The Lady Chapel (12 page)

"I could at that, Master Cooper."

"Oh, Jack is fine, Captain Archer."

Owen nodded. "Then I'm Owen to you."

They settled down with two tankards of ale. Not as fine as Tom Merchet's, but acceptable. Jack Cooper stretched his stockinged feet out to the fire, toasting his toes. The cottage was quiet.

"Are your children with your wife?" Owen asked, making conversation before he launched into questions.

"Nay. They're out in the stables watching over a sick dog. Keeps 'em out of my way and makes 'em happy." Jack took another drink. "So what is it you'd like to know about the Master?"

"Did you ever meet any of his business partners?"

"Aye. Master Crounce, God rest his soul," Jack crossed himself.

"Other than Crounce?"

Jack screwed up his face and thought. "Nay." He shook his head. "I don't remember meeting any others."

"How did you get along with Master Crounce?"

An odd look flickered across the man's face. "He was a big help to Mistress Ridley. And always fair in his dealings with us who work the estate." Jack shrugged. "Cannot say much more than that. Is it true you lost your eye to a Saracen?"

Owen grinned. "Wish it had been a Saracen. If I'd killed him, I would have been forgiven all my sins. But it wasn't on crusade. The King's war, that's where I lost the eye." Owen took another drink.

The ale improved with time. "What is it you didn't like about Will Crounce?"

Jack looked surprised. "I said nothing about not liking him."

'What didn't you like?" Owen asked softly.

Jack looked down at his simmering toes. "It doesn't make me the murderer of Master Crounce and my Master."

"I never thought it did."

Jack took another thoughtful sip of his ale. "Master Crounce should have married again."

Owen thought about that response. "You mean he needed a woman?"

Jack nodded, still watching the fire.

"He got too friendly with Mistress Cooper?"

Jack closed his eyes. "I never caught them at it, but a man knows."

"Did you speak with him about it?"

Jack faced Owen now. His look said Owen was a fool to ask that question. "He was Master when my Master was away. I could not accuse him. Besides, it was Master Crounce recommended me to Master Ridley. I could not be ungrateful."

"Did he make free with other women here?"

Jack glanced back at the door, as if to make sure they were alone. "I don't like to tell tales, but I wondered about him and Mistress Ridley, if truth be told. Something in the way they caught each other's eye, something feeling too much like husband and wife."

"I wondered about that myself," Owen said, "so you haven't betrayed your Mistress, Jack. I thank you for being so honest."

Jack nodded and squinted up at Owen. "I'm no fool. You don't become Steward by being a fool."

"That's why I wanted to talk to you. The Steward sees into the heart of the estate."

Jack smiled. "Couldn't've said it better." He was quiet a moment. "So how did you lose your eye?"

Owen was tired of the story, and he needed to get out in the fresh air. The smoke was making his eye water, and any blurring of the good eye made him uneasy. He was as good as blind when his right eye failed him. But he owed Jack Cooper something for his hospitality and honesty.

So Owen told the Steward about the Breton jongleur he'd rescued from his companions and set free, only to catch him a few nights later slipping through the camp slitting the throats of prisoners whose ransoms would be most valuable to King Edward. As Owen attacked the jongleur, the jongleur's leman had attacked Owen. Owen had killed both of them, but not before the bitch had opened his eye.

Jack listened with a face shifting between wonder and regret. "1 would have liked the life of a soldier, I think."

"Perhaps. But by now you'd have more wounds on your body than you could count, if you were still alive. And you might be missing a limb or two."

"But I would have done something I could tell my boy about."

Owen shrugged. "If you even had a boy."

"No children yet?" Jack asked.

"No. But I've been married a year is all."

"Well," Jack said, "children will come, most like." He nodded. "And you'll have good stories to tell them."

Owen stood and stretched. Rubbed his eye. "God bless you for your hospitality, Jack." Owen held out his hand.

Jack jumped up and shook it heartily. "I wouldn't be thinking a jealous husband could be the murderer. Crounce was one for the ladies. But not Master Ridley. Not that I could tell. So why would someone do it?"

"That's the question, Jack."

"You know, you asked about business partners besides Master Crounce. There was John Goldbetter. He came once, and such a fuss they made over him. An impressive man, with fine clothes. But no rings that could match my Master's."

The rings. Owen had forgotten about them. He wondered how many of Ridley's rings were missing, along with the hand.

"How did Goldbetter act toward the Master and Mistress of the hall?" Owen asked.

"Oh, it was a good visit," Jack said. "His jokes made the ladies blush. He praised everything set before him. A most pleasant man."

"Thank you, Jack. I must be off now. God be with you."

Owen walked back to the house, deep in thought.

Cecilia met him, her face tear-stained and pale. "They have

brought Gilbert's body," she said, one hand pressed to her middle, one near her mouth. "It is unholy, what they did to him." She looked deep into his eyes, asking for comfort.

Owen stood there woodenly, resisting the temptation to take Cecilia Ridley in his arms to comfort her. He recognized the hunger in her eyes and did not believe himself saint enough to resist it. He must do something to calm her. He had the powdered valerian root in his belt pouch that Lucie had suggested the widow take to sleep. He called for wine, slipped in some of the powder, and sat quietly watching Cecilia Ridley drink the mixture. He waited for the color to return to her face. Cecilia had found the wounds on her husband's body a shock, even though Ridley had been cleaned and wrapped in a shroud with sweet-smelling herbs.

"There was no need for you to look," Owen said.

"Of course there was need. I had to make sure he was prepared properly. Now I am reassured." Cecilia sipped some more.

"Can you describe all the rings your husband was wearing when he departed?"

"Rings? What do I care about rings?" Cecilia cried.

"If some are missing, we might find your husband's murderers by searching for the rings."

"Oh!" Cecilia gave him an apologetic look. "Of course." She rubbed her eyes. "I should be able to tell you what Gilbert wore that day. . . ." She put her head in her hands and thought.

Owen hoped he had not put too much of the powder in the drink. He had not wanted it to take effect so soon.

But finally Cecilia lifted her head and nodded to Owen. "That day Gilbert wore the rings he usually wore to impress. He said Archbishop Thoresby was a proud man. And, as this gift was for the chapel in which the Archbishop meant to be buried, Gilbert wanted the Archbishop to be proud to have our money. He wore four rings: a pearl, a ruby, a moonstone, and one hammered gold with no gems."

Owen remembered how Ridley's rings had glittered in the summer sun. "Quite a fortune to wear on the road."

Cecilia shrugged. "Gilbert was foolishly proud of his success. But I think he rode gloved."

Owen motioned for the servant Sarah, who waited nearby. "Now

you should sleep," he said to Cecilia. He would check for the rings on Ridley's remaining hand and in the pack Ridley had left at the York Tavern.

Cecilia stood up, but stumbled. Sarah caught her, letting her Mistress lean on her shoulder for support. Cecilia said to her, "I'm suddenly so dizzy. Thank you for the shoulder." Cecilia looked up at Owen. "Gilbert also carried a small pack with him everywhere. Money and other important things. I did not see it among the things they brought." She rubbed her forehead. "What did you put in the wine?"

"Valerian root," Owen said. "You will sleep a while. It is important that you rest."

"I would have preferred to choose my own time," Cecilia said, but she let Sarah lead her up the stairs.

Owen waited until they were out of sight before he began his search. Ridley's pack contained little. A pair of sturdy boots; a fur-lined hat with a long cloth drape to protect the neck; a wallet that held a twist of thread, a needle, and a small pair of scissors; another wallet with a comb, a small polished-steel mirror, a chunk of rose-scented soap wrapped in oiled cloth, a small bottle of rose-scented oil, a razor, and an ivory toothpick. The traveling apparel of a dandy, for certain. A plain pair of leggings and a soiled shirt completed the contents. There was no jewelry of any kind.

Owen turned to the corpse. Cecilia had not rewrapped the shroud, but just draped it over her husband. For that Owen was grateful. He would much rather lift a sheet than unwind it. It seemed less disrespectful, though he did not know who he thought would be offended, the corpse or God.

Gilbert's left hand lay palm up. Owen tried to shift the rings around on the fingers, but the swelling made it impossible. He knelt down and lifted the hand. A pearl and a moonstone. So the ruby and the hammered gold rings had probably been on the severed hand. Owen doubted they would still be on the hand if it was ever found.

8/ Down by the River

The guard at Bootham Bar paid no attention to the boy who hobbled along beside the dung cart. Jasper had hidden in bushes near the Archbishop's palace until he caught his breath and decided where to go. Now outside the city walls, he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving that no one had been waiting for him. He had only to follow the Abbey wall to St. Mary's Tower, and then around to the river. The Riverwoman's house was easy to find. Jasper could force himself to go that far.

But his right arm throbbed, and with every step he fell more heavily on his right leg. Although the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, Jasper was already soaked through. In his terror, he had left his cloak at the minster. He reached St. Mary's Tower and rounded the corner of the Abbey wall, heading down toward the river. The closer he got to the river, the colder he felt. His head hurt and his stomach rumbled. He had not eaten in a day or two; he could not remember exactly how long it had been. That frightened Jasper, to forget when last he'd eaten. He always remembered his food.

The ground became uneven as he passed among the flimsy structures of the vermin city, and Jasper kept stumbling in the rutted mud. Babies cried, brushfires burned smokily in the damp, dogs barked incessantly and sniffed at Jasper as he passed. Icy rainwater puddled everywhere. Jasper looked at no one; he just tried to keep his footing. He was cold enough with his feet so wet; he did not want to fall and get himself even wetter. The wind had picked up and the river was rising. It must be raining or snowing hard up on the moors. Jasper groaned, knowing that meant he probably would have to wade out to Magda's hut, which stood on a muddy rock at the water's edge of the floodplain.

Indeed, when Jasper had battled his way to the edge of the huts, he could see the Riverwoman's strange home rising out of the swelling river. The water surrounding her hut did not look too deep yet, but crossing it would soak Jasper's feet completely. He hesitated, wondering what would happen if she wasn't there. But even as he stood, the water continued to rise. Jasper must cross now or find another refuge, and he could think of none.

He strode in. The water was deeper than he had guessed, soaking him halfway up his calves, and with his injured leg it was hard work keeping upright in the current. By the time he climbed the slope to face the serpent's head above the doorway, Jasper could not stop his teeth from chattering. The sea monster leered at him, and Jasper imagined he saw its tail flicker at the back of the hut. He closed his eyes and stepped up to the door, banging on it so that the Riverwoman would hear him above the wind. No answer. Jasper stepped back and checked the roof. Smoke curled out, so her fire was lit. He knocked again. Still no answer. He pushed on the door, too desperate for the heat of that fire to be polite.

The smoky hut was dark but for the fire in the center. Jasper took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. Something brushed his forehead, giving off a dusty scent. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust. All along the rafters bunches of herbs were hung to dry. A few tables and benches were scattered around the room, and there were two curtained corners where Magda Digby must have beds. Jasper checked them. No one was there. The beds looked inviting. Maybe he would take off his wet clothes and nap until she returned. He pulled a bench close to the fire and laid his clothes along it so they might dry. They were all he had. As he tucked his torn shoes at the edge of the fire circle, he noticed a bowl of broth simmering on a stone. He reached over and stuck a finger in. A green, bitter taste. No meat or fat of any kind in it. Some sort of herbal infusion. Not very appealing. But it was hot, and he was so cold. Jasper took a small bowl from a stack and poured himself a bit of the broth, drinking it down quickly. He shuddered as his tongue discovered its bitter taste. But it warmed him inside, and for that he was

grateful. He dropped down on one of the beds and was asleep in moments.

Severe stomach cramps woke him. Jasper clutched his middle and got out of the bed, not wanting to foul it. He was giddy and could not get his balance. He sat down hard in the rushes and bent double, retching. He crawled away from the mess, but it felt as if fire and knives were ripping his stomach out. Jasper curled up on his side and moaned as his stomach cramped again. He was frightened. People died from pain like this. He tried to pray, but his thoughts would not stay on the prayer. That frightened him even more. If he could not pray, how could he die in a state of grace? He drifted in and out of a dream that he had shrunk to the size of a mouse and was drowning in a bowl of bitter green broth that he must not inhale or drink. In another dream, a brown-robed friar carried Jasper's mother to one of the curtained beds in Magda's hut and told Magda to see to the boy first. "No!" Jasper cried. "Save my mother. Don't let her die again!"