The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  Owen wondered whether Stanton appreciated how fortunate he was to be able to choose peace over violence. No one had ever ordered Stanton into battle. "Do you think any of the more violent guild members could have been driven to kill Ridley?"

  Stanton shook his head.

  "So Ridley was irritating, pompous, but not the sort of hateful that gets a man murdered?"

  "Right," said Stanton. "And he was away so much, no one had to put up with him for long."

  "Oh!" The guild clerk raised an ink-stained finger and his eyes widened as a memory interrupted his copy work. Should he go after the Captain and tell him? It seemed a small point, but there might be something to it. Perhaps on his way home he would stop at the apothecary. He could use a soothing wash for his eyes. They were giving him trouble lately. So tired.

  Owen had just returned and wearily stretched his frozen toes toward the fire. "Has your mistress been busy all day?" he asked Tildy.

  "Oh, aye."

  "I will work in the shop tomorrow so she can catch up on other things."

  "That would be nice, Captain. The horseradish root has dried, and we should put it up."

  The beaded curtain rattled as Lucie came through. "There's a man here to see you, Owen."

  Owen groaned. "Who is it?"

  "A clerk, from the ink on his fingers. He says he spoke with you this afternoon."

  "Oh, that clerk." Owen rose and stretched, feeling his shoulder muscles crinkle. Questioning people was no work for a man. It crippled the body. He went out to the shop.

  "Captain Archer." The clerk smiled. He wore a cloak of fine wool, but well worn. A castoff from one of the guild members, Owen guessed. "I thought of something after you'd gone," the clerk said, "maybe nothing of importance, but as I needed something to soothe my eyes, I thought I'd come by and see you."

  "What's the trouble with the eyes?"

  "By vespers I do not see so clearly."

  "You use your eyes in close work and little light all day, Master Clerk. It is a common complaint amongst such as yourself. Mistress Wilton has a soothing wash. A flask is a halfpenny."

  The clerk nodded. "I'm willing to try it. And to tell you this, what I remembered when you'd gone. There was a man who sometimes

  came on business for Masters Crounce or Ridley. His speech was much like that of the Flemish weavers. He did not come often, and not lately. But here's something else. 1 once needed to send something on to him, and he directed it to the lodgings of Ambrose Coats, one of the Town Waits. I was to say it was for 'the foreigner.' "

  Coats. Lucie had told Owen about the musician's visit. And what was now buried in the garden. "Ambrose Coats? Are you certain?"

  The clerk nodded. "He plays the rebec and the crowd. You might say he's a bowman, like yourself." The clerk laughed at his joke.

  "He is a friend of Martin Wirthir?"

  The clerk got serious again. "A friend? That 1 cannot say. I do not even know if Coats would remember aught about the foreigner--he may have stayed there the once only--but it might be worth a visit."

  "I thank you." Owen handed the clerk a small clay bottle. "1 must enter your name in the ledger, Master Clerk. Mistress Wilton is keen on records."

  "I am John Fortescue," the clerk said, and spelled it for Owen. "I'll wager you're thinking it does not fit, eh?" He grinned.

  Owen made an apologetic face. "You sound a Yorkshireman through and through."

  "Oh, I am, Captain, through and through for many generations. But long ago my people came with William the Bastard, and though we are a poor branch, we carry the name with pride."

  "So your ancestors built the castles of York?"

  "Aye, they did so, Captain. They did so."

  Owen thanked Fortescue again, and the clerk left a little taller for pride.

  "An odd man," Lucie commented when she returned to help Owen close up for the day.

  Owen was thoughtful. "He puts me in mind of Potter Digby."

  "Oh, no, never!" Lucie had never liked the Summoner, no matter how helpful he had been to Owen. "This man was clean and looked honest. What can you possibly see of Digby in him?"

  Owen shrugged. "I cannot say. Just a feeling he brings with him. Of gleeful conspiracy."

  Lucie raised an eyebrow. "I am not certain I would find that pleasant."

  "He is pleasant, so I am saying it poorly, as usual."

  "You have a honeyed tongue," Lucie said. "It's my own lack of humor that is the problem."

  "Do you know what he came to tell me? That a foreigner who worked for Crounce and Ridley--Martin Wirthir, I'm guessing-- stayed at least once with a Town Wait named Ambrose Coats."

  "Sweet Jesu. So the hand was left for Martin Wirthir as a warning, just as it was for Gilbert Ridley?"

  "Perhaps. And perhaps the musician's friend was not Wirthir. There are other foreigners in York. I shall go talk with Coats tomorrow morning, before I open the shop."

  "You are opening the shop? What will His Grace say about that?"

  "Thoresby is off to Windsor for Christmas. Besides, I owe you some time in there, I should think. I am your apprentice, after all."

  Lucie's hug and smile made Owen feel well rewarded.

  He rose. "I'll go meet Jasper now."

  Lucie stayed him with a hand on his arm. "Would you just greet Jasper at first, welcome him, ask no questions for a day or two? He's been through so much, I want him to feel welcome and safe."

  It was difficult to agree when Owen wanted so much to describe Kate Cooper to the boy and see whether she had been the cloaked woman, but Owen saw the concern in Lucie's eyes. "Whatever you think best. I will wait until you give me leave to question him."

  When Lucie kissed him, Owen was glad of his forbearance. He would wait till Hell froze over to question the boy if it made Lucie so affectionate.

  13/ Liaisons

  Ambrose Coats' s address was Footless Lane, across from St. Leonard's Hospital. Not enticing. Owen set out after fortifying himself with some ale and bread to see whether Ambrose Coats remembered Martin Wirthir.

  "You don't know that he will be awake at dawn," Lucie warned. "A musician might well sleep late if he performed last night."

  "Let's hope he is a reasonable man so that I can keep my promise to you to open the shop."

  The house was part of a row, this one distinguished by a large orange tabby wailing at the door. A slender man with dark blond curls opened the door just as Owen lifted his hand to knock. The blond smiled down at the cat and let it glide into the house, then glanced up. "Forgive Merlin, sir. It is his nature to become hysterical when his routine is broken. I am late opening the door for him." He smiled apologetically, but as he studied Owen's face his expression changed. "Captain Archer?" There was a tension in his voice and face that had not been there a moment ago.

  Owen silently cursed his scarred face that put people on guard. "You must be Ambrose Coats, Town Wait?"

  The man nodded. "I am." He stepped aside. "Please, Captain, come in. The least I can do is offer you hospitality after leaving that horrible thing with Mistress Wilton."

  "I am surprised you know me, not being down at the butts on Sundays," Owen said as he entered the small house. As a Town Wait, Ambrose was not required to practice the longbow, but to save his hands for his music.

  "You are a noticeable man " Ambrose said.

  Owen reached up to the patch. "Aye, that I am."

  Ambrose smiled. "It adds a suggestion of danger in an already-arresting face."

  Owen did not know how to respond to that. If the words had been spoken by a woman, he would have turned on his charm. But what could Ambrose Coats mean by such a remark?

  Ambrose Coats's large, deep-green eyes watched Owen nervously. "Please, sit down." Ambrose pulled the one chair in the room up to a brazier. "Would you share my morning ale with me?"

  "If you're offering." Owen sat down.

  Ambrose poured two cups of ale and pulled up a stool. "I told Mistress Wilton what I could about the han
d. I don't know what else I can tell you."

  "A neighbor's pig left it on your doorstep--is that what you think?"

  "I cannot imagine how else it got there."

  "I can. I was told you might help me find someone. But I think someone else has discovered that he is a friend of yours, too."

  "Find someone? A musician? For a gathering?"

  "No. I need to tell this person he may be in danger."

  Ambrose sat up even straighter than before. "And who might this person be?"

  "Martin Wirthir."

  The chin clenched and looked more prominent than ever.

  "You do know him?" The man's expression made it clear that he did.

  The musician thought about it, then shrugged. "I know Wirthir. But I have not seen him for a long time. So perhaps that is why he does not come, because he is in danger?"

  Ambrose Coats was clever. Quick. "I doubt that Wirthir knows of his danger if he has not been in York of late," said Owen. "But it is important to get the message to him."

  "He was never one to announce his visits. Perhaps you could tell me what this is about, and if he shows up . . ."

  "Your friend worked for Will Crounce and Gilbert Ridley, did you know that?"

  "I know nothing of his business."

  "But you recognize the names, and you knew that Gilbert Rid-

  ley's hand was still missing. Do you also know that Will Crounce's hand was left with Ridley? As a warning that he was next, it seems. So now Gilbert Ridley's hand is left with Martin Wirthir."

  Ambrose fidgeted on the stool. "This is not Martin's home."

  Owen shrugged. "Crounce's hand was not left at Ridley's home, but in his room at the York Tavern. I understand Martin Wirthir has stayed here. ..."

  "What do you want?"

  "To speak with Wirthir. Tell him about the danger. Ask him what business deal might have spawned such grisly deaths."

  "Who are you working for?"

  "The Archbishop."

  The green eyes widened. "Truly."

  "The murders occurred in the minster liberty."

  "So they did. And you think someone knew Martin once stayed here and left the hand on my doorstep to warn Martin?"

  "It seems likely. Do you have a better explanation of the odd coincidence of the three being business partners?"

  "As I said, I did not know Martin worked with those men. How can I be certain that the Archbishop doesn't want to accuse Martin of the murders?"

  "It would be a foolish murderer who would leave that hand to be discovered," Owen said. "From what I have heard of his activities, Wirthir is no fool."

  Ambrose played with the cup in his hands. "There was a boy who had witnessed one of the murders, wasn't there? Whatever happened to him?" He kept his eyes down, his voice quiet, but Owen could tell it was not an idle question, that Ambrose was anxious for an answer.

  "You must mean Jasper de Melton. I'm afraid he's disappeared. Poor boy. I'm sure he's in danger. Why do you ask?"

  Ambrose took a drink. "I wondered. He's disappeared, you say? Someone should have watched out for the boy." The green eyes looked sad.

  "I urged His Grace to do something to protect the boy, but he thought it unnecessary." Owen drained his cup. "Well, I shall keep you no longer. Please send word if you see your friend." He walked

  to the door, then turned back. "There is one favor you might grant me."

  "What is that?"

  "You could tell me what Martin Wirthir looks like."

  Ambrose shrugged. "1 can see no harm in it. Tall, straight-backed, Devil in his eye." He cocked his head to one side, studying Owen. "Dark hair. Like yours, only straight." He shook his head. "No, lighter hair than yours. But dark. Lovely, deep voice. You will not find him if he does not wish to be found."

  "1 can but try." Owen opened the door, paused. "I wonder. If your neighbor's pig bothers you so much, why have you not complained to the council?"

  Ambrose met Owen's eye, did not flinch. A defiant look. "There is no point in starting a feud with a neighbor."

  Owen studied the man. Lucie was right. There were things Ambrose did not say. And yet Owen had the feeling that what he did say was true. "How did you come to befriend Wirthir, a foreigner?"

  Ambrose reddened. "1 meet all sorts of people in my work, Captain Archer. Martin is a delightful man, he needed a place to stay." The musician shrugged.

  Owen believed it, as far as it went. But there was much more to it, he was sure.

  As he walked back to the shop, Owen mulled it over. Protective, like his comrades-in-arms had been of each other. But Wirthir was a pirate, Coats a Town Wait. What was their bond?

  Lucie scrubbed horseradish roots and handed them to Tildy to grind. The pungent root had Lucie wiping her eyes every few minutes, but Tildy hardly seemed to notice. She frowned over her work and muttered to herself.

  "What's troubling you?" Lucie asked when she could ignore the behavior no longer.

  Tildy hunched her shoulders. " 'Tis naught, Mistress Lucie."

  "How is Jasper this morning?"

  "He does better every day. It's good that he's here."

  "I see you made fish cakes this morning."

  Tildy nodded.

  "Is Jasper ready for such food?"

  "No, this is for you and Captain Archer. For being so good to Jasper. Not everyone would take him in."

  "So what is troubling you?"

  The girl bit her bottom lip and turned toward Lucie. "Is it a sin to swear an oath that has naught to do with God?"

  Lucie did not have an immediate answer to that. She hoped that Tildy and John had not pledged their troth.

  "What sort of oath, Tildy?"

  "A secret. You know, never telling anyone else. That sort of thing."

  "You mean a secret a friend has told you? Or a secret oath?"

  Tildy frowned. "I'm not sure."

  "Did someone tell you something about himself and you promised not to tell anyone? Or did someone ask you to take an oath-- perhaps you swore never to eat fish cakes again--and made you swear that you would tell no one?"

  " 'Twas the first."

  Lucie was relieved. "A secret like that is fine, Tildy, so long as it doesn't hurt anyone."

  Tildy was quiet, still biting her bottom lip. She'd begun to sniffle as the horseradish root piled up beneath the grinder.

  Lucie opened the kitchen door for air. "It seems to me that you are rather fond of John. Am I right, Tildy?"

  Tildy blushed and ducked her head.

  "I don't mean to pry, but I can't help but wonder whether your mood this morning has something to do with your feelings for John."

  "Oh, no. John is fun to talk to and he's so nice to Jasper. No, I--I just feel so sorry for Jasper. So many awful things have happened to him."

  "Well, I'm glad to hear that John isn't breaking your heart."

  Tildy smiled through tears. "He would never do that to me."

  Lucie coughed. "This horseradish root is about to choke me."

  "Your eyes are very red, Mistress Lucie."

  "So are yours. Why are we standing in here like fools?"

  They laughed and rushed out the door, dissolving into coughing fits that turned into giggles. Lucie realized how fond she was of Tildy and hoped Bess was wrong about John. If Bess was right, there was no way to protect Tildy from a broken heart. She seemed steadfast in her affection.

  14/ The King's Mistress

  Sleet drummed on the hood of Thoresby's cloak as he hurried down the path to the riverbank. He could already feel the freezing water seeping through his hood and hat to his head. Two servants tottered behind him, balancing a trunk full of papers and gifts on their shoulders. Ned, Thoresby's squire, carried a basket with food and wine for the journey; it was not a long barge trip upriver from London to Windsor, but Thoresby had been too busy to eat since early morning, and it was now mid-afternoon. He cursed as his new boots sank into the mud on the riverbank. The bargeman looked surprised to hear such words
coming from the mouth of the Archbishop of York.

  "The sorry truth is, I'm more of a Lord Chancellor than an Archbishop," Thoresby said.

  "Your Grace?" the bargeman said with a blank face.

  "Never mind." Thoresby stepped aside to let the servants past with the trunk. "Let's see whether you can get me to Windsor before I freeze to death."

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  Thoresby took consolation in the thought that sleet down here in London likely meant snow in York, so he was still the better for being here, wet and cold though he was. He ducked under the canopy. Ned placed a cushion on the thronelike chair in the center of the small enclosure, and Thoresby sat down, arranging his cloak around him for maximum warmth.

  "Would you care for some wine, Your Grace?" Ned asked.

  "Not yet. Try to get the mud off these boots first, Ned."

  While the boy worked at the boots with a stick and a rag, Thoresby sat back and reviewed his business in London. He had met with the second son of an old friend and advised the youth that if he truly wished to retreat as far from temptation as possible--he had been caught in bed with two cousins at once, both married women--he should have his father write to the abbot of Rievaulx, a Cistercian abbey up on the moors. Once up there, the youth might never see another woman as long as he lived. Thoresby had also put his most efficient and trustworthy clerk, Brother Florian, to work searching for records pertaining to Goldbetter and Company. Florian was intrigued to hear that his purpose was to uncover a murderer. In the midst of all that, in just one day Thoresby had ordered three tuns of wine to split between his cellars in York and London, and acquired the boots that were now just damp, no longer muddy.

  "God bless you, Ned," Thoresby said, examining his boots. "These cost me as much as your entire wardrobe. Now I can enjoy my wine."

  The sleet still came down as they eased up to the dock at Windsor. Thoresby emerged from under the canopy reluctantly, but at least here he stepped off the barge onto wooden planking, blessedly free of mud. On the knoll above rose the castle. Thoresby could see that Wykeham was still at work expanding the structure. William de Wykeham's building projects had won great favor with the King. Wykeham was now Keeper of the Privy Seal, a post that typically led to that of Lord Chancellor. Thoresby had been Keeper of the Privy Seal. He wondered how long it would be before Edward took the Chancellor's chain from his neck and hung it on Wykeham's. A gloomy thought.