The Lady Chapel Read online

  What had Jasper done to be so punished by the Lord God Almighty?

  "Jasper?" The hand that reached for his was icy. How could she burn with fever, yet have such cold hands?

  "Mum, let me get you some water."

  Kristine de Melton's lips were cracked from the heat of her fever.

  "Will? Is he here?"

  Jasper could not say it. He could not send his mother to Heaven worried for him. "Master Crounce cannot come right away, Mum. But he sent his love."

  "He is a good man, Jasper. Let him care for you."

  Jasper nodded. He could not speak with the lump in his throat.

  Kristine de Melton smiled, touched her son's cheek, and closed her eyes. "So sleepy."

  Jasper prayed that God would forgive his little lie.

  Bess was at the bakery when she heard about the body. A wool merchant from Boroughbridge.

  "What was his name?" she asked Agnes Tanner.

  Agnes frowned down at the child who clung to her skirts. "Will. Like my little 'un."

  Bess considered the information. Will, a merchant from Boroughbridge. "Crounce? Did he go by that name?"

  "Could be. Sommat like. You knew him?"

  "Customer is all," Bess said. "Seemed a gentle sort."

  "A boy found him. Poor chit."

  "Terrible thing. Was it robbery?"

  "Most like. Why else cut off his hand?" Agnes scooped up the child and barked at her eldest to hold the basket of bread straight. "Must be off, then. Greetings to Tom."

  The pounding at the shop door woke Lucie, but Owen had her pinned to the mattress with an arm and a leg. Lucie closed her eyes and hoped whoever it was would go away. She hated to disturb Owen, and she certainly did not want to go downstairs herself.

  But the pounding continued. Lucie felt Owen's muscles flex, and he sat up with a jolt. "Who is it?" he shouted, though the person at the door could not hear him.

  "Why don't you go down and see?" Lucie suggested.

  "They'll want you. If it's an emergency, they'll want the Master Apothecary, not her apprentice." He lay back down with a contented sigh.

  "But it's the apprentice's duty to find out who it is and what they want."

  "I'm naked."

  "So am I."

  "So you are." Owen grinned and reached out to grab his wife, but the pounding began again, faster now, louder, as if a boot had replaced the hand. "Blast them!" Owen threw on his shirt, slipped the patch over his scarred left eye, and marched down the stairs.

  Brother Michaelo pushed the young messenger behind him, but not before Owen had seen the boy's foot raised to kick again.

  "What do you want?" Owen growled, turning to Michaelo.

  Brother Michaelo gave Owen a dazzling smile and bowed. "Forgive me for the early hour, Captain Archer. But His Grace the Archbishop sent me. It is most urgent that you come to his chambers as soon as you are dressed."

  "Is the Archbishop lying on his deathbed?"

  "No, praise God," Brother Michaelo said, crossing himself. "But there has been a murder. In the minster close."

  "Well I didn't do it." Owen began to close the door.

  Michaelo put out his arm. "Please, Captain Archer, His Grace does not wish to accuse you, but rather to confer with you on the matter."

  That old debt again. Damn the man. "And he cannot wait till decent folk are up and about?"

  "He is most distressed by the situation."

  "Is the corpse anyone I know?"

  Brother Michaelo's nostrils flared in surprise. "I doubt it. Will Crounce, a wool merchant from Boroughbridge."

  Well, thank the Lord it was no acquaintance of Owen. "I'll be there shortly." He slammed the door. Brother Michaelo was no friend to the household, and Owen did not consider him worth courtesy.

  Lucie touched Owen's hand. He had not heard her come down behind him. "You must go, you know," she said quietly. Owen heard regret in her voice.

  He squeezed her hand. "Aye."

  *

  Bess Merchet hurried back to the York Tavern and straight up to Gilbert Ridley's room. She stopped at the door with a start. Lying on the floor like a discarded toy was a human hand, ringers curled inward. She would have thought it a doll's hand made with devilish cunning, except for the horror of the wrist, where hand and arm had been severed messily. "Blessed Mary and all the saints, what has Gilbert Ridley gotten into?" She noted with irritation that Ridley's belongings were gone. Just like a man to run and leave a mess. She scooped the disgusting thing onto a mat, folded it over so Kit, the serving girl, wouldn't see it, and took it with her, taking care to close the door behind her. Damn the man. Bess stomped downstairs to question her husband, Tom.

  He looked up from the wooden peg he was whittling to repair a stool. "Master Ridley paid and left in no particular hurry," Tom said to her question. "Why, Bess? What's amiss?"

  "That Will Crounce he argued with last night was lying in his own blood this morning, that's what's amiss. Throat slit open and his right hand cut off."

  "Right hand? After a ring, were they?"

  "What do you think?" Bess tossed the mat onto the table, letting the hand roll out.

  Tom dropped his whittling and crossed himself. "Jesus have mercy, where did you find that, Bess? Is that--"

  "I hardly think there's more than one hand gone missing in town this morning, do you?"

  "Well, no--"

  "I found it in Gilbert Ridley's room."

  "Ridley's?" Tom frowned and scratched his chin.

  "So where is he?" Bess demanded.

  "You think he put it there?"

  "Whether he put it there or no is not for me to judge, Tom Merchet. What I know is they argue and the man is murdered, Ridley runs off, and I find the murdered man's hand in Ridley's room. If I were to judge, it wouldn't look good for him."

  Tom shook his head. "If he meant to run, would he stop to pay his bill? Or be fool enough to leave evidence? Why move it at all?

  Let it lie there beside the body. That'd be dreadful enough, to my mind."

  All true, but it did not exonerate Ridley in Bess's mind. "He's got some explaining to do, that's all I know." Bess wrapped up the hand. "You watch this while I tidy up."

  "Tidy up? Where do you mean to go, wife?"

  She could not believe the simplicity of the man. "To the minster, Tom. I must take the evidence to Archbishop Thoresby."

  "Why him?"

  "It happened in the minster liberty. Agnes Tanner said. So it will be the Archbishop's headache."

  "Why not just take it next door to Owen? He's Thoresby's man."

  "Owen is not Thoresby's man anymore. He's Lucie's apprentice."

  Tom snorted. "You're wrong there. You'll see."

  He smiled smugly as he bent back to his whittling.

  Last September, a messenger had arrived from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, ordering Owen to return to his service. An impertinence, for Owen had not been Gaunt's Captain of Archers, but Gaunt's father-in-law's, the old Duke of Lancaster, Henry of Grosmont. Owen had lost the sight in his left eye in the old Duke's service. When Owen told the old Duke that he wished to resign his post, that he no longer trusted himself in the field, the old Duke had put him to a new task. Owen had learned to read, write, and carry himself as a minor lord, and had thus become the old Duke's spy. But shortly the old Duke had died, without sons, so that his duchy went to his daughter Blanche's husband, John of Gaunt, third son of King Edward. Owen had hardly thought that Gaunt would desire the services of a one-eyed archer or spy, so he had prepared to seek his fortune as a mercenary in Italy; but John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York, had chosen to honor the old Duke's request to see to Owen's future. He had given Owen a choice: serve him or the new Duke of Lancaster. Not liking what he'd heard of John of Gaunt, Owen had chosen Thoresby.

  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 oth
er 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.