“By the Mass, I knew there was something I’d left undone. That whore’s money!” There was a startled silence in the chancery. “Ah—which whore is that, my lord chancellor?” “By the Mass, that’s very good. Which whore indeed.” Thomas gave a grim smile. “You may well ask, William. I intended to take care of it—” He slammed a thick sheaf of parchments against the oak table. “Well, mea culpa, there’s no help for it now. I must get to Southampton while the weather holds. If I don’t take ship for Normandy within the next few days I could be delayed for weeks by winter storms. The Bermondsey whore has not yet been paid this month, and—” He looked around the chancery. “I put the money down somewhere, intending—now where in God’s name did I put the wretched thing?” One day, Thomas promised himself, one day he would tell Henry straight out exactly what he thought of his goatish behavior: the extra work it caused, the lies it required, not to mention all the stipends to be paid out.
