The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  Lucie nodded. "So far as it goes--but he holds much back."

  "I think so, too. Do you think he will come back?"

  Lucie put the lamp aside and lay down again. "The next time the murderer moves, Martin will come to us. Let us hope he does not wait too long."

  Owen sighed and lay down beside her. "It is difficult to wait."

  Lucie pulled herself closer to him. "It is a chilly night."

  He heard the invitation in her voice and turned toward her.

  "When I opened the door and saw the body slung over Martin's shoulder, I feared it was you."

  Lucie kissed him on the nose. "Forgive me for my thoughtlessness. But I'm here now, safe and sound, and wanting my husband."

  She hugged him tight.

  "Something is different tonight." Owen held the lamp over Lucie's face. She looked at peace, smiling. "What happened at St. Clement's?"

  "I forgave myself."

  "For what?"

  She touched his scar. "For loving you more than Nicholas."

  Owen put down the lamp and pulled Lucie over on top of him.

  22/ Complications

  Brother Wulfstan grumbled to himself as the guest appeared at the infirmary door for the second time in one day. "He still sleeps, my son. It may be many days before Jasper is strong enough to have visitors."

  "Forgive me, but this time I come for healing."

  "Are you ill?"

  "Injured." The man held up a hand uncalloused by manual labor. Wulfstan squinted at the white hand. "I don't see--

  "

  The man wiggled a finger and pointed to the palm.

  Wulfstan picked up a lamp and held it close to the hand. "I am afraid my eyes are weakening at an alarming rate. Is there perhaps a slight reddening?"

  "I burned myself. A foolish thing. I was lighting a candle."

  Wulfstan touched the spot on the palm. The man winced. Wulfstan felt blistering. The fingertip was the same. But the wounds were trivial, and, God forgive him, Wulfstan found the man's impatient breath irritating. "This is nothing at all. Surely you travel with a salve for such minor things."

  "I would if I had a wife to pack it for me, but she took herself off to the nunnery for prayer weeks ago, and I have no one to see to such things while she's gone." He sounded like a petulant child.

  Wulfstan told himself that courtesy toward this man could be offered up as a penance. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Does your wife pray for something in particular?"

  "No. She needs no excuse for prayer. 1 told her to pray that God cure her of her barrenness."

  Wulfstan wondered whether the man's wife was really praying that her husband might be called to God's side while she was away. Such thoughts. He was not doing very well with this penance. But to be so cold about his wife's childless state. Ah. That was odd. Earlier in the day he'd said that Jasper reminded him of his son.

  "Then your son was the product of an earlier marriage?"

  The man looked confused.

  "The son who looks like Jasper?"

  "Oh. Of course. My thoughts are muddled. My hand is beginning to throb. Yes, my son is the child of my first wife, who died in childbed." He shook his hand to indicate how hot it felt. "Perhaps if I could come in and sit down. I feel faint."

  Faint from such a superficial wound? Wulfstan did not budge from his stance blocking the doorway. "What is your son's name?"

  The man thrust out his jaw. "What does that have to do with anything? I came here to have you see to my hand."

  "What is your name, for that matter?"

  "John," the man barked.

  "Wait here, John," Wulfstan said, closing the door. He did not want the man entering the infirmary. It would be more difficult to get rid of him. The man had made himself a pest the past few days. Ever since Jasper arrived. In truth, Wulfstan did not believe the man's name was John, or that this "John" had a son who looked like Jasper. Wulfstan spooned some ointment into a cup and took it back to the man. "Rub this into the burned areas several times a day. Do not use much, or it will get on everything you touch and soil it. You might wrap a strip of cloth around the palm. Go in

  peace, my son." Wulfstan bowed his head and closed the door in the man's face. How sinfully delicious.

  A while later, Brother Henry peeked in to see whether Wulfstan was ready to go to the refectory for the evening meal. "That man was here again," Wulfstan said. "The guest who pouts."

  Henry laughed. "I've never known you to so dislike a man."

  "It is not simply dislike. The man is too interested in speaking with Jasper. Says the boy reminds him of his son, but I do not think he has a son. If he did, and he were so fond of him that Jasper's likeness moved him as he says it does, he would not torment his present wife about her barrenness. And he lied about his name."

  Henry moved back to check that the door was closed, then sat down by Wulfstan. "You think he means the boy harm?"

  "I feel it in my bones, Henry. God help me, it is not proof of anything, but the poor boy has been through so much. You saw how putrid the wound in his side was. I am sure he has been lying out in the alleys, pain robbing his wits. And the slice through his cheek--he will look almost as battle-scarred as Owen Archer when he's healed--and he's but eight years of age. I cannot risk something more happening to him."

  "So what do we do? Go to Abbot Campian?"

  Wulfstan shook his head. "No. I will not accuse the man to the Abbot on so little evidence. But we must make sure that one of us is with Jasper at all times. He must not be left alone, even for a quick trip to the reredorter."

  Henry nodded. "I will watch him while you go to the refectory. My hunger will be a prayer that the man means Jasper no harm."

  Wulfstan patted Henry's arm. "You need not go hungry. 1 will bring food for you."

  "Should I find out more about him tomorrow? His name, his home?"

  Wulfstan shook his head. "We do not want to let him know of our concern. At the moment, I am a rude, overbearing monk. It has nothing to do with him. That is good."

  Tildy gasped as Lucie brought down from the chest three crystal wineglasses on delicate stems. "I have never seen such a thing."

  "Don't you remember them, Tildy? We used them at our wedding feast. A gift from my father."

  "There was so much that day, Mistress Lucie. I could not see it all."

  "I thought Christmas Eve would be a good time to use them."

  "What will they eat over at the York Tavern tonight with the Merchets coming over here?"

  "They get cold meats, cheese, a simmering soup, bread. You should not worry about the few guests at the York tonight, Tildy." Lucie motioned to her to get on the far side of the oak table. "We'll move this to the center of the room."

  Tildy hesitated. "Should we not wait for the Captain? He must be almost finished with the customer."

  "We are not weak, Tildy. We can easily move it ourselves. Besides, I heard the shop bell jingle again. He will be busy for a while."

  But it proved too much for Tildy, who cried out and dropped her side of the table.

  Lucie was amazed. Tildy was a strong young woman. She hurried around the table to her, helped her over to a chair, felt her forehead. Cool. "What is it, Tildy?"

  "I'm just worn down, Mistress."

  "Am I overworking you?"

  "No! No, it's never that. But since John"--she shrugged. "I cannot eat or sleep for thinking of him." Her voice trembled.

  Lucie had noticed the shadows under Tildy's eyes, but had never imagined it was bad enough to affect her health. She hugged Tildy and felt her shivering. But no tears came. "You must sit right here and eat some apples and cheese while I finish getting things ready," Lucie ordered, getting up to fetch the food.

  "You're not going to make me go to bed?"

  "And miss Christmas Eve? What do you take me for? But I don't think you should go to the evening service with us."

  "I wanted to pray for John tonight."

  "You can
pray here, Tildy. God will hear you." Lucie sat down by the girl, tucked some stray hairs into the girl's cap. "Would you like to tell me about him?"

  "He just had such a bad time."

  "He told you how he came to be hiding in the Merchets' stable?"

  Tildy nodded, nibbled on a piece of cheese.

  "Would you tell me?"

  Tildy sighed. "I suppose it can't hurt now." She wiped her nose. "His family died of plague. He got sent to his father's brother, a Steward at a great house. They never fed John enough, even when the lady of the manor took him as a groom. One day he saw her push away a dish with a few figs left on it. When she wasn't looking, he took them. He thought she wasn't looking, anyway. She got so angry she screamed and her lord came. He took his sword hilt and crushed the fingers that had taken the figs. When John's uncle saw his ruined hand, he said John was good for nothing and kicked him out."

  "How awful."

  "Can you believe such hatefulness in Christians, Mistress?"

  Lucie took Tildy's hand. "He must have cared for you very much to tell you the story, Tildy. He told no one else in York."

  Tildy sniffled.

  "I shall pray for him tonight, too."

  "Thank you, Mistress Lucie."

  "Tildy, your weakness. Are you with child by John?"

  Tildy shook her head. "But I wish I was. Then I'd have something left."

  Lucie drew Tildy to her. "I understand, my love, I do."

  All day the Town Waits had rehearsed for the Christmas festivities at the Guild Hall. It was late afternoon as Ambrose walked home, looking forward to his fire and some hot broth. Footless Lane was dark, but outside a few houses dim lamps cast eerie halos of light over Ambrose as he passed. Near his own house, his steps faltered. His front door stood open. It could not be Martin--he was much too careful for that. Slowing, Ambrose considered what to do. He knew from Martin that he should be concerned--it was no accident that Gilbert Ridley's hand had been delivered to this very door. Ambrose began to turn round. He would go for one of the city constables. But then he heard the unmistakable sound of a snorting pig. That was too much. The pig in his house. Ambrose rushed inside and caught the pig snuffling about in the embers of the

  cooking fire. It had moved the coals about so much that an ashy smell pervaded the house.

  "Get out!" Ambrose shouted.

  The pig ignored him.

  Ambrose was furious. It was dangerous to attack a pig. But he had put up with enough from the filthy beast. Ambrose climbed the ladder to his sleeping loft. He would put his instruments out of harm's way and then attack the damnable creature. As he neared the top of the ladder, he noticed with alarm that the smell of burnt wood that he had presumed came from the pigs rooting in the embers had gotten stronger. Nothing but oil lamps and candles were ever lit up there. Ambrose eased himself up into the loft, laid his instruments carefully on his bed, and lit a lamp.

  At first he could make out nothing amiss. The chests in which he stored his instruments were all there and intact, the bed, the bedding, Martin's chest of clothes, Ambrose's. And then he walked into it, dislodging something powdery that made him cough and almost drop his lamp. Hanging from a rafter was one of the metal baskets he hung bread in to keep it out of the way of rats. It should be downstairs. The basket swung back and forth gently. Ashes sifted through the metal bands and fell as a silent rain.

  Ambrose crossed himself. Whatever had been inside, it was a charred mess, unrecognizable. He sniffed. At least it was not animal. But it was certainly no accident. Nothing Martin might have done while Ambrose was out.

  With a shiver, Ambrose realized that whoever had set this fire might still be around. His heart racing, he examined his little loft, then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he left the lamp at the top of the ladder and crept down. He remembered the pig. But he heard nothing. Thank God for that, although the pig was no longer his chief concern.

  Ambrose closed the front door and held his breath, listening, while he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he could make out vague shapes, he walked around the room, touching the few pieces of furniture. No one here. He opened the door into his back garden. Merlin rubbed against his legs and walked into the house, a clear sign that no stranger lurked in the garden.

  "Praise be to God," Ambrose whispered, shutting the door. He

  stirred the embers of the fire, piled on some extra wood, took a coal from his firebox to rekindle the pile into a hearty blaze. Only then did Ambrose go back up for the bread basket and bring it down to the fire, where in the light he saw white pieces in the ashes. He opened the basket and drew one of them out. An ivory peg. Dear God, one of his instruments. He examined it and suddenly cried out as he recognized the pieces. He hurried back up to his chest of old instruments.

  His first crowd was missing, just as he'd feared. Given to him by his first lover, Merlin the Crowder, the finest crowder in London. It was the instrument on which Ambrose had learned to play. He felt sick to his stomach. Who knew him so well to know what it would mean to him?

  Downstairs, he poured himself a tankard of ale. He tried to calm himself, reasoning that the old crowd had been on top in the chest. That it was his most cherished piece could not have been known; but that any instrument in a wait's house would be dear was the intention.

  How cruel that it should be the gift of Merlin. Ambrose closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

  Bess could not wait until they were all seated and eating. While Tom poured the Gascony wine, Bess looked round, caught everyone's eye. "You'll never believe it. I've discovered who Kate Cooper was before she married. Her mother is Felice d'Aldbourg."

  Her news was received with puzzled stares. Then Owen's face lit up. "D'Aldbourg. Aldborough?"

  Bess grinned. "Felice came about five years back to live with her sister, an embroiderer. Felice is an embroiderer, too, but she had not worked for years because she was married to a merchant in Aldborough. And then something happened to him--what no one knows--and Felice came to York to seek work through her sister. Her daughter comes to visit, and that's Kate Cooper." She sighed, proud of the nods all round, held up her glass. "Shall we toast the babe born in Bethlehem?"

  All picked up their glasses and toasted the Christ Child.

  When they were seated, Owen asked, "You have spoken to Felice?"

  "Are you mad? If Kate Cooper is guilty of any of this, her mother would certainly warn her of our interest. I have learned this in bits and pieces from this person and that. It is my Christmas offering to you."

  "And she lives in the Liberty of St. Peter?"

  "Indeed she does. She is presently employed on embroidery for several chapels at the minster."

  Lucie, who had stared into her glass all this time, looked up and said quietly, "It is a gift accepted with gratitude, Bess. But such a sorry topic for a celebration--the identity of the woman who murdered John and injured Jasper so badly that he cannot be with us tonight."

  It took some time for the mood to rise once more.

  By the time Martin arrived at Ambrose's house, two tankards of ale had heated the musician's sorrow. When Ambrose looked up at Martin, he remembered that this misfortune stemmed from something Martin had done. It was Martin's fault. "You bastard." He tossed the dregs of ale in his tankard in Martin's face. "First the hand, and now this. At least I deserve to be told what heinous thing you did to bring this on my house."

  Martin wiped his face. "What has happened, Ambrose?"

  Ambrose lifted the basket.

  Martin peered at it. "Burnt bread? Such a temper over burnt bread?"

  "No, not burnt bread. The crowd that Merlin the Crowder gave me."

  "How--Ambrose, the crowd would not fit in that basket."

  "It seems that your enemy is more creative than you are, Martin. He thought of smashing it to pieces before putting it in here to burn."

  Martin sat down beside Ambrose, put his arm around him. Ambrose tried to pull away, but Martin held tight. "For God'
s sake, Ambrose, tell me what happened."

  Ambrose gave up and slumped against Martin. "When I came home, the door was wide open, and this was hanging up in my loft. Burnt. While I was out. Someone is watching us, Martin. And you are the one with enemies." He sat up, took Martin's hand, turned

  it palm up, and dropped the ivory pegs into it. "That is all I have left of the lovely instrument."

  Martin stared down at the pegs in his hand. "I am sorry. I know that does nothing to make you feel better."

  "I want to know what it is you did, Martin. You owe me that."

  "I have kept you ignorant to keep you safe, truly I have."

  "It did not work."

  Martin clutched his hand tight around the pegs. "It is time to cooperate with Captain Archer. We must discover the murderer before more happens."

  Lucie was setting out the pudding when she noticed Tildy leaning against the wall, her eyes closed. "Poor child. She's not used to so much wine."

  Lucie and Bess roused Tildy and tucked her in bed.

  The two couples were relaxing by the fire when the shop bell jingled. Tom, used to jumping up at the tavern, began to rise.

  "Ignore it," Owen said. "We cannot be expected to dispense medicines at this hour on Christmas Eve."

  The bell jingled again. And again. Owen cursed. Then he heard the creak of the garden gate. He was at the kitchen door before the intruders could raise a hand to knock.

  Owen yanked the door open. "Who's there?" he demanded in a voice that he hoped would make whoever it was turn round and leave him in peace.

  Martin Wirthir and Ambrose Coats stepped into the light from the doorway. "Forgive the intrusion," Martin said, "but matters have gone too far. We must talk."

  Ambrose held up a wicker basket covered with a festive cloth. "A peace offering."

  Owen stepped aside to let them in.

  Ambrose handed Lucie the basket. She looked from Martin to Ambrose with a puzzled frown.

  "The murderer has moved again, I think," Martin said.

  "Sweet Jesus, what happened?"

  "This will seem a small thing to you, perhaps," Ambrose said, and told them about his crowd. "But you cannot know--one becomes so attached to an instrument. It is like a death."