The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  It seemed a random accident, not an act of God. What could man learn from such a death? Not to live at the edge of the forest? Not to have a fire in one's hut? Would their parents dying in such a way, and an infant sibling, make better Christians of the children who survived? Or was all death pointless? Was Thoresby's obsession with the purpose behind the murders of Crounce and Ridley just a search for an antidote to his fear of dying?

  Thoresby turned away from the glowing embers, crossed the icy stones, and descended into the castle, to warmth and light. He paused in front of his chamber, considered going to the chapel to pray for the souls of the woodcutter, his wife, and their babe. But Thoresby's toes were numb and his hands stiff with cold. He would first warm himself with fire and brandywine.

  His selfishness was punished at once. He entered the room to find Alice Perrers seated at the fire, sipping from her own jeweled goblet. Ned shrugged in response to Thoresby's questioning glance.

  Alice rose respectfully as Thoresby approached. "Your Grace," she murmured, curtsying neatly. She raised her eyes to his. The fire turned her amber eyes into cat's eyes.

  Thoresby found his heart pounding.

  "Please." He motioned for Alice to resume her seat. "You looked so comfortable there." He would not let her see how he loathed her. "This is a most unexpected pleasure, Mistress Alice."

  Ned came forward with a chair for the Chancellor, then poured him some brandywine. Thoresby nodded. "You anticipate me, Ned. God bless you."

  Alice watched Thoresby get settled.

  He took his time, letting Ned hold his cup of brandywine while he rubbed his hands over the fire, ensuring that they warmed up enough so he could hold the cup without mishap. Thoresby then took his brandywine and asked Ned to remove his damp boots and replace them with dry shoes.

  All the while, the cat eyes watched. When Thoresby at last seemed settled, and Ned had retreated to his post in the shadows, Mistress Alice smiled. "Please forgive my intrusion, Your Grace, but I did not want to wait till morning. At table this evening, the King spoke of your concern over murders that occurred in your liberty."

  Thoresby sipped, watching the long, pale face over the rim of his cup. He said nothing.

  Mistress Alice did not squirm under his close regard. Indeed, she seemed to preen in it. The cat eyes shimmered in the firelight. "I said that I thought your concern was to be admired, and that your duties as Archbishop are far more important than my Christmas gift."

  What did this woman possess that made her so self-assured, so bold before the Lord Chancellor of England, Thoresby wondered. "The King spoke of the murders?" He tried to concentrate on her words and not her slender neck, which would be so easy to crush, or her white breasts, which brought on quite a different thought.

  "I once attended the Corpus Christi plays in your city." Alice smiled. "The King says that one of the victims was the man who played the Christ in 'The Last Judgment.' I remember him. Perhaps because it was the last play of the day, perhaps because of his performance. He was so excellent in the part, I remember thinking that he must truly be a good man to be able to play that part so movingly. You must find his murderer."

  You must. Sweet Savior, how was he to bear this? Thoresby did not look in her eyes, knowing that his were burning with fury. But the tightness in his voice betrayed him. "It is gratifying to hear you say so."

  Silence. Ash whispered in the hearth as a log settled. Thoresby could hear the wind way up at the top of the chimney. He glanced at Mistress Alice. The cat eyes searched his face. The pale cheeks were flushed.

  "Forgive me," Alice said. "I can see that I overstepped. Please, Your Grace, I did not mean to offend. I hoped to"--a cloth was drawn from a sleeve, dabbed at the lips--"the King regards you as one of his most trusted administrators. I would be your friend. But I have been awkward."

  Thoresby did not for a moment believe she wanted friendship. But there was nothing to be gained by bullying the woman. "Let us begin again, Mistress Alice. You have heard of the murders in my liberty. You understand my concern. You remember Will Crounce. You feel this is all more important than your Christmas gift. Is that what you wished to say to me?"

  She was not such a good actress that she could hide the flush that came to her pale face at his curt summation. But her voice was smooth, meek. "That is simply the background, Your Grace. What I wished to tell you is that I have prevailed on the King to permit your return to York. And I hope that you might take with you a letter to my cousin in Ripon in return for my intercession. It is a small thing to ask, is it not?"

  Thoresby could not deny that it was little to ask. He was free to go, to escape this impossible situation. And to carry a letter for the woman relieved him of any future indebtedness to her. Yet it was odious to him to do anything for her.

  "Ripon, you say? That is some way north of York."

  "But surely you have a messenger you could send from the city?"

  "As surely as you have messengers you could send from Windsor."

  The cat eyes met and held Thoresby's. An energy passed be-

  tween them that would surely have felled most wills. Thoresby was shocked to feel himself sexually aroused.

  Alice suddenly broke the hold and smiled secretly to herself as she smoothed her skirt. "Your Grace, I asked such a favor in good faith, having learned of your kindness to a former favorite of the King--Marguerite." The cat eyes rose to his once more.

  Thoresby hoped his face did not betray his shock. Marguerite. How in God's earth had the trollop discovered Marguerite? They had been so careful--so fearful the King would discover them. Marguerite. If he denied it, the woman who stared at the world through those chilling eyes would find a way to ruin him with the King. She was quite a player. He must back away. This must be Thoresby's penance for those exquisite nights suckling the rosiest nipples in God's creation. He must give in to Alice Perrers.

  Thoresby nodded. "I send missives to my bishop in Ripon, so it is no trouble. Who is this cousin?"

  The cat eyes lit up with triumph. "Paul Scorby."

  Scorby. The name was familiar, but Thoresby could not place it. "Is he a guild member in York? You said you had seen the pageants."

  "I was not there as Paul's guest. One of my uncles had business in York and took me with him to act as hostess."

  "Ah. Well, the name is not foreign to me, but I cannot place him."

  "So you will carry the letter?"

  Thoresby gave a small, acquiescent bow, his stomach churning. "I can hardly decline such a trivial request when you have freed me to pursue a problem that weighs so on my mind."

  When Mistress Alice was gone, Thoresby resisted the urge to slam his cup into the door. How dare she intercede for him with the King? How dare she presume that her influence over the King was greater than his? How dare she ask him to be her messenger? How dare she speak Marguerite's name? Trembling with rage, Thoresby paced to calm himself. When he felt more in control, he went to the chapel.

  There, in the quiet, Thoresby admitted to himself that in the end, Alice Perrers had done him a favor. And herself. By leaving Windsor, Thoresby would escape any more such encounters. His re-

  sponse to Perrers disturbed him. She aroused him, but in a savage way. He wanted to throw her down on the floor and ravish her. Tear at those white breasts with his teeth. Devour her. Perhaps he had been without a woman too long. Or perhaps she was a witch. How else could she resurrect his passions with such violence? When Marguerite died in childbed, Thoresby had thought his carnal lusts were stilled forever. Alice Perrers had proven that untrue. Only his gentleness had been buried with Marguerite.

  Jasper, obsessed with his preparation for using the longbow, begged Owen to take him to one of the Sunday practices on St. George's Field. No matter how Owen argued that it was dangerous for Jasper to go out in public, the boy persisted. At last Owen took pity on the boy and agreed--so long as Jasper went in disguise.

  On the promised morning, Tildy held a polished steel mirror up
for Jasper to see his blond hair now bright red. Lucie had used henna on his hair and eyebrows. Tildy had taken Owen's old leather vest and leggings and cut them down for Jasper. With a little padding added to change his shape, and a short cape with a hood to throw shadow on his face, Jasper was indeed difficult to recognize.

  He was elated. He had gradually steadied and strengthened his left arm, his right arm was no longer splinted, and he was now carving a small bow. It was not finished, but the purpose of today's excursion was not to actually practice, but to watch, to listen to what Captain Archer said to the men, to prepare himself for the day, coming soon, when he would draw his own bow.

  Lucie watched Jasper with a worried frown.

  "I will be careful," Jasper said.

  Lucie smiled. "I do not fear that you will be reckless, Jasper. But I wonder if you are ready for this. Do you feel well enough to spend such a long while outside? It is much chillier down by the river than in the garden here."

  "I feel fine," Jasper insisted.

  Owen laughed when he came down to the kitchen and saw the red hair. "And who might this fiery-headed lad be?" he teased, slapping Jasper on the shoulder.

  Jasper admired Owen. He looked every inch a soldier, with his

  height, the longbow and quiver of arrows hanging from his broad shoulders, the patch on the left eye with the bit of scar that showed beneath it. And the earring. Jasper hoped that someday he could have an earring. He had another friend who wore an earring with a precious stone that Jasper admired.

  As they passed the friary, more sky was visible overhead and Jasper was happy to see that the sun shone. He knew that no practice took place in rain because the bowstrings were not to get wet. "Look at the sun, Captain. It is a good morning for practice."

  "The sun is not always the friend of an archer, Jasper," Owen said, striding along. "In practice we can adjust the butts so that we do not shoot with the sun in our eyes. But in battle, that is not possible. You must hope that your commander is in control of the battle formation and the sun will not be shining in your face, but will be behind you, blinding the enemy. That worked to our benefit at Crecy."

  They passed the castle, then St. George's Chapel, and walked out onto St. George's Field, a triangular plot of land that lay between the Ouse and the Foss, coming to a point where the rivers converged. For all that the sun was warm, the wind caught at Jasper's short cape, whipped it about him, and blew back his hood. Jasper secured the hood as his ears felt the first pains from the damp wind.

  "This wind will give an added challenge today," Owen said.

  Jasper looked round him. Men of all sizes were gathered there, stringing their bows.

  Owen put his hand on the boy's shoulder to guide him through the crowd. "It's nothing like a trained company of archers in their lord's livery. That is a sight. An orderly company, disciplined, none of this idle chatter. And see that man's eyes? He's embarrassed already, and he hasn't even shot. No one trained him as I'm training you. He has no idea what he's doing, and he knows that." Owen shook his head. "I don't know what the King's thinking. Few of these men could help him win a battle."

  As the men noticed Owen's presence, they settled into quiet groups, organized about the string of butts, a group for each of the targets. Each group had a man in charge who arranged the order in which the men would shoot. The practice began.

  Owen moved among the men, making suggestions to those in

  charge of the groups. Jasper had orders to stay close to Owen, but now and then he fell behind to watch the men shoot. It was at one of these times, when he realized Owen had gone on and Jasper was straining to see what direction Owen had taken, that the boy noticed someone familiar moving at the edge of the crowd. It was Jasper's friend Martin, the man who had helped him out with food and hiding places on many occasions. The man noticed Jasper at about the same moment and hurried over to him.

  "Jasper? Is it you?" Martin said, a look of incredulous joy on his face.

  Jasper looked around to make sure that no one was listening. "You're not supposed to recognize me. I'm in disguise."

  "Not good enough. Not for someone looking for you. You are lucky that I'm the one who recognized you and not your enemies."

  "Captain Archer thought it was a good enough disguise."

  "Archer?" Martin jerked his head, looking behind him. His earring sparkled in the sun as he turned back to Jasper. "What does Archer have to do with it?"

  "He brought me today."

  "Is that where you disappeared to? Is he hiding you?"

  Jasper nodded.

  "Good. I am happy that you are safe with him. But you must stay by him. I do not know what he was thinking, bringing you to such a public place and letting you out of his sight."

  Jasper looked around nervously. "You're scaring me, Martin."

  "Perhaps I know you better than the men you're hiding from, but you cannot be sure. You must be more careful." Martin's dark eyes swept the crowd. He pointed toward a knot of men. "There is your Captain. Come." He took hold of Jasper's hand and led him through the crowd. When they were within hailing distance of Owen, Martin whispered, "God be with you" and disappeared into the crowd.

  Jasper stayed right behind Owen for the rest of the practice. When they were on their way home, Jasper told Owen about seeing his friend.

  "He gave you good advice. But he must know you well to have recognized you in the crowd, for on my honor that is a good disguise."

  Jasper shrugged. "Martin's used to looking out for me. Maybe that's why he saw through it."

  "Why did he not bring you right to me? I would like to meet him."

  "He is in hiding, too. 1 guess he didn't want even you to meet him."

  Owen crouched down to be eye to eye with Jasper. "This Martin is in hiding? Why?"

  "I don't know." Jasper was frightened by Owen's sudden seriousness. "He told me he's from across the Channel and that folk around here don't like foreigners. He's not a bad man, Captain. He's been good to me."

  "You said his name was Martin and he's a foreigner?"

  Jasper nodded.

  "What does he look like?"

  "Dark eyes and hair, tall like you, but not so strong. And he wears an earring." Jasper bit his lip. "Why?"

  "Is he from Flanders, Jasper?"

  "I don't know. What's the matter, Captain? Do you know Martin?"

  "He may be someone I've been looking for. He may be in danger and not know it."

  That was different. "What kind of danger?"

  "Do you know where he lives, Jasper?"

  "I don't think he lives anywhere. He hides around the city, like I did. What kind of danger is he in, Captain?"

  "Some people may be looking for him." Owen glanced around.

  "Maybe he knows already and that's why he's hiding."

  "That could be, Jasper. Let's hope so. Does he ever use the name Wirthir? Has he ever called himself Martin Wirthir?"

  "Not to me. So maybe he's not the man you're looking for?"

  "Perhaps not." But the frown stayed on Owen's face as he straightened up and searched the crowd.

  Owen had made light of the incident to Jasper, but it bothered him. Was it mere coincidence that someone who sounded so much like Martin Wirthir was in hiding? But what was his connection to the boy?

  He told Lucie about the incident when they went up to bed.

  Lucie sat up in bed and looked down at Owen. "Do you know who that sounds like?"

  "Don't tell me you know this man."

  "It sounds very much like the man who helped John and me get the cart out of the ditch on my way from Freythorpe Hadden."

  Now Owen sat up and stared at Lucie in the dim light from the spirit lamp. "Are you telling me that you've known Martin Wirthir all along?"

  "I knew him only as Martin. And this is the first time you've described him. It sounds so much like him, Owen. And he knew Will Crounce, remember? He told me to watch for him in the pageant of the Last Judgment."

  "If
that's true, he's been in York since the first murder."

  "I don't understand."

  Owen shook his head. "Neither do I."

  Sleep eluded them both for a long while.

  17/ Jasper's Quest

  "Stop wiggling," Tildy cried, digging the wooden comb into Jasper's scalp to make him hold his head still.

  Jasper sighed and closed his eyes. His head throbbed from Tildy's attempts to comb through his hair after

  washing. "Why do you hate me?"

  "I don't hate you, you nit. I'm doing this to help you."

  Jasper rolled his eyes, which made his head move, forcing Tildy to dig the comb into his scalp again. "Ouch! You're giving me a head full of splinters. My mother had a comb made of horn. It didn't have splinters. And it was smoother and didn't catch on my hair."

  "Well this is the best I've got."

  "If you hadn't rubbed my hair so hard with the cloth, it might've been wetter, and it would've been easy to get through the tangles, even with that comb."

  Tildy snorted. "You remind me of my brother William. Always full of opinions on things he knows nothing about." She jabbed at Jasper's hair.

  Jasper gave up the argument. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

  "Living? Four brothers, three sisters."

  "What's it like to have brothers and sisters?"

  "Noisy. And there's never enough food. The boys eat it all."

  "Still, I'll bet you were never lonely."

  Tildy laughed. "No chance of that, to be sure. Captain Archer had a house full of brothers and sisters, too. He says that one of his brothers decided to be a monk because he heard that in a monastery each monk had his own little cell. He thought he could stay in his cell all the time and think in peace. When he found out he had to spend most of his time in church, praying with all the other monks, he ran away without taking his vows."