The Lady Chapel

12

Weighed down by his gloomy thoughts, Owen headed down Petergate and through King's Square toward the Merchants' Hall. A man locked in the pillory on Pavement was being pelted with mud by two small, dirty boys. It put Owen in mind of the boy who was staying in his house. When would Jasper be free to roam the city again without fear?

Last night's snow had not melted much, and as the sun made a brave effort to shine forth, the icy roofs glistened. It was a welcome sight in this dark city. From the first day he had arrived in York, Owen felt the gloom here, the buildings huddled close together, the upper stories jutting out over the lower. Daylight rarely lit the narrow streets. Having only one eye, Owen disliked shadows. They could be deceptively deep or shallow. Without both eyes it was difficult to tell. Not that other folk liked the dark streets any more than he did. People sought out the squares and the churchyards for a bit of sky.

The Merchants' Hall had a neat border of grass around it, a glistening blanket of white at the moment. Owen tried not to think about the dishonorable deals that might have funded this building as he walked up and knocked on the heavy door. A clerk answered. "Ah, Captain Archer. What can we do for you?"

It amazed Owen how well known he was, all because he supervised the townsmen's practice at the butts. "I am on business for the Archbishop, Master Clerk. Can you spare me some time?"

The man nodded and led Owen up the stairs. On the ground level the area was used as a hospital for the aged members of the guild and their wives. Upstairs was the great hall with wood partitions marking off some small rooms to the sides. The clerk led Owen to one of the side rooms, a tiny area lit by a casement window open to allow even more light than the expensive greenish glass let in. There were shelves for documents and a writing desk cluttered with pens and inkpots. A tiny brazier generated little warmth in the room, merely taking some of the damp chill out of the air from the open window.

"You have come about Masters Ridley and Crounce, I'll wager," the clerk said, looking officious.

"In a sense, Master Clerk. I ask two things of you-the names and whereabouts of the actors who performed with Crounce last Corpus Christi, and where I might find Martin Wirthir, a Fleming who worked for Ridley."

"Wirthir? Martin Wirthir?" The clerk shook his head. "Not a guild member. I know all the names."

"Have you ever heard the name before?"

The clerk shook his head again. "But then there would be no cause, you see. If not guild business"-he shrugged. He was a little man, thin and oddly wizened for his age, which Owen guessed was not much past five-and-twenty.

"And the actors, Master Clerk?"

The clerk nodded enthusiastically. "That I can give you. Can you read?"

"I am an apprentice apothecary. God help my customers if I cannot."

The clerk flushed. "Pardon, Captain Archer. I think of you down at St. George's Field, showing us how to shoot. I forget that is not your daily trade."

"So you will write the names and addresses down for me?"

"That I will do, yes, Captain. Though-well, I should know why." He looked embarrassed to be asking.

Owen thought it a sensible query. "Since Crounce was murdered the day after he appeared in the pageant, I thought perhaps-if I'm very lucky-someone might have noticed something odd."

The clerk brightened at that explanation. "Oh, indeed. An excellent thought." He screwed up his already-wrinkled face. "But it will take a moment. Have you seen our beautiful hall? Would you like to look round while I do this?"

Owen appreciated the chance to stretch and move about. "Where do your members keep their bows? It is a good time for me to inspect them." Owen was to randomly check the longbows of the townsmen to see that they were made properly. He had precious little time to spend on this, so he welcomed the opportunity.

The clerk pointed out the door. "The guild's bows are in a cabinet all the way on the other side of the hall. You are welcome to inspect them, Captain."

Owen left the tiny cell and went back out into the light, high-ceilinged great hall. It bespoke the wealth of the members with its huge oak beams and white plaster. The floor was new wood, recently laid down. An odor of stale food and humanity came from below, and the damp smell of the River Foss and the Kings Fish Pond nearby came from the windows. But this area was clean, well lit, and one could forgive the odors for the joy of real windows with pale green glass.

Owen found the cabinet and examined the bows. Only one was too short, even for the clerk, and the wood improperly prepared and seasoned so that it might snap at any time. When the clerk scurried out with his list, Owen pointed this bow out to him.

The clerk nodded. "I will tell the guild warden. He will speak with the owner." He handed Owen the list. "It is terrible about Ridley and Crounce. Some of the guild members worry that it's a plot against the guild."

"I think not. Crounce and Ridley were clearly business partners. And friends."

"So there's no hope it was just a coincidence?"

"What do you think, Master Clerk? Do you think that's likely?"

The clerk shook his head. "This Wirthir you asked about. Do you think he might be guilty? Or might be next?"

"Guilty?" Owen shook his head. "Of course 1 cannot know for certain, but I would say he might be the next victim. Unless he has disappeared from this part of the kingdom for good, he would have been foolish to murder two men so linked to him, don't you think?" "Hatred drives men to do foolish things," the clerk said sagely. Owen nodded. "I will keep that in mind, Master Clerk. Now this list. Whom would you seek out first?"

The clerk considered. "Stanton," he said. "He knew Crounce best-Owen thanked him.

Stanton lived in a substantial house on Stonegate. Owen was lucky to find him inventorying stock in the ground floor cellar, a stone-vaulted room that ran the length of the house. The man shook the dust off his hair and jerkin. "Come up to the hall," he said, leading Owen up the outside stairway. "1 welcome the excuse to wash some of the dust down with wine. You will join me?"

Owen agreed.

"We will not be interrupted," Stanton said. "My wife has the household out in the kitchen making candles."

The hall was furnished with a heavy table and two high-backed chairs. Benches were pushed back against the wall. A simple tapestry hung on the wall farthest from the fire. Stanton invited Owen to sit at the table, which was beneath one of the two windows. Stanton poured wine from an interesting pitcher.

Owen admired it.

"Got it in Italy, the one time I ventured so far. It is my pride and joy," Stanton said, pleased. "Well. So you're looking into Will Crounce's death, are you? A terrible thing. He was a good man, Captain Archer. A charitable soul. And our best actor. If his voice had been deeper, he most assuredly would have been our God in the play. He always remembered his lines, never stammered, never rushed." Stanton played with the pitcher, turning it this way and that to admire it while he talked. "His wife's family hated it, you know."

"Hated what?"

"His taking part in the plays. Being an actor." Stanton shook his head. "Such a bother about something he did once a year. And for the Lord Jesus Christ." He shook his head again.

"Was there anything unusual about Crounce's performance this year? Any sign that he was troubled? Distracted?"

Stanton took his hand off the pitcher and sat back with his cup of wine. "Nay. He was good, was Will. It transformed him. I think the Lord Jesus inspired him-that's what I think. Folk always commended us for his Jesus. I cannot think who will take his place." Stanton looked sad.

"So you noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day?"

"Nay. Nor did the others. We've all talked about it, you can be sure." Stanton took a drink, frowned, then gave Owen a thoughtful look. "Now that I think of it, John de Burgh did notice one thing I had not. Mistress de Melton was led away as Will spoke his last lines. She was a widow, mother to the boy Will was to sponsor in the guild. We all assumed Will meant to marry again. As the pageant wagon began to move, Will jumped off to find out what had happened, but no one knew aught but that she'd taken ill."

"And it did not affect the rest of his performances?"

"You do not seem to understand. The performance is worship. What better way for Will to intercede with God on Mistress de Melton's behalf than to play the Christ better than he ever had before? Which he did on that day."

They both drained their cups. Owen began to rise. "I should not keep you from your work. But one last question, Master Stanton. Did Crounce have any enemies that you knew of?"

"You mean someone who might want to kill him?" Stanton shook his head. "As I said, he was a gentle soul. I could name a baker's dozen whose murders would have been less surprising."

"Enemies who would not necessarily have wished to kill him?"

Stanton glanced about him, though no one had disturbed them in the hall, then pulled his chair closer to Owen and leaned forward conspiratorially. "I do not like gossip as a rule, Captain Archer, but there was the situation between Will and Mistress Ridley that we all wondered about. Gilbert Ridley was a man with a temper, and how he and Will never fought about Mistress Ridley I do not know. I can only assume that they were such good friends that Will meant more to Ridley than his wife did."

"Are you saying that Crounce and Mistress Ridley were lovers?"

Stanton lifted his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say he did not know.

"But you assume."

"Not me. Everyone."

"There was talk? In public?"

"Only among members of the guild, to be sure. We do not share our problems with the townsmen."

"Are there guild rules against such behavior?"

"Not as such, but we pledge to obey the commandments."

"And yet no one officially spoke to Will Crounce about his behavior with Mistress Ridley, another guild member's wife?"

Stanton looked uncomfortable. "Will was never caught in the act, you see. And there was Mistress de Melton. It looked as if Will meant to reform his ways." Stanton shrugged. "Then again, it might be just gossip. And I've insulted the dead." He crossed himself.

Owen noted the man's discomfort and let the topic drop. "Did you ever meet a business partner of Crounce's by the name of Martin Wirthir?"

Stanton screwed up his face, thinking, then shook his head. "Name means naught to me." He looked eagerly at Owen. "Might he be the murderer, then? This Martin Wirthir?"

Owen shook his head. "If he were, he would be a fool and easy to find. What do you know about Ridley? Did he have any enemies?"

Stanton sat back and chuckled. "He was a brusque man, Captain Archer. And impressed with himself. God help me, but many a time I wished to put my fist through Ridley's teeth."

"Would you have killed him?"

"Nay!" The merchant straightened up and pulled at his sleeves. "I would never kill any man except to protect my family. Though I play a Bad Soul in the pageant, I am not a violent man."

Owen wondered whether Stanton appreciated how fortunate he was to be able to choose peace over violence. No one had ever ordered Stanton into battle. "Do you think any of the more violent guild members could have been driven to kill Ridley?"

Stanton shook his head.

"So Ridley was irritating, pompous, but not the sort of hateful that gets a man murdered?"

"Right," said Stanton. "And he was away so much, no one had to put up with him for long."

"Oh!" The guild clerk raised an ink-stained finger and his eyes widened as a memory interrupted his copy work. Should he go after the Captain and tell him? It seemed a small point, but there might be something to it. Perhaps on his way home he would stop at the apothecary. He could use a soothing wash for his eyes. They were giving him trouble lately. So tired.

Owen had just returned and wearily stretched his frozen toes toward the fire. "Has your mistress been busy all day?" he asked Tildy.

"Oh, aye."

"I will work in the shop tomorrow so she can catch up on other things."

"That would be nice, Captain. The horseradish root has dried, and we should put it up."

The beaded curtain rattled as Lucie came through. "There's a man here to see you, Owen."

Owen groaned. "Who is it?"

"A clerk, from the ink on his fingers. He says he spoke with you this afternoon."

"Oh, that clerk." Owen rose and stretched, feeling his shoulder muscles crinkle. Questioning people was no work for a man. It crippled the body. He went out to the shop.

"Captain Archer." The clerk smiled. He wore a cloak of fine wool, but well worn. A castoff from one of the guild members, Owen guessed. "I thought of something after you'd gone," the clerk said, "maybe nothing of importance, but as I needed something to soothe my eyes, I thought I'd come by and see you."

"What's the trouble with the eyes?"

"By vespers I do not see so clearly."

"You use your eyes in close work and little light all day, Master Clerk. It is a common complaint amongst such as yourself. Mistress Wilton has a soothing wash. A flask is a halfpenny."

The clerk nodded. "I'm willing to try it. And to tell you this, what I remembered when you'd gone. There was a man who sometimes came on business for Masters Crounce or Ridley. His speech was much like that of the Flemish weavers. He did not come often, and not lately. But here's something else. 1 once needed to send something on to him, and he directed it to the lodgings of Ambrose Coats, one of the Town Waits. I was to say it was for 'the foreigner.' "

Coats. Lucie had told Owen about the musician's visit. And what was now buried in the garden. "Ambrose Coats? Are you certain?"

The clerk nodded. "He plays the rebec and the crowd. You might say he's a bowman, like yourself." The clerk laughed at his joke.

"He is a friend of Martin Wirthir?"

The clerk got serious again. "A friend? That 1 cannot say. I do not even know if Coats would remember aught about the foreigner-he may have stayed there the once only-but it might be worth a visit."

"I thank you." Owen handed the clerk a small clay bottle. "1 must enter your name in the ledger, Master Clerk. Mistress Wilton is keen on records."

"I am John Fortescue," the clerk said, and spelled it for Owen. "I'll wager you're thinking it does not fit, eh?" He grinned.

Owen made an apologetic face. "You sound a Yorkshireman through and through."

"Oh, I am, Captain, through and through for many generations. But long ago my people came with William the Bastard, and though we are a poor branch, we carry the name with pride."

"So your ancestors built the castles of York?"

"Aye, they did so, Captain. They did so."

Owen thanked Fortescue again, and the clerk left a little taller for pride.

"An odd man," Lucie commented when she returned to help Owen close up for the day.

Owen was thoughtful. "He puts me in mind of Potter Digby."

"Oh, no, never!" Lucie had never liked the Summoner, no matter how helpful he had been to Owen. "This man was clean and looked honest. What can you possibly see of Digby in him?"

Owen shrugged. "I cannot say. Just a feeling he brings with him. Of gleeful conspiracy."

Lucie raised an eyebrow. "I am not certain I would find that pleasant."

"He is pleasant, so I am saying it poorly, as usual."

"You have a honeyed tongue," Lucie said. "It's my own lack of humor that is the problem."

"Do you know what he came to tell me? That a foreigner who worked for Crounce and Ridley-Martin Wirthir, I'm guessing- stayed at least once with a Town Wait named Ambrose Coats."

"Sweet Jesu. So the hand was left for Martin Wirthir as a warning, just as it was for Gilbert Ridley?"

"Perhaps. And perhaps the musician's friend was not Wirthir. There are other foreigners in York. I shall go talk with Coats tomorrow morning, before I open the shop."

"You are opening the shop? What will His Grace say about that?"

"Thoresby is off to Windsor for Christmas. Besides, I owe you some time in there, I should think. I am your apprentice, after all."

Lucie's hug and smile made Owen feel well rewarded.

He rose. "I'll go meet Jasper now."

Lucie stayed him with a hand on his arm. "Would you just greet Jasper at first, welcome him, ask no questions for a day or two? He's been through so much, I want him to feel welcome and safe."

It was difficult to agree when Owen wanted so much to describe Kate Cooper to the boy and see whether she had been the cloaked woman, but Owen saw the concern in Lucie's eyes. "Whatever you think best. I will wait until you give me leave to question him."

When Lucie kissed him, Owen was glad of his forbearance. He would wait till Hell froze over to question the boy if it made Lucie so affectionate.