The Lady Chapel

15

Wind rattled the shutters and sent drafts dancing through the house. Lucie woke to the sound, realized it was just the wind and curled up against Owen's warm back. And then she heard the scream. And again. The second one woke Owen.

"What the Devil?" he grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his scarred eye.

"It's Jasper again. I'll go see if Tildy needs me." Lucie threw on her shift, then a shawl.

Owen caught Lucie's arm. "Let it be. Tildy likes comforting him. You need rest. You've been so pale. If you get up every night for Jasper's nightmares, you will sicken, and then I'll have him out of the house."

Lucie sat on the edge of the bed. "Owen, please. He's just a boy. I had nightmares after my mother died. I know how frightened he is. I remember."

"You've taken him in. You've done that for him. And Tildy's down there right now rocking him and crooning-you know that. Let it be. She's done wonders with the boy." Owen grabbed Lucie's shift and dragged her over to him, holding her tight.

"He's frightened, Owen. He needs to feel welcome. A part of the household. Then he'll feel safer. He keeps apologizing for being here."

"I will talk to him in the morning. I will not let you lose more sleep over the boy. There is no need."

When Owen went down to the kitchen in the morning, Jasper sat beside the fire clutching a cup of steaming liquid. He was a handsome lad with expressive eyes and golden hair.

Owen pulled up a stool and sat down beside Jasper. "I'm glad to see you mending, lad. We're all grateful that the Lord did not mean to take you just yet."

"Thank you, Captain Archer." Jasper's eyes were wary.

Owen poured himself some ale. "How old are you, Jasper?"

"I will be nine this winter."

"Nine years." Owen nodded, took a drink. "A good age to begin to build the strength for the longbow, it seems to me. What do you say, Jasper?"

The boy shrugged and looked away, but Owen saw the glitter of a tear sliding down Jasper's cheek. "My arm's still bandaged." The boy lifted his right arm.

"It's healing well, I hear. We can work slowly at first. Besides, a strong lad like yourself must find it hard to be stuck indoors. After you've broken your fast, would you like to go out with me and start strengthening your left arm?"

Jasper turned back to Owen with a friendlier look, but then frowned. "I must not be seen."

"So much the better that we have a walled garden. Mistress Merchet at the York Tavern has no guests staying in the room with the window that looks down into the garden, and no other buildings around us are tall enough for anyone to see in, unless they climb atop roofs to do so. And scaling a roof-well, we would notice that, wouldn't we, lad? So you've got a bit of space outdoors to walk about in."

The boy's face brightened a little, but he still looked uncertain. "Why are you being so good to me?"

Owen grinned. "Now, that's a good question, Jasper. You know that Mistress Wilton is a Master Apothecary?"

The boy nodded.

"So we have the skill here to get you well. So does the Riverwoman, but she has no space that's private like this. We do not invite strangers back into the house. All in all, it seemed a good place for you."

"But why are you helping me?"

"Because it is the Christian thing to do?" Owen grinned as Jasper shook his head. "You are right to distrust such an answer, Jasper.

The whole city knows of your trouble, and there are doubtless some murderers looking for you."

Jasper looked down at the cup in his hands. "You've heard that 1 watched them murder Master Crounce."

"A terrible thing to watch, a friend being attacked."

"1 didn't help him," Jasper whispered.

So that was part of the boy's problem. He felt guilty. "That is nothing to feel guilty about, Jasper. What could you do against armed men? A soldier is wise to know when it is best to keep quiet, stay alive, and go for help. Which you did."

The boy looked up at Owen. "Really?"

Owen nodded. "I have also heard that your mother died afterward. That is what the city at large knows."

"Did Mistress Digby tell you anything more?"

Owen wondered where the boy was going with that question. He wanted to be as honest as possible with the boy without telling him how involved he was in finding the murderers. That would surely make the boy nervous.

"Would it bother you if Mistress Digby had spoken to us about you?

Jasper shrugged. "I wondered, that's all."

"We know what Mistress Digby knows."

Jasper attempted a smile. "If the Riverwoman trusts you, then I do, too."

"Thank you. Well." Owen stood up. "You finish what you're drinking and have a bit of bread and cheese, too, for it's cold outside. Then we'll go out in the garden and see how strong you are."

Tildy took her cue and bustled Jasper over to the food she'd set out for him. The boy bolted down his food and declared himself ready.

Low, gray clouds threatened snow, but so far the day was dry. Last night's windstorm had scattered some debris from the trees about the garden.

"You might pick up the branches and take them to the back of the garden later," Owen suggested.

"I will, Captain Archer." Jasper seemed pleased to be given a task.

Owen had a bow slung over his shoulder. When he and the boy reached the woodpile, Owen shrugged off the longbow and held it up to the boy. The seven-foot bow was several feet taller than Jasper, though he was tall for his age.

"My father's bow was decorated," Jasper said, eyeing the plain wood.

"They're beautiful when they're painted, aren't they?" Owen said, though he preferred his plain. He liked a clean sweep of wood. "Do you have your father's bow hidden somewhere?"

Jasper dropped his head. "I had to leave it when I went into hiding."

"That must have been hard for you. You've had to be a brave lad. I doubt I would have survived so well when 1 was your age."

"Tildy says you're from Wales."

"Tildy's right about that. I'm a long way from home." Owen held the bow out to Jasper. "Do you know how to hold this?"

"I've watched them practicing at the butts."

"Show me." Owen kicked a wide plank of wood over to the boy. "Keep the bottom of the bow on that so that it doesn't dig into the mud. The string would be no use to me then."

Jasper took the bow, an unwieldy thing being so tall for him, and managed to reach his left hand to the middle. With his right, he touched the string. He looked up at Owen for approval.

"Excellent. Now pull back with your right hand."

Jasper looked down at his splinted forearm. "I can't."

"See what you can do. We need a marker to see where we began. Then you can track your progress."

The boy took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and managed to pull the string. The movement was tiny and brought sweat out on his forehead and upper lip, though the day was cold.

"Enough!" Owen said.

Jasper let his breath out as he let go the string. Owen caught up the bow and slung it over his shoulder again.

"Now we'll begin to work on your left arm. You must grasp the bow strong and steady with your left hand, and a strong, steady arm is what makes that possible. So"-Owen picked up a round, smooth stick he'd brought along and handed it to the boy-"hold

this out in front of you in your left hand, arm straight and stiff, and don't move."

"How long?" Jasper asked, raising his arm.

"Until you cannot hold it out there any longer. Your arm will feel as if the stick has become a lead ball or a rock. That's what you want. That makes you strong."

Jasper took a deep breath and held it as he stood with his arm out, his hand grasping the stick.

Owen smiled. "You must neither talk nor squirm, lad, but you must breathe. It does you no good to get light-headed."

In a few moments, the boy began to wobble.

"Begin again, and this time stand with your feet a bit apart." Owen showed Jasper. "It helps to steady you."

The boy shook his arm out, planted his feet about a foot apart, and lifted his arm with a look of grim determination.

Owen moved around Jasper, adjusting the boy's arm, feeling his back and easing it upright, pushing his head so that it rested straight on his neck. Owen knew how much pain an awkward posture could cause.

Jasper held the stick steady. He lasted longer than Owen had expected, considering the boy's weakened condition.

"Excellent, Jasper. That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll do that again."

"Thank you, Captain Archer." Jasper looked happy for the first time.

Owen nodded. "It's nice to have someone to train from the beginning. I can make sure you have the right habits from the start."

"Tildy says Welshmen are born knowing how to shoot the longbow."

Owen laughed. "Not true, Jasper. We must learn. Practice. It's hard work being an archer."

"I'll work hard, Captain."

Owen looked at the earnest face, the glow in the cheeks from the outdoors and a bit of exertion. "You've shown me that already. Was your father an archer?"

"Just for sport. He was a carpenter. But he was a good bowman. Folk said so."

"A carpenter? I thought you were going to apprentice to the Mercers' Guild."

The boy nodded.

"Did you not want to apprentice as a carpenter?"

Jasper bit the inside of his mouth and shrugged. "Dad fell from a scatfold working in the castle."

"Ah. So your mother thought she'd like you safe as a merchant." Owen nodded. "It makes sense." Though considering the fates of Crounce and Ridley. .

Jasper cocked his head to one side and looked up at Owen. "Could I try it again?"

Owen grinned and handed Jasper the stick.

The boy took his stance with a determined set to his shoulders, lifted his arm and eased it into position, adjusting his shoulder just as Owen had shown him.

He would do well.

Owen walked away from Jasper for a moment, looking about, checking the rooftops around them. When Owen turned back, Jasper still stood. Owen sat down and waited. The boy's arm trembled slightly, but not badly. Sweat beaded on Jasper's upper lip, darkened the hair that fell over his forehead. At last, with an explosive sigh, the boy dropped his arm. He'd lasted almost three times as long as on the last try.

"So. Today, whenever you notice that shoulder, move it around like this." Owen showed Jasper how to bring his shoulder forward, up, back, and around. Jasper tried it. "Good. That will keep it from getting too stiff to go on with your training tomorrow. That is, if you want to go on." Owen gave the boy a questioning look.

"Oh, yes, Captain. I do want to go on." Jasper smiled.

"You're strong for your age. I suppose it takes some strength to keep the wheels of a pageant wagon greased, eh? Were you tired after a day of that?"

The boy nodded. "My back hurt. And I got some bruises when I missed my footing."

"No doubt. How did you train for that?"

"They showed me the day before as they moved the wagon to Toft Green."

"Did they pick you for your strength?"

Jasper shrugged. "Master Crounce just told me I was to do it. I don't know if they even knew who I was."

Snow had begun to fall softly. Owen stood up. "You'd best get to work picking up the branches that fell last night before they're buried in the snow. Then get inside and have Tildy give you something to warm you. I don't want you getting a chill." Owen patted Jasper on the back. "No doubt you'll sleep more peacefully tonight."

Jasper grew red at the mention of his troubled sleep. "I'm sorry if I wake you and Mistress Wilton."

"I'm sorry you still have nightmares. You're safe with us, you know."

Jasper bent down to pick up some sticks.

"What is it you dream about, Jasper?"

The wary look returned to the boy's eyes. "It's naught."

Owen could see that he'd overstepped the boy's carefully guarded boundaries. He would wait and try again another day.

Sleet pelted against the casement beside the table the King had provided Thoresby for his work. Thoresby sat with his left elbow on the table, his hand supporting his head, as he looked up, idly watching the icy water run down the glass, meander round the imperfections, seeking the sill, where it no doubt puddled and overflowed.

Though he watched the rain, his thoughts were on Alice Perrers, how cleverly she had insinuated her way into the royal household, how she had mastered plucking the strings of the King's affections until they sang at her touch. Thoresby had observed her bend and sway with the King's moods, pry and prod to discover their causes, then side with the King whatever his desire, whatever his complaint-most of the time. So that when she suggested an alternate path, the King listened, for it was so unusual for her to express a contrary opinion that it must be important when she did. Was there ever such another manipulator as Alice Perrers?

Beneath Thoresby's hands lay several documents describing properties in London owned by the King, properties that should rather go to one of the King's children than to Alice Perrers. What did the King see in her? Thoresby remembered the crimson glow

in her eyes his first night at Windsor. Might she have a pact with the Devil? It was not impossible. Now that he thought of it, how else could such a plain, outspoken, immoral woman take over the King?

Woman. Thoresby snorted. More like a girl. She was but seventeen.

And already she had such power-and knew how to use it. Her uncles must have realized her intelligence and seen their opportunity. But how had they gotten her to court? Thoresby could smell a rat, or a pack of them-but he needed proof. His most damning evidence against them so far was the lack of evidence. A family that had climbed to prominence so recently must have done so through business deals and court suits, leaving a trail of paper and vellum. But he could find no such trail behind the Perrers family. They had taken care to cover it up. Damn them. He must have a clear case before he approached the smitten King.

Thoresby looked down at the papers and pushed them aside, reaching instead for the flagon of wine that a pretty maid had brought him. Why couldn't the King satisfy his lust with a girl like the maid, unassuming, happy to be noticed by her lord and master? If she bore the King's child, she would not demand properties in London. The child, of course, would be brought up elsewhere, in a suitable household. And the maid would be happy to be sent away with a purse of gold, to wed a farmer.

Sent away. Now, there was a thought. What if he suggested such a clever match for Mistress Alice that the King could not resist? Someone rich and important to the King.

Failing that, what if she should die suddenly? In mysterious circumstances.

Sweet Mary in Heaven, he was the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. He should not waste his time plotting the death of the King's mistress. She was trivial. Unimportant.

No, that argument did not work. The King had made Alice Perrers important. Her uncles might have placed her at court, but it was the King who kept her there. What Thoresby wanted to know was why the King had chosen her. Perhaps she was indeed the Devil's handmaiden.

Thoresby straightened as he heard a commotion outside his door-the rattle of weapons, an angry footfall. It would be the King,

irritated that Thoresby dawdled over the deeds. Thoresby gathered the documents in front of him. As the King entered, the Chancellor was bent over his work. Feigning surprise and confusion, Thoresby glanced up, then rushed to stand. "My Lord." He made a flustered bow.

High color and dark eyes verified Thoresby's guess that the King was angry.

"Why is my Lord Chancellor asking about the wool smugglers I sent to the Fleet?" Edward demanded.

Thoresby was caught so off guard he could think of no immediate answer. Who had told the King?

"Do you dare disapprove?" the King demanded.

"Disapprove? No, Your Grace. Not at all."

"I will not be told how to finance this war." Edward pounded his fist on the table.

Thoresby lunged for his cup of wine as it began to topple. He managed to prevent most of the spillage. "Your Grace, please let me explain. My clerks were set to gathering background information concerning two murders in York. I would not think of criticizing your decisions, my Lord."

The King sat down opposite Thoresby. "What murders?"

"Two members of the Mercers' Guild. Both murdered within my Liberty of St. Peter. Both in the same manner, their throats slit and their right hands cut off."

Edward grabbed the cup of wine and drank. "So someone thought they were thieves. A deal gone wrong. These merchants are wont to cheat one another."

Thoresby shrugged. "Perhaps, Your Grace. But I desire facts. And since they were agents for John Goldbetter, I thought the records would suggest some motive, and perhaps even the murderer's identity."

"Why do you care about those Northerners, John? Haven't you enough to do as my Chancellor? I did not expect you to neglect your duties as Chancellor when you became Archbishop of York."

"Forgive me if I have offended. Perhaps I am giving too much attention to this. But you see, one of the victims, Gilbert Ridley, had just delivered to me a large sum of money for my Lady Chapel. If the money was stolen, I do not want to use it for the chapel."

The King threw back his head and laughed. "Good God, man, if it's money earned in trade, it's bound to have been stolen from someone."

"Please, Your Grace, I want to please Our Heavenly Father and the Most Blessed Virgin Mary with this chapel."

"You think to buy your way to sainthood? You're no saint, John. You'll fool no one."

"I am quite earnest, Your Grace. I wish to make reparation for my sins."

The King gave his Chancellor a long, searching look. "You know, John, you begin to take your post in York too seriously. Have you no Dean of the Chapter? No archdeacons?"

"Yes, of course, but-"

"There you are. They are to do the work for you. You go up there too often. They will begin to depend on your being there. It makes them lazy."

Perhaps before Thoresby murdered Alice Perrers, he should study her technique. He was handling the King clumsily.

Edward took out a jeweled dagger and poked at something in the palm of his hand, then reached over with the dagger and poked the papers in front of Thoresby.

"What is taking you so long, John? I asked you simply to choose the property that would be best for Mistress Alice."

Thoresby pressed his thumbs into the muscle between his eyebrows. The pain calmed him. He faced the King. "What is best for Mistress Alice in what way? Do you wish her to be inconspicuous? Then you should choose a site well away from London. Do you wish her to be close at hand? Then it would be best to keep her as your Queen's lady-in-waiting. A house in London will keep her away from you. Do you wish to provide a comfortable home for the boy? Again, choose a house well away from court." Thoresby threw up his hands. "You see my dilemma. I find it inadvisable to give such a gift at all."

"Merde. All argument, no substance. You sound more like a cleric every day. You disappoint me, John."

Those words might be the beginning of the death knell for Thoresby's career. But, rather than anxiety, he felt a perverse twinge of relief. He was not himself. He must be unwell.

Unwell. That could be useful. "Your Grace, I confess to not knowing myself of late." Thoresby used his sincerest, humblest voice. "This morbid fascination with the murders, my obsession with the Lady Chapel, my tomb. Perhaps I should leave the court for this joyous season, retreat to York. I am not healthy company-"

"No!" the King thundered. Then, in a quieter voice, "1 will not allow it." The veins stood out on the King's large hands, belying his gentle tone. He was angry. "I need you here to arrange the deed of trust for Mistress Alice. I will not have you running off to the North Country to play with your murders and tombs. The moors have made you choleric, John. That is the problem. The worst thing for you would be to spend the solstice up in that darkness."

"But if I cannot make a good decision, Your Grace-" Thoresby held his hands out, palms up in supplication. "You do not need me for a deed of trust. Any lawyer can draw it up for you."

The King toyed with the dagger, turning it this way and that. A dangerous quiet had descended on the room. Only the crackling fire and the sleet tapping against the window dared break the tense silence.

Then the King sighed. "One might almost think that you disapprove of Mistress Alice, John. But we are old friends. You have served me well and faithfully. I will not entertain such suspicions." The King rose.

Thoresby rose.

"We shall talk again tomorrow." The King's voice was still quiet, controlled. "You will have a decision for me then." Edward turned and marched from the room.

Thoresby shivered. He had not handled that well. Not at all well. Perhaps Mistress Alice had put a curse on him.