The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

When he woke now and then, he tried to make himself sit up. He knew he was in an alley, one of the alleys too narrow for horses or carts. But when the fever was high, the opposite wall seemed terribly far away and much higher than any house he'd ever seen. He remembered lying in bed burning with fever and his mother standing in the doorway, looming in the doorway, so large and far away that Jasper had screamed, fearing that God was taking him

  away from her. She had come to him, come across miles and miles of floor, to gather him up in her arms. And it had been all right then. The room had returned to normal.

  His mother was not here now to make everything all right. But he should be safe here. He knew from his past efforts at hiding that he would be fairly safe in such an alley. The folk who hurried by would leave him alone; or, if he'd rolled underfoot, they would just kick him out of the way. He could smell that he'd rolled in dung and urine, but he was too weak to care.

  Still, he must care. He must eat. He must try to remember what had happened. There was someone in trouble. He could not remember who. His head hurt. He thought he had fallen, but the wounds in his cheek and side were knife wounds, he was certain. He kept thinking about the giant woman in his dreams. That could not be possible, could it? He was confused.

  But he must eat. Maybe if he ate something, he could think better. He remembered going to the beggars' door at the Abbey and getting food. Someone had asked him how he'd cut himself. He'd run away. He had to hide. No one must know who he was, what he'd done.

  What had he done? Jasper tried to get his memories to line up in the right order. He'd fallen down stairs. A woman with a knife. He'd wet himself. John lay so quiet. John. That was it. He'd killed John.

  No, the lady with the hands had killed John. All those hands hanging from her belt.

  No. She was a dream.

  There was a woman, though. The woman with the knife. John had betrayed Jasper to the woman. Why?

  With effort, Jasper pulled himself up to sit against the wall. That was better. He felt dizzy, queasy, but the feeling passed. He listened to the sounds of the city, trying to figure out what time of day it was. It was too dark in the alley to tell, and all he saw when he looked up was the jutting second story of the building he sat against. Carts moved through the streets, but it was still quiet. Early morning, he guessed. If he got himself moving, he could get to the Abbey for food. And then he could think what to do.

  His mother had always said that a body could not think clearly with a empty belly. Jasper was not hungry, but he needed to think clearly. He could not even tell how long he'd been hiding. Days, for certain. But could it be weeks?

  He pulled himself up onto his feet, leaning weakly against the building beside him. Holding onto the wall as he went, Jasper stumbled toward the street at the end of the alley. Lop Lane. He was close to the Abbey. Praise God. But the beggars' door was on the far wall, outside the city gates.

  So much mud. But out in the open the ground was snowy. No wonder he'd been so cold. Why had he not worn his cloak? He closed his eyes and leaned against a building, trying to remember. It seemed important to try to remember everything. It frightened

  him that there were things he could not remember. Someone jostled him, and his feet slipped out from under him. A hand helped him up, then a woman's voice exclaimed, "You've been sleeping in the alleys. How did you get inside the walls?"

  He headed toward Bootham Bar, hoping to hide beside a cart to sneak out the gate, as he remembered now he'd done last time. He did not want anyone to see him. Some of the guards knew him. They would notice.

  But there was no cart in sight when Jasper reached the gate. The gatekeeper squinted at him, as if he could not decide whether Jasper looked familiar. Perhaps he was so dirty. Or the cut in his cheek disfigured him enough to disguise him. His head felt much larger on the right side than the left. Maybe that was a good disguise.

  A disguise. Henna. To go to St. George's Field with Captain Archer. Jasper remembered now. He'd been so happy. That was certainly a thing of the past. Captain Archer would never forgive him for John's death. And how could he make them believe John had led him there?

  Jasper hurried through the gate. Instead of going to the beggars' door at the Abbey, he could continue on to Magda Digby's house. But no. He must trust no one. He'd learned his lesson.

  A crowd already huddled before the door in the north wall of the Abbey. Jasper crouched under a tree near a one-armed man and a woman with two babies tucked under her tattered cloak. He'd heard about twins, God's special blessing. But the woman did not look as if she felt blessed. Her eyes were sunken and expressionless, her jaw slack, revealing blackened and missing teeth. Her face was fleshless. Skull-like. She was starving. Why had God given this woman two babes when she was starving already?

  No. No, it was not good to question God's justice. It was just Jasper's weakness and his pain that made him think such thoughts.

  Jasper's eyes fluttered closed, and he dreamed about the sad mother. As her babes suckled, one at each breast, she shrank and shrank, her skin wrinkling and collapsing, as if her bones were being sucked out, too, and then she was gone. The babies screamed.

  When Jasper opened his eyes, the babies were screaming, but the

  sad woman still held them sheltered in her cloak. Jasper looked up. The giant woman stood at the edge of a cluster of people, staring at him from the crowd. Jasper closed his eyes and shook his head, then looked back. She was not there.

  Of course not. She was a dream.

  But the woman who had attacked him--she wasn't a dream. Maybe it had been her.

  Jasper thought about leaving, but the beggars' door had just opened and he saw people grabbing for small loaves of brown bread. He needed that. Maybe his legs would work better if he had some bread. He moved forward with the others.

  People had cups and bowls with them. He'd brought nothing. He must have said something out loud, because the one-armed man nudged him and then pointed to a man by the door who had gotten his loaf and torn it open. As he held up the two halves, one of the monks scooped something from a pot and dropped it onto the bread. Jasper thanked the man. The man smiled and opened his mouth. Jasper saw that he had no tongue.

  A criminal. Jasper's mother had told him not to speak to criminals. But that was long ago, before Jasper was out on the streets himself. And this man had been kind to show him what to do.

  "God bless you," Jasper said to him. "May the Lord remember your goodness on Judgment Day."

  After a long while, Jasper made it to the front of the crowd. Once he thought he saw the woman again, but by now the smell of the food had made him remember the sensation of hunger, and Jasper could not bear to give up his place. Besides, he told himself, she was just a dream. The bread was hard, and he fumbled getting it torn in half, but at last he saw two pieces of fish, bones and skin and all, dropped onto the halves. He sat down a few steps away and devoured it.

  Now he was thirsty. He looked down at the river, but he knew that people got sick drinking the water. On the far end of the beggars' door stood a monk with a ladle and a large barrel. Maybe Jasper could get enough in his cupped hands, or he could just open his mouth wide. He struggled to stand, then started pushing his way back toward the door.

  And there she was, the woman who had attacked him. He knew

  her now. In his dream she was a giant, but this was the real woman. And she was looking right at him.

  Jasper turned and ran. He did not know how he was able to, but he ran, slipping and sliding, sometimes falling and fearing that he would not get up again. But he got up every time. She was not behind him, not that he could see, but he knew for certain that she had seen him. He would not let himself stop.

  As he approached the gate, he prayed for a cart that he could hide in, but the gatekeeper, who had had time to think, shouted, "Jasper? Is it you? The Riverwoman's been looking for you, boy. These two weeks or more."

  But Jasper just ran past him and through the gate, knowing it for a mir
acle that the man had recognized him in his extreme need. Jasper's side was burning and his breath came in gasps, but still he kept moving down Petergate. Hurry. Hurry. As Jasper turned into Goodramgate, he heard a cart creaking and groaning as it turned the corner behind him. The street was too narrow for both him and a cart. Jasper looked to his right and left for an alley or even a doorway. And then in front of him he saw Martin. The man was waving at him and yelling something, but the noisy cart was too close to hear what Martin was saying. The cart was very close. Jasper turned around and realized that the cart was bearing down on him. He stumbled and screamed. Suddenly someone scooped him up and out of the way.

  As the cart trundled past, Jasper pressed his burning face into his savior's shoulder. It was the second time today that God had saved him with a miracle.

  "Jasper, quiet. It is Martin. I am going to sit you down for a moment and ask if anyone recognized the man in the cart."

  Jasper clung to Martin. "It's a woman. She has to kill me."

  "No, Jasper, I saw. This was a man."

  Still Jasper clung to him, terrified to be lost in the alley again.

  "I will come right back. I don't want them to see that I have you." With strong hands, Martin pried Jasper off him.

  But no one could tell Martin who had been driving the cart.

  "He should have been leading the horse," a woman said. "That's why we have that ordinance. So many children have been killed that way." She shook her head.

  Three days before Christmas, word came to the shop that Cecilia Ridley was at the nunnery.

  "I will go another day," Owen said. "She will surely stay awhile."

  Lucie knew he was disappointed. So was she. When the messenger had come, they'd both thought it was news of Jasper. Two weeks he'd been missing. Not a word. But it was important to continue searching for the murderers of Ridley and Crounce. And John.

  "Perhaps Cecilia Ridley will know something that will lead us to Jasper. If Kate Cooper has him somewhere."

  "If she has him somewhere, he's probably dead," Owen said.

  "You're not giving up?"

  "No. You know I cannot." Owen considered Lucie thoughtfully. "Would you go speak with Cecilia?"

  "Me? Why?"

  "I have asked her so many questions already. She has been hiding something from me. I cannot discover what it is. Perhaps you will have a better way with her. Woman to woman." Owen shrugged. "I don't know."

  Lucie climbed up and set the jar she'd been using back on a shelf, descended, wiped her hands, took off her apron. "If you will watch the shop, I will go right now."

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Why not? Why delay it?" Lucie took Owen's hands. "I will feel better if I take some action."

  Owen kissed her forehead. "You made a sorry bargain when you married me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I involve you in the awful business I do for the Archbishop. We would have a merry Christmas if it were not for him."

  "And how do you know it would be merry?" She put her arms around Owen and tucked her head against him. "Without you, I do not think I would be very merry. Without the Archbishop's intercession, the guild might not have allowed me to marry. And you would be off fighting for John of Gaunt."

  Owen slipped off her veil and stroked her soft hair. "You do not regret it?"

  "Not for a moment, Owen." She lifted her face to his.

  Lucie hesitated at the door to St. Clement's, feeling strange to be back here after all these years. She'd returned only once, to Sister Doltrice's funeral, the one sister who had truly befriended Lucie in her miserable years in the convent after her mother died. Her father still thought he'd done the best thing in putting Lucie in the convent. He had no idea what it had been like for her. The sisters had considered Lucie's mother a French whore and had watched Lucie for signs of the same behavior. Nicholas had saved her from this place.

  Nicholas. That was why she was here. Lucie had a suspicion about Cecilia Ridley's feelings for Gilbert Ridley that echoed her own nagging regrets about Nicholas. She must do this. It would help Owen. Perhaps help to find Jasper. And John's murderer. Lucie lifted her hand and knocked.

  A young nun answered. "God go with you, Mistress Wilton. Dame Isobel will be pleased to see you."

  Remembering Isobel, Lucie doubted that. "I have come to see Mistress Ridley. Is that possible?"

  "I will ask. Please, come in."

  The nun left Lucie in the Prioress's receiving room. It was not long before a tall, somberly dressed woman entered. Dark eyes studied Lucie so intently that she felt herself blushing. That would not do. She must be in control for her scheme to work.

  "I am Lucie Wilton, Owen's wife." Lucie hoped her smile was relaxed and friendly. "I asked him if I might speak with you."

  Cecilia Ridley sat carefully at the edge of the bench near Lucie. "You asked to come? Why?" Her eyes were a little too wide open. Lucie realized Cecilia Ridley was frightened. "And why are you called Wilton, not Archer?"

  "I was made Master Apothecary after my first husband died. The Guild insisted that I keep Nicholas's name."

  "So you and Owen are indeed married?"

  Lucie found it a strange question. "Many women do not take their husband's names."

  "It is a custom that is changing. In France most women now take their husband's names." Cecilia Ridley gazed down on Lucie, the fear now gone from her eyes. It was replaced by a chilly glare.

  "Please," Lucie motioned to Cecilia to sit down, "I came here to speak with you about the murders of your husband and your friend. We must find the murderers before more people die. A child is missing--a boy who witnessed Will Crounce's murder and whose life has been threatened by a woman who may be Kate Cooper."

  "Cooper. 1 always said she would amount to no good."

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  "Why did you come? Why not Owen?"

  Lucie noticed a warmth in the way Cecilia spoke Owen's name. She pushed that aside. "1 am concerned about the boy, Jasper. I want to help find these people before they harm him."

  "How noble."

  Lucie had not expected Cecilia to be hostile, just secretive. Was she hostile because Lucie had come in Owen's place? This did not bode well. "Forgive me for intruding on your visit with your daughter. I will try to be brief. Please, just tell me about Kate Cooper."

  Cecilia sat as if perched to depart without warning. "Kate Cooper. I know little about her. Did not care to know. There is a bitterness, a hatred in the woman that men are blind to. They think her passionate, but she feeds on them. Conquers them because she hates them."

  "Can you describe her to me?"

  "Tall. Long limbs. Light brown hair, brown eyes, square jaw, large mouth--like a leech."

  "The woman who attacked Jasper was quite strong."

  "She would be. Her hands are very large for a woman. That's why I noticed how she used them. She lifted her spoon with her left hand. The mark of the Devil."

  "She is left-handed?" Lucie thought of Jasper's injuries, his broken arm, his leg, all on the right, where a left-handed person would have grabbed him if facing him. "Are you certain?"

  The dark eyes stared coldly. "Why would I say it otherwise? What makes you think she is involved?"

  "It is Owen's theory."

  "Ah." The eyes softened a little. "He would be more perceptive than most men."

  "I certainly did not think so when I first met him."

  "Really?" The voice expressed interest. "How did you meet?"

  So be it. Lucie could see how Cecilia's questions might lead in exactly the direction she must go. "Owen came to York to look into two deaths at St. Mary's. Poisonings. First he flirted with me, then he decided I might be the poisoner. He even thought for a while that I was poisoning my husband to keep him quiet. Much as he suspects you of poisoning your husband." Lucie watched with interest as Cecilia Ridley went pale. "Does that make Owen more perceptive than most men?"

  Cecilia put a hand t
o her heart. "He suspects me of poisoning Gilbert?"

  "He does not like thinking it, but he feels that you are hiding something."

  "He believes me capable of such a thing?" Cecilia whispered.

  "I know how you feel. I remember how outraged I was by Owen's suspicion." Lucie paused. This was not easy to speak of. She reminded herself of Jasper. "You see, I felt so guilty myself. And I knew I could never explain my feelings to Owen."

  Cecilia brushed an invisible mote of dust from her skirt. "What do you mean?"

  "My husband Nicholas poisoned someone. When I realized what he had done, I hated him for it. And for things that I learned about our marriage. I wanted to hurt him. I did hurt him, but not in the way Owen thought."

  Cecilia Ridley was quietly watchful. "How did you hurt him?"

  Lucie bowed her head, hiding tears. It would not do to appear weak in front of this woman. But this was the hardest part to say aloud. "I hurt Nicholas in the worst way. As he lay dying, he asked for forgiveness. I refused him."

  The room grew dark with the winter afternoon. The young nun came in, lit a few lamps, shuffled back out again.

  Cecilia Ridley stood up, went to a small window, looked out at the darkening garden. Still turned away from Lucie, Cecilia said, "I do not understand why you are telling me this. Did Owen make this up to catch me?"

  "No. I am doing it for myself. It does no good to confess it. I have tried that. I cannot explain. I want you to know that I hated the man I loved, who had been good to me, and in that moment of hatred,

  I punished him. And I regret it bitterly. It cannot be undone. Ever. I kneel at his grave and beg his forgiveness."

  Cecilia had turned back to Lucie.

  "Owen does not understand," Lucie said.

  "How could he?" Cecilia sat down again near Lucie. "But you love Owen now?"

  Lucie nodded. "I cannot imagine life without him."

  "Is it different from your first marriage?"

  "Quite different."

  "How?"

  Lucie squirmed under Cecilia's intense regard. But she must finish what she had begun. "I loved Nicholas in a different way. He was a comfort to me. My love for Owen is darker. More reckless. Frightening."