The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  "Aye. Mostly vestments and altar cloths--you know the sort of thing."

  "Does she live in the minster liberty?"

  "Inside the gates, aye. Very humble, is Felice. For all that fancy name of hers."

  Owen had slept little the night before, trying to get the facts about Kate Cooper to fall into a neat pattern. And now this. Someone who could easily come and go through the minster gates. But Owen could not think why Kate Cooper would murder the two men. He threw his things together in a hurry, eager to return to York and talk all this over with Lucie. She often saw connections that he didn't see.

  Cecilia came out as Owen tied his pack to his horse. She offered him a stirrup cup. "Have you learned what you need to know?" she asked as he drank.

  "Not yet."

  "And the poisoned physick?"

  "Forgive me for questioning you about that last night, Mistress Ridley."

  "You had to."

  "But I am sorry."

  Cecilia smiled and, reaching up and pulling Owen's head down to her level, kissed him on the mouth. "I forgive you with all my heart, Owen," Cecilia whispered in his ear.

  Thank God he was leaving. Owen straightened up, noting how Alfred and Colin grinned. He was determined to leave on a more official note. "This Martin Wirthir who worked for your husband. You said he was a soldier?"

  She gave him a puzzled look. "Martin Wirthir? Yes. Gilbert wanted me to have nothing to do with him. He said Wirthir had the habits of a life of soldiering. I'm not certain what he meant by that."

  Owen glanced back at Alfred and Colin. "Perhaps I do. Did your husband say anything else about him?"

  "He thought Wirthir acted as a liaison between French prisoners of war in England and their families on the Continent. A dangerous business."

  "You never met him?"

  Cecilia shook her head. "I wanted to. Gilbert and Matthew both called Martin Wirthir a dangerously charming man, but I was never given the opportunity to judge him."

  "Are ye ready, Captain?" Alfred called.

  "Aye." Owen mounted his horse.

  "God go with you." Cecilia touched his gloved hand.

  Owen felt Cecilia's eyes on him as he rode out of the yard. He prayed that he did not need to return to Riddlethorpe for the Archbishop.

  Lucie had exclaimed at the state of Owen's cloak, stiff underneath, where it had frozen when it was still damp, and covered with a crust of snow. She'd insisted that his first business was to thaw out and get his fingers and toes warm. He was quite warm now, his legs stretched out toward the fire, a cup of Tom Merchet's ale in his hands.

  As Lucie dished up the stew she had kept warm for Owen, she told him about Jasper, pleased to have such a surprise for him.

  "Thank God the boy's safe," Owen said. "Where is he? I have questions to ask him."

  Lucie smiled at Owen's relief. "He's sleeping now. You can wait till morning."

  But Owen was already frowning. "Who brought him from Magda Digby's?" It was the tone that usually led to an argument.

  Lucie wanted no arguments. She nodded at the stew. "Eat that. You've been riding for two days. I am sure you have not eaten well in that long."

  Owen ignored the stew. "Did you go down to Magda Digby's to get Jasper?"

  Lucie sighed. "I wish you would eat before we talk. You know your temper when you're hungry."

  "Did you, Lucie?"

  "I did not go alone, Owen. Don't treat me like a child."

  "It is dangerous down there. And with all the rain and snow, it must be flooding."

  "I said I was not such a fool as to go alone. A friar, Tildy, and one of Tildy's brothers accompanied me. We had the use of a boat and Bess's donkey cart. We were quite well prepared."

  "Did you take care to keep Jasper concealed?"

  "Of course I did!" Lucie was getting angry.

  "You went at night, didn't you?"

  "Yes, Owen. And now you're going to tell me how foolish that was."

  Owen banged his fist on the table. "Do you realize how dangerous it is to row across a flood in the dark?"

  "Sweet Jesu, what would you have me do, Owen? Leave the boy down there? It was you who cursed John Thoresby for not protecting Jasper."

  "And who's protecting you? Whenever we're separated, you take risks. Last time you traveled, you returned with a stranger. Now you've risked your life rowing across a flooding river at night. What am I supposed to do with you?"

  Lucie stared at Owen. "What are you talking about? You were worried about the boy. He turned up at Magda Digby's, and she sent the friar to ask if I could take the boy in. I brought him here safely. He is recovering. I did it for you. Now, instead of thanking me, you're looking for an argument. I don't understand you."

  "You did not have to go yourself."

  "I wanted to."

  They stared at each other, both angry, for a long, quiet moment.

  Then Owen closed his eye, shook his head. "Forgive me, Lucie.

  I am tired, disappointed in the results of my journey, aching from the ride, and my stomach is in turmoil from a greasy stew I ate on the way." He caught Lucie's hand. "Damn it, we always ruin homecomings with an argument."

  "It is you who have ruined it, not 1.1 gave you what I thought-- what any sensible person would think--good news." Lucie pulled her hand from Owen's and stood up. "I'm going up to bed. You will digest your food better if I am not in the room."

  Owen pushed his bench away from the trestle table and pulled Lucie down on his lap.

  She kept her head turned from him and stared at the fire.

  "You were on my mind all the time, Lucie." Owen stroked her hair. "I did not like leaving you when you were so sad. Please forgive me. And forgive my ingratitude."

  Lucie had to admit that was a beginning toward apology. "I cannot deny I had misgivings about going, Owen. But I took precautions. You go on as if I were a child."

  "So how do I dig myself out of this?"

  "You finish eating your stew and then come up to bed." Lucie tried to wriggle out of Owen's grasp, but he held tight.

  "God allows even the greatest sinners a chance to redeem themselves. Will you not grant the same?"

  Lucie could not help it; her humours betrayed her. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch, and she turned away to hide her smile.

  "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." Owen pressed his head to her chest.

  Damn the man. He was too good at being charming. "You know I will forgive you. I always do."

  Owen hugged Lucie. She turned and put her arms around him, burying her face in his wiry hair.

  "I am not as hungry as I thought," he said, getting his arms under her and beginning to rise.

  Lucie lifted her head. "Then go on up. I will tidy up down here and follow."

  Owen let Lucie stand up. "We will tidy up. What am I going to do up in that cold bed waiting for you?"

  "Contemplate your sins?"

  Owen snorted.

  Lucie laughed and gave him a kiss. "I did miss you, you scoundrel."

  He held her tight, and she could feel his heart pounding. "This is what I thought about all the way back." Owen's voice was different now, soft and affectionate. "Why does it always take so long to get to this point?"

  Lucie said nothing. She wondered the same thing. It was as if their humours were opposite. They could turn the simplest conversation into an argument. She worried about it.

  11/ The Wool War

  By the time Owen reached the Archbishop's house, it was midday. Brother Michaelo sniffed at Owen's timing, but he returned in a moment to extend Thoresby's invitation to sup with him.

  Owen was shown into the hall, a lofty room hung with tapestries almost as lovely as the ones in Thoresby's chambers in London. The floor was tiled. A huge fireplace promised warmth; in front of it, a cloth-draped table was set for supper. A servant was pulling up an extra chair, setting out another plate and cup, and a spoon.

  Thoresby stood in a simple black cassock, hands behind his ba
ck, staring into the fire. Owen paused halfway across the tile floor, puzzled by this unaccustomed glimpse of the great man. Nochain of office, no scarlet robes, fur-trim. Owen was surprised to see how slender Thoresby was for his age and importance. John Thoresby turned and caught Owen studying him. He motioned forOwen to join him.

  "You wonder about the dress?"

  Owen nodded.

  Thoresby looked down at himself. "It is unusual. And I find it difficult to explain. I went to St. Mary's this morning to help with the food distribution to the poor. Can you imagine that? I woke with a desire to do something unselfish. Charity. God's work." Thoresby smiled. "You should like that. You once suggested that I had lost sight of my duties as a man of God."

  "Aye, so I did." Owen did not know whether to grin or steel himself for trouble. The Archbishop's behavior was so odd.

  Thoresby moved to the table. "Sit. I am in need of food and wine at the end of that experience."

  "Gladly."

  They filled their cups. Maeve brought in a fish soup and bread to begin. Owen cleaned his knife on a piece of cloth.

  Thoresby tasted the soup. "Maeve, your cooking is a gift from Heaven."

  The heavyset woman flushed and hurried away for the next course.

  Thoresby took another spoonful of soup. "This would be a feast to be remembered for those folk I saw today. Only this, the soup and bread. The wine would be an unimaginable delight." He did not possess his usual comfortable demeanor.

  "I do not mean to sound impertinent, Your Grace, but you do not seem yourself. Are you well?"

  Thoresby frowned down at his soup for a moment, then burst out laughing. "That is what delights me about you, Archer. You are not in awe of my ring and my chain of office."

  "You wear no chain today," Owen reminded him.

  "Indeed. But the chain has never stopped you from saying your mind to me. I am humbled by my experience, a state in which you have never seen me."

  Owen feared there was danger in being too bold with the Archbishop. "I meant that you looked uncomfortable. Pale, Your Grace."

  Thoresby seemed taken aback by this. "Pale?" He thought about it, shrugged. "Perhaps God is warning me that my time is passing quickly."

  "Gloomy thoughts, Your Grace."

  "Sinfully self-absorbed--that is my problem of late." Thoresby

  drained his cup and filled it. "So. What did you learn in Beverley?"

  Owen, realizing Thoresby did not wish to discuss his mood further, described the dramatic relationships at Riddlethorpe. They were cutting into the roast when Owen came to the information Mistress Ridley had offered about Goldbetter and Company.

  "Ah. I am not at all surprised that's coming round again to haunt the Crown," Thoresby said.

  Owen was surprised the name Goldbetter was so familiar to the Archbishop that he had not even paused to recall it. "Is it true?" Owen asked. "Is wool financing the war?"

  Thoresby sighed. "Yes and no. Let us finish this fine meal, then I will tell you about King Edward's war financing. I cannot think about it while I eat or I will never digest this much-needed sustenance."

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Thoresby was not in a mood to continue so for long.

  "This daughter, Mistress Scorby. What do you think of her?"

  Owen tasted his wine and considered how to put it. "Anna Scorby is in love with God, not with her husband. I think perhaps she truly has a vocation. But she was the only daughter, and Gilbert Ridley wanted to forge a link with the Scorbys--he seemed impressed by their bloodline. According to Mistress Ridley, her son-in-law has been as patient as his character will permit, which is not very patient. She believes that Paul Scorby made an unfortunate match. A gentler man might have wooed Anna away from the spiritual life."

  "Some time at St. Clement's Nunnery might convince her that her life has not been so dreadful."

  Owen shrugged. "They are Benedictines. I do not think they deny themselves much."

  "All the better. She will see that even in a convent the world is difficult to put aside." Thoresby chuckled at his own joke. The food and wine had brought him back to himself. Owen was relieved. He did not want to like the Archbishop too much.

  When Maeve brought out a hard cheese, more bread, and more wine, Thoresby pushed his chair back from the table and sighed with pleasure. "Now I can think about the court. But first, I must give Michaelo an assignment."

  He rose and crossed the tiles. Owen took the opportunity to seek out the back door and a privy. He returned through the kitchen, a warm, savory-smelling place. Maeve smiled at him. "You're a pleasure to serve, Captain Archer. A good soldier's appetite, you have."

  "Believe me, the pleasure was all mine."

  "I'll give you some wastel as you leave. For you and Mistress Wilton. She has eased my bones with that salve she made me. As God is my witness, you would find no better apothecary in London."

  Owen knew Lucie loved the white loaves that Maeve baked. Wastel was the second-highest grade of bread, but in Maeve's hands it was transformed into the finest pandemain. "She will be most grateful, Maeve. And so will I."

  Owen was seated and pouring another cup of wine before the Archbishop returned. Thoresby surprised him by coming in from the kitchen. "Now. We shall not be interrupted. I would take you to my chambers, but that fire was just lit. It cannot have warmed the room yet, and I had a most chilling morning."

  "Do you think this Goldbetter business could have bearing on the murders?"

  Thoresby sipped some wine, then tilted his head back and contemplated the rafters. At last he looked back at Owen, nodding. "It might well have something to do with it, though I cannot say what at this point. When Edward began to play with the wool merchants, I warned him. You play them one against the other and you destroy all loyalties, all the honor that keeps commerce civilized. And uncivilized merchants are more dangerous than an army of mercenaries. Especially the wool merchants, men who control a commodity critical to all the nations involved in Edward's war."

  "You speak so plainly to the King?"

  "I have ever done so. But these days I am uncertain that is wise." Thoresby looked down at his hands, resting on the arms of his thronelike chair, lifting the finger on which he wore his Archbishop's ring, letting it catch the light. He seemed lost in his contemplation of it, his face sad.

  Owen pulled the Archbishop back to the present. "Do you know this John Goldbetter?"

  Thoresby shook his head as if to clear it. "Although we have

  never met, I know something about him. He is much like William de la Pole in his respect for law, and I know de la Pole. In fact, it was de la Pole who first mentioned Goldbetter to me. He pointed out that Goldbetter had done much the same as he, and yet Goldbetter was not being brought up in Chancery. I assured de la Pole that I knew many were guilty, but on such a smaller scale than he that it was not worth our time."

  "You enjoy your power as Lord Chancellor."

  Thoresby shook his head. "Not often. The power is a heady wine, but of inferior quality. It brings on nausea and headache as it sours in one's belly."

  "You would stay away from court?"

  "If that were possible."

  "Because of the war?"

  "Sadly, because of the King." Thoresby's deep-set eyes were fixed on Owen. "This is why I made sure that we had no ears about, especially Michaelo's. Whenever one criticizes his King, one speaks treason. I trust you to understand the difference between disaffection that might lead to rebellion and that which is merely an expression of disappointment; but I do not trust Michaelo."

  Owen was not comfortable with this direction, but it was unlikely that Thoresby would excuse him from the task he had set for him. "You can trust me, Your Grace."

  Thoresby nodded. "There are precious few I can trust."

  "Why do you keep Michaelo as your secretary?"

  "On what unsuspecting soul would I thrust him? I have come to see Michaelo as my hair shirt."

  The image of the elegant B
rother Michaelo as a hair shirt amused Owen. He laughed.

  Thoresby nodded as he reached for more wine. "Well might you laugh over my foolishness," he grumbled, but his eyes smiled. He poured his wine, cut off a piece of cheese, and dropped it in his mouth, savoring it, then drank some wine. "When all is said and done, this is the reward of rank, not the power that comes with it. So much danger rides with the power." The Archbishop shook his head, serious once more. "And so. On to the business. When the King set his mind on claiming his birthright to the crown of France, he needed a great deal of money to realize his ambition. He listened

  to some crafty explanations about how he might obtain higher revenues than usual with wool by manipulating the supply and raising duties. The merchants and lawyers who suggested this were no doubt in the pockets of the earls who feared the war expenses might somehow come from their pockets."

  "Or the Church?" Owen suggested.

  "No, it was not the Church's scheme to avoid taxes." Thoresby sipped his wine. "At the time, the wool merchants had the largest cash resources of any group of men in the kingdom. And wool was"--he shrugged--"perhaps remains, the most valuable product of our fair isle. And so very important to the Flemings, who have such a changeable allegiance, sometimes to us, sometimes to the French King." Thoresby sighed, shook his head sadly. "Golden Edward. Tall, kingly, bullheaded. I was not the only counselor who reminded Edward that the King of France could just as easily lavish gifts and level threats at the Count of Flanders."

  "The King does not welcome criticism?"

  "Not when to his mind he has invented a brilliant scheme. So he met with the merchants in the ninth year of his reign and declared an embargo on exporting wool. He meant this to persuade the merchants to accept an increased subsidy, and to coerce Flanders into siding with him. What it actually did was cause a glut of wool and low prices here, a scarcity of wool and high prices in Flanders. The Flemings were alarmed. Our wool merchants were delighted. They agreed to increased duties and a list indicating the highest prices wool producers could charge, which would ensure the merchants of profits despite the rise in customs rates."