The Lady Chapel Read online

  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."

  Owen shook his head, amazed. He thought he'd kept the excitement out of his voice. "How is it that you divine my thoughts and I still find you an enigma?" He also found it disappointing that she had not protested his going away. "Will you miss me?"

  Her blue eyes widened. "Of course I will miss you. I said I would."

  Owen grinned.

  "It is hard to run the shop without an apprentice."

  The smile froze on Owen's face.

  Lucie laughed at his consternation. "Silly oaf. I'll lie awake missing you."

  As Owen gathered what he would need for his journey, Lucie paced their bedchamber. "I wonder whether Gilbert Ridley has any idea whose hand he found in his room?"

  "How could he?"

  "How will you give him the bad news? Ridley told Bess that Crounce was his dearest friend."

  "Better that than breaking the news to Crounce's wife. I wonder who will handle that?"

  "No need to worry. Joan Crounce died of plague four years ago."

  "Now, how did you discover that piece of information?"

  "The stranger I brought to York. He said to watch the Mercers' play in particular, that Will Crounce had lost himself in his playacting since his wife's death of the plague."

  Owen looked at Lucie. Her startling blue eyes were fixed on him, waiting for-an answer. They had argued about the stranger, spent several cool evenings after Lucie had returned from nursing her Aunt Philippa. Owen had warned Lucie not to pick up strangers on the road. She was so lovely. Dear God, he knew what the stranger had been after. "Have you seen him again?"

  Lucie sighed. "That is not the topic of discussion."

  "Have you?"

  "No I have not, Owen Archer. And if I had, what would be the harm in it? I can service only one man at a time, and at the moment I have all I can do to keep you satisfied." Lucie grabbed Owen's arm and put it around her slender waist, then pulled his head down for a kiss.

  Owen resolved to forget the stranger. "You can do something for me.

  "I have enough to do with the shop."

  "Just ask any customers about the boy, Jasper de Melton. Find out how his mother is, what will happen to Jasper if his mother dies. I take it he has no father."

  "You think Will Crounce was her lover?"

  "It seems likely. Will you ask about him for me?"

  Lucie gave Owen another kiss. "Of course."

  "Just ask customers to the shop. I don't want you hunting the streets for him."

  "I won't have time to get into trouble, Owen."

  "Thank God for that."

  3/ Ridley's Pride

  Ridley shifted on the low rock wall on which he had seated himself once he was convinced that Owen had come from the Archbishop. The merchant's face was reddening with the sun. He shielded his eyes with his right hand to look up at Owen. The gems on his fingers twinkled in the sunlight. "I know why you've come. Bess Merchet found the--" Ridley swallowed. "Why would someone put that hand in my room?"

  Owen noted the rings. Travelers were attacked on the road for far less. Ridley risked his own life and the lives of the two servants who accompanied him. No doubt he considered his servants little better than pack horses. What an arrogant half-wit to flaunt his wealth so recklessly.

  Owen opened his mouth, closed it. Some of his irritation stemmed from having to blink his good eye against the reflections. He detested being so blinded. But he must curb his tongue and get to the point. "One of your business partners was murdered last night. Near the minster."

  "One of my--" Ridley shaded his eyes with both hands and peered at Owen. "Not Will Crounce?"

  Blinded again, Owen suggested that they move into the shade. "Your face is reddening at an alarming rate."

  Ridley obliged, then repeated his question. "Was it Will Crounce?"

  "Yes.
Did you realize that was his hand?"

  "Will's?" Ridley choked. "I--Dear Lord, no. I did not look closely. But even if I had, how would one recognize--? I do not think I would know my own hand lying severed." Ridley shivered.

  "Why did you leave without a word to anyone about it? At least a warning to the Merchets?"

  Ridley bobbed his head and averted his eyes, embarrassed. "It was cowardly and thoughtless, and they have been good to me. But I could not think what to do. All I wanted was to get far away."

  "What did you think it meant?"

  "I wondered who would play such a hideous trick on me." Ridley made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand.

  Owen stared out across the summer meadows. This road paralleled the Ouse, though they were far enough north that the river was not visible. Still, it was the rich soil of a floodplain, quite different from the moors and dales to the north and west. A gentle landscape. Besides Owen, Ridley, and Ridley's two servants, there was no one in sight, though Owen could see cultivated fields. It must be midday, and all the laborers off in some shady spot, eating. A breeze stirred the wildflowers. It was so quiet Owen could hear the bees humming. Occasionally one of the horses whinnied or a bird sang out. Such an inappropriate setting for talk of murder.

  "You thought of nothing more sinister than that someone was playing a trick on you?" Owen asked.

  "That was as horrible as I cared to imagine. And my mind was muddled. I had much too much ale last night. Will and I--" Ridley shook his head. "This must mean he was murdered?"

  "It would seem so."

  Ridley took a deep, shuddering breath. "No doubt you have heard from Bess Merchet that I spent the evening with Will at the York Tavern and he left in a temper." Ridley rose and went to his horse, drew a leather bottle out of his pack. "Sweet Mary and all the saints," he breathed and took a drink. "I meant to make it up to him today. I did not like his going away angry." He took another swig and looked up at Owen. "Does Archbishop Thoresby think I murdered Will?"

  "And left the evidence in your room? No, His Grace says you are no such fool. But he hopes you can help us find the murderer. That you might know why someone would want Crounce dead. And who that might be."

  Ridley ran a dimpled hand over his forehead where the band of his felt hat was already dark with sweat. He took another drink. "Want Will dead?" He shook his head, looking down at his boots. "I cannot say. Will had prospered, though you'd never guess it to see him. He dressed humbly, as he always had. But he did carry a money pouch. He always did, old Will. Prepared for the unexpected bargain, he would say." Ridley smiled sadly and took another swig.

  "You'd best go easy on your drink. You've a way to go to Beverley."

  Ridley straightened and returned the bottle to the pack.

  "Your friend had no money pouch on him when we found him," Owen said.

  "So he was killed for the money. Greed. The deadliest sin, to my mind, coveting thy neighbor's goods."

  Owen fought a smile at those words coming from such a tempter of thieves. "Crounce met a woman outside the tavern. Did he have a lady friend?"

  "He said nothing of meeting a woman," Ridley said.

  "I understand Crounce was a widower. . . ."

  Ridley nodded. "And popular with the ladies, Will was."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  Ridley took off his hat, wiped his brow, frowned down at the stained brim. "Last night was our first chance to talk in a long while.

  But I would guess his current favorite was Kristine de Melton, a widow with a bright young boy Will meant to sponsor in the guild. It's not the sort of thing one does for a mere acquaintance."

  Owen found that an interesting connection. "The boy's name is Jasper?"

  Ridley squinted at Owen as he put his hat back on. "How do you know his name?"

  "Jasper de Melton witnessed the murder. It was Jasper who told the Archbishop of the hooded woman who waited for Crounce outside the York Tavern."

  "So it was Mistress de Melton?"

  "Not likely. Archbishop Thoresby says the boy was sent to fetch Crounce to Mistress de Melton's sickbed."

  Ridley sighed. "A mystery woman, then." He shook his head, then looked Owen square in the eye. "How was Will killed? Was it only the hand they hacked off? They did not dismember him, did they?"

  "His throat was slit."

  Ridley crossed himself and bowed his head to murmur a prayer. Owen waited in silence. He knew the rush of bile that choked a man when he learned the details of a friend's death. Ridley's eyes were wet when he looked up. "He did not deserve such an end, not Will. He was a good man. No saint, but a good man."

  "The hand was something the murderer did afterward," Owen said. "Can you think why?"

  Ridley shook his head.

  "Someone noticed that he wore a signet ring on that hand. Was it on the hand when you found it?"

  Ridley winced, thinking back to the hand on the floor. "God grant him rest." He shook his head slowly. "I think if the ring had been on the hand, I would have noticed it. Might even have guessed it was Will's--" He dropped his head, covering his eyes with his jeweled fingers.

  "They cut off the right hands of thieves," Owen said. "Could someone have felt Crounce had robbed him?"

  Ridley made no sign that he heard the question.

  Owen repeated it.

  Ridley shook himself. "Sorry." He wiped his eyes sheepishly. "1 never heard Will called a thief."

  "You can think of no one who might have believed himself cheated by Crounce? No business venture gone sour? Someone who thought Crounce had gotten what was his--or hers--by trickery?"

  Ridley shrugged. "I have worked in London and Calais for many years. Will was my man here. As long as he carried out my wishes, and those of Goldbetter's, I did not ask about his methods."

  "What did you argue about last night?"

  Ridley flinched. "Nothing of import."

  "Perhaps it will prove important."

  "It was a private matter. Drink loosened our tongues, and we tripped over them. It can have no bearing on Will's death."

  "I know it concerned your wife and daughter." Owen, watching the color of Ridley's face deepen with an embarrassed flush, knew it was a cruel thing to say, but Owen had to know everything. There was no way Ridley could say this or that had no bearing on his friend's murder--not if he was telling the truth.

  "Someone overheard. I should not be surprised. We did get loud. I meant to apologize today, treat Will to a grand meal."

  "Tell me about the argument."

  "I have been an absent husband, absent father. My business kept me away from Riddlethorpe but for brief visits. Will spent more time with my family than I did. He thought I was unkind to my wife, Cecilia. To be honest, I thought he was perhaps too fond of my wife. So the argument got tangled. And then he started on my daughter's husband. The young man was my choice, you see, and he's turned out to be--impatient--with my daughter. Cecilia is unhappy because Anna--that's my daughter--is unhappy. Will blamed me for all of it."

  "That is a heavy burden."

  Ridley nodded. "But there's much truth to it."

  "Your daughter's husband was a business partner?"

  "Paul Scorby of Ripon. Good family. I had some business dealings with them a long time ago. Nothing recently. But they are of good blood. My son, Matthew, lived in their household and learned how to go about with such people. Paul Scorby is ambitious, though perhaps more of a dreamer than a doer. I did not see that then. I thought him a good match for Anna."

  "Had Crounce argued with Scorby?"

  Ridley shook his head. "He would not have interfered like that. No. I cannot see how our argument had anything to do with Will's death."

  Owen shrugged.

  "I am sorry I can be of so little help," Ridley said.

  Owen shaded his eye and looked off in the distance. "By the time we get to Riddlethorpe, you might think of something that will help."

  Ridley started. "You're going to Riddlethorpe
?"

  Owen nodded. "1 offer you my protection."

  Ridley frowned. "What need have I of protection?"

  "A good friend and business partner has been murdered, and his severed hand deliberately left in your room, Master Ridley. For unknown reasons. Will Crounce might have had a chance encounter with a robber, but he might have been murdered by someone he knew. And that someone seems to also know you. He may be after you at this very time."

  Ridley took off his hat and mopped his forehead. His hair was matted down with sweat. "Sweet Mother of God."

  "You must look to your safety."

  Ridley regarded Owen more closely than he had until now. "You look more like an outlaw than a protector."

  Owen touched the patch. "You are not the first to say so."

  "How did you lose your eye?"

  "In the service of the old Duke of Lancaster. A French campaign. I caught someone murdering our prize prisoners."

  "And now you're in John Thoresby's service?"

  "From time to time."

  "Owen Archer, you said?" Owen nodded. "Captain of Archers, were you?"

  "A good guess."

  "To tell the truth, I've heard you called Captain. And with that West Country manner of speech." Ridley shrugged. "You married Nicholas Wilton's widow, I think?"

  "I did."

  "Mistress Archer is of noble stock, at least on her father's side."

  "Mistress Wilton, not Archer."

  Ridley frowned. "And why is that?"

  "The guild. The Archbishop coerced them into allowing Lucie both to continue the work she'd begun as Nicholas Wilton's apprentice and to marry me. But they insisted she keep the name to remind me that I have no claims to the shop if she dies."

  "Pity she could not use her family name. I know Sir Robert D'Arby. A fine gentleman. In fact, if you wish to check my character, your wife's father would vouch for me." Ridley said this with pride.

  "My wife's father?"

  Ridley nodded. "I procured some horses for Sir Robert during the siege of Calais. He can attest to my good character, I assure you."