The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  All the same, Owen was grateful to leave Riddlethorpe. There was a tension between Ridley and his wife that made Owen feel in the way. And surely they had much to say to each other about the murder of their friend and business partner.

  As Owen told Lucie over supper, "The oddest part was how Cecilia Ridley's face changed when her husband was present. It darkened, became stony. That, my love, is an unhappy marriage."

  Lucie considered all he had told her. The elaborate house, Cecilia Ridley's simplicity, the subject of the argument between Crounce and Ridley the night of the murder, what Cecilia Ridley had said about Crounce. "It sounds to me as if Cecilia Ridley had far more affection for Will Crounce than she has for her husband."

  Owen turned his good eye on her. "I had the same thought."

  Lucie bit her lip, thinking. "There is nothing surprising in that,

  Gilbert Ridley having lived away for most of their married life, but if it's so apparent to us, what must it be like for Ridley?"

  "You mean, did he kill Crounce for stealing his wife's affection?"

  Lucie started to nod, then sighed and shook her head. "No. It does not fit your description of Gilbert Ridley. His only passion is wealth. Not his wife."

  "What have you learned about Jasper de Melton?"

  "He has disappeared. His mother died, and Jasper vanished."

  "Just as I feared. The boy is afraid that the murderers will come for him."

  "Or they already have." Lucie hated saying it aloud.

  Owen rubbed his scar.

  Lucie took a deep breath. "The stranger who helped me on the road from Freythorpe has offered to search for the boy."

  Owen's fist slammed into the table. "And what was he doing here?"

  "Did you hear me? He has offered to help."

  "I don't want his help."

  Lucie's eyes flamed. She jumped up, knocking her stool backward. "Oh, indeed? I humble myself and risk my immortal soul gossiping with the citizens of York for you, and you reject the help I found? How gracious you are." She stormed out of the room.

  Owen felt like a hypocrite for criticizing Ridley's marriage.

  4/ An Impertinent Lady, a Humbled Man

  Martinmas. One of Thoresby's least-favorite feast days. As the Archbishop grew older, he disliked November more and more, the beginning of a long darkness. He especially disliked November in York. He usually managed to stay in Windsor until spring, but this year several of Thoresby's archdeacons were misbehaving and he thought it wise to make his presence felt among them. Trouble with his archdeacons had an unpleasant tendency to involve murder.

  But the feast was not entirely gloomy. Gilbert Ridley had made a most generous gift to the minster's Lady Chapel, one of Thoresby's contributions to the glorious cathedral, and the one closest to his heart. Considering the size of the gift, Thoresby could do no less than invite the man to dine with him.

  The Archbishop was worried about the dinner; it was the first time he would be speaking to Ridley since Will Crounce was murdered, and it must be obvious to Ridley that Thoresby had made no effort to find Crounce' s murderers beyond the initial inquiries made by Archer. Gilbert Ridley might require an explanation.

  But Ridley could not be too angry if he donated all that money for Thoresby's Lady Chapel. . . .

  And, after all, Archer had come up with nothing. Even Martin Wirthir, the go-between for Ridley and Crounce, had eluded Thoresby and Archer. Wirthir appeared to have vanished.

  Thoresby paced. It was no good. He had to admit to himself, if to no one else, that it was the situation at Sheen that had turned his thoughts away from Will Crounce's murder.

  When Thoresby had arrived at Windsor, there were orders-- worded as a request, but from the King--that Thoresby was to go to the royal castle of Sheen and escort Queen Philippa to Windsor. Having a deep and abiding love--courtly, to be sure--for Queen Philippa, Thoresby had been happy to oblige.

  But a new lady-in-waiting had ruined the occasion for Thoresby. An impertinent upstart from a family grown rich in trade, seventeen-year-old Alice Perrers offended Thoresby by her mere presence in the same room as Queen Philippa. Bold of eye, blunt of tongue, with a laugh that shattered the peace of the lovely Sheen, Alice Perrers had inexplicably become Queen Philippa's favorite.

  And once the entourage arrived at Windsor, Thoresby discovered, to his disgust, that King Edward delighted in Alice Perrers's undisguised attempts to woo him. But that was nothing to what he'd discovered next.

  On his second evening at Windsor, Thoresby was invited to sup with King Edward in his chambers. Alice Perrers was also invited. She wore a low-cut gown of soft, thin, clinging wool. And as she turned and curtsied to the King, Alice Perrers's silhouette and the way her hands hovered over her stomach revealed to Thoresby that she was with child.

  Thoresby was stunned. The young woman was a nobody. Not even a beauty. Plain as the Queen herself, but with none of the Queen's sweet nature to compensate. And yet, by the fawning attention the King paid her, it was clear that Alice Perrers was a favorite. Such a common woman, invited to sup with the King, allowed to flaunt her bastard--for Thoresby knew she was unmarried.

  Thoresby made it his business to find out what he could about Alice Perrers.

  Which was very little.

  She was a plague child, as they called those born during the first visitation of the Death in England, and had been orphaned by that same pestilence. Her uncles had paid a merchant family to raise her. And then, a few years ago, the uncles decided to bring Alice

  back into the bosom of the family and to train her to be a courtier. Alice had a little money--enough to attract a respectable husband and more learning than was good for her, judging by Thoresby's own reaction to her impertinent comments--and a defensiveness that betrayed her upbringing in a merchant household. Thoresby despised her.

  He could not very well ask courtiers how Perrers's uncles had bought the Queen's favor, but as Lord Chancellor, Thoresby had access to all legal and financial records. He had his chief clerk, Brother Florian, scour the records for two names, Crounce and Perrers.

  Brother Florian reported that Crounce had indeed been a minor member of Goldbetter's company; he was mentioned once, as a source of a letter presented by Ridley to a Crown court in defense of Goldbetter. Perrers was in no Crown records.

  "However," Brother Florian said with a smirk, "it is common knowledge in London that this Perrers carries King Edward's bastard."

  "Sweet Heaven." Thoresby stared at Florian in disbelief. "How could he choose such a creature? And to humiliate the Queen with such-- It is impossible. Are you certain?"

  "My best sources confirmed it."

  Thoresby felt as if the world had just turned upside down. And with Perrers on his mind, and having found that Crounce was such an insignificant member of Goldbetter and Company, Thoresby had lost interest in Crounce's murder and had recorded it as a case of robbery.

  But had that satisfied Ridley?

  When Michaelo showed Gilbert Ridley into the hall, Thoresby stared at the merchant in confusion. Thoresby remembered Ridley as a barrel of a man, rather like a boar. But the man before Thoresby was pale and anything but round. Emaciated, with the slack flesh and bad color of someone recovering from a serious illness.

  "I had no idea you'd been ill," Thoresby said.

  Ridley shook his head and sat down at the board. "No, no, I have not been ill. Well, nothing that I consider an illness. I--" Ridley sighed, passed ringed fingers across his brow. "It has been difficult accepting my friend's death. You remember. Will Crounce. Murdered right here, near the minster. Butchered." Ridley shook his head.

  Thoresby nodded. "Of course I remember what happened to Will Crounce." Noting that Ridley's hands trembled as he lifted a goblet of claret to his mouth, Thoresby thought to reassure him. "I am sorry our investigation turned up nothing. Will Crounce left little record of his life and apparently had no enemies."

  "I know you did your best. I was unable to help you
r man Archer. I assure you I was most grateful for your help at the time."

  Ridley gave the Archbishop an oddly sweet smile. By God, it was as if the man had found God through the death of his friend, Thoresby thought. Found charity and humility, two graces he'd most sadly lacked before. "We did what we could," Thoresby said.

  Ridley nodded. "Will and I had-- You know about our business partnership. We were young and hopeful and thought we might do well for ourselves. And so we did. We did that. It could not have happened without Will. He had a way with people that I never had. A gentle voice, a manner that reassured." Ridley took a long drink of the wine. Tears shone in his eyes.

  "We had no luck finding the Fleming who worked as your go-between, Martin Wirthir," Thoresby said. "We suspect he goes by another name in York."

  "It is unlikely that Wirthir comes to York anymore. He has no reason for doing so."

  Thoresby nodded. "And no one would come to the North Country by choice. It is a place one must be sent."

  Ridley shook his head. "I disagree. I could not wait to come home to the moors, the heather, the silence of the winter snows, the first frost that crunches underfoot."

  "My dear man, to speak in such poetic terms of this wasteland ..."

  "It is no wasteland to me. You speak like a Southerner. But you were born in the Dales, were you not?"

  Thoresby frowned. "I do not recall speaking to you about my family." He did not like people getting overfamiliar.

  Ridley bowed his head in apology. "I am offering you a large sum

  of money for what I hear is to be your tomb. I wanted to know everything I could about you, to make sure that this is how I wished to thank the Lord for my good life."

  They were quiet as Maeve, the cook, arranged the food before them. Thoresby, thinking the conversation might turn to Crounce's murder, had asked Maeve to serve them. He trusted her.

  Thoresby watched Ridley take a pouch out of a pack he'd brought with him and add a small amount of powder to his wine. Maeve gave it a curious sniff as she passed and wrinkled her nose.

  "What is that you mix in your wine?" Thoresby asked.

  Ridley drank it down and shuddered, then wiped his mouth. "A tonic my wife doses me with. She has been giving it to me since midsummer. Foul tasting, but she hopes it will calm my nerves and settle my stomach. Recently she has softened the taste a bit. Still wretched. But I humor her. I must confess to some alarm as the fit of my clothing gets worse and worse."

  Maeve set a second flagon of wine near Ridley, glancing down at his waist where his tunic was gathered tightly by an ornate belt.

  Thoresby followed her gaze and nodded. "A costly condition. Perhaps you should talk to the apothecary next to your inn. Lucie Wilton is very knowledgeable."

  Ridley shook his head. "Cecilia would not take it well."

  "Even if it helped?"

  "There is no guarantee of that."

  Maeve disappeared.

  "Well, eat hearty," Thoresby told his guest, "you need more fat on you for the winter months."

  Ridley chuckled and poured himself more wine. "Even my goldsmith has benefited--I had him make all my rings smaller."

  Thoresby glanced down at Ridley's beringed fingers, remembering Archer's comments about Ridley's foolhardy magnificence on the road. "I trust you do not display your jewels when abroad in the city or traveling?"

  Ridley lifted his left hand and wiggled his fingers. The pearl and the moonstone were large, their gold settings heavy. "Captain Archer thought me a dangerously foolish peacock on the road. I have since been more prudent. But here in the city it is important to look splendid. Good for business."

  "Not on the streets, I should think."

  Ridley shrugged.

  They ate in companionable silence for a while; then Ridley began to prod the Archbishop for news of the court. "They do say there is a new lady-in-waiting who has captured the King's heart."

  Thoresby flinched. Even here the upstart Perrers cast a pall over his mood. "I have kept to myself of late, except for my duties as Chancellor."

  Ridley gave up the effort.

  After dinner, as they sat before the fire with brandywine, Thoresby opened the business. "This is a large sum of money you offer for my Lady Chapel, Ridley. So much money would buy a beautiful stained-glass window. Two, in fact. That is the more common donation when the sum is so large. An appropriate saint's story with your face and perhaps that of your wife on figures in the window, your family crest in the corner, or your name and guild affiliation, that sort of thing."

  Ridley shook his head. "I particularly did not want to bring attention to myself with this gift. I want the Lord to know it is from my heart, not a bribe of any kind."

  Thoresby sat back and considered this changed man. "Why such generosity, Ridley?" he asked quietly.

  Ridley reddened. "You do not wish to accept my donation?"

  "That is not it. But such a large sum. And I detect--forgive me for mentioning it, but there is such a change in you--something has subdued you. This is not a penance, is it? Something troubling you?"

  "Good heavens, Your Grace," Ridley exclaimed, rising. "If I had known my money was so suspect, I never would have offered it!"

  "Please, my friend, sit down. You must forgive me. But this chapel is important to me. I will be buried there. And I want it to be clear of any criticism. I want no blood money put into it."

  "This is not blood money. If you will, it is a symbol of my devotion, my realization with Will's death that I have had a blessed life and it can end all too soon. I must make those provisions I most want to make before death catches me unawares."

  Thoresby could certainly understand that. "Please. Forgive me." He offered Ridley more brandywine. Ridley accepted with pleasure.

  "I regret many things in my life, Your Grace, but I know that money to the Church cannot undo them."

  "What sort of regrets?"

  Ridley was silent a moment. Then he sighed and said, "I gave my daughter to a man who I now realize is the Devil incarnate. 1 would that I could undo that."

  Thoresby smiled. "Fathers often feel that way about their daughters' husbands."

  Ridley reddened. "Do not make light of my honest confession."

  "Forgive me again," Thoresby said. "Is there any hope of annulment?"

  "No. The marriage has definitely been consummated." Ridley passed his ringed hands over his eyes, a weary gesture. "My son-in-law also appears to be a bragging fool. He tells all that he will soon be knighted. But the simpleton's done nothing to earn a knighthood. He's been neither diplomat nor soldier. The only battles he's fought are with my daughter."

  "I am sorry." Thoresby studied Ridley's trembling hand, the pain in the man's eyes. "No, I am more than sorry. I am grieved for you and your family."

  Ridley sipped his brandywine, took a deep breath. "So your tomb is to be in the Lady Chapel," he said, changing the subject. "How did you come to choose that?"

  Thoresby did not answer at once, caught off balance by the shift. "How did I choose it? Ah, well, it was a prayer to Our Lady that brought the sign I needed to know that I was called to the Church."

  "You were not a second son?"

  Thoresby smiled. "Yes, but I had made myself quite useful at court and was rising with pleasant speed. I would have had a position at court for certain." Thoresby stared into the fire. "Although these days being a rising star at court is not such an honor--it has become too easy."

  "Perhaps there is hope for my son-in-law then, eh?" Ridley said, smiling. Then he burped rather loudly.

  Thoresby glanced up from his dark study of the fire.

  Ridley reddened. "Pardon me, Your Grace." He burped again.

  "Was it something in the supper?"

  "Nay. 'Tis every night like this. For months now."

  "Even with your good wife's tonic?"

  Ridley nodded. "You know, I sometimes have the uncharitable suspicion that some of the symptoms have worsened with her ministrations, not impr
oved. But we have struck a delicate balance in our affections, of late, and I will do nothing to upset that."

  "The brandywine should help you digest your food."

  "It is most soothing. Most soothing." Ridley made a little face as he fought down another burp. He rose. "Your Grace, I think it time I returned to my room at the York Tavern. It is a long journey tomorrow and, as you see, I am not as strong as I used to be."

  Thoresby accompanied Ridley to the door. Maeve brought Ridley's cloak.

  "Would you like my secretary, Brother Michaelo, to accompany you to the inn?" Thoresby offered.

  Ridley looked embarrassed. "No need. Really. I am quite used to this. And the inn is so close."

  Thoresby regretted his easy acquiescence next morning when Archdeacon Jehannes stumbled upon Ridley's body in the minster yard. "I have heard a slit throat described as the hideous grin of Death," Jehannes said, his face gray, "and that is exactly what I thought. The eyes, staring up, the lips blue, and below them, another, unholy set of blood-red lips--" he shivered. "And a raw stump where his right hand should be."

  Thoresby led Jehannes to a chair. "Sit down. Michaelo is bringing some brandywine. Forgive me for making you speak of it. But on Ridley's left hand-- Were there two rings?"

  Jehannes nodded.

  Later that morning, masons working on the Lady Chapel found a bloody rag, but no hand, no jeweled rings.

  Thoresby did not like it. Impossible to consider it a coincidence. Obviously, Crounce's hand had been delivered to Ridley's room last summer as a warning. So to whom had Ridley's hand been delivered now? Thoresby sent for the mayor. All the bailiffs, all the guards of the city must be alerted. They must send word of any news of the hand, even rumors. He would not make the mistake of letting the murderer escape a second time.

  And then the Archbishop sent for Owen Archer.

  5/ The Ridley Women

  When Brother Michaelo came to the apothecary this time, Owen woke to the pounding alone. He tried to think why Lucie might have risen early, but his mind was muddled with sleep. Owen marched downstairs and dispatched Michaelo with promises to be along soon, then went in search of his wife. He found Tildy, the serving girl, fussing with the kitchen fire.