Thoresby absently crumbled the cheese on his bread, then poured himself more wine. "Such a muddle. As with everything in this scheme, the purpose of the price list has varied over the years, sometimes serving the producers, sometimes the merchants. No one feels the King is truly on their side. I thought it was a mistake from the beginning, but it was one of those things so difficult to see clearly at the time that it was impossible to know whether my misgivings were valid."
"The King does not think it a muddle?"
Thoresby touched his fingertips together and stared at the fire. "It is a painful thing, to watch a warrior age." His voice was pensive.
"Edward was a tall, golden lion of a man. You have seen him before a battle, riding down the lines, inspiring feats of astounding courage in mere mortals. You have heard his men cheer him, haven't you, Archer?"
Owen nodded. "Many a time as I sat with my arrows stuck in the ground beside me, waiting for the French to appear."
"Edward was regal. Resplendent. But off the battlefield"--the Archbishop shook his head--"he has not always been wise. This war. Oh, there is precedent. He does have a claim, and a better one than Valois, but it is mostly to satisfy a kingly ego."
Owen's scar began to prickle. "I do not want to hear this, Your Grace. I don't want to hear that I lost my eye, and so many men, on a whim of the King."
"Ah." Thoresby moved his gaze from the fire to Owen. "I should not digress. I have probably drunk too much wine. Do you know, Archer, 1 think I begin to feel my mortality." Thoresby glanced down at the piece of bread in front of him, then pushed it aside.
Owen stayed silent, made increasingly uncomfortable by the Archbishop's mood.
Thoresby nodded. "I disturb you. 1 disturb myself these days." He rubbed his eyes. "Where was I? Oh, yes, the merchants could not be sure of the King's support. He paid no heed to the edge in their voices. In the tenth year of Edward's reign, the merchants agreed to loan the Crown two hundred thousand pounds and pledged to pay the King half of the profit on thirty thousand sacks of wool. In return, the merchants would receive a monopoly; only those merchants who agreed to the terms of the bargain would be permitted to export wool. They were promised that their loan would be repaid by splitting the customs receipts with the Crown, and the customs were raised to forty shillings a sack. The wool was to be sent to Dordrecht in three shipments, and the King was to be paid in three installments. A substantial number of the monopolists were members of the English Wool Company, which was led by a small core that included Reginald Conduit, William de la Pole, and John Goldbetter."
Owen sat forward. This began to sound like what Cecilia Ridley had told him. "I cannot see why any wool merchants disagreed. At least it permitted them some trade."
"By now many did not trust the King. In fact, it was those with enough power and money to hope to twist this state of affairs to their increased profit who agreed, not the smaller merchants. They hoped to continue trading by hiding their shipments with the help of--unofficial shippers."
"Pirates?"
Thoresby nodded. "The powerful merchants were hiding shipments, too. A bit above board, a bit below board. And thus the King was disappointed in the results. The shipments were slow and the profits slender. He had the Crown seize what little wool arrived in customs, about twelve thousand sacks, and put it up for sale. Merchants were given receipts of bonds for the wool. They could either redeem them directly at the Exchequer or use them in the future to ship wool duty free. But as the Crown was so short of money, redemption was unlikely. And, of course, the merchants had found another way to ship duty free. The King's scheme collapsed, and the wool collection halted."
"The merchants have no allegiance to the Crown?"
"To be fair, they were given little cause."
"But he is their King."
Thoresby smiled at Owen. "You have not completely lost your innocence, Archer. I am glad of that."
"You have a gift for making me feel a fool for my years of service."
"Years of service," Thoresby repeated in an oddly sad tone, then shook his head. "I digress again. The King was disappointed. And yet, against all reason, he continued to pursue his plan the following year. Another twenty thousand sacks were to be seized and the producers given royal bonds promising payment out of tax proceeds. Even less wool was collected. More and more sacks were hidden away, then smuggled overseas and sold. Admittedly, production was lower in those years, but it could not have been as low as the customs reported--there was too much trade in Flanders for it to be so. I suspect that Goldbetter's trouble with the Crown had something to do with such activities."
"I had no idea that finance could be so confusing."
Thoresby sighed. "It is one of the more creative aspects of government."
"As Lord Chancellor, why do you allow such dishonesty?"
"It is difficult and costly to catch thieves of this complexity and status, Archer."
Owen rubbed his neck. "It seems the King reigns on quicksand."
"All our mortal lives we totter at the edge of a bog, Archer. The higher we sit, the deeper we sink when we lose our footing." Thoresby sat forward, hands on knees. "Unfortunately, I must go to Windsor to be with the King for Christmas. I leave shortly. But I will not be idle. While there I shall go down to London for a few days on business, and I will see what I can find out about Goldbetter."
"And my task?" Owen hoped he might now be relieved of his duties until the Archbishop returned.
"Continue asking questions. My Lady Chapel becomes more precious to me every day. I would like to use Ridley's money."
Owen sighed. "I do not relish the task."
"I know. But you will do it."
Owen took his leave of the Archbishop with a troubled mind. For a while, as Thoresby explained the King's folly, he had seemed himself again, sardonic, assured. But the dark mood had returned. Owen did not like Thoresby in that mood. He worried that in such a mood Thoresby would confide in him. And the more Owen knew of Thoresby and his peers, the less he wanted to know.
Not that the merchants seemed any more admirable. Goldbetter and his associates served the King only if it benefited them. Were soldiers the only fools who served without question?
Enough of this. Better to concentrate on what he had learned from Thoresby. While seeming to cooperate with the Crown, the wool merchants had hidden much of their wool and used pirates to transport the wool to Flanders. Gilbert Ridley had probably played a dangerous dual role in Calais. And Martin Wirthir, former soldier careful to stay in the shadows--was he a pirate? Cecilia had said that Ridley suspected Wirthir of acting as a liaison between prisoners of war in England and their families in France--but could Ridley have fabricated that suspicion to satisfy his wife's curiosity without implicating himself?
And what was the agreement that Goldbetter reached with Chiriton and Company that brought such a profit? Cecilia had suggested that Gilbert Ridley's business dealings had involved dishonesty and betrayal. No doubt. Owen was now certain that Thoresby's inquiries about Goldbetter and Company would turn up something in that vein.
12/ A Gleeful Conspirator
Weighed down by his gloomy thoughts, Owen headed down Petergate and through King's Square toward the Merchants' Hall. A man locked in the pillory on Pavement was being pelted with mud by two small, dirty boys. It put Owen in mind of the boy who was staying in his house. When would Jasper be free to roam the city again without fear?
Last night's snow had not melted much, and as the sun made a brave effort to shine forth, the icy roofs glistened. It was a welcome sight in this dark city. From the first day he had arrived in York, Owen felt the gloom here, the buildings huddled close together, the upper stories jutting out over the lower. Daylight rarely lit the narrow streets. Having only one eye, Owen disliked shadows. They could be deceptively deep or shallow. Without both eyes it was difficult to tell. Not that other folk liked the dark streets any more than he did. People sought out the squares and the churchyards for a bit
of sky.
The Merchants' Hall had a neat border of grass around it, a glistening blanket of white at the moment. Owen tried not to think about the dishonorable deals that might have funded this building as he walked up and knocked on the heavy door. A clerk answered. "Ah, Captain Archer. What can we do for you?"
It amazed Owen how well known he was, all because he supervised the townsmen's practice at the butts. "I am on business for the Archbishop, Master Clerk. Can you spare me some time?"
The man nodded and led Owen up the stairs. On the ground level the area was used as a hospital for the aged members of the guild and their wives. Upstairs was the great hall with wood partitions marking off some small rooms to the sides. The clerk led Owen to one of the side rooms, a tiny area lit by a casement window open to allow even more light than the expensive greenish glass let in. There were shelves for documents and a writing desk cluttered with pens and inkpots. A tiny brazier generated little warmth in the room, merely taking some of the damp chill out of the air from the open window.
"You have come about Masters Ridley and Crounce, I'll wager," the clerk said, looking officious.
"In a sense, Master Clerk. I ask two things of you--the names and whereabouts of the actors who performed with Crounce last Corpus Christi, and where I might find Martin Wirthir, a Fleming who worked for Ridley."
"Wirthir? Martin Wirthir?" The clerk shook his head. "Not a guild member. I know all the names."
"Have you ever heard the name before?"
The clerk shook his head again. "But then there would be no cause, you see. If not guild business"--he shrugged. He was a little man, thin and oddly wizened for his age, which Owen guessed was not much past five-and-twenty.
"And the actors, Master Clerk?"
The clerk nodded enthusiastically. "That I can give you. Can you read?"
"I am an apprentice apothecary. God help my customers if I cannot."
The clerk flushed. "Pardon, Captain Archer. I think of you down at St. George's Field, showing us how to shoot. I forget that is not your daily trade."
"So you will write the names and addresses down for me?"
"That I will do, yes, Captain. Though--well, I should know why." He looked embarrassed to be asking.
Owen thought it a sensible query. "Since Crounce was murdered
the day after he appeared in the pageant, I thought perhaps--if I'm very lucky--someone might have noticed something odd."
The clerk brightened at that explanation. "Oh, indeed. An excellent thought." He screwed up his already-wrinkled face. "But it will take a moment. Have you seen our beautiful hall? Would you like to look round while I do this?"
Owen appreciated the chance to stretch and move about. "Where do your members keep their bows? It is a good time for me to inspect them." Owen was to randomly check the longbows of the townsmen to see that they were made properly. He had precious little time to spend on this, so he welcomed the opportunity.
The clerk pointed out the door. "The guild's bows are in a cabinet all the way on the other side of the hall. You are welcome to inspect them, Captain."
Owen left the tiny cell and went back out into the light, high-ceilinged great hall. It bespoke the wealth of the members with its huge oak beams and white plaster. The floor was new wood, recently laid down. An odor of stale food and humanity came from below, and the damp smell of the River Foss and the Kings Fish Pond nearby came from the windows. But this area was clean, well lit, and one could forgive the odors for the joy of real windows with pale green glass.
Owen found the cabinet and examined the bows. Only one was too short, even for the clerk, and the wood improperly prepared and seasoned so that it might snap at any time. When the clerk scurried out with his list, Owen pointed this bow out to him.
The clerk nodded. "I will tell the guild warden. He will speak with the owner." He handed Owen the list. "It is terrible about Ridley and Crounce. Some of the guild members worry that it's a plot against the guild."
"I think not. Crounce and Ridley were clearly business partners. And friends."
"So there's no hope it was just a coincidence?"
"What do you think, Master Clerk? Do you think that's likely?"
The clerk shook his head. "This Wirthir you asked about. Do you think he might be guilty? Or might be next?"
"Guilty?" Owen shook his head. "Of course 1 cannot know for
certain, but I would say he might be the next victim. Unless he has disappeared from this part of the kingdom for good, he would have been foolish to murder two men so linked to him, don't you think?" "Hatred drives men to do foolish things," the clerk said sagely. Owen nodded. "I will keep that in mind, Master Clerk. Now this list. Whom would you seek out first?"
The clerk considered. "Stanton," he said. "He knew Crounce best-Owen thanked him.
Stanton lived in a substantial house on Stonegate. Owen was lucky to find him inventorying stock in the ground floor cellar, a stone-vaulted room that ran the length of the house. The man shook the dust off his hair and jerkin. "Come up to the hall," he said, leading Owen up the outside stairway. "1 welcome the excuse to wash some of the dust down with wine. You will join me?"
Owen agreed.
"We will not be interrupted," Stanton said. "My wife has the household out in the kitchen making candles."
The hall was furnished with a heavy table and two high-backed chairs. Benches were pushed back against the wall. A simple tapestry hung on the wall farthest from the fire. Stanton invited Owen to sit at the table, which was beneath one of the two windows. Stanton poured wine from an interesting pitcher.
Owen admired it.
"Got it in Italy, the one time I ventured so far. It is my pride and joy," Stanton said, pleased. "Well. So you're looking into Will Crounce's death, are you? A terrible thing. He was a good man, Captain Archer. A charitable soul. And our best actor. If his voice had been deeper, he most assuredly would have been our God in the play. He always remembered his lines, never stammered, never rushed." Stanton played with the pitcher, turning it this way and that to admire it while he talked. "His wife's family hated it, you know."
"Hated what?"
"His taking part in the plays. Being an actor." Stanton shook his head. "Such a bother about something he did once a year. And for the Lord Jesus Christ." He shook his head again.
"Was there anything unusual about Crounce's performance this year? Any sign that he was troubled? Distracted?"
Stanton took his hand off the pitcher and sat back with his cup of wine. "Nay. He was good, was Will. It transformed him. I think the Lord Jesus inspired him--that's what I think. Folk always commended us for his Jesus. I cannot think who will take his place." Stanton looked sad.
"So you noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day?"
"Nay. Nor did the others. We've all talked about it, you can be sure." Stanton took a drink, frowned, then gave Owen a thoughtful look. "Now that I think of it, John de Burgh did notice one thing I had not. Mistress de Melton was led away as Will spoke his last lines. She was a widow, mother to the boy Will was to sponsor in the guild. We all assumed Will meant to marry again. As the pageant wagon began to move, Will jumped off to find out what had happened, but no one knew aught but that she'd taken ill."
"And it did not affect the rest of his performances?"
"You do not seem to understand. The performance is worship. What better way for Will to intercede with God on Mistress de Melton's behalf than to play the Christ better than he ever had before? Which he did on that day."
They both drained their cups. Owen began to rise. "I should not keep you from your work. But one last question, Master Stanton. Did Crounce have any enemies that you knew of?"
"You mean someone who might want to kill him?" Stanton shook his head. "As I said, he was a gentle soul. I could name a baker's dozen whose murders would have been less surprising."
"Enemies who would not necessarily have wished to kill him?"
Stanton glanced about him, though no o
ne had disturbed them in the hall, then pulled his chair closer to Owen and leaned forward conspiratorially. "I do not like gossip as a rule, Captain Archer, but there was the situation between Will and Mistress Ridley that we all wondered about. Gilbert Ridley was a man with a temper, and how he and Will never fought about Mistress Ridley I do not know. I can only assume that they were such good friends that Will meant more to Ridley than his wife did."
"Are you saying that Crounce and Mistress Ridley were lovers?"
Stanton lifted his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say he did not know.
"But you assume."
"Not me. Everyone."
"There was talk? In public?"
"Only among members of the guild, to be sure. We do not share our problems with the townsmen."
"Are there guild rules against such behavior?"
"Not as such, but we pledge to obey the commandments."
"And yet no one officially spoke to Will Crounce about his behavior with Mistress Ridley, another guild member's wife?"
Stanton looked uncomfortable. "Will was never caught in the act, you see. And there was Mistress de Melton. It looked as if Will meant to reform his ways." Stanton shrugged. "Then again, it might be just gossip. And I've insulted the dead." He crossed himself.
Owen noted the man's discomfort and let the topic drop. "Did you ever meet a business partner of Crounce's by the name of Martin Wirthir?"
Stanton screwed up his face, thinking, then shook his head. "Name means naught to me." He looked eagerly at Owen. "Might he be the murderer, then? This Martin Wirthir?"
Owen shook his head. "If he were, he would be a fool and easy to find. What do you know about Ridley? Did he have any enemies?"
Stanton sat back and chuckled. "He was a brusque man, Captain Archer. And impressed with himself. God help me, but many a time I wished to put my fist through Ridley's teeth."
"Would you have killed him?"
"Nay!" The merchant straightened up and pulled at his sleeves. "I would never kill any man except to protect my family. Though I play a Bad Soul in the pageant, I am not a violent man."
The Lady Chapel Page 14