The Lady Chapel (3 page)

Gaunt's sudden interest had to do with Owen's skill as an archer and a trainer of archers. The return of the plague in 1361 had taken its toll in archers as in all other walks of life. King Edward, obsessed with his ongoing war with France, knew that his longbowmen were his most important assets. He had gone so far as to outlaw all sports but archery. And then he had made it compulsory for all able-bodied men to practice at the butts on Sundays and holy days.

No doubt Bertold, Owen's friend who had succeeded him as Lancaster's Captain of Archers, had praised him to his new lord, thinking it certain that Owen could not be content in his new life. And it was true that nothing since had felt as comfortable to Owen as the evenings spent drinking with his men after a day of training. He enjoyed learning the art of the apothecary, and he found peace working in the medicinal garden, but his body yearned for more activity.

However, Owen yearned for nothing so much as Lucie, and the summons from John of Gaunt had come less than two months before they were to be wed. Owen had gone to Thoresby with his problem, feeling that the Archbishop was indebted to him.

Archbishop Thoresby was happy to help. He had returned to York from Windsor Castle and his duties as Lord Chancellor to settle a dispute about a relic between one of his archdeacons and a powerful abbot. Archer could travel north to see to the problem. Meanwhile, Thoresby would return to court and argue that Archer's talents were better spent training bowmen on St. George's Field on Sundays and holy days. In this way, York could provide a skilled troop of bowmen at need. King Edward would surely tell his son to desist.

Owen was thus beholden to Thoresby, and the Archbishop's summons could scarcely be ignored, no matter what Bess thought. Tom nodded at the smooth peg and put his knife away.

An unsmiling Michaelo showed Owen into the hall of the Archbishop's palace. Thoresby sat in the light of a casement window, examining a parchment. He looked up as Owen entered and gestured for him to join him at the table.

"Word of the murder has probably traveled through the city already, Archer."

"No doubt."

"We must get to the bottom of this before I leave for Windsor."

"I want nothing to do with this."

"I have no choice. I am surrounded by incompetence. I asked the

guard how it happened that he did not hear the attack. He made a speech about how the murder happened on the far side of the minster, and that I would have been more likely to hear it. It is a wonder my silver is not stolen while I am away."

"Murder within the minster liberty is rare, Your Grace. The guard would not be alert for the sounds."

"Hmpf." Thoresby looked back down at the parchment. Owen noted that it was a map.

"You are leaving soon?" Owen said.

"The wedding of Princess Isabella is in three weeks. As Lord Chancellor, I am needed to work out the details of the marriage contract."

"Surely the negotiations were completed long ago?"

"The bridegroom presents unique problems."

"Enguerrand de Coucy? But he's been the King's prisoner of war for some time. There at court, right there where you can watch him. What problems does he have power to make?"

"He owes the King ransom money. He insists he be released of this as part of the dowry the King settles on Princess Isabella. De Coucy claims the ransom will impoverish him. We must be certain that de Coucy is telling us the truth about his holdings. I have spies all over France and Brittany. And spies spying on the spies. Nothing will be certain until the day of the ceremony."

"With such affairs of state to attend to, why concern yourself with the murder of a wool merchant? Give the bellyache to Jehannes. He's Archdeacon of York."

"Will Crounce was a member of the Mercers' Guild. The guild is too important to me. I count on them for much of the minster fund."

"The minster fund. I understand that's also why you took Brother Michaelo as your secretary--his family offered you a large sum."

Thoresby let the map curl up and tossed it aside. He glared at Owen. "I do not owe you an explanation, Archer."

"No. Of course not." Owen sat down.

"I want you to find out whatever you can about the murdered man."

Owen settled back, stretching out his long legs. "It would help to hear the details."

Thoresby glanced down at Owen's outstretched legs as if about to reprimand him, then met Owen's eye and shook his head. "The story is not so long as that. Two or three men attacked Crounce as he walked past the minster last night with a lady friend. The men slit Crounce's throat and cut off his right hand."

Owen nodded. "And the lady?"

"She fled."

"Can she identify the men?"

"We do not know who she is."

Owen frowned. "Then how do you know--"

"A boy was following them."

"Why?"

"The boy's mother is ill. She asked for Crounce."

"And the boy does not know the woman Crounce was with?"

"He says she wore a hooded cloak."

"In June?"

Thoresby shrugged. "The hand is missing, by the way."

Bess Merchet rushed past Brother Michaelo and barged into the Archbishop's chamber.

Thoresby rose with an exclamation of irritation. "Where's Michaelo?"

"He's about to come through that door and complain that I ran over him," Bess said. She placed her bundle on the polished wood table and nodded toward it, her cap ribbons aflutter. "Do you look at that, Your Grace. Found it in one of my guest rooms." She looked at Owen, surprised. "So Tom's right. You are still the Archbishop's man."

Brother Michaelo appeared in the doorway, nostrils flaring and slender body quivering with righteous indignation.

Thoresby glanced at Bess Merchet and back at his secretary. "Are you coming in to announce Mistress Merchet?"

"She burst into the anteroom, Your Grace. I could not stop her."

"I am sure that has been the complaint of better men than you, Michaelo. Now that you are here, bring us some brandywine."

Michaelo sniffed, but hurried away to obey.

Thoresby smiled at Bess. "You have not made a friend."

"I am not here in the busiest time of my day to make friends, Your Grace. Examine the bundle if you will." Bess sat down without invitation and leaned forward expectantly.

Thoresby had a good idea what the bundle contained and wished to delay the unveiling until the brandywine arrived. Such unpleasant experiences were better softened with a drink.

But Bess was impatient. "Please examine it, Your Grace. As I've said, I'm a busy woman."

"I presume it's the hand of the man found murdered in the minster close?"

Bess sat up straight. "Indeed it is. How did you guess?"

"It is the way of such a disturbing event that anything unusual happening on the same day is connected to it in some fashion. The bundle is the right size for the missing hand."

"I found it in Gilbert Ridley's room. They'd argued last night, you know."

It was Thoresby's turn to lean forward. He knew Gilbert Ridley. A representative of Goldbetter and Company in London and Calais, important merchants in the King's financial dealings. Ridley was also a member of the Mercers' Guild. "Who argued?"

"Gilbert Ridley and the dead man, Will Crounce."

"How do you know the name of the dead man?"

Bess shrugged. "Heard it at the bakery this morning. Did you mean to keep it a secret?"

"Not at all."

Michaelo came in with the wine. He filled three cups and departed silently.

Thoresby took a drink. "Tell me about this argument."

"Little enough to tell," Bess said. "They were at the inn last night. Raised voices and red faces. I marched over to tell them to behave. Will Crounce left in a huff. Gilbert Ridley apologized and went to his room."

"You overheard nothing?" Owen asked, breaking his silence.

Bess glanced at Owen and then dropped her eyes to her cup. She hated to admit to a customer that she eavesdropped.

"I know that it is not your way to gossip," Owen said, "but it would be most helpful if we had an idea what they argued about."

"Well, they
were
loud, as I've said. From what I could hear, Crounce accused Ridley of ruining the lives of two good women."

"Gilbert Ridley a womanizer?" Thoresby said. "That fat, gaudy man with the piggish face? I never would have guessed. He must buy favors."

Bess snorted. "Nay, Crounce spoke of Ridley's wife and daughter. Mistress Ridley never saw her husband, the daughter is married to a man whom Crounce called a brute and Ridley called ambitious, determined to be knighted."

"Where is Gilbert Ridley now?"

Bess shrugged. "Paid his bill and left while I was at the bakery. My husband let him go without a question. Tom had not heard about the trouble."

"And you found the hand in Ridley's room?"

"Right there in the middle of the floor. If Kit had seen it when she came up to clean the room, we would have had a fine scene, I can tell you. We'd have no work out of that girl for a fortnight, at least."

"This argument," Owen said, "would you say it was serious enough to end in murder?"

Bess smiled at her best friend's handsome husband and gave a decided shake to her ribbons. "Nay. 'Twas friends getting too honest in their cups, just as Master Ridley said."

"Ridley went up to his room after Crounce left and stayed there?" Owen asked.

"It's a private room. What he did after we were all abed I cannot say. The hand could not have walked up there itself." Bess looked them both in the eye. "And there's something else." Before Thoresby could stop Bess, she had leaned over and unwrapped the unsavory bundle. "Crounce wore a signet ring on his right hand, the hand that lifted his tankard. Gone now. Find the ring, find the murderer I would say."

Thoresby used a quill to flip the cover back over the hand. "I trust I can count on you not to speak of your discovery to anyone else, Mistress Merchet? We do not want to ruin Gilbert Ridley's good name." Ridley had once hinted that he would pledge a large sum to the minster fund.

Bess sniffed. "We'll see about that good name, won't we? But never fear, I can be trusted, Your Grace. And I hope I can trust you not to reveal to the world at large that such a thing was found in my inn."

"Captain Archer and I will use the information only as necessary."

Bess nodded with satisfaction and sipped her wine. "I hear it was a boy found the body."

Thoresby did not like the way Bess Merchet was settling in for a long chat. He rose. "I shall keep you no longer, Mistress Merchet. As you say, you are a busy woman."

Bess drained her cup and stood, smoothing out her skirts. "Your Grace," she said with a little curtsy.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mistress Merchet."

"I could do no less, Your Grace." She swept out of the room with haughty dignity.

Owen waited until he heard the outside door latch shut before he spoke. "So. Are you thinking that Ridley murdered Crounce after the argument last night?"

Thoresby shook his head. "Too obvious. My guards are idiots enough to leave damning evidence behind them--but Ridley has been a key negotiator in Goldbetter and Company's business in Calais and London for years. To last that long in such a position takes a clever man. A man good at covering his trail."

"Crounce was a business partner?"

"According to Jehannes, yes. Ridley's man here in York and Hull."

"Someone cut off Crounce's right hand to accuse him of theft? And left that accusation with his business partner?"

Thoresby shrugged. "That is what we must discover." He walked over to the fire and stood quietly, contemplating its depths, his hands clasped behind him. Suddenly he turned. "I want you to go after Ridley. He will not be far from the city yet. I presume he is headed home. To Riddlethorpe. His manor near Beverley."

"You want me to leave at once?"

"Yes. Catch him while he's in shock. See what he knows. Offer to escort him home. You might search his bags. She could be right about the signet ring, but perhaps Ridley took it for safekeeping. As I said, I want this cleared up quickly. I do not want this worry on my mind at Windsor."

"I would hate to dampen your enjoyment," Owen said, making no effort to hide his irritation with Thoresby's priorities.

"It will hardly be a pleasurable sojourn for me, Archer. I shall be busy with official duties throughout the celebration."

Owen shrugged. "What of the boy who witnessed the murder?"

"Jasper de Melton?" Thoresby shook his head. "His mother is dying. Jasper told us what he saw. Leave the boy alone for now."

"He may know something more."

"Not now."

"He may be in danger."

"It was dark. He could not make out the faces, so neither could they make out his."

"You know full well the whole city will soon hear this Jasper witnessed the murder."

Thoresby dismissed the subject with a shake of his head. "Ridley is more important to us. Michaelo will deliver a letter with my seal introducing you to Gilbert Ridley."

"Your Grace does not afford me the courtesy of asking for my cooperation?"

Thoresby raised an eyebrow. "I never ask."

Owen strode out of the Archbishop's presence bristling; beneath the patch, needles of pain shot across his useless eye. What bothered Owen, besides Thoresby's power over him, was the Archbishop's cold unconcern for the boy. Jasper de Melton was of no significance because he was neither a prominent guild member nor rich. Owen hated Thoresby for that shake of the head.

But Owen could not deny the thrill he felt at a chance for a trip outside the city.

Lucie slowly mixed calendula oil into a spoonful of cream with a small wooden spatula. "Beverley?" she repeated without looking up from her work, "they say the minster there is grand." She was mixing a supply of the salve that kept Owen's scar from drawing and burning. More than four years and it still gave him pain.

"My purpose is not a pilgrimage," Owen said.

Lucie handed Owen the jar. "Keep it safe. And use it. I don't want a rough cheek scratching me at night." She kissed his scar. "I will miss you, but you have yearned to get out of the city. Too many years of soldiering. You find it hard to sit still."