The Lady Chapel (36 page)

Owen fixed his good eye on the Archbishop, studying him while he was unaware. Thoresby's eyes, always deep-set, seemed sunken, as if the man slept little. And yet his face held the ruddy glow of the day's ride. So it was a spiritual--not a physical--malady that the Archbishop suffered since his Christmas visit.

"You returned early from the Christmas court."

Thoresby opened his eyes and sat up. "I hire you to interrogate others, not myself, Archer." He poured himself some ale.

"It might help me to know more about Alice Perrers."

"And she is exactly the demon I wish to forget."

Owen shrugged and sat back with his ale.

When Ambrose woke, he could not get his bearings and wondered why his cat made such a strange, whimpering sound. Then, in the dim light from the window high above, he saw Martin. He had rolled away from Ambrose during the night and lay in the middle of the room, moaning. It all came back to Ambrose in a rush of horror. He woke Martin and gave him some wine. Amazingly, Martin's forehead was cool.

"I dreamed my hand was crushed," Martin said, his voice hoarse and weak. "I could feel it. Such pain. Throbbing as it swelled. But when I reached for it-- He will not let either of us out of here alive, Ambrose. I've damned you. Mon Dieu, I never meant to involve you. I tried to keep you out of all this."

"I know, Martin, I know." Ambrose smoothed back his friend's hair. They were sitting quietly when booted feet stomped down the stone stairs and a key rattled in the door. Tanner came in with a torch, followed by two of Scorby's men, one of them carrying a camp chair, then the manservant with a tray on which were bread, cheese, and a large jug. At the end of the procession strolled Paul Scorby, looking refreshed and elegant.

"Good morning, my guests. I trust you slept well?" He stood, awaiting an answer.

"Tolerably under the circumstances," Ambrose said.

Scorby's man set up the camp chair near the door. Scorby sat down. "Then it is time to break your fast and heat your bellies with some good ale. And while you eat and drink, I shall entertain you with the whys and wherefores of your fate."

Scorby motioned to the manservant to put the tray down on the floor and leave.

Martin looked at the food, then back up at Scorby. "If we are to die, why waste food on us?"

Scorby cocked his head to one side. "Oh, dear. Is pain making you fret? Or is it too much brandywine last night? Or a lovers' spat? Have you two argued? You see, I'm quite observant. I've noticed the tender regard. It is much as I imagine the King regarding my cousin Alice. That was your mistake, you know, Wirthir. Underestimating the appeal of my cousin. But then, you have no idea what a man finds appealing in a woman, do you?"

"I am hardly the only person astonished by your cousin's suc-

cess with King Edward. Alice does not meet most men's ideas of beauty. Even her disposition is unlovely."

Ambrose did not like the direction of this talk. "Quiet, Martin. Eat something. Do not get yourself excited."

Martin shrugged. "You say your cousin is angry with you at the moment, Scorby. Why?"

"Ah. Because I have taken my time with your deaths. Being a woman, she does not understand that death is an art. Just like your music, dear Ambrose. I murdered Crounce first, the most innocent--to both you and my father-in-law the most painful loss. It was delightful how Gilbert Ridley wasted away with his guilty conscience. And then, when he was at his weakest, I finished him. But I confess I dallied also because Kate so hated you, Martin. She wanted you dead first. She was so passionate in her pleading." Scorby closed his eyes and smiled, remembering. "Dear, dear Kate," he murmured, his eyes still closed, "I was sorry to slit her throat." He opened his eyes. "That one I did myself. I did not want my men touching her. She would have been too much of a temptation for these pigs."

"So the whole family but Mistress d'Aldbourg is gone now," Martin said. "Did you murder Alan in prison?"

Scorby nodded. "That was the first step. And buying off Goldbetter, which was simple. But my cousin Alice is so angry with me because you were the most important to eliminate. You know so much about so many people. Do you remember, dear, scheming Martin, the information you sold my uncles about Enguerrand de Coucy's hidden money?"

Ambrose was amazed. "Even Princess Isabella's husband was involved in this? You have been a busy man, Martin."

Scorby laughed. "Too busy and smart for his own good. That is the information that got Alice her position at court. Had you been more cautious about your customers, you might not be about to meet your end."

"With all this, I don't understand why I was not your first victim," Martin said.

"As I said, there is an art to this. Besides, they were easier to find. I thought their deaths would flush you out. And they did."

Ambrose felt a tightening in his stomach, realizing how fate had tricked them. They had come here purely by chance. Scorby must be mad--but much good it did either Martin or him.

"So--at least have some ale, gentlemen. And then we will escort you out into the crisp January fields and let your blood melt the hoarfrost and fertilize the pasture for spring."

26/ Revenge

Owen woke before Thoresby--he had given the better pallet to the Archbishop, and the old wound in his left shoulder ached from the hard, lumpy bed. He got up, stretching and loosening his joints, then went outside to relieve himself. Returning, he found the innkeeper watching over the stoking of the fire and thought to ask him some questions about Scorby.

But the innkeeper was still put off by Owen's appearance. "I don't know why the Archbishop of York be traveling with your ilk, but I don't trust it."

"I'm his man. Do his spying for him."

The innkeeper squinted at him. "How'd you lose the eye?"

With a sigh, Owen told the tale, despite being thoroughly sick of it. As usual, the story won an admirer.

"Captain of Archers to the old Duke Henry? Well, now. Forgive the caution of an old man, but I'm all alone out here with the family and servants and no protection, see."

"We'll begin afresh," Owen said. "Now tell me. How much time would we waste going first to the Scorby manor before heading into Ripon?"

The innkeeper bowed his head and considered, which involved much muttering and tapping of fingers on the table. At last he looked up. "With your steeds, a day if you just ride around, then go on to Ripon."

"And what sort of welcome might we expect?"

"Welcome?" the innkeeper snorted. "No welcome, but an arrow from the gatehouse and the drawbridge up against ye."

"So there's a moat?"

"Aye. And there's talk of a serpentlike creature living down in the muck. You'd do better to follow His Grace's plan to head for Ripon."

"How well were the travelers armed?"

"Swords. Knives. One of them had a whip. That's all I saw."

"Neither had a bow?"

The innkeeper shook his head.

"So how do you think they would fare at Scorby's gatehouse?"

"Ah." The innkeeper nodded. "I see the problem."

Owen clenched his fists in frustration and turned to look out at the frosty morning mist. The trees just across the courtyard were discernible only because he knew to look for them there.

He turned back to the innkeeper, who watched him intently. "Do you know the layout of the Scorby lands? Could you show us a way to come in from behind?"

The innkeeper frowned and pulled on his ear. "Why would I be knowing a thing like that?"

"Where I grew up, a lord's land was the place of choice to train bowmen. We started with small bows and small game, and worked our way up. Nothing like poaching to teach one to be alert as well as go after a moving target."

The innkeeper chuckled. "So ye're a man o' the land, eh? Well, I could tell you how it used to be. But no one goes near it now."

"I daresay His Grace would consider it worth double our bill for last night."

The innkeeper's eyes opened wide. "Ye'd pay double?" He bobbed his head then, accepting the terms. "Come without. I'll draw it for ye." They stepped outside into the glistening fog. The innkeeper found a twig, then squatted on the packed mud and drew a rough map of the Scorby land.

Owen guessed by the detail that the property was considerable but not immense, and that it would be difficult to patrol it all constantly. The defenses were primarily at the front, where they would make the greatest impression.

"You've been most helpful." Owen rose, his knees crackling from the long squat in the damp cold. "Would you stoke the fire and put out some food in the room we ate in last night?"

His host nodded proudly. "We've already lit the fire."

"You're a good man." Owen went up to see whether Thoresby was awake.

The Archbishop was pulling on his boots. Owen noted with interest a jewel-handled dagger strapped to the Archbishop's right ankle.

"That's a work of art."

Thoresby turned, startled.

"The handle of that dagger on your ankle."

Thoresby looked down, then back up to Owen. "You recognize the handiwork of your own people. It is Welsh made."

"Taken as booty or received as a gift?"

Thoresby chuckled. "You always think the worst of me. It was a gift, Archer." He pulled on the boot and stood up. "So. I take it that instead of riding straight to Ripon, you think we should see whether Wirthir walked into Scorby's web?"

"Were you listening to my conversation with the innkeeper?"

"I saw the two of you squatting in the mud when I went to the privy."

"I think we should pay a visit to Scorby."

"Was he able to suggest a discreet approach?"

"Aye. It's much closer than I'd thought. We'll be there before midday."

The Scorby land was gently rolling on the far east, but buckled into hills with rocky outcrops and sparse topsoil to the west. The manor house had been built at the far west of the arable land. Owen headed for a spot just southwest of the house, where the innkeeper had assured him a track had been worn by poachers that would keep them hidden from any watchers near the house until they were directly behind it, in a blind spot, shielded from the house by stables.

The enveloping fog had given way to a winter sunlight, pale and low to the horizon. The frost had melted from the trees, but still crunched underfoot. As they turned onto the poachers' track that

wound through a valley between two outcrops, they once again moved into crystalline trees that shimmered in a vaguely glowing mist that was the best the sunshine would do all day.

"A God-forsaken place," Thoresby said as they moved into the shadowy valley.

"I'm glad the innkeeper did not tell any tales about this place. I've enough imagination to make it uncomfortable."

"I was a boy in the Dales," Thoresby said. "And I don't care for such valleys in winter, which is the season here for half the year."

"No wonder you're not fond of it." Owen checked that his bowstring was still dry and warm in the pouch at his waist, then wrapped his cloak closer about him. "We'll come out behind the outer stables. From there perhaps we can discover if anything is up--whether Scorby's busy slitting more throats."

Thoresby crossed himself. "This Paul Scorby sounds a cursed soul."

"You'd be the one to judge that, being a churchman."

They rode on in silence, chilled by the vapor that the sun drew from the frosty earth and trees but could not dispel. The stony hills towered on either side. Their horses were skittish and took all their attention.

In time, they passed beyond the outcrops and rode out along a tree-lined stream where the sun again warmed them a little. They let the horses drink, though slowly at first for the water was icy. Then they proceeded with caution. The stables should be near. They walked their horses, listening, keeping the horses away from the rocky edges of the stream where their hoofs would clatter.

Rooftops appeared beyond the trees, then the outline of long, low buildings. They tethered their horses. Owen strung his bow and crept forward to scout. Thoresby stayed behind until Owen could discover whether Scorby and his men were about and where they were. It would not do to have their horses taken from behind.

Owen stayed downwind of the stables so that the horses there would not scent an intruder and give him away. A whinny and the sound of a hoof against wood told him his precaution had been wise. He dropped down and studied the moated manor house beyond the stables. An old, venerable house. Moss crept up the walls surrounding it. A brackish stench came from the moat.

Owen crept closer. As he watched, a door opened in the wall and six men emerged. They climbed onto a rickety bridge that led across the moat to a point near the stables. It was not a drawbridge, but a makeshift affair that would be burned down at the first hint of trouble. One of the men stumbled and was steadied roughly. Owen squinted. The stumbler was Martin Wirthir. Something was wrong with his arm. Ambrose Coats walked behind Martin with his hands bound. Scorby brought up the rear.

Careful to keep low and out of sight, Owen slipped back to Thoresby and told him what he'd seen.

"You think they're coming here for the execution?"

Owen nodded.

"What's our plan?"

"With four of them, I think you'd best surprise them on horseback, while I'm up on the roof of an outbuilding with my bow. When they see you, I'll stand and shoot before they can turn round."

"I can wield this sword."

"Good. I count on it."

They mounted and rode up to the stables. Owen tethered his horse once more and climbed up on a roof with a slant to it, behind which he could crouch until Thoresby rode forward. Thoresby guided his horse around the building, bending low over the beast's neck. The procession of men had passed over the bridge and was moving through brush at the edge of the moat, toward the stable yard. Thoresby sat, waited until he could hear them, then burst into a gallop, yelling like a banshee. He shot past the six men, moving their attention away from the stables. Owen rose, taking aim.