The Lady Chapel

by Candace M. Robb

  She let the shawl fall the rest of the way. "Not quite yet."

  As Owen crossed St. Helen's Square, he began to have doubts about the plan. How could they be certain that Lucie's father, Sir Robert, would agree to hide Martin? Freythorpe Hadden was his manor, not Philippa's. And even if Sir Robert agreed, could they trust him not to give Martin up when the Archbishop's men appeared? Not so much perhaps the Archbishop's, but Thoresby was also Lord Chancellor. Sir Robert had been long in the King's service. Would he be able to put aside that habit of loyalty?

  By the time he reached Ambrose's door, Owen had decided to make the offer of Freythorpe, but to be honest with Martin about the flaw in the plan.

  He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Waited. Put his ear to the door, heard nothing. But then it was a thick door. He pushed with his shoulder. The door opened. The house was dark, though a few glowing embers in the brazier assured him that someone had been there recently. And had covered the fire.

  Owen felt around, found an oil lamp, lit it from the embers, climbed the ladder. A chest in the loft sat open, empty. He went back down the stairs, lit a few more tapers. It appeared that anything of value had been removed from the room. On the floor was a bloody length of rope, and by the back door a bloody footprint. He opened the back door, stepped outside into a pearl gray dawn. No one out here. A few steps from the door the ground was blood-soaked. Some bloody rags had been discarded nearby.

  Owen did not know what to make of it. Could something have caused Martin's wound to bleed so much? Or could someone have broken in last night and attacked Martin and Ambrose? But who? Only the gatekeeper had fled the Scorbys--unless the servants had released Jack and Tanner. Owen could think of no reason the servants would trust that the men would not harm them if released.

  Could Martin and Ambrose have staged the blood to confuse him? Had Lucie actually come here during the night and warned Martin? No. She would not have gone through the exercise this

  morning of coming up with a plan if she'd already set one in motion. That was not the way her mind worked.

  With all their personal possessions gone, Owen had little hope of finding Martin and Ambrose at the Abbey, but he closed up Ambrose's house and went on to St. Mary's anyway.

  He knew he was right about Martin not being there as soon as he saw the pleased surprise on Brother Wulfstan's face.

  "Good morning, Owen. I was about to take Jasper to the refectory. Will you join us?"

  Owen looked at the boy, standing straight and smiling shyly. "You are so much improved you can eat in the refectory?"

  Jasper nodded. "I like eating there. Someone reads while we eat, and everyone is quiet. I have never been in such a quiet place."

  Wulfstan put a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. "So. Did you come to visit Jasper before the shop opened, or did you have another errand?"

  "The Archbishop asked me to escort a man here this morning-- Martin Wirthir. But Martin is not at his lodgings, and I see that he is not here. Have you heard anything of this?"

  Wulfstan shook his head. "Perhaps Abbot Campian knows of this man. If it will not upset Lucie to have you gone so long, come to the refectory and share our humble meal. You can ask Abbot Campian after we have broken our fast."

  Owen accepted the invitation. While he ate, he thought about what he had meant to do this morning--disobey his lord. Who was he to judge the Archbishop's motives? And yet to obey blindly was to join company with Jack, Tanner, and Roby, who had obeyed their master Paul Scorby without question.

  So had he been wrong, all those years in Lancaster's army, to obey blindly and expect his men to do so? Now that he knew the personal, selfish reasons the King had for the war in which Owen had lost his eye, he knew he could never go back into service and not question his superiors.

  Had he been a fool? Would he be damned at the Last Judgment for all the lives he'd taken?

  The reading ended. Wulfstan tapped Owen on the shoulder and nodded toward the Abbot, who had risen and was turning to leave.

  Owen crossed over to him. Abbot Campian nodded, motioned to Owen to follow him.

  They did not speak until they reached the Abbot's chambers.

  "What brings you here so early on a winter morning?"

  "I was to escort an injured man to Brother Wulfstan this morning--Martin Wirthir, a Fleming. But when I went to his lodgings, I found him gone. It occurred to me he might have come ahead, though I held little hope of that."

  "Why?"

  "His lodgings had been packed up."

  Campian frowned. "A disturbing development. I did receive a message from His Grace last night warning me of this man's arrival. But no one has come."

  "I thought not."

  "So you think he left the city?"

  "It was not only Martin, but also the friend he lodged with. All of their belongings are gone. Surely they did not both move to another house."

  "But if one of them is injured, how can they travel? And why?"

  "I don't know."

  The Abbot fixed a keen eye on Owen. "Forgive my contradicting you, Captain Archer, but you do know why." Campian held up his spotless hands. "Do not worry. As it is the Archbishop's business, I would not presume to insist that you explain."

  "Thank you, Father."

  Lucie had already opened the shop when Owen returned. "You have been gone a good while. Have Martin and Ambrose come with you?"

  "No. They are nowhere to be found. And there was something passing strange at Ambrose's house." Owen told her about the blood.

  Lucie was as puzzled as Owen was. "I wish they had told us their plans. Now we will wonder about them."

  "I stopped at St. Mary's, though I knew it unlikely they had gone there. Not after packing up the household."

  "Did you see Jasper?"

  "He is doing well. Limping, but going to the refectory and chapel."

  Lucie smoothed Owen's hair back from his face. "You feel chilled. Go back to the kitchen and let Tildy give you something warm. Then 1 need you out here to see to customers while I sew up some bedstraw pillows for Alice Baker."

  Brother Michaelo arrived shortly after midday. "Abbot Campian has informed His Grace that Martin Wirthir never arrived at the Abbey."

  "No doubt. I went to escort him this morning and found the house deserted."

  "Might His Grace know why you did not inform him of the situation?"

  "I meant to, after closing the shop today."

  The nostrils flared. "Indeed."

  Owen came around from behind the counter, squaring his shoulders. "Do you think to question my honesty, Michaelo?"

  Michaelo took two steps backward. "I shall tell His Grace what you have told me. Go in peace." He left quietly.

  "Mistress Digby." Tildy opened the door wide.

  "Aye, 'tis Magda, child. Get thy master out here. Magda needs a hand with sommat."

  Owen stepped outside. It had begun to blow, and there was a dampness in the air. A storm approaching. Owen squinted in the dark. A handcart stood outside the gate. Magda motioned him over. Inside was a freshly slaughtered pig in a wooden tub.

  "Be quick, then. Carry it in. 'Tis for thy family."

  Owen carried it into the kitchen.

  Tildy's eyes lit up. "What a great beast."

  Lucie invited Magda to sit down by the fire. "It's a most generous gift, Mistress Digby."

  " 'Tis not from Magda. 'Tis from the musician and Pirate. This belongs with it." She handed Lucie a piece of vellum.

  Lucie frowned over it, then burst out laughing. She handed the note to Owen.

  "Mistress Wilton, I have taken action at last. May this pig give you and Captain Archer much joy. Ambrose Coats."

  Owen looked up at Lucie, who was dabbing her eyes with a corner of her apron.

  Magda's eyes twinkled, too.

  It irritated Owen that he could not see the humor they obviously saw. "What is so funny? What does he mean, 'taken action at last'?"

  Lucie reached over and squeezed Owe
n's hand. "Remember his neighbor's pig? I asked Ambrose why he did not report his neighbor if the pig bothered him so, and he said that he did not like to start trouble with his neighbors. I think it was because of Martin and the secrecy necessary. Ambrose did not want his neighbor to look for a reason to get even."

  "This is the neighbor's pig?"

  Magda nodded. "Killed it last night."

  "So you've seen Martin?" Owen said.

  "Aye. Pirate suffers much. But Magda cleaned the arm, packed it with healing herbs, and tucked Pirate and Angel in a nice, safe place. They'll not feel homesick, they brought everything with them, even the cat." She chuckled. " 'Tis good sport, eh? The Crow will not find them."

  Owen smiled. "Thoresby will be disappointed."

  "Good." Magda stood up. "Must leave thee. Magda has had a long day."

  Lucie stood up. "Thank you for bringing the pig and the news."

  Magda nodded at her. "And a good time for it, eh? Thou shalt need plenty meat this winter."

  "True enough. I will come see you soon."

  Magda nodded. "Magda will see thee right. Dame Philippa shalt have naught to complain of." She hobbled out of the kitchen.

  Owen turned to Lucie. "What did she mean?"

  Lucie took his arm. "Tildy, will you lock up tonight?"

  "Yes, Mistress."

  Lucie led Owen up the stairs and closed the door behind them.

  "All right," Owen said, "what does Magda know that I don't know? Are you with child? And you've told her but not me?"

  "I am, but I didn't. She just knows these things, Owen. So? What do you think?"

  "I don't like these games."

  "It is no game, Owen."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I'm only just now certain. Believe me."

  "You're not sorry?"

  "Sorry? What a fool you are!" Lucie hugged him.

  Owen reached his arms round her, but stopped, uncertain.

  Lucie laughed. "You don't mean to deprive me of hugs till high summer?"

  "High summer?"

  Lucie pulled Owen's arms round her. "For pity's sake, Owen, don't make me regret what our love has wrought."

  "The babe might grow up to be a soldier."

  "Better that than an archbishop."

  Now Owen hugged her, but more tenderly than usual.

  28/ Blood Enemies

  The King greeted his Chancellor warmly. "So you have returned, John. Does this mean you found your murderer and have him safely locked up in your dungeons? Or perhaps you've executed him already."

  "The major accomplices are dead, my King, but not the one who conceived of the murders."

  "And he is locked up?"

  "On the contrary. She is living the life of royalty."

  Edward raised an eyebrow. "She? Your villain is a woman?"

  "A most cunning woman."

  "Living the life of royalty? What do you mean by that, John?"

  "She is here at court, my Lord."

  "At my court?" Edward stood up abruptly, walked over to the fire, held out his hands to warm them. "I hope you are not going to accuse Mistress Alice."

  Thoresby felt a chill run down his back. How had the King guessed? He had told no one here at court. "Why do you say that, Your Grace? Why Alice?"

  Edward turned a stern look on Thoresby. "She told me that she imprudently let you know she was privy to information about you that you would prefer no one knew. She has worried that you would try to discredit her before she could convince you of her discretion. You had made her fear you distrusted her and disapproved of her presence at court."

  All cleverly true--except the fear part. Alice Perrers feared nothing. What could Thoresby say? "I was thinking of Queen Philippa--how ill she is, how much love she needs. It seemed cruel to let her see you with the Perrers woman."

  "You would judge your King?"

  "Forgive me. I saw it as a spiritual matter."

  "And so you were about to accuse Alice?"

  "I did not say that. I confess that she is right in fearing that I distrust her and disapprove of her presence at court. You have a wife, Your Grace. A most loving, beautiful, gracious--"

  "Enough! You do not have to recite my Queen's virtues for me." The blue eyes had turned cold. "But I wonder what has changed in ten years, John. When I loved Marguerite you did not preach at me."

  Thoresby felt the courage draining from him. He gulped some wine while he thought what to say. Marguerite. Obviously the Perrers bitch had told Edward. Sweet Jesu. "The circumstances were different ten years ago. Marguerite was at court, but not acknowledged as your mistress. It was all done discreetly so that no one would guess your relationship, particularly the Queen."

  There was a nasty glow in the King's eyes. "Discreetly. Yes. As I recall, you pretended to be smitten. You escorted her here and there. And into my chamber. But perhaps you did not pretend, eh, John? Or did you act the part so well that you grew to believe it yourself?"

  "Your Grace?"

  "I have here a copy of a letter in which you swore your fealty to the fair Marguerite, described her body in intimate detail, and claimed the babe that she died trying to bear was yours." With his ever-present jewel-handled dagger, Edward poked through some papers on the table, squinted, selected one. He held it out to Thoresby.

  "Your Grace." Thoresby took the paper, but did not look at it at once. He remembered the letter. Why had Marguerite not burned it as she had all the rest? What could he do? He held it up to the light, skimmed it. Dear God, it was worse than he'd remembered. The moles between Marguerite's buttocks and beneath her left nipple, the seallike bark she made as she rode him to ecstasy.

  How ridiculously in love had Thoresby been to write such things? Completely, totally, overwhelmingly. And Marguerite had died so soon after he'd written the letter.

  Thoresby knelt to his King, his head down, his right hand to his breast, his left hand crushing the letter.

  "Useless to destroy the letter, John. 'Tis but a copy."

  "Forgive me, my Lord. 1 was put in the way of temptation and could not resist."

  Edward touched Thoresby's head with the dagger, then lifted Thoresby's chin. The King smiled on his Chancellor. "You are forgiven, John. And for that you must thank Alice. She has made me see that I never really loved Marguerite. She was a pretty thing, a toy. 1 lusted for her body. But I did not love her. Not as I love Alice. Or my Queen. Rise, John. Let us embrace and let the past rest."

  Thoresby stood and let himself be pulled into the King's crushing embrace. "Your Grace has the noblest of hearts."

  Edward beamed down on Thoresby. "So." He slapped Thoresby on the back. "Now. Do you still accuse Alice?"

  Thoresby took a deep breath. "Her cousin, Paul Scorby, had his men murder two members of York's Mercers' Guild. He would have murdered another man if I had not intervened. Scorby claimed that he had gotten his instructions from his cousin Alice."

  "Did he? And in what form? Letters?"

  "Yes."

  The King held out his hand. "Then give them to me."

  "I cannot."

  "Do you have them?"

  "No, Your Grace. But his widow is searching the manor."

  The King threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Oh, John. Your holiness of late has addled your wits. I hope that you did not let this man go on the strength of this claim, for I assure you that is why he told you such a thing--to be set free so he might escape the country."

  "He is dead, Your Grace."

  "Good. For you never will find any letters, I am certain. Alice was an innocent when she came to court. And while here she has been treated so gently that she could have neither cause nor opportunity to get caught up in such a plot. And let that be an end to it."

  "Her uncles put her up to it, Your Grace. Scorby was to kill the people who knew how the Perrers family bought their way to you."

  Edward reared up, threw his dagger at the table, where it stuck, vibrating. "You say that people buy their way to
me, John? Is that what you think of your King?"

  "I--it is what he said, Your Grace." Thoresby hated himself for sniveling.

  "Get out of here before I change my mind, John." The King's voice was quiet. Menacing.

  This time it was Alice Perrers who discovered Thoresby waiting for her. He lifted his own jeweled goblet to her. "I believe your cellar is even better than mine, Mistress Perrers. Or shall I call you Alice, since we know such intimate details about each other?"

  Alice hesitated, then dismissed her maid. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, John?"

  "I wanted to thank you."

  The cat eyes darted nervously around the room. The daringly low-cut bodice could not hide the frightened breathing.

  "Do not worry, I've brought no one with me. Not on such an intimate errand."

  "Intimate?"

  Thoresby stood and walked over to Alice. Insolently, he placed a hand on her chest.

  "You are drunk, John."

  He shook his head, squeezed a breast.

  Alice gasped, but did not move away from him. "You wanted to thank me?"

  "Yes, indeed. You have reminded me that I am but a man, Alice. A man with passions. Heat. I lie awake at night, dreaming of the pleasure of ravishing you. Isn't that a healthy sign?"

  "1 am not Marguerite."

  "No. No, you most assuredly are not Marguerite. My love for her was gentle. Not like the angry passion 1 feel for you."

  He put an arm around her waist, one hand still on her chest, and stared into the cat eyes.

  They did not flinch. Alice did not move. Thoresby could hear her heart pounding. He felt his own pounding. He reached down and sank his teeth into her right breast. She screamed and tried to pull away. He held her tight until he tasted the salt of her blood. Then he let her go.

  She slumped against the wall, crying out when she looked down and saw the tooth marks. "You're a monster."

  "No, just a man, seeking vengeance. My King loves breasts. And now you will have to cover one for a while. Or explain. Which might be amusing in itself."

  Alice stared at him, her hand on her wound. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. "Pity we are sworn enemies, John. 1 would enjoy more rounds with you."