The Lady Chapel

13

Ambrose Coats' s address was Footless Lane, across from St. Leonard's Hospital. Not enticing. Owen set out after fortifying himself with some ale and bread to see whether Ambrose Coats remembered Martin Wirthir.

"You don't know that he will be awake at dawn," Lucie warned. "A musician might well sleep late if he performed last night."

"Let's hope he is a reasonable man so that I can keep my promise to you to open the shop."

The house was part of a row, this one distinguished by a large orange tabby wailing at the door. A slender man with dark blond curls opened the door just as Owen lifted his hand to knock. The blond smiled down at the cat and let it glide into the house, then glanced up. "Forgive Merlin, sir. It is his nature to become hysterical when his routine is broken. I am late opening the door for him." He smiled apologetically, but as he studied Owen's face his expression changed. "Captain Archer?" There was a tension in his voice and face that had not been there a moment ago.

Owen silently cursed his scarred face that put people on guard. "You must be Ambrose Coats, Town Wait?"

The man nodded. "I am." He stepped aside. "Please, Captain, come in. The least I can do is offer you hospitality after leaving that horrible thing with Mistress Wilton."

"I am surprised you know me, not being down at the butts on Sundays," Owen said as he entered the small house. As a Town Wait, Ambrose was not required to practice the longbow, but to save his hands for his music.

"You are a noticeable man " Ambrose said.

Owen reached up to the patch. "Aye, that I am."

Ambrose smiled. "It adds a suggestion of danger in an already-arresting face."

Owen did not know how to respond to that. If the words had been spoken by a woman, he would have turned on his charm. But what could Ambrose Coats mean by such a remark?

Ambrose Coats's large, deep-green eyes watched Owen nervously. "Please, sit down." Ambrose pulled the one chair in the room up to a brazier. "Would you share my morning ale with me?"

"If you're offering." Owen sat down.

Ambrose poured two cups of ale and pulled up a stool. "I told Mistress Wilton what I could about the hand. I don't know what else I can tell you."

"A neighbor's pig left it on your doorstep-is that what you think?"

"I cannot imagine how else it got there."

"I can. I was told you might help me find someone. But I think someone else has discovered that he is a friend of yours, too."

"Find someone? A musician? For a gathering?"

"No. I need to tell this person he may be in danger."

Ambrose sat up even straighter than before. "And who might this person be?"

"Martin Wirthir."

The chin clenched and looked more prominent than ever.

"You do know him?" The man's expression made it clear that he did.

The musician thought about it, then shrugged. "I know Wirthir. But I have not seen him for a long time. So perhaps that is why he does not come, because he is in danger?"

Ambrose Coats was clever. Quick. "I doubt that Wirthir knows of his danger if he has not been in York of late," said Owen. "But it is important to get the message to him."

"He was never one to announce his visits. Perhaps you could tell me what this is about, and if he shows up. ."

"Your friend worked for Will Crounce and Gilbert Ridley, did you know that?"

"I know nothing of his business."

"But you recognize the names, and you knew that Gilbert Ridley's hand was still missing. Do you also know that Will Crounce's hand was left with Ridley? As a warning that he was next, it seems. So now Gilbert Ridley's hand is left with Martin Wirthir."

Ambrose fidgeted on the stool. "This is not Martin's home."

Owen shrugged. "Crounce's hand was not left at Ridley's home, but in his room at the York Tavern. I understand Martin Wirthir has stayed here. …"

"What do you want?"

"To speak with Wirthir. Tell him about the danger. Ask him what business deal might have spawned such grisly deaths."

"Who are you working for?"

"The Archbishop."

The green eyes widened. "Truly."

"The murders occurred in the minster liberty."

"So they did. And you think someone knew Martin once stayed here and left the hand on my doorstep to warn Martin?"

"It seems likely. Do you have a better explanation of the odd coincidence of the three being business partners?"

"As I said, I did not know Martin worked with those men. How can I be certain that the Archbishop doesn't want to accuse Martin of the murders?"

"It would be a foolish murderer who would leave that hand to be discovered," Owen said. "From what I have heard of his activities, Wirthir is no fool."

Ambrose played with the cup in his hands. "There was a boy who had witnessed one of the murders, wasn't there? Whatever happened to him?" He kept his eyes down, his voice quiet, but Owen could tell it was not an idle question, that Ambrose was anxious for an answer.

"You must mean Jasper de Melton. I'm afraid he's disappeared. Poor boy. I'm sure he's in danger. Why do you ask?"

Ambrose took a drink. "I wondered. He's disappeared, you say? Someone should have watched out for the boy." The green eyes looked sad.

"I urged His Grace to do something to protect the boy, but he thought it unnecessary." Owen drained his cup. "Well, I shall keep you no longer. Please send word if you see your friend." He walked

to the door, then turned back. "There is one favor you might grant me."

"What is that?"

"You could tell me what Martin Wirthir looks like."

Ambrose shrugged. "1 can see no harm in it. Tall, straight-backed, Devil in his eye." He cocked his head to one side, studying Owen. "Dark hair. Like yours, only straight." He shook his head. "No, lighter hair than yours. But dark. Lovely, deep voice. You will not find him if he does not wish to be found."

"1 can but try." Owen opened the door, paused. "I wonder. If your neighbor's pig bothers you so much, why have you not complained to the council?"

Ambrose met Owen's eye, did not flinch. A defiant look. "There is no point in starting a feud with a neighbor."

Owen studied the man. Lucie was right. There were things Ambrose did not say. And yet Owen had the feeling that what he did say was true. "How did you come to befriend Wirthir, a foreigner?"

Ambrose reddened. "1 meet all sorts of people in my work, Captain Archer. Martin is a delightful man, he needed a place to stay." The musician shrugged.

Owen believed it, as far as it went. But there was much more to it, he was sure.

As he walked back to the shop, Owen mulled it over. Protective, like his comrades-in-arms had been of each other. But Wirthir was a pirate, Coats a Town Wait. What was their bond?

Lucie scrubbed horseradish roots and handed them to Tildy to grind. The pungent root had Lucie wiping her eyes every few minutes, but Tildy hardly seemed to notice. She frowned over her work and muttered to herself.

"What's troubling you?" Lucie asked when she could ignore the behavior no longer.

Tildy hunched her shoulders. " 'Tis naught, Mistress Lucie."

"How is Jasper this morning?"

"He does better every day. It's good that he's here."

"I see you made fish cakes this morning."

Tildy nodded.

"Is Jasper ready for such food?"

"No, this is for you and Captain Archer. For being so good to Jasper. Not everyone would take him in."

"So what is troubling you?"

The girl bit her bottom lip and turned toward Lucie. "Is it a sin to swear an oath that has naught to do with God?"

Lucie did not have an immediate answer to that. She hoped that Tildy and John had not pledged their troth.

"What sort of oath, Tildy?"

"A secret. You know, never telling anyone else. That sort of thing."

"You mean a secret a friend has told you? Or a secret oath?"

Tildy frowned. "I'm not sure."

"Did someone tell you something about himself and you promised not to tell anyone? Or did someone ask you to take an oath- perhaps you swore never to eat fish cakes again-and made you swear that you would tell no one?"

" 'Twas the first."

Lucie was relieved. "A secret like that is fine, Tildy, so long as it doesn't hurt anyone."

Tildy was quiet, still biting her bottom lip. She'd begun to sniffle as the horseradish root piled up beneath the grinder.

Lucie opened the kitchen door for air. "It seems to me that you are rather fond of John. Am I right, Tildy?"

Tildy blushed and ducked her head.

"I don't mean to pry, but I can't help but wonder whether your mood this morning has something to do with your feelings for John."

"Oh, no. John is fun to talk to and he's so nice to Jasper. No, I–I just feel so sorry for Jasper. So many awful things have happened to him."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that John isn't breaking your heart."

Tildy smiled through tears. "He would never do that to me."

Lucie coughed. "This horseradish root is about to choke me."

"Your eyes are very red, Mistress Lucie."

"So are yours. Why are we standing in here like fools?"

They laughed and rushed out the door, dissolving into coughing fits that turned into giggles. Lucie realized how fond she was of Tildy and hoped Bess was wrong about John. If Bess was right, there was no way to protect Tildy from a broken heart. She seemed steadfast in her affection.