The Lady Chapel

21

Martin hid for a while in the alley to see whether anyone would return to the scene. If it had been an attempt on the boy's life, the assailant would want to know whether he'd succeeded. Last night Ambrose had told Martin about Jasper's latest trouble. Two weeks the boy had been on the streets with festering wounds. He must be a strong lad. Even so, a fever ravaged the boy's thin frame. Martin judged it best to know who he was up against, but it was difficult to resist getting the boy to safety immediately.

Martin's watch was soon rewarded, but not by the man in the cart. It was a woman's voice he heard, stopping people in the street-"They say that a boy was hit by a cart in this street," Martin heard her say, "I wondered- my son is missing. More than a week ago. He is wounded-his father-it was a terrible argument. The boy they described-it sounded like my son. Can you tell me? Was a boy hit in this street? Do you know where he is?"

Martin peered out to see this excellent actress. The woman was tall, with a queenly carriage. He could not see the face beneath the hood, but there was something about her that seemed familiar.

Folk could give the woman no information. There had been a reckless driver down the street, yes. And some thought perhaps they'd seen a boy running. But no one had actually seen a boy hit. Eventually she gave up, going off in the direction of the Shambles.

Martin hoisted Jasper over his shoulder and headed for the apothecary.

Owen and Tildy had waited for Lucie to return from St. Clement's, but as the hour grew late, they decided to eat the stew that Tildy had prepared, then Owen would go out after Lucie. When the knock came at the shop door, they both looked up in fear. Lucie would not knock, but if someone had found her. .

Owen was at the door in a few strides. When he saw the body slung over Martin's shoulder, Owen feared the worst. "Lucie! Sweet Heaven, I should never have-"

"Peace!" Martin held up a hand. "Not Mistress Wilton. This is Jasper. I have found him. Almost didn't find him in time. A man tried to run him over with a cart."

Martin turned so Owen could see the boy's face, with its awful wound, feel the boy's fever. Owen touched the hot cheek. "I hope you have brought him in time."

Martin carried Jasper to the kitchen.

"Sweet Mary in Heaven!" Tildy exclaimed.

When Owen saw the extent of the boy's wounds, he shook his head.

"This is more than we can deal with here. He needs Brother Wulfstan's ministrations."

"Where is this Wulfstan?" Martin asked.

"At St. Mary's Abbey. He's the Infirmarian."

"Good. That is not too far. Let us go at once."

Owen turned his head to get a good look at Martin. "I take it you are Martin Wirthir?"

The man nodded, shrugged. "Forgive me. My worry over Jasper has robbed me of my manners. I am Martin Wirthir. I heard that Jasper was missing and in danger. I went looking for him."

"Thank God you did."

"We must get the boy to the Abbey at once."

Owen nodded. "Very soon. You can help Tildy clean his wounds first, get him into dry clothes, and try to get some wine into him. I must go out. Lucie is at St. Clement's talking to Cecilia Ridley."

"She is outside the city walls at night?"

"It was daylight when she left. I cannot think why she is so long returning."

"Someone must go for her," Martin agreed. "I propose that I do, and you take Jasper to the Abbey infirmary."

"No. I go for Lucie."

"I delivered Mistress Wilton safely before. The boy needs attention now. They know you at the infirmary-"

"I must find Lucie first," Owen insisted.

"Be sensible, man. I know my way among the night people of York."

Owen bristled. "I did not ask for your approval of my plan. It will be time enough to take the boy after I've found Lucie."

They both turned as the kitchen door opened, letting in the cold. And Lucie. She looked at Martin with some surprise, then down at the boy lying in front of the fire. "Sweet Jesus, you have found him!" Lucie rushed over to Jasper. She looked back at the two men who stared at her as if she were unexpected in her own house. "What is the matter?"

"What kept you so long?" Owen demanded. "And how did you get back here in the dark?"

"I spoke with Cecilia, and then I ate with the sisters. The Dean of the Minster brought me back with him. He is the brother of Isobel, the Prioress, and had dined there." Lucie looked from one to the other. "What were you arguing about?"

"We were discussing how we will get Jasper to St. Mary's Infirmary tonight," Owen said.

"St. Mary's?" Lucie bent over Jasper, lifted the torn shirt to examine his side, touched his wounded cheek. She crossed herself, whispered a prayer. "We must get him to Brother Wulfstan at once. Shall I ask Bess for the use of her donkey cart?"

"It will be faster if I carry him," Owen said.

"Shall I come with you?" Lucie asked.

"No," Owen said, with more force than necessary. "You stay here with Tildy and keep out of trouble."

Martin raised an eyebrow, looked back and forth between Lucie and Owen.

Lucie's face reddened. She clasped her hands behind her back. "Then go quickly. God be with you."

Tildy had managed to clean the boy's face without causing much pain, but the water roused him. Jasper looked up into Tildy's concerned eyes and whispered, "John is dead. Can you forgive me?"

Tildy's eyes brimmed with tears, but she managed enough voice to say, "There is nothing to forgive, Jasper. He brought it on himself." She dabbed his forehead.

Lucie knelt down to him. "Owen is going to carry you to our friend at the Abbey, Jasper. He will dress your wounds and make you comfortable. And you will be safe there."

The boy squeezed her hand.

Wulfstan had been called from the chapel to Jasper's bedside. He shook his head as he studied the boy's wounds. "In this most sacred of seasons, how sad it is to see what man has become. God give me the grace to undo this." He looked up at Owen. "God be with you, Owen. Go home to Lucie now. Henry and I will get right to work."

Martin had stayed back by the door to the infirmary, keeping out of the way while Owen explained what he and Lucie had noted about the wounds and Jasper's condition. Now Martin came forward. "You must know that the boy is in grave danger. Someone tried to kill him today. And those knife wounds would have been mortal had not another young man come between the attacker and Jasper."

Wulfstan nodded. "The boy will be safe here. This other young man. He was badly injured?"

"He is dead," Martin said.

Wulfstan and Henry crossed themselves.

When they returned to the apothecary, Martin and Owen joined Lucie by the hearth. Tildy had spiced and heated a jug of wine, and now went to bed to leave them to their talk.

Owen lifted his cup toward the guest. "You've led me quite a chase, Martin Wirthir. Do not misunderstand-you are welcome here. But I wonder why you have been so unwilling to meet me."

Martin raised his cup to Owen, then Lucie. "You are gracious to offer me drink and a fire. I have not recommended myself to you by my secretive manner, but I did not know whether I could trust you. I thought I could trust Mistress Wilton, but you, Captain Archer-I had doubts about you. And it is such a complicated business."

Lucie studied Martin, noting that although he dressed like a tinker, in leather and rough wool, there were touches-his cleanliness, the earring, the faint scent of perfumed oil-that contrasted with his disguise at close quarters. "You are not in the habit of living on the streets."

"No. I work with wealthy merchants and nobility, Mistress Wilton. But ever since Will Crounce's murder-"

Owen sat forward, fixing his right eye on Martin. "If you felt threatened by Will's murder, why did you stay in York?"

Martin rubbed his eyes, sighed. "For many reasons."

"And these reasons are?"

Martin glanced from Owen to Lucie, who was just as intent, and back to Owen. "I can explain myself. I'd come to York, as you know, shortly before Corpus Christi. I had been near the court and heard that a ruthless family who had no cause to love Gilbert Ridley and me were suddenly in favor with the King, so I came up here to tell Gilbert. And to warn Will Crounce that by association with Gilbert and myself he might be in danger."

"So Will knew of his danger?" Lucie said.

"Yes-though much good the knowledge did him."

"Severing the right hand," Owen said, "that is usually to mark a thief."

Martin dropped his gaze to the floor. "You make a success in trade, someone is bound to call you a thief."

Lucie glanced at Owen. She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was not satisfied with the response. Neither was she.

Owen shrugged. "You still do not trust us. I do not know how to prove to you that we can be trusted. My interest in your activities has to do with the Archbishop's wish to understand why Ridley was murdered. I do not intend to use the information for any other end-except, of course, to protect Jasper and my own household, which is now involved. I have searched for you to warn you that you are in danger."

Martin jerked his head up. "The fact that I am a foreigner makes me an outcast here. And other things about my life do not help the matter. Yet you sought me out to warn me. Why?"

Owen sat back, smiling. "I confess that once I'd warned you, I hoped to learn more about you and your connection with Ridley and Crounce. Anything that might help me understand why they were murdered, and in such a manner. I thought it a reasonable trade."

Martin shrugged. "I appreciate your honesty." He stretched his arms and yawned. "I am very tired."

"So are we all," Owen said. "Did you go to Riddlethorpe after Crounce's death?"

"I did. Quietly. There is an inn I know in Beverley where I could stay and send word to Gilbert. He did not want his family or household to associate with me. For their safety. Considering what has happened, I see how wise he was."

"And did you notice how Ridley wasted away?"

Martin looked puzzled. "Ridley? Wasting away? The man loved his food."

"Not of late, according to Archbishop Thoresby himself."

Martin stared into his cup, thinking. "I remember his looking uneasy and weary, but that is all. And he ate well that evening. Why? Was Gilbert ill?"

"He was being slowly poisoned," Owen said.

Lucie studied the floor, not wanting to reveal what she'd learned at St. Clement's in front of Martin.

"Merde." Martin was visibly shaken. "How could that be? Gilbert had stopped at home. He must have eaten mostly at Riddlethorpe."

"It was something he believed to be a physick," Owen said.

"Horrible." Martin crossed himself. "No. I saw no sign of such a thing."

"How long after Crounce's death did you visit Ridley?"

"A week, perhaps. I did not wait long. Who was poisoning Gilbert?"

Lucie held her breath.

"We do not know," Owen said. "Do you?"

"I never met his household, as I've told you, so I do not know what enemies he might have had there."

Owen nodded. "So you warned Ridley, returned to York, and stayed. That seems unwise."

"It was when I returned from Riddlethorpe that I discovered Jasper de Melton on the streets. I had dined with Will the night before Corpus Christi and then walked with him to Toft Green, where they were assembling the wagons. He pointed out Jasper with such pride. 'I hope to be a father to him,' Will had said. The boy was being instructed in the use of the greasehorn, so I wasn't introduced, but I could see he was a lively, bright child. I was happy for Will. He was a sensitive man. He was not happy without a wife, and I knew, though he did not as yet, that Gilbert was coming home for good. Suddenly he would be without Cecilia Ridley."

"So you knew of their attachment," Lucie said.

"I did."

Owen folded his arms. "What else can you tell us?"

Martin shrugged. "There is little more to tell. I tried to keep track of Jasper, show him where he might get food. He seemed to be doing well. I went away for a while." Martin took a drink, his eyes suddenly sad. "I remember that my first thought when I heard of Will's murder was that Gilbert had killed him, and the hand was for stealing Cecilia. Not that I could really imagine Gilbert doing that, but because Will was so uninvolved with our more secret undertakings." Martin put his cup down, rubbed his eyes. "It was a shortlived suspicion. It was too dreadful a thing. And anyone who knew Will knew how gentle he was. He couldn't inspire that kind of hate in a friend."

Owen stifled a yawn. It was getting late. "It seems that Will Crounce was loved by all who knew him."

Martin nodded.

"What do you mean by 'more secret undertaking'?" Lucie asked.

"We took risks, Gilbert and I."

"And one of them had to do with the family in favor at court?"

"That was mostly my folly. My greed. Gilbert stumbled on it later. But not Will. He knew nothing."

"What family?" Lucie asked.

"It is too dangerous to tell you."

Lucie cocked an eyebrow. "Things are rather dangerous for us already."

"For now, I will not speak their name. And now it is my turn to ask you a question. Do you know who has committed these murders?"

Owen shook his head. "No."

Martin sighed. Stood up. "You are tired. I am tired. I must take my leave."

"Will we see you again?" Lucie asked.

"Of course. I shall want to know what you learn, considering that I am likely to be the next victim."

Upstairs, Lucie curled up against Owen and closed her eyes. Owen shook her shoulder. "Can you think I'd let you sleep before you tell me what you learned at the nunnery?"

Lucie looked up sleepily. "Have you noted that Jasper's wounds are on his right side?"

Owen feared that her mind was already muddled with sleep. "What does that have to do with Cecilia Ridley?"

"Cecilia says that Kate Cooper is left-handed. Facing Jasper, she would have most easily wounded him on the right."

Owen grinned. "That is useful. What else did Cecilia Ridley tell you?"

"Very little about Kate."

So little information. And he'd been so worried about her. "Well, she must have told you something for all the time you spent there."

At the angry tone in Owen's voice, Lucie came to attention, propping herself up on her elbow. "You asked me to go speak with her. Are you now angry that I did?"

"I am angry that you stayed there to sup and did not send word."

Lucie touched Owen's cheek, urging him to look at her. He glared. She reached up and kissed him. "I am sorry, love. Please forgive me. I was so proud of myself for getting a confession from her that I was quite giddy."

Her smile was so smug. "A confession? You waited all this time to tell me?"

"We had a guest, my love."

"What confession?"

"Cecilia was poisoning Gilbert. She thought he'd killed Will out of jealousy. She did not mean to kill Gilbert, just to give him pain as Will's death pained her."

"Cecilia said that?"

"Yes." Lucie held the oil lamp close to Owen's face. "You find that difficult to believe?"

Owen shrugged. "I knew she was hiding something. I suppose it is exactly what I suspected."

"But you don't like her having done such a thing."

"It is so cruel a thing." Truth was, he did not know what he felt about Cecilia, but he was disappointed in her.

"It was a passionate act, Owen. She loved Will Crounce."

"And not her husband?"

Lucie was quiet.

"Well?"

"There was a time when you wondered how I could love mine."

True enough. Owen decided to change the subject. "Do you think Martin is telling us the truth?"

Lucie nodded. "So far as it goes-but he holds much back."

"I think so, too. Do you think he will come back?"

Lucie put the lamp aside and lay down again. "The next time the murderer moves, Martin will come to us. Let us hope he does not wait too long."

Owen sighed and lay down beside her. "It is difficult to wait."

Lucie pulled herself closer to him. "It is a chilly night."

He heard the invitation in her voice and turned toward her.

"When I opened the door and saw the body slung over Martin's shoulder, I feared it was you."

Lucie kissed him on the nose. "Forgive me for my thoughtlessness. But I'm here now, safe and sound, and wanting my husband."

She hugged him tight.

"Something is different tonight." Owen held the lamp over Lucie's face. She looked at peace, smiling. "What happened at St. Clement's?"

"I forgave myself."

"For what?"

She touched his scar. "For loving you more than Nicholas."

Owen put down the lamp and pulled Lucie over on top of him.

22/ Complications

Brother Wulfstan grumbled to himself as the guest appeared at the infirmary door for the second time in one day. "He still sleeps, my son. It may be many days before Jasper is strong enough to have visitors."

"Forgive me, but this time I come for healing."

"Are you ill?"

"Injured." The man held up a hand uncalloused by manual labor. Wulfstan squinted at the white hand. "I don't see- "

The man wiggled a finger and pointed to the palm.

Wulfstan picked up a lamp and held it close to the hand. "I am afraid my eyes are weakening at an alarming rate. Is there perhaps a slight reddening?"

"I burned myself. A foolish thing. I was lighting a candle."

Wulfstan touched the spot on the palm. The man winced. Wulfstan felt blistering. The fingertip was the same. But the wounds were trivial, and, God forgive him, Wulfstan found the man's impatient breath irritating. "This is nothing at all. Surely you travel with a salve for such minor things."

"I would if I had a wife to pack it for me, but she took herself off to the nunnery for prayer weeks ago, and I have no one to see to such things while she's gone." He sounded like a petulant child.

Wulfstan told himself that courtesy toward this man could be offered up as a penance. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Does your wife pray for something in particular?"

"No. She needs no excuse for prayer. 1 told her to pray that God cure her of her barrenness."

Wulfstan wondered whether the man's wife was really praying that her husband might be called to God's side while she was away. Such thoughts. He was not doing very well with this penance. But to be so cold about his wife's childless state. Ah. That was odd. Earlier in the day he'd said that Jasper reminded him of his son.

"Then your son was the product of an earlier marriage?"

The man looked confused.

"The son who looks like Jasper?"

"Oh. Of course. My thoughts are muddled. My hand is beginning to throb. Yes, my son is the child of my first wife, who died in childbed." He shook his hand to indicate how hot it felt. "Perhaps if I could come in and sit down. I feel faint."

Faint from such a superficial wound? Wulfstan did not budge from his stance blocking the doorway. "What is your son's name?"

The man thrust out his jaw. "What does that have to do with anything? I came here to have you see to my hand."

"What is your name, for that matter?"

"John," the man barked.

"Wait here, John," Wulfstan said, closing the door. He did not want the man entering the infirmary. It would be more difficult to get rid of him. The man had made himself a pest the past few days. Ever since Jasper arrived. In truth, Wulfstan did not believe the man's name was John, or that this "John" had a son who looked like Jasper. Wulfstan spooned some ointment into a cup and took it back to the man. "Rub this into the burned areas several times a day. Do not use much, or it will get on everything you touch and soil it. You might wrap a strip of cloth around the palm. Go in

peace, my son." Wulfstan bowed his head and closed the door in the man's face. How sinfully delicious.

A while later, Brother Henry peeked in to see whether Wulfstan was ready to go to the refectory for the evening meal. "That man was here again," Wulfstan said. "The guest who pouts."

Henry laughed. "I've never known you to so dislike a man."

"It is not simply dislike. The man is too interested in speaking with Jasper. Says the boy reminds him of his son, but I do not think he has a son. If he did, and he were so fond of him that Jasper's likeness moved him as he says it does, he would not torment his present wife about her barrenness. And he lied about his name."

Henry moved back to check that the door was closed, then sat down by Wulfstan. "You think he means the boy harm?"

"I feel it in my bones, Henry. God help me, it is not proof of anything, but the poor boy has been through so much. You saw how putrid the wound in his side was. I am sure he has been lying out in the alleys, pain robbing his wits. And the slice through his cheek-he will look almost as battle-scarred as Owen Archer when he's healed-and he's but eight years of age. I cannot risk something more happening to him."

"So what do we do? Go to Abbot Campian?"

Wulfstan shook his head. "No. I will not accuse the man to the Abbot on so little evidence. But we must make sure that one of us is with Jasper at all times. He must not be left alone, even for a quick trip to the reredorter."

Henry nodded. "I will watch him while you go to the refectory. My hunger will be a prayer that the man means Jasper no harm."

Wulfstan patted Henry's arm. "You need not go hungry. 1 will bring food for you."

"Should I find out more about him tomorrow? His name, his home?"

Wulfstan shook his head. "We do not want to let him know of our concern. At the moment, I am a rude, overbearing monk. It has nothing to do with him. That is good."

Tildy gasped as Lucie brought down from the chest three crystal wineglasses on delicate stems. "I have never seen such a thing."

"Don't you remember them, Tildy? We used them at our wedding feast. A gift from my father."

"There was so much that day, Mistress Lucie. I could not see it all."

"I thought Christmas Eve would be a good time to use them."

"What will they eat over at the York Tavern tonight with the Merchets coming over here?"

"They get cold meats, cheese, a simmering soup, bread. You should not worry about the few guests at the York tonight, Tildy." Lucie motioned to her to get on the far side of the oak table. "We'll move this to the center of the room."

Tildy hesitated. "Should we not wait for the Captain? He must be almost finished with the customer."

"We are not weak, Tildy. We can easily move it ourselves. Besides, I heard the shop bell jingle again. He will be busy for a while."

But it proved too much for Tildy, who cried out and dropped her side of the table.

Lucie was amazed. Tildy was a strong young woman. She hurried around the table to her, helped her over to a chair, felt her forehead. Cool. "What is it, Tildy?"

"I'm just worn down, Mistress."

"Am I overworking you?"

"No! No, it's never that. But since John"-she shrugged. "I cannot eat or sleep for thinking of him." Her voice trembled.

Lucie had noticed the shadows under Tildy's eyes, but had never imagined it was bad enough to affect her health. She hugged Tildy and felt her shivering. But no tears came. "You must sit right here and eat some apples and cheese while I finish getting things ready," Lucie ordered, getting up to fetch the food.

"You're not going to make me go to bed?"

"And miss Christmas Eve? What do you take me for? But I don't think you should go to the evening service with us."

"I wanted to pray for John tonight."

"You can pray here, Tildy. God will hear you." Lucie sat down by the girl, tucked some stray hairs into the girl's cap. "Would you like to tell me about him?"

"He just had such a bad time."

"He told you how he came to be hiding in the Merchets' stable?"

Tildy nodded, nibbled on a piece of cheese.

"Would you tell me?"

Tildy sighed. "I suppose it can't hurt now." She wiped her nose. "His family died of plague. He got sent to his father's brother, a Steward at a great house. They never fed John enough, even when the lady of the manor took him as a groom. One day he saw her push away a dish with a few figs left on it. When she wasn't looking, he took them. He thought she wasn't looking, anyway. She got so angry she screamed and her lord came. He took his sword hilt and crushed the fingers that had taken the figs. When John's uncle saw his ruined hand, he said John was good for nothing and kicked him out."

"How awful."

"Can you believe such hatefulness in Christians, Mistress?"

Lucie took Tildy's hand. "He must have cared for you very much to tell you the story, Tildy. He told no one else in York."

Tildy sniffled.

"I shall pray for him tonight, too."

"Thank you, Mistress Lucie."

"Tildy, your weakness. Are you with child by John?"

Tildy shook her head. "But I wish I was. Then I'd have something left."

Lucie drew Tildy to her. "I understand, my love, I do."

All day the Town Waits had rehearsed for the Christmas festivities at the Guild Hall. It was late afternoon as Ambrose walked home, looking forward to his fire and some hot broth. Footless Lane was dark, but outside a few houses dim lamps cast eerie halos of light over Ambrose as he passed. Near his own house, his steps faltered. His front door stood open. It could not be Martin-he was much too careful for that. Slowing, Ambrose considered what to do. He knew from Martin that he should be concerned-it was no accident that Gilbert Ridley's hand had been delivered to this very door. Ambrose began to turn round. He would go for one of the city constables. But then he heard the unmistakable sound of a snorting pig. That was too much. The pig in his house. Ambrose rushed inside and caught the pig snuffling about in the embers of the

cooking fire. It had moved the coals about so much that an ashy smell pervaded the house.

"Get out!" Ambrose shouted.

The pig ignored him.

Ambrose was furious. It was dangerous to attack a pig. But he had put up with enough from the filthy beast. Ambrose climbed the ladder to his sleeping loft. He would put his instruments out of harm's way and then attack the damnable creature. As he neared the top of the ladder, he noticed with alarm that the smell of burnt wood that he had presumed came from the pigs rooting in the embers had gotten stronger. Nothing but oil lamps and candles were ever lit up there. Ambrose eased himself up into the loft, laid his instruments carefully on his bed, and lit a lamp.

At first he could make out nothing amiss. The chests in which he stored his instruments were all there and intact, the bed, the bedding, Martin's chest of clothes, Ambrose's. And then he walked into it, dislodging something powdery that made him cough and almost drop his lamp. Hanging from a rafter was one of the metal baskets he hung bread in to keep it out of the way of rats. It should be downstairs. The basket swung back and forth gently. Ashes sifted through the metal bands and fell as a silent rain.

Ambrose crossed himself. Whatever had been inside, it was a charred mess, unrecognizable. He sniffed. At least it was not animal. But it was certainly no accident. Nothing Martin might have done while Ambrose was out.

With a shiver, Ambrose realized that whoever had set this fire might still be around. His heart racing, he examined his little loft, then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he left the lamp at the top of the ladder and crept down. He remembered the pig. But he heard nothing. Thank God for that, although the pig was no longer his chief concern.

Ambrose closed the front door and held his breath, listening, while he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he could make out vague shapes, he walked around the room, touching the few pieces of furniture. No one here. He opened the door into his back garden. Merlin rubbed against his legs and walked into the house, a clear sign that no stranger lurked in the garden.

"Praise be to God," Ambrose whispered, shutting the door. He

stirred the embers of the fire, piled on some extra wood, took a coal from his firebox to rekindle the pile into a hearty blaze. Only then did Ambrose go back up for the bread basket and bring it down to the fire, where in the light he saw white pieces in the ashes. He opened the basket and drew one of them out. An ivory peg. Dear God, one of his instruments. He examined it and suddenly cried out as he recognized the pieces. He hurried back up to his chest of old instruments.

His first crowd was missing, just as he'd feared. Given to him by his first lover, Merlin the Crowder, the finest crowder in London. It was the instrument on which Ambrose had learned to play. He felt sick to his stomach. Who knew him so well to know what it would mean to him?

Downstairs, he poured himself a tankard of ale. He tried to calm himself, reasoning that the old crowd had been on top in the chest. That it was his most cherished piece could not have been known; but that any instrument in a wait's house would be dear was the intention.

How cruel that it should be the gift of Merlin. Ambrose closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

Bess could not wait until they were all seated and eating. While Tom poured the Gascony wine, Bess looked round, caught everyone's eye. "You'll never believe it. I've discovered who Kate Cooper was before she married. Her mother is Felice d'Aldbourg."

Her news was received with puzzled stares. Then Owen's face lit up. "D'Aldbourg. Aldborough?"

Bess grinned. "Felice came about five years back to live with her sister, an embroiderer. Felice is an embroiderer, too, but she had not worked for years because she was married to a merchant in Aldborough. And then something happened to him-what no one knows-and Felice came to York to seek work through her sister. Her daughter comes to visit, and that's Kate Cooper." She sighed, proud of the nods all round, held up her glass. "Shall we toast the babe born in Bethlehem?"

All picked up their glasses and toasted the Christ Child.

When they were seated, Owen asked, "You have spoken to Felice?"

"Are you mad? If Kate Cooper is guilty of any of this, her mother would certainly warn her of our interest. I have learned this in bits and pieces from this person and that. It is my Christmas offering to you."

"And she lives in the Liberty of St. Peter?"

"Indeed she does. She is presently employed on embroidery for several chapels at the minster."

Lucie, who had stared into her glass all this time, looked up and said quietly, "It is a gift accepted with gratitude, Bess. But such a sorry topic for a celebration-the identity of the woman who murdered John and injured Jasper so badly that he cannot be with us tonight."

It took some time for the mood to rise once more.

By the time Martin arrived at Ambrose's house, two tankards of ale had heated the musician's sorrow. When Ambrose looked up at Martin, he remembered that this misfortune stemmed from something Martin had done. It was Martin's fault. "You bastard." He tossed the dregs of ale in his tankard in Martin's face. "First the hand, and now this. At least I deserve to be told what heinous thing you did to bring this on my house."

Martin wiped his face. "What has happened, Ambrose?"

Ambrose lifted the basket.

Martin peered at it. "Burnt bread? Such a temper over burnt bread?"

"No, not burnt bread. The crowd that Merlin the Crowder gave me."

"How-Ambrose, the crowd would not fit in that basket."

"It seems that your enemy is more creative than you are, Martin. He thought of smashing it to pieces before putting it in here to burn."

Martin sat down beside Ambrose, put his arm around him. Ambrose tried to pull away, but Martin held tight. "For God's sake, Ambrose, tell me what happened."

Ambrose gave up and slumped against Martin. "When I came home, the door was wide open, and this was hanging up in my loft. Burnt. While I was out. Someone is watching us, Martin. And you are the one with enemies." He sat up, took Martin's hand, turned

it palm up, and dropped the ivory pegs into it. "That is all I have left of the lovely instrument."

Martin stared down at the pegs in his hand. "I am sorry. I know that does nothing to make you feel better."

"I want to know what it is you did, Martin. You owe me that."

"I have kept you ignorant to keep you safe, truly I have."

"It did not work."

Martin clutched his hand tight around the pegs. "It is time to cooperate with Captain Archer. We must discover the murderer before more happens."

Lucie was setting out the pudding when she noticed Tildy leaning against the wall, her eyes closed. "Poor child. She's not used to so much wine."

Lucie and Bess roused Tildy and tucked her in bed.

The two couples were relaxing by the fire when the shop bell jingled. Tom, used to jumping up at the tavern, began to rise.

"Ignore it," Owen said. "We cannot be expected to dispense medicines at this hour on Christmas Eve."

The bell jingled again. And again. Owen cursed. Then he heard the creak of the garden gate. He was at the kitchen door before the intruders could raise a hand to knock.

Owen yanked the door open. "Who's there?" he demanded in a voice that he hoped would make whoever it was turn round and leave him in peace.

Martin Wirthir and Ambrose Coats stepped into the light from the doorway. "Forgive the intrusion," Martin said, "but matters have gone too far. We must talk."

Ambrose held up a wicker basket covered with a festive cloth. "A peace offering."

Owen stepped aside to let them in.

Ambrose handed Lucie the basket. She looked from Martin to Ambrose with a puzzled frown.

"The murderer has moved again, I think," Martin said.

"Sweet Jesus, what happened?"

"This will seem a small thing to you, perhaps," Ambrose said, and told them about his crowd. "But you cannot know-one becomes so attached to an instrument. It is like a death."

Lucie motioned to the two men to sit down at the table. "It is not a small thing. Someone broke into your house and destroyed something valuable and dear."

Tom had been examining the contents of the basket. Now he pulled out a bottle and held it up to Owen. "Gascony wine even older than the one we drank earlier-look at this odd bottle. They have not made these in a long time." He beamed. "Three bottles of it. And two bottles of brandywine."

"It is the time of night for brandywine, I think," Martin said.

When Tom had poured a round, Owen nodded to Martin. "Tell us what you know."

Martin took a gulp of the brandywine. "What I have told you so far is all true. Believe me. But the rest-I hoped it would not be necessary to tell."

"We are your allies," Lucie said.

Martin lifted his glass to her. "I hope that is still so when I've finished." He took another drink. "When I heard that Will's murderer had cut off his hand, I thought I knew what old trouble had caught up with me, and that Will had been murdered by mistake. You see, for a long time I'd feared that John Goldbetter had told the King whence came the information that I'd obtained for him to make his peace with your King."

Owen frowned. "Why would he reveal his source?"

"It is an unfortunate aspect of my business that I make many enemies, and that my employers are not keen to protect me. So such as myself often become scapegoats."

"I am not certain that I understand what your business is," Lucie said.

"I like to think of myself as a negotiator between the Continent and your fair isle. An ambassador-albeit a secret ambassador-for wealthy merchants and landed families."

"Magda Digby calls you 'Pirate,' " Owen said.

Martin smiled. "Magda teases me with that name. I do not actually touch the goods. I negotiate for their transport."

"And the severed hand-it made you think of what old trouble?" Owen asked.

"A merchant I had betrayed. He went to the Fleet prison. He learned of my part in his misfortune and swore that he would cut off my right hand for a thief when he got out."

"Who was this merchant?"

"Alan of Aldborough."

"Ah," Bess sighed.

Martin looked at her. "You knew him?"

"We have just spoken of him tonight. Or, rather, his wife and daughter."

"Why did this man consider you a thief?" Owen asked.

"I had taken money from Alan in exchange for a promise to keep silent about something I'd learned about his business. 1 took the money without ever thinking clearly about what I was promising. I just wanted to escape an uncomfortable situation."

"An uncomfortable situation?" Lucie asked.

Martin glanced at Ambrose, who sat watching him raptly. "It is awkward. His son, David, was a passionate young man who had become attached to me."

Ambrose flinched and looked down at his wine.

"It was David who told me of his father's dealings with the Flemings, how Alan sold wool to them despite the King's ban. When I told David that he should marry the woman his father had selected for him, that he would ruin his life and live in poverty if he persisted in his pursuit of me, David told his father that he had told me everything, that he must go off with me to keep me silent. Of course his ploy did not work. He was the only son. Alan offered me a tidy sum to disappear and keep my mouth shut." Martin shrugged. "But I foolishly told Gilbert Ridley one night when we were in our cups. I did not guard myself with Gilbert. He was my employer. I learned that I should not have been so trusting. When Gilbert wanted to help Goldbetter by giving him a name, he gave Alan's. And named me as the informer when pressed. He was, however, discreet enough not to tell Goldbetter how I had gotten the information."

"And yet you came up here to warn Ridley of some other trouble?" Lucie said. "One would think you would have resented him."

"We had worked together a long time. Most people employ me once or twice, rarely more. Gilbert provided me steady work. And

in all that time, he had betrayed me only that once." Martin nodded at Owen. "1 understand he even told you that there was no reason for me to be in York any longer, once Will was dead."

Owen nodded.

"He knew about Ambrose?" Lucie said.

"Exactly. He knew I would not stay away from York. But for the one indiscretion, Gilbert had been good to me. So I went to Riddlethorpe and told him about your King's new friends, for whom I'd arranged shipments to Flanders and then later reported when they'd paid far less than they'd agreed to pay for such a dangerous enterprise. I feared they would think Gilbert was also a voice to hush. I also wanted to tell Gilbert about Alan's threat. I had no idea whether Alan was out of the Fleet or not, but it seemed likely. That is when I learned that Will's hand had been left in Gilbert's room. We both found that a riddle." Martin sipped his brandywine. "And then Gilbert was murdered in the same fashion as Will had been, which made me more confident of my theory. Alan or a hired murderer had mistaken Will Crounce for me, but they got Gilbert right-the one who had offered the name to Goldbetter. I had no trouble believing Goldbetter had betrayed Gilbert. I went down to London to find out whether Alan had indeed been released from prison. While I was gone, Jasper disappeared again. And Gilbert's hand showed up at Ambrose's front door. Meanwhile, I could learn nothing of Alan's fate."

"He died in the Fleet," Owen said. "Could it be his son David?"

Martin's expression changed. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. "No, it was not David."

"How can you be certain?" Lucie asked.

"David took his own life when his father was sent to prison."

"Deus juva me," Lucie whispered, crossing herself.

The room grew quiet enough to hear the hiss of a damp log on the fire and the rumble of Melisende's purr.

"If not the son, could it be Alan's wife or his daughter, Kate Cooper?" asked Lucie.

Martin frowned. "Cooper? I know that name. Someone at Riddlethorpe, I think."

"Did Ambrose know any of the family?" Owen asked.

Ambrose shook his head. "Until this night, I never heard the name." He looked at Martin, then away.

"Then someone has been watching the two of you, to know to leave the hand with Ambrose," Owen said. "And yet you think they mistook Will Crounce for you, Martin?"

Martin sighed. "As I have said, Will might have been presumed guilty because of our partnership. I don't know. I just wonder how many will die before we discover the murderer. And there's the poisoning. How does that fit?"

Owen glanced at Lucie, who shook her head slightly.

"The poisoner had nothing to do with the murders," Owen said.

"You have discovered who was poisoning him?" Bess asked.

"It has no significance," Owen said.

"It might," Ambrose said.

"No. Lucie and I are both certain of that."

"I have other sins," Martin said. "Gilbert's death made me think it more likely that another family is after me. Except that the hand was so much the mark of Alan."

"How many enemies do you have?" Ambrose asked. He sounded as if he regretted having instigated his friend's confession.

"I have no idea how many people I have ruined. Or who blame me for their ruin. I confess I never gave a thought to it until Will's murder. Not really. I was good at it. It was like gaming. Thrilling. I don't deny it. I don't apologize for myself, either. I am no worse than any of them."

"This other family?" Lucie said.

Martin poured himself more brandywine and poured for the others who were empty, all but Lucie and Ambrose.

"I will not name them," Martin said. "It is too dangerous for the rest of you. But Gilbert and I were involved, and it would seem likely to them that Will was, too. I had arranged for their wool to be smuggled to Flanders, money to be returned. They were a greedy lot, and I despised them when they cheated me. So 1 got even. I sold their name to Chiriton and Company."

"Martin!" Ambrose's eyes were wide with amazement. "How could you?"

"If you knew them you would hate them, too. About twelve or thirteen years ago Chiriton and Company gave John Goldbetter s

name to the King as one of their debtors. Goldbetter proved he'd paid the debt and went one better, claiming that Chiriton owed him money. Chiriton settled the debt by giving Goldbetter the information I'd sold them about the family. Enough information for Goldbetter to extract pleasant sums of money from them."

Owen remembered Cecilia's account of the mysterious settlement out of court. Gilbert was even more extravagant than usual on my birthday that year.

"So this family is after you for the money you've cost them?" Lucie asked.

"It is worse than that. Suddenly, Heaven knows how, they were in favor with your King. They had power. They turned on Goldbetter and had him exiled. Goldbetter went to the Count of Flanders, who convinced King Edward to pardon him. They did not interfere. They did not want to draw the Count's attention to them, and they knew that Goldbetter would keep quiet. But Gilbert and I-ah, we were under no one's protection; on us they could take revenge."

"Why do you think this has to do with them?" Lucie asked.

"They had a small partner in their dealings."

"Alan of Aldborough?" Owen guessed.

Martin nodded. "Why were you speaking of Alan's widow and daughter this evening, Mistress Merchet?"

Bess looked over at Owen. "Ask him. I think perhaps I've become too involved as it is."

"The daughter Kate is the wife of Gilbert Ridley's Steward. She traveled with Ridley to York before both murders. And she disappeared when she discovered me at Riddlethorpe. We believe her to be involved. Probably the woman who lured Will Crounce to his murderers. And, being left-handed, she may be the woman who attacked Jasper at his old lodgings and murdered John, the Merchets' groom."

"Sweet Mother in Heaven, could she hate all of you so much?" Ambrose asked.

Martin wiped his forehead. "Most assuredly. She and her mother would see me as the cause of David's death and their father's ruin. She has more reason to hate us than the others."

Owen was quiet, thinking about the Archbishop's letter concerning Alan of Aldborough. His death had been a surprise to the warden. Poisoning? The suddenly powerful family wanting to silence him as well as Wirthir and Ridley?

"Merde!" Martin banged his cup on the table, rousing Owen from his thoughts. "The woman who came looking for Jasper in Goodramgate. I could not see her face, but there was something familiar. David's sister was tall, like her. And she had his way of gesturing."

Owen nodded. "Kate Cooper. We must set someone to watch Felice d'Aldbourg."