? One of my men—’
    ‘There is no need,’ Ravenser said, and hurried out the back way.
    The episode was enough to convince him he must tell his uncle about a ridiculous argument with William Savage, the late mayor.
    Savage had arrived at their meeting dressed too warmly for the April day, in heavy mayoral robes and hat. A foolish formality in such weather, Ravenser had thought, so no doubt considered necessary to press some point.
    ‘Sir Richard.’ Savage bowed slightly. He was a