The Lady Chapel (37 page)

With an angry shout, Scorby ordered his men to go after the intruder. Owen shot one in the shoulder, another in the back of the leg. They both stumbled, howling in pain. Thoresby heard them and turned.

Scorby spun round, spotted Owen, drew out a knife, aimed to throw. Owen put an arrow through Scorby's upraised wrist. Scorby dropped the knife and fell to his knees, clutching his arm.

The man with the arrow in his leg writhed on the ground in pain. The third, unwounded man went after Thoresby, who reared up and brought his sword down on his attacker, slicing through shoulder and neck. The man slumped to the ground, motionless. The man wounded in the arm took off for the bridge. Owen shot him again, this time in the leg, then jumped off the roof and cut Ambrose's bonds.

Wild-eyed, the musician grabbed a pitchfork and shouted, "Scorby, you bastard. Look at me."

Scorby turned, snarling like an animal, and lurched to his feet still clutching his arm, the arrow quivering.

Ambrose let out a war cry and threw the fork at Scorby with a precision and grace that amazed Owen. Scorby screamed as the tines pierced his torso. The impact threw him backward to the ground.

"Ambrose!" Martin yelled.

But the musician was not finished. Ambrose ran to Scorby, grabbed up his knife, picked Scorby up by the hair. "For Will, Gilbert, Jasper, John, Kate, Martin, and myself: 'Therefore to Hell I shall you sink -- Well are ye worthy to go that gate.

He slit Scorby's throat.

Martin sat down hard in the dirt. "Sweet Heaven."

Ambrose dropped Scorby, then the knife, and walked away toward the moat, slowly, like a sleepwalker.

Owen went after him. He'd seen many a soldier walk into the line of fire, oblivious of the danger, or even mutilate himself in horror at what he'd done.

Ambrose stood at the edge of the moat, staring down at his bloody hands.

"That was quite a feat of arms," Owen said quietly.

"I gave up hunting to protect my hands. But 1 was good as a boy."

"Are you all right?"

Ambrose turned to Owen with a questioning frown. "I remembered those lines of Will's from the Judgment play. It was a gift--I could not repeat them now. I felt as if God were looking down on me and smiling. Blessing me. But that cannot be."

"You looked like Christ harrowing Hell. Perhaps for a moment you were inspired."

Ambrose closed his eyes. "I cannot believe such a thing. I am responsible for what 1 have done."

"Then accept the thanks of all of us for doing what we all wished to do." Owen put an arm around Ambrose and felt the man trembling. "Part of your elation is shock, my friend. You did what you had to do. It is finished. Come. Let us get the others and go back to the house."

Thoresby stood frowning over Scorby's bloody corpse. "I wanted him alive."

Ambrose joined the Archbishop. "I will accept any punishment you deem fitting. But I am confused. You did not hesitate to kill Scorby's lackey."

Thoresby shrugged. "He was useless to us. Scorby might have given us information."

Ambrose shook his head. "He was the Devil, Your Grace. How could you trust anything he said?"

"You enjoyed killing him."

Ambrose looked down at his bloodstained hands. "I did. I was seeing the look in his eyes when he lifted the sword to hack off Martin's hand."

Thoresby, surprised, looked at Martin. "His hand? Sweet Jesu, I had not realized."

Owen, too, had noticed only that Martin held the arm close to him, as if wounded. Now Owen squatted and unwrapped Martin's bandage. "Cauterized. I'm surprised they took the care to do that."

"He was the Devil, I tell you," Ambrose said. "He did not want Martin to fall into a faint--he wanted him to experience all the pain of his execution."

Owen rewrapped Martin's arm and glanced toward the house. "How many men did Scorby have here?"

"The gatekeeper was the only one other than the servants who stayed behind," Ambrose said. "We must get Martin back to the house. He is very weak."

"Can you walk to the house?" Owen asked.

"With help." Martin blinked as if his vision was blurring.

Owen helped him stand. "We'll come back for the bodies. Let's get over there and see what's what."

Ambrose supported Martin while Thoresby and Owen led their horses into the stables, hiding them.

"Help me," the man with the wounded leg wailed as they began to leave him. Owen crouched down, broke the arrow and removed it. Then he tied the man's hands, hefted him up, and took him into a stable stall. "You'll be warm enough here until we return." He brought the other wounded man in and removed his arrows. "Keep each other company," Owen said, tossing them a flask of brandywine.

The four set off, Ambrose helping Martin walk. Owen held his bow ready, Thoresby had his sword drawn. No one challenged their approach, though they could see a few people huddled in a small doorway in the wall. The people scurried away as the little party approached--all but the woman who had brought Martin and Ambrose wine in the dungeon.

She came forward. "The gatekeeper's ridden off. I doubt he'll stop till he reaches water."

Thoresby nodded to her. "The other servants. Will they trouble us if we look round?"

"No. They wish you no harm. They are but frightened, and worried what is to happen to them."

"I will speak with them when we're through."

They passed through the wall and into the yard surrounding the house. Owen and Thoresby circled together, while Ambrose, helping Martin, followed the servant inside.

The yard was deserted but for a few chickens and a pig that wandered about looking for scraps. The drawbridge was down, the gatehouse empty. In the distance, several dogs barked.

Thoresby gestured round the cheerless yard. "I should not be so surprised the gatekeeper fled. What was there to keep him?"

Owen walked over to a stable built against the wall. One horse remained within. "I wager there were two horses before. If the gatekeeper has ridden away, we will not catch him."

Thoresby shrugged. "The men we left in the stables are as likely to be useful as he was. We must be satisfied with them."

"Ambrose is right, you know. Scorby might have lied to the end."

"You cannot understand, Archer. I needed him to take to Windsor and destroy Perrers."

They entered the house.

Martin sat slumped in a chair by the fire. Ambrose sat near him, clenching a cup of wine in trembling hands. They spoke in angry whispers, not looking at each other.

Owen put a hand on Thoresby's forearm to stop him from going forward. "They have been through much these past days. Let them talk."

"What about Wirthir's condition?"

"He is weak, but there is no fever."

"Let us be useful, then. We'll search the house."

"What are you looking for?"

"The letter from Alice Perrers to Scorby."

"Why?"

"I can at least take that to the King as proof of her treachery."

Owen turned his head so that his good eye looked right at Thoresby. "Why do you care?"

"She is not worthy of him. Her presence at court is an insult to Queen Philippa. A gentler lady never lived."

"If he is determined to have her by him, the King will not thank you for this."

"Do you know, Archer, I care not what the King thinks of this."

Seeing that Thoresby was determined, Owen called to the servant who had met them at the wall. "Where would Master Scorby have kept letters and important documents?"

She led them to a chamber off the main hall. A table, some chairs, a brazier in a corner, and several chests. "Shall I light the brazier for you?" When Thoresby nodded, she headed for the door. "I'll get some coals."

Owen stopped her. "We left two injured men in the stables across the moat. Someone should get them and bring them to the house."

"But where should we put them?"

"Do you have dungeons?"

"Aye."

He had thought they might. "Put them there."

She nodded, frightened, and hurried away.

Owen poked through the ashes in the brazier. "I fear he burned it, Your Grace." He held out a few small pieces of scorched parchment.

"We will look anyway."

Hours later, they'd come up with nothing.

"I could use some wine," Owen said, pushing away the last of the documents in front of him.

Thoresby threw a handful of rolled-up papers against the wall. "Was there ever such a prudent monster?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. "Perhaps there is another place where he kept more important documents?"

Owen stood up. "We must get Martin back to St. Mary's. Brother Wulfstan will ensure that his arm heals well."

"We could send Wirthir up to Fountains Abbey. They have an excellent infirmary. Then we can complete our search."

"Your Grace, where would we begin? If we return to York, we can ask Anna Scorby where her husband might have hidden incriminating documents."

Thoresby considered that. "Clever. That is exactly what we will do." He stood up. "Come. Let us have some food and get some sleep. We will start out at first light."

Out in the great hall, Ambrose sat alone by the fire.

"Where is Martin?" Owen asked.

"I put him to bed in the chamber up above. He could barely support himself. And if we are to ride tomorrow, I thought he must rest."

A servant poured wine for the Archbishop and Owen. Thoresby drank. "Perhaps, Master Coats, you would tell us exactly what happened here. You decided to deliver the letter yourselves--is that what got you into this predicament?"

Ambrose nodded wearily. "We thought to ask Scorby about his father-in-law, if he could remember Master Ridley speaking of enemies. We had no idea we were in the midst of Ridley's enemies--and Martin's--until we were well within, and they set the dogs on us." Suddenly he looked round. "I have not seen the dogs today."

Owen remembered the baying in the wood beyond the gatehouse. "I think they're off hunting. If we raise the drawbridge, they

will not return with their prey." He called to the servant and asked her to get some men to see to it.

"We could also use some food," Thoresby told her.

The woman curtsied. "There are salted meats, cheese, winter apples, and yesterday's bread, Your Grace. 'Tis not noble fare, but the Master did not bother with anything fancy since Mistress Scorby went away."

"Food is food. It sounds a goodly feast at this moment."

The woman hurried away.

Thoresby turned back to Ambrose. "Continue with your story, Coats."

Ambrose recounted the ordeal, leaving out only his singing.

"How did Scorby treat his men?" Thoresby asked. "Do you think it likely they would know anything?"

"I doubt it, but I cannot swear. I did not watch them much after Martin was injured."

Thoresby pushed the key the servant had brought over to Owen. "Go talk to them. See if they know anything of use."

The men sat up as best they could when Owen entered the room. Their wounds had been bandaged. "You realize that Master Scorby is dead?"

One nodded, the other just stared sullenly at Owen.

"The Archbishop will decide what is to be done with you."

"We knew naught of what he meant to do," said the one who had nodded. "He was our Master. We were bound to obey."

"What is your name?"

"Jack, my lord. An this here's Tanner."

"Who gave your Master his orders, Jack?"

The man snorted. "Nobody gave him orders. He said he was above the law. He was soon to be knighted."

"Who was going to make him a knight?"

Jack shrugged. "The King, I suppose. Who else can make knights?"

"Which of you slit the throats?"

Jack flinched. "We obeyed orders."

"Which of you?"

"I slit one of 'em," Tanner said, speaking at last, "the first one. Our friend Roby--one the Archbishop cut down--he slit the other throat."

"Who killed Kate Cooper?"

Tanner grinned. "Master Scorby did that all by himself. Wanted no one sharing her. Said he was inside her when her heart stopped beating. Said it was the best he'd ever had." He laughed.

Owen slapped him. "You're scum, Tanner. I don't want to hear your voice again. Or see that smile."

Owen turned to Jack. "We need to find Master Scorby's papers. Where else besides the little room off the main hall did he keep such things?"

"I don't know. Honest, 1 don't. He wasn't one to tell us much."

Owen believed him.

At dawn, they departed the manor. Thoresby had gathered the servants the previous evening and ordered them to watch the house well, Anna Scorby would be returning soon. They were to feed the prisoners until the Mistress arrived with men to take them away. By midday, a light snow was falling. Ambrose rode close to Martin, watching that he stayed alert. He could see the pain on his friend's face, the effort it took to keep upright. Thoresby had hoped to ride straight to York, but with Ambrose's coaxing, he agreed to stop at the inn at Alne for the night.

Martin was much improved for a good night's sleep. He rode better the second day, and when they entered York, he asked if he might wait until the following day to go to St. Mary's. "Ambrose and I have things to discuss."

Owen saw no harm in it.

Thoresby did not like it, but desisted. "They'll be separated for a long while," Thoresby told Owen as they parted at the minster gate. "I'm going to take Wirthir to Windsor. He can tell the King about Alice Perrers and her family. Who better?"

Owen had begun to walk away, but that made him turn back to Thoresby. "Martin won't like it. And what sort of reward can he expect?"

Thoresby shrugged. "He is a pirate and a foreigner. I care not whether he likes it or not."

Owen pulled up the hood of his cloak and walked away, disgusted.

Lucie listened solemnly to Owen's long tale, saying nothing until he recounted Thoresby's parting words about Martin. "He learned nothing from his treatment of Jasper! How can he think to deliver Martin to the woman who had arranged his death? Is Thoresby human?"