The Lady Chapel (5 page)

Owen did not want to discuss Lucie's family. "Master Ridley, considering the unpleasant item left in your room, 1 think it wise I check your packs."

"For what?"

"Something equally unpleasant. Or harmful to you."

Ridley blanched. "I cannot think who would want to harm me."

"May I examine your packs?"

"Please do."

Ridley watched Owen's search from a comfortable spot. Owen could sense the man's uneasiness, but could not tell whether Ridley feared what Owen would find or knew of something he did not want Owen to see. It must have been the former, because there was nothing suspicious in the packs.

Ridley looked relieved. "Perhaps the hand was just the prank of a madman."

Owen nodded. "We should move on if we're to reach Beverley by dusk. Will you accept my company?"

Ridley looked at his servants, idly lounging by the pack horses. One young, one grizzled, with several teeth gone. Neither trained to fight. Ridley looked back at Owen--tall, broad-shouldered, threatening. "Oh, aye. I'll be glad of your company, Captain Archer."

The road to Beverley wound through flat countryside rather than moorland, with little to distract the traveler but talk. Ridley rode close to Owen, reminiscing about his friendship with Crounce. Owen recognized Ridley's need to talk of his friend, part of the ritual of mourning.

"I had looked forward to spending time with Will, now that I've handed the Goldbetter and Company business over to my son, Matthew."

"You are generous to your son, giving him your business."

"It is just part of my business."

"Why that part?"

Ridley was quiet a while. Then, at last, he said in a voice almost drowned out by the horses, "I felt the years settling in my bones. I had built a grand house, and I wanted some time to enjoy it."

Owen believed him, but doubted that was the whole reason.

Bess tapped Lucie on the shoulder. "You've not had supper, have you?"

Lucie straightened up and rubbed her eyes. She'd been working on the ledger since she had closed the shop, hoping to finish a neat copy of the list of herbs, roots, powders, and other ingredients in the shop that she'd made since returning from her Aunt Philippa. "This should have been finished weeks ago, Bess. If I let it go, there's always a danger that I will be caught without something. People's lives depend on my records."

"And why did Owen not make up the list while you were away?"

Lucie sighed. "He's still learning, Bess. It was enough for him to watch the shop. And he did well. I have no complaints."

Bess gave a disapproving sniff. "A fine time for him to take off on an adventure for the Archbishop."

"It was not Owen's choice."

"Well, never mind." Bess pushed a trencher of hard bread heaped with stew in front of Lucie, then poured ale into a large cup. "Now, then, do your best with that."

Bess poured herself a cup and sat down opposite Lucie to make sure she ate. Lucie laughed and dipped a spoon into the stew.

"The shop was uncommonly busy today, I thought," Bess said, resting her strong arms on the table, her sleeves still rolled up from a day's cleaning and cooking.

Lucie nodded. "People are using any excuse they can dream up to come in and ask about the murder. They know Owen was called to the Archbishop's palace. Which is good; Owen wanted me to find out more about the boy who witnessed the attack."

"So what do you know?"

"That his mother, Kristine de Melton, died today. And Jasper de Melton has disappeared."

"Why?"

"I would guess that the boy fears the murderers will come for him. Just in case he saw something."

"In the dark?"

"If you had murdered someone, Bess, wouldn't you try to erase your steps?"

Bess sighed. "Poor lad."

Lucie was quiet for a time, enjoying her friend's cooking. "I hated asking. All those years in the convent, being told over and over that gossip was a sin. I cannot do it with an easy conscience."

Bess sniffed. "I cannot see why gossip is considered a sin. How else is a body to know what's going on?"

Lucie smiled.

"So did anyone have an idea where the poor lad might be hiding?" Bess asked.

Lucie shook her head. "But the man I met on the road--you know, the one who helped me free the cart from the mud when I was coming back from Freythorpe Hadden--he has offered to look for the boy in the places where such orphans usually wind up."

"The man Owen had such a fit over? The stranger with the nice voice?"

Lucie laughed at what Bess had chosen to remember. "You know, the man had mentioned Will Crounce to me on the ride that

night. Told me to watch for Crounce in the Mercers' play. At least he had a reason to ask about the death. He must have been a friend of Crounce."

"You didn't ask him?"

"I did, actually, but all he said was, 'Boroughbridge is a small town.' "

"He's a foreigner, you said?"

"His accent is odd--not quite like my mother's, not Norman French, but more like hers than anyone's here."

"A Fleming, perhaps? Like those weavers who settled here under the King's protection?"

"I've never spoken with them, so I couldn't say."

"What's his name?"

"Martin."

Bess winced. "Unfortunate."

Lucie shook her head. "It is a good name, Bess. I cannot mourn my baby forever." Lucie and her first husband had lost their only child, Martin, to the plague.

"Owen should give you a child," Bess said.

"It's not for want of trying that we are not yet blessed."

Bess shrugged. "So you don't know whence came this Martin?"

"I didn't ask."

Bess disapproved of so much mystery. "You invited him into your house?"

"He came into the shop, Bess, not the house."

"What about the ride in the cart?"

Lucie looked closely at her friend. "What is this, Bess? Why all the questions? What about all the other people who asked about Will Crounce today?"

"This Martin knew Crounce before. He's a stranger. He could be the murderer."

"Bess, that's nonsense. Why would he risk coming here if he were the murderer?"

"Like a moth to a flame, Lucie, my child. He wants to hear what folk have to say about his crime."

"Why would he offer to look for Jasper de Melton?"

"I don't know. What did he say?"

"He was out on the streets at about that age." Lucie shoved the

trencher out of her way and replaced it with the ledger. "I am busy, Bess. I have no time for any more gossip."

Bess shook her head. "You will work yourself into an early grave, Lucie."

Lucie looked up with a smile. "So will you, Bess." Bess snorted. "Aye. And I must get back to check on Tom." After Bess left, Lucie found it hard to focus on the ledger. It was true she felt Martin was hiding something. So why did she trust him? The question spun round and round in her head and made it impossible to work.

"Perhaps it's time for bed," she said to Melisende, who was napping near the hearth, resting up for the night's hunt. Lucie closed the ledger, damped the fire, and scooped up the cat, who complained.

"It will be cold up there without Owen," Lucie told Melisende as she determinedly carried the squirming Queen of Jerusalem upstairs.

It was after dark when Owen and Ridley rode through a stone gate and into the yard of Riddlethorpe. From the size of the house and how long they had ridden since Ridley announced they were on his land, he had made a respectable fortune in Goldbetter and Company. The house was stone below, half-timbered above. A tall woman waited up the steps in the doorway, in the light of a lantern held by a serving girl. Other servants helped Owen and Ridley to dismount, then led the four horses away.

"My wife, Cecilia," Ridley said as they approached the woman in the doorway. "Cecilia, this is Captain Archer. One of Archbishop Thoresby's men."

Cecilia Ridley ignored Owen and asked her husband, "Is there trouble, Gilbert?" Large, dark eyes in a narrow face gave her the look of a frightened deer. In white wimple and veil and a russet wool gown, she was plainly dressed, without any of her husband's ostentation. There was a quiet nobility in her bearing.

"No trouble for me as such," her husband replied, "but Will Crounce has been killed."

Cecilia Ridley frowned as if she did not understand. "Did Will not come with you?"

"Did you hear me, woman?" Ridley snapped. "Will is dead. Murdered."

The shock registered on Cecilia's face, making her eyes even more prominent, drawing the skin even tighter along the bones. "Will? Dear God." She crossed herself.

"Perhaps you should sit down inside," Owen said gently.

Cecilia Ridley clutched at her stomach and nodded, her eyes fixed on some spot beyond her husband's or her guest's faces. "1 cannot believe-- He was here just four days ago."

"Cecilia," Ridley said in a warning tone.

The woman started, glanced at Owen, then her husband, and stepped aside for them to enter the hall. "Forgive me. You will want something to fortify you after your journey." It was a toneless recital of ritual. As her husband passed her, she touched his arm. "Did it happen while you were there?" she whispered.

Ridley nodded and pushed past her, striding into the hall with an air of irritation. He sank down on a bench near the hearth, and a boy helped him out of his travel-stained boots. "Will was murdered after spending the evening with me. His throat was slit wide." The boy, who was helping Owen now, sat back with a gasp.

"That's a good boy, Johnnie," Cecilia Ridley said, shooing the boy out of the hall. She shook her head at her husband. "You'll have the servants deserting us if you speak of such things in front of them." All said in the toneless voice of habit.

Ridley shrugged. "That's not the worst of it, anyway. Someone cut off Will's hand and put it in my room while I was downstairs paying my bill this morning."

Owen watched Cecilia Ridley, ready to help her to a seat. But Ridley's comment seemed to snap her out of her shock. "How uncomfortable for you, Gilbert." She said it softly, but it bit all the same. She glanced at Owen, then back at her husband. "Does Captain Archer attend you because he suspects you of the murder?"

"Dear God, no, wife." Ridley gave Owen a pained look. "She always suspects the worst. Such a gloomy woman." He looked back at his wife. "Get us some refreshment and leave us."

Cecilia Ridley left after pouring them some wine. The girl who had held the lantern brought them cold meat, bread, and cheese.

Ridley noticed Owen examining the surroundings. With his one good eye, Owen was obvious in his curiosity, moving his whole head to see all around him. "You wonder at the simplicity when the manor itself is so grand," Ridley guessed.

Considering Ridley's rings, Owen had expected tapestries and embroidered cushions, all the trappings of a family proud of its wealth. But the great hall was almost bare. Its wooden floor was scrubbed, the few chairs and benches pushed back against the walls, out of the way, but for the two chairs and a table set for the master and his guest. The few tapestries were unremarkable and were positioned to keep drafts from the area near the hearth. The only sign of Ridley's taste was a set of shelves against the far wall on which polished silver plates and cups were displayed, and, Owen guessed, never used. They had been served on wooden plates, in pewter cups. Owen concluded that Ridley's wife resisted the ostentation her husband no doubt wanted. Owen approved. "The house is quite new," he said. "You have storage cellars below this?"

Ridley beamed with pride. "Wine, dried meats, and fruits. I have learned much in my travels. I will show you in the morning. Another woman would show it off, but Cecilia hates all that. In fact, I complained about her just last night to Will. He defended her, arguing that she is virtuous in preferring simplicity. Is it a sin to enjoy what God has granted? All the cloth I bought for her, the jewels, the silver--you see how she displays the plate, as if it's to sell, not to eat on." Ridley shook his head. "I know what you think, she must come from common stock. Not in the least! She is a bishop's niece. Her father was a knight."

Owen did not wish to offer an opinion. "You will not object to a few more questions?"

"That depends."

"About your business, nothing personal."

Ridley shrugged.

"What was your working relationship with Will Crounce? Are there any others who might know something?"

Ridley seemed to think it a reasonable line of questioning. "When John Goldbetter decided he needed me in London and Calais rather than York and Hull, I looked around for a younger

man who already knew something of the wool trade and found Will Crounce. His wife's father, Joseph Stephenson, was in the guild in York and was teaching Will the trade, but he'd lost a deal of money and was happy to recommend his son-in-law."

"You are certain Stephenson did not resent giving up a hard worker?"

Ridley looked surprised, then nodded. "I see. You wonder whether Stephenson is somehow involved in his son-in-law's death? Impossible. He is dead. Almost the entire family died of plague. One of those families that seems to live under a curse. But, even so, I always had a good relationship with them."

"So Crounce looked after your interests in York and Hull?"

"Goldbetter's interests, truth be told. We all work for Goldbetter."

Owen gestured around the hall. "You've done well."

Ridley nodded. "I've been loyal through good times and bad. Goldbetter trusts me."

"How did he feel about Crounce?"

Ridley considered the question. "I'm not sure he ever met Will. It was enough for John Goldbetter that I was pleased with the arrangement."

"Did Crounce work with anyone else?"

"Occasional clerks. They come and go."

"How did you communicate?"

"Messengers."

"Any particular one?"

Ridley swirled the wine in his cup. Owen had the distinct feeling that the delay was not to search his memory, but that Ridley found the question uncomfortable and was deciding how much to say. Owen watched him. This was a part of questioning that Owen did well. An archer was trained to wait, watch, motionless but ready to strike. He had trained himself to silently observe the person while waiting for the answer, not repeating the question. This let the person know that he knew the question had been heard the first time, a tactic Owen had learned by observing Bess Merchet. It was a nice way to put his old skills to work.