The Bishop’s Tale by Margaret Frazer Read Free Book Online

while keeping silent over her own pain was, in Beaufort’s view, more grace and courage than he had expected from her, and he had willingly taken as much of the burden from her as he could.
     
    But it was a burden. With Chaucer gone, Beaufort felt far lonelier than he had felt since he was a child, when his deeply kind, endlessly loving, greatly beautiful mother had gently explained to him the realities of his life—that nowhere in England was there anyone like himself except his two brothers and sister, bastard children of the royal duke of Lancaster, fourth son of King Edward III. Had his father married her before their birth—but he could not— they would have had right to the highest places in the realm. As it was, they were barred from any claim to anything not given them by someone else’s grace. A grace they were not assured of.
     
    But out of their father’s love for their mother, the grace had come. Places in their father’s royal household for his two brothers, eventual marriage to an earl for his sister, and for himself what he had longed for most—learning and the priesthood. Oxford, and then the Church, with a bishopric in his early twenties despite his bastardy.
     
    And then long past the time when anyone would have expected it, and to the wonder of all—not least their children—John, Duke of Lancaster, had married the mother of his bastard children. And King Richard II had legitimized them with right goodwill and grace.
     
    But John of Lancaster had died not long thereafter, and his eldest son and legitimate heir, Beaufort’s half brother, Henry of Hereford, had set Beaufort a problem that could have ruined him. Henry of Hereford, as arrogant a man as had ever lived, had always quarreled with his cousin King Richard over matters trivial and important. It was not that either was so very wrong, but that they were two very different men. Their enmity had become a fight for the Crown.
     
    Beaufort had been bound to King Richard by temperament, 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 feeling with Henry’s ambition to greatness.
     
    He had gone to Thomas, the one man he could open his mind to, if not the depths of his heart. Thomas, safely removed from the quandary, had said with warm sympathy, “If you were a less ambitious prelate, you could retreat to your bishop’s palace and outwait what they’ll do. But you’ve put yourself too far forward, and you’ll have to choose between them or give up any hope of either of them favoring you anymore, whoever wins.”
     
    And Beaufort, as nearly always, had seen which way the matter must go, early enough that he had thrown his support to his half brother without seeming to hesitate. He had won that gamble; his half brother had become King Henry IV. Only Thomas had known how hard that decision had been.
     
    And even Thomas had not known how deeply Beaufort had grieved for King Richard’s death when it was over with.
     
    But that had not affected his service to the new House of Lancaster on the throne. He had served his half brother to the height of his abilities, and his son King Henry V after him, and now his grandson King Henry VI, Beaufort’s own great-nephew, in an upward spiral of prominence and power.
     
    It had not been easy, of course. There had been setbacks, enemies made, repeated frustrations. Through it all, whatever had gone wrong or right, Thomas had been there, nearer to him in mind and abilities than anyone else, the one person left since his mother’s death to whom he dared grieve and complain, and receive back sometimes sympathy, sometimes humor, sometimes rebuke, always understanding.
     
    Leaning back in his chair, his elbow on its arm, his hand over his eyes, fingers pressing on his aching eyelids, Beaufort was aware of his servants moving softly around the chamber behind him. Someone would shortly