"Have you seen your mistress this morning, Tildy?"
"Out back," Tildy said without looking up.
Owen could tell by the girl's abruptness that she did not want to say more, that even that answer was more than she'd cared to say. Owen knew what that meant.
Outside, a wet snow fell. Owen guessed from the depth of his footprints on the stone path that it had been snowing for a few hours, but there were no earlier footprints in the snow. And yet there was Lucie, her russet cloak billowing out in the brisk wind as she knelt at her first husband's grave. The Archbishop himself had consecrated the small plot in the back of the garden. Nicholas Wilton had been Master Apothecary, and this garden had been both his masterwork and his passion. It had been the day of the first snow two years ago when Wilton was struck down with a palsy from which he had never recovered. Lucie had been remembering Wilton lately. She said it was the time of year. Owen had tried to be patient. He had agreed to the Guild's requirement that Lucie keep the name Wilton as long as she was an apothecary. He had agreed to the papers they'd asked him to sign, giving up any claim to the shop if Lucie should die before him. Those had been administrative details, nothing to do with his love for Lucie or hers forhim. But her grieving for Nicholas tried his patience. And this was nonsense, to kneel out here for several hours in the snow.
"Lucie, for pity's sake, what are you doing?"
She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "I could not sleep."
"You've noticed the snow, have you?"
"Of course I have." Her eyes challenged him to say more.
He knew better. He changed the subject. "I've been called to the Archbishop's palace. Another murder in the minster yard."
"Then you must go to him." Lucie's voice held no affection, no regret that he must go out so early on an errand that would no doubt mean he must go away.
Owen did not have fond memories of Lucie's first husband. He did not understand Lucie's continued affection for the man. Nicholas had not deserved her. Not that Owen felt himself worthy of Lucie's love, but he trusted he was more deserving than Nicholas.
"Will you come in with me and share some ale or hot wine before I go?"
Lucie nodded, crossed herself, rose to accompany Owen back into the house. As they walked back through the garden, Lucie caught Owen's elbow. "I do not mean to hurt you."
Owen pulled her to him and hugged her hard. It was enough to know that she cared how he felt.
Archbishop Thoresby sat at a polished table, a scroll curling beneath his hands. "A generous gift to my Lady Chapel. But my benefactor was murdered last night, Archer. I need you again."
"I do not like to leave Lucie at this time of year, Your Grace," Owen said. "This morning she was kneeling in the snow at Wilton's grave. I curse the day you agreed to consecrate that grave in the garden. It stirs up morbid humours."
Thoresby shrugged. "At the moment, Wilton's grave is not heavy on my mind. Ridley's murder is. He was my guest last night. He left here feeling ill, and I let him go alone. He was murdered exactly as Crounce was. It was no accident. Someone waited for Ridley. This was planned. And this time we must find the murderer."
"Have you learned anything new? We came up with nothing last time."
"There is one thing. Ridley had changed since Crounce's death.
His body had gone from barrel-like to skeletal, his disposition from arrogant to humble."
Owen thought about that. "Fear can rob one of sleep and appetite."
Thoresby shrugged. "Poison can have a similar effect."
Owen nodded.
"Perhaps Cecilia Ridley will know something," Thoresby said. "She was dosing him. I want you to go tell her of her husband's death. Before she has had time to talk to anyone else. Ask her who might have killed her husband."
"A churchman should tell her. Not a soldier."
"You are no longer a soldier."
"I look like one. With this patch and scar--" Owen shook his head. "I am not the person for this task."
"I would send Archdeacon Jehannes, but I cannot spare him at the moment. Besides, Cecilia Ridley has met you."
"Aye, and bad news it was I brought that time. She'll think me the messenger of Death."
"Does that disturb you?"
"That is not what most disturbs me."
"And what is that?"
"Leaving Lucie right now."
Thoresby waved the argument away with brusque impatience. "Perhaps your wife would like the privacy to mourn Wilton."
That stung. "She has all the privacy she wants."
"Marriage is not the Heaven you imagined it."
"I have no regrets, Your Grace," Owen said.
The eyebrows raised. "Indeed? Then you are most fortunate. In any case, I want you to go to Beverley. Cecilia Ridley has met you, she did not seem unfriendly toward you, you are precisely the person who should go. I have written a letter of condolence to Cecilia Ridley. Michaelo will give it to you. Two of my men will accompany you."
"Two men? Most generous, Your Grace."
"You are becoming arrogant, Archer."
"I am beginning to find the routine tedious."
Owen took two days riding to Riddlethorpe. He wished he might have done it in one, but the weather and the short days prevented it. By the time the manor's half-timbered gatehouse was in sight, Owen was sorely tired of his companions and their offensive prattle. He wondered whether he and his comrades in arms had been like them, or whether Alfred and Colin were particularly oafish. They ached for a fight, bragged about every scar and broken bone, referred to women by their private parts. If this is what Owen had been like when he first rode into York, it was a wonder that Lucie had ever talked to him. He began to understand why she had such an abiding distaste for soldiers.
When the elderly gatekeeper waved them into the yard at Riddlethorpe, Owen dismounted and left Alfred and Colin to see to the horses. "Then find the kitchen and stay there," he ordered. He could not risk their upsetting Cecilia Ridley. The news he brought was itself too awful.
Fear shone in Cecilia Ridley's eyes as Owen crossed the hall to where she stood by the hearth. "Captain Archer." She glanced behind Owen, checking to see whether she was mistaken and he was not alone. But he was. "Something has happened to Gilbert?"
"Please, Mistress Ridley, sit down." Owen motioned for a servant to bring wine.
Cecilia Ridley caught the gesture and folded her tall frame into a chair with the clumsiness of one suddenly disoriented. She placed her white hands one on top of the other in her lap, and then looked up at Owen, her eyes frightened. "Something has happened to Gilbert."
"Your husband is dead."
Cecilia jerked as if Owen had hit her. Then she made the sign of the cross and bowed her head. "He had been ill," she said softly. Without a word, the servant placed a cup of wine in her mistress's hands.
"He did not sicken, Mistress Ridley. He was murdered."
She looked up at Owen, shook her head. "No. He has been ill."
"He was murdered in the same way as Will Crounce. The throat, the hand."
Cecilia's eyes widened at that. "The same as Will? It was not
illness?" She lifted the cup to her lips, paused. "Are you certain of that?"
"Quite certain."
She drank. "But he had been ill."
Owen was familiar with shock from his life at war. Cecilia Ridley's insistence on her husband's illness was a sign of it. The Archbishop had said Ridley was ill and that Mistress Ridley had been dosing him. Perhaps she had not wanted her husband to go on the journey.
"He had dined with the Archbishop," Owen said. "Someone waylaid him in the minster yard."
Cecilia Ridley frowned. "But it is guarded."
"The gates to the minster close are guarded, as they were when Crounce was attacked. But many people live inside the walls. Others come and go so regularly the guards think nothing of letting them pass."
"Gilbert carried a large sum of money."
"That had alr
eady been left with the Archbishop."
Cecilia Ridley studied Owen's face. "So you think that someone set out to murder both Will and Gilbert?"
"Yes."
She looked down at her hands and was quiet for a few minutes. "Gilbert's finding Will's hand was a warning, then."
"Or a threat."
"Who"--she swallowed--"who found Gilbert's hand?"
"No one so far."
She nodded, still keeping her eyes down. "Where is his body?"
"Archbishop Thoresby has arranged for it to be brought to you under guard."
She nodded.
"Mistress Ridley, this illness of your husband's, how and when did it strike him?"
Her deep-set eyes widened, her hands played with her keys. "When? Well, 1"--she shrugged--"I cannot say."
"The Archbishop said your husband took a physick you had prepared."
A nervous hand flew to her neck. "Gilbert told His Grace about that?"
"When did he start taking this physick?"
She frowned. "I cannot remember."
"He blamed his illness on Will Crounce's murder."
Cecilia Ridley stared at Owen for a few minutes, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. Owen was about to repeat his last comment when she said, "Yes. Will's death was a great shock to Gilbert. He--well, yes, I suppose his illness stemmed from that."
"What were you giving him?"
"I'm not entirely certain. My mother used to give it to us. Something to calm his nerves. He was not sleeping." She dropped her head for a moment, as if hiding emotion.
"Mistress Ridley?"
She raised her eyes to his, brimming with tears. "What am I to do without him, Captain Archer?"
Now what? Owen was no good at comforting. Besides, what comfort could he possibly offer? Her husband was dead. Nothing would undo that. "Is there any family I can send for?"
"No." She wiped her eyes. "No. They would be no use."
Owen stood up. "I should leave you alone for a few minutes. I could go out to the yard, see to my horse."
Cecilia took a cloth from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, then lifted her head. Her eyes were red, but tearless now. "There is no need for you to go out in the cold. I must go up and see to my daughter. Then we will have something to eat."
Owen watched Cecilia's departing back. She held herself erect, tense. An admirable woman.
"More wine, Captain Archer?" a servant asked.
Owen nodded, held out his cup. "Is there illness in the house?"
The young woman glanced up at Owen and blushed to meet his eye. "Yes, sir. Mistress Anna, she's here for her mother's nursing." She poured the wine and hurried away.
As Owen sat brooding over his gloomy mission, he heard raised voices out in the yard, then running footsteps, dogs barking. The fine hunter drowsing by the hearth perked up, began to bark. Owen got up to investigate, glad for the diversion. He went down the passage between the buttery and the pantry and out back to the kitchen, rounding up Alfred and Colin, who grumbled to leave the warm fire.
"You two have ached for a fight since we began this journey. Be grateful, for pity's sake."
"A fight?" Alfred's eyes went from half closed to wide open with anticipation.
A freezing fog was settling down over the land as the light faded. Owen squinted through the murk and saw a light bobbing out in the direction of the gatehouse. He led his men toward it with caution. As he drew closer, Owen heard an angry voice cry out, "The Devil take you! How can you deny me entrance? I am her husband! If any harm has come to her, it is my place to comfort her. What right had you to bring her here?"
"Peace, my son." The second speaker was this side of the pedestrian archway, a priest. A servant held a lantern, revealing the priest's back.
Owen wondered whether he'd made a mistake coming out without his longbow. He strode up to the priest. In the doorway, blocked by one of the servants holding two huge dogs that strained at their leashes, stood an angry-faced gentleman, who kept just beyond the reach of the dogs. Motioning to Alfred and Colin to stay by the priest, Owen mounted the stairway to the upper window to see who accompanied the man. Two armed men sat their horses, looking nervous. Owen relaxed. They should have no problem holding the gatehouse against the small party. He returned to the priest.
"I merely carry out her mother's orders," the priest was saying. "No one is to enter while Mistress Scorby is in this nervous state."
"Nonsense." The angry gentleman gestured toward the servant who held the lantern. "Jed, tell my father-in-law that I am here."
"1 am afraid he cannot do that," the priest said.
"The Hell he can't. Then you do it, Father. Get Ridley out here."
"He is not here, Master Scorby."
So it was the ill-favored son-in-law. Owen studied him with interest. Scorby had traveled here expecting trouble, judging from the mail shirt visible beneath his cloak. His face, even in the poor light, flickered with emotion.
"And who is that standing behind you?" Scorby said, catching Owen's intense look. "Did you bring in cutthroats to keep me away?"
The priest, surprised, glanced back to see who had joined him. "He's come from the Archbishop of York," the priest said. "He's no cutthroat, but he has two armed men with him who do not seem averse to fighting, should we need them."
Owen knew from the look on Scorby's face that the priest had said the wrong thing.
"So you're fixing for a fight? Men!"
With a clatter of metal, Scorby's men were behind him, knives ready to hand.
Scorby pushed Jed aside. The priest stood firm. "Move aside, Father," Scorby warned.
Owen stepped in front of the priest. "Go inside, Father," he said quietly. "Assure Mistress Ridley that we have the matter in hand." Alfred and Colin joined Owen.
Scorby drew out a dagger.
"Why does the husband of Ridley's daughter Anna come here prepared to break the peace?" Owen asked, keeping his voice quiet, unemotional.
"Because that cursed priest brought her here without my permission."
Owen glanced back at the retreating priest, a small, slender man, then back to Scorby. "Surely the priest did not overpower you in your house?"
Scorby snorted. "I'd like to see him try. No, the coward waited until I was away."
"Then perhaps you have misinterpreted his actions. I will speak with Mistress Ridley, see what this is all about. Meanwhile, I suggest that you head toward Beverley and lodgings."
Scorby lifted his dagger. Owen grabbed the wrist that held the weapon and twisted. Scorby cursed, and his dagger fell to the ground. Owen grabbed Scorby's other hand. The man was not weak, but he could not break out of Owen's strong grasp, though his face grew red with the effort. A bullheaded man who could not size up his opponent and withdraw with grace. Owen had met his type before. Scorby would be trouble. Owen let him go. Keeping his eyes on Scorby, he said, "Alfred, hand the gentleman his dagger. Then we'll escort these three to their horses."
As Alfred walked toward Scorby, one of Scorby's men came at
him with a knife. Colin yelled to Alfred, who used his mail-clad head to butt the attacker in the stomach and send him sprawling. Scorby's right fist came up toward Owen's blind side, but Owen, catching the motion, grabbed the upraised arm with his left hand and punched Scorby in the stomach with his right fist.
"Now, as I said, we will escort you to your horses."
Which they did.
As Scorby wheeled his horse round he yelled, "I'll be back. Tell that bitch I'll be back."
Owen turned to Alfred and Colin. "Thank you, lads."
Colin grinned. " 'Twas our pleasure."
"Pleasure?" Alfred snorted. "They gave way too soon for my taste."
Owen nodded. "They might double back. Stay out here tonight. Upstairs. Shouldn't be too uncomfortable. I'll have some ale sent out to you, but see you stay awake."
He walked back to the hall wondering what had possessed the priest to admit that the master was away.
; Cecilia Ridley stood just inside the door. "Deusjuva me, I did not expect he would come so soon upon their heels."
"Scorby's wife lies abed upstairs?" Yes.
"An unusual arrangement."
"I hope for the sake of all mothers and daughters that it is unusual."
"Well, my men can hold the gates against Scorby tonight."
"Thank you."
"What is going on here, Mistress Ridley?"
The dark eyes looked affronted by the blunt question. "I am certain it has nothing to do with my husband's death."
"And how do you know that?"
"Gilbert is"--Cecilia shook her head-- "was Paul Scorby's champion. Gilbert chose Paul for Anna. I never wanted the match."
"Why did he choose Scorby?"
"Our son, Matthew, lived with the family for a few years. When he left, the family suggested the match between Paul and Anna. Gilbert saw it as an ideal arrangement, wealth on our side, connections on theirs, and the young man ambitious, hardworking."
"So how does your daughter come to be here without her husband?"
"Anna was attacked, went to Father Cuthbert and begged him to bring her here. Paul was away."
"Attacked by whom?"
Cecilia Ridley glanced back at the servants. Seeing them with their heads together by the hearth, no doubt discussing the commotion out at the gate, Cecilia invited Owen to sit down on a bench beside the door.
"We have told the servants that it was thieves who broke into the house." She clasped her hands and kept her eyes downcast.
"Your daughter is badly hurt?"
Cecilia nodded, but did not look up.
"So this is why you dislike your son-in-law so much. Because he beats your daughter."
Owen heard Cecilia take a deep breath. She looked up, tears in her dark eyes. "It is not that I think Paul a bad man, Captain Archer. He is just the wrong husband for Anna. My daughter wanted to join a religious house. Another man, one with more patience, might have convinced her that marriage could be a joyous state, might have won her over. But Paul"--Cecilia shook her head. "He goes into rages over Anna's fasts. And as she retreats, he gets angrier. I could see the impatience in his character. I warned Gilbert."
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