The Lady Chapel

25

A bright though chilly morning sun cheered Martin and Ambrose on their way. "I enjoy travel when the weather is so cordial," Ambrose said. "I can admire the countryside instead of hiding my face from the rain."

"At this time of year it's colder when the sun is out. I think I prefer the rain." Martin nodded toward Ambrose's gloves.

"And I hate wearing those things."

"And hats, I see. No wonder you're cold."

Martin reigned his horse in; Ambrose did likewise. Martin studied his friend's face. "Why are we talking about the weather?"

"I am trying to be civil today since you thought me unfriendly yesterday."

"Oh."

"So today you're the one who's glum."

"I have been thinking about the future."

"And it's gloomy?"

"If I'm not to continue in the career I've fashioned for myself — which I was very good at, by the way-then what am I to do?"

"You enjoyed what you did?"

"Would I have been good at it otherwise? When a man plods at his work, it's because he hates what he does. For the rest of my life, I shall be a plodder."

"You can find something new. Captain Archer did."

"I have watched him down in St. George's Field, training the townsmen. Though he speaks to them patiently, his hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. And he seems to detest the Archbishop. The only joy he has found is in his marriage."

"Ah. The fair Lucie Wilton. I admire her. She is skilled, willful, and beautiful."

"I'll bet there's marvelous sport in that bed."

They laughed and spurred their horses on, friends again.

The Scorby lands were more extensive than Ridley's, complete with a village and church. The house was older than Riddlethorpe, with a moat and drawbridge, but not as welcoming or as lovely. Though Martin had never been a guest at Riddlethorpe, he had managed to ride across the land and study the house-in case he needed to contact Gilbert in a hurry. Looking at Scorby's house, Martin guessed that money was spent less freely here. Perhaps less available.

Martin and Ambrose rode up to the gatehouse and stated their business.

The gatekeeper was a scarred old man who sported two daggers at his waist. Not a comforting type to meet with. "Masters Wirthir and Coats." The gatekeeper motioned toward Ambrose. "You wear the livery of the city of York. A bailiff? Or a constable?"

"Neither. I am a Town Wait."

"A musician. Good. We want no trouble here. But why not give me the letter and be off?"

"We would speak with Master Scorby, if he is at home," Martin said.

"He is indeed. I will just get Tanner to lower the drawbridge and take you to the Master."

A younger, but equally scarred man led them into the house. Three men sat by the hearth in the great hall, hunting dogs lying at their feet. One of the dogs, a black-faced giant, growled as Ambrose and Martin were announced. A brown-haired man, by his dress the master of the house, motioned them over. Martin noted that Paul Scorby's companions looked as battle-scarred and unfriendly as Tanner and the gatekeeper. He wondered whether he had been so clever to come here after all. One of the companions placed a bench near Scorby. Martin and Ambrose sat.

"I understand you carry a letter for me," Scorby said. He was a handsome man, good features, though there was a wildness about the eyes that made one look again and proceed with caution. He

carried his trim figure with a weary arrogance. He was not a fighting man by the look of his face and hands, though one hand was bandaged. The costly fur on his tunic and long, curling toes on his shoes spoke of one who enjoyed luxury and let others do the dirty work.

Martin handed Scorby the letter. "I hoped to ask you about your recently deceased father-in-law while I was here."

Scorby glanced at the seal on the letter and grinned, then turned his attention back to Martin and Ambrose, looking them up and down. "I've heard your name in connection with my father-in-law, Wirthir. But you, Coats? What was your business with Gilbert Ridley?"

"I am traveling with my friend. I had no connection with Master Ridley."

"I see." Scorby shrugged. "Gilbert Ridley. Yes. We will talk of him after I have read this letter. Please share some spiced wine with my men while 1 retire to read this. 1 would offer you more, but my wife grew too holy for this household and took herself off to a nunnery. Things are still confused beyond help."

Martin did not wish to spend any more time with Scorby's men than he had to. "It would take but a moment to discuss my business. Could we not talk now? I need not tax your household at all, then."

"No, no. There's plenty wine. You see, it is a letter from my fair cousin. A letter I have awaited for some time. I shall attend you much better after I have satisfied my curiosity."

Reluctantly, Martin and Ambrose accepted wine from Scorby's surly companions. Martin had a bad feeling about all this and contemplated the room silently. Ambrose tried to engage the men in conversation, but even his considerable charm failed to elicit a smile or a cordial word from the men. The four sat and waited, Martin and Ambrose exchanging worried glances, the retainers glaring alternately at the door through which Scorby had disappeared and at Martin, the three dogs breathing loudly and snorting in their unpleasant dreams.

At last, as footsteps sounded outside the door, the two companions rose. Thank God, Martin thought, Scorby is returning. But, to Martin's dismay, the men shouted to the dogs, and the monsters

leapt upon Martin and Ambrose, knocking them back off the bench and trapping them under their huge paws. They stank of raw meat and urine. Scorby's men tied Martin's hands behind his back and tied his legs, then did the same to Ambrose.

"Please, please, my hands. Do not cut off the blood to my hands," Ambrose begged them.

The retainers laughed and called off the dogs.

"You might sit them back on the bench," Scorby said from the doorway. He sounded delighted. As if this were sport. Tanner stood next to him.

Martin growled as he was heaved unceremoniously onto the bench. "What is the meaning of this? We come here in good faith, delivering a letter that you might have received much later had we left it with the Dean of Ripon as we'd been asked, and you have your men attack us? And tie us up? Are you mad?" He winced as they heaved Ambrose up on the bench next to him. Blood dribbled from Ambrose's mouth. "You're animals."

"It is nothing. Just bit my tongue," Ambrose whispered.

Martin kicked his bound feet up into the groin of the man in front of him. As the man howled and clutched himself, Martin noticed a signet ring on the man's dirty hand. Will Crounce's signet ring. "Sweet Jesu," Martin murmured, realizing what that must mean. What all this must mean. "The Archbishop delivered us into the hands of my nemesis."

"The Archbishop did not," Ambrose hissed. "It was your idea to deliver the letter."

"Indeed." Scorby had resumed his seat. "And how did you guess at your misfortune?" He chuckled. The hand that played with the fur trim on the collar sported a ruby ring.

How had Martin missed it before? "You and your retainer wear the rings of dead men."

"Clever, Wirthir. Do you know, my cousin is angry with me that I have not killed you yet."

"Your cousin? You mean the letter?"

"Yes. Pity you did not recognize the seal of Mistress Perrers. Alice Perrers. The King's beloved."

"Perrers?" Martin groaned. It could not be worse. "When I knew her, she had no seal."

"When you took her money and then sold her name to that Chiriton swine, you mean. Well, yes, my dear cousin Alice has risen rather quickly. She gave birth this autumn to King Edward's bastard son. It has enhanced her position quite remarkably. Clever Alice."

A bastard son for an aging King. Alice Perrers would now wield great power at court. As long as she silenced any accusations of treason. "What has she promised you?" Martin had money hidden away. Perhaps he could bribe this madman.

Scorby nodded to Tanner, who moved to stand behind Ambrose. Scorby smiled. "I am to be invited to court as soon as- Well, she is angry with me, but when I deliver proof to her that I have completed my task, she will relent." He stood up. "Tanner, hold the musician."

Tanner grabbed Ambrose. Martin lurched away, but he was grabbed by the other two men.

"Loosen Wirthir's bonds and bring him over by the fire," Scorby said. "You know what I must do." He walked away as the two men hoisted Martin up and took him over to a table by the fire, then untied his hands and held him still.

Scorby approached with a sword in hand, a gleeful glint in his eye. "Sweet Alice is angry about the hands, but it was my Kate's request. And, in her memory, I must complete her father's curse."

As Martin and Ambrose screamed their protests, the men forced Martin's right hand down onto the table. Martin looked up in horror at the lust in Scorby's face as he lifted the sword with both hands.

Sweet Savior, forgive me my sins. And give him strength to do it right the first time. In a moment of dreadful clarity, Martin watched the sword descend. It took forever to reach him. He howled at the sight of his blood rushing forth long before the searing pain hit him. And then Martin stumbled, almost fainting.

Ambrose broke out of Tanner's grasp, but the dogs were waiting. "Martin! My God, Martin!" Ambrose was yelling.

Martin looked over at Ambrose and wondered woozily why his friend was on the floor, pinned down by the hounds of Hell.

"Pity that poor Kate could not witness the end," Scorby said. "She hated you the most, Wirthir. Said you'd killed her brother."

"Cauterize his wrist, for pity's sake," Ambrose pleaded. "Martin, can you hear me?"

"I hear," Martin whispered, steadying himself against the table. But Ambrose seemed to speak from a distance, and the room buckled and changed shape as he stood there. His right hand hurt unbearably. "I do not think I can stand up much longer," he whispered. Strong arms caught him up.

"Take them below," Scorby ordered. "I will visit them shortly."

The dungeon with its seeping walls and fetid air was fitting for a house with a moat and drawbridge. Ambrose wondered what the family protected itself against. But his thoughts were all for Martin as he was dumped, unconscious, on the filthy floor. They'd tied a rag on his mutilated wrist, but it was already soaked with blood. Ambrose dropped to his knees beside Martin and put his head on his friend's chest. His heart still beat. Praise be the Lord. Where there was life, there was hope.

"Please untie my hands so I might assist him," Ambrose begged the man who wore the signet.

"And what do you think you might do, eh?"

"I can at least try to stop the bleeding."

The man brought his torch closer and examined the blood-soaked rag. "I suppose, being in the dungeon and all." He untied Ambrose.

"Could you bring some wine for the pain when he wakes?"

"He won't be living much longer. The Master has plans for him."

"But a person can die of pain."

The man snorted. "I'd be dead ten times over." He spat in the corner. "Die of pain."

"There would be no more sport for Master Scorby if Martin dies of pain."

The man looked uncertain. "I'll see about it." He closed the heavy door behind him.

Ambrose sat down and took off his jacket to untie the leather lace that attached one of the sleeves to his leather vest. The lace was thin but strong. He dug in the filthy straw until he found a small, thick twig. Gently he slipped the lace under Martin's mutilated arm and tied the lace tight just above the elbow, then stuck in the twig to

twist the lace as tight as possible. Martin whimpered. Ambrose lifted Martin's head onto his lap and smoothed his sweaty brow.

And then he began to sing. He sang anything and everything he could think of. His intention was that no matter when Martin waked, he would know instantly that Ambrose was there.

Ambrose's voice was hoarse by the time a timid servant came in, bearing a pitcher of wine and two cups. "You've a voice like an angel," the woman said. "We heard you up above. Hide these under the straw after you have some. For later."

Ambrose drank gladly, and when he lifted the cup to Martin's lips, his eyes fluttered open and he drank a little. Ambrose helped Martin sit up. Martin drank more.

"Praise God you have not given up, Martin."

"I should. Perrers. Her uncles won't let me live."

Ambrose helped Martin drink more of the wine. "Now try to rest again."

"The singing. Bless you."

Ambrose folded his jacket and made a pillow for Martin. He finished the wine he'd poured, then hid the jug and cups. Getting up, he paced to keep warm while he sang. When he felt the stiffness go out of his legs, arms, and back, he sat down again and took Martin's head in his lap, singing all the while.

Ambrose had taken two breaks for wine and movement, and the light from the high, barred window had vanished long ago when Scorby came down with his two companions.

"Lift him up," Scorby barked to his men. They lifted Martin and held him upright between them. "It occurred to me that you might bleed to death. And since that is not the death I've planned for you, I'm going to cauterize that nasty wound. Now aren't you grateful?"

Martin slumped between the two men, his eyes fluttering as he tried to open them and keep them open. But he was terribly weak.

"You offer me no thanks, eh? Well, perhaps you do not believe I mean to be so kind." Scorby clapped and a manservant came in with a jug and cup. "Brandywine, Wirthir. From the cellars of my father-in-law, may he rest in peace." He filled the cup and handed it to Ambrose. "Help him drink. It will go better for him with a good dose of brandywine in his belly."

Ambrose helped Martin drink. "They are going to burn the wound, Martin. It is a good thing. It will heal better afterward. But it will be painful."

Martin nodded, understanding. After a few gulps of the brandywine, he whispered, "Enough, Ambrose, my friend."

Ambrose stepped aside. He wished there were something he might do to lessen Martin's pain, but he could think of nothing.

The men dragged Martin out of the cell.

"I must go with him."

Scorby smirked. "It is a good show, 'tis true. And you have entertained the household so nicely today. Certes, I shall allow it." He grabbed Ambrose by the arm and they moved forward, the manservant hurrying after with a torch.

They took Martin down a passage to a room with a stone floor, a fire pit in the center. A fire burned smokily in the pit. Tanner sat by it, heating an iron rod that was flattened on one end. Martin managed to move his feet enough not to stumble. They sat him down on a bench closer to the fire than Tanner's. As they pulled at the cloth binding Martin's stump, he cried out.

Ambrose tried to break away from Scorby and go to Martin, but his captor held him firm. "God's mercy, moisten the cloth before you pull it off," Ambrose cried.

"You heard him, men-moisten the bandage," Scorby said.

They did so, and it went better for it.

Scorby turned to Ambrose. "How did you get the bleeding to stop?"

"I tied a lace up high on his arm."

"Should we remove it now?"

"Dear God, I don't know." Ambrose felt stupid. "Perhaps after you've burned it and bandaged it again."

Scorby nodded. "You heard, men. Now be done with it."

Tanner lifted the smoking rod from the fire and applied it to the stump the two men held out toward him. The stench was sickening. Martin's face was contorted with the pain, but he did not cry out. Tanner touched the rod to the wound several times, then thrust the rod back into the fire and reached for a grease pot.

"What is that?" Ambrose asked. The contents looked crusty and vile.

"Lard."

"Up in my pack there is an unguent jar. Let me apply some of that instead."

Tanner looked to Scorby.

"Forget the lard. Let them use their own supplies. That suits me." Scorby turned to the manservant. "Go up and get the gentleman's pack." He turned to the two who still held Martin up. "Let him sit while we wait. And his friend here can give him some more brandywine."

Ambrose held the cup to Martin's lips. He helped himself with his left hand and took a long drink. With a shudder, he wiped his lips and looked over at Scorby. "I don't understand."

Scorby chuckled. "You mean why I'm suddenly kind?"

Martin shook his head slowly. "No. Why Matthew Ridley hasn't returned and ripped off your balls."

"Matthew?" Scorby looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as if impressed. "You have been thinking. I am amazed that you can still think so clearly. Matthew Ridley." He smiled. "He works for both John Goldbetter and our King-well, Alice Perrers and her uncles, who are the King's most loyal subjects at the moment. Matthew will agree to nothing that will hurt the King, or us, of course. His father had the wrong loyalties."

Martin rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. "And you are a cousin to Perrers?"

"Indeed. We are a close family."

Ambrose frowned. "How did you convince a son to turn on his father?"

"We convinced him that his father was a thief and a traitor. Which was true, but so are all the wool merchants. Or they would be-if they had the right connections. King Edward has not endeared himself to them."

Ambrose began to piece it together. "They are the family you crossed, Martin?"

"Aye."

"But the Perrers family-they sold to the Flemings against the King's orders," Ambrose said.

Scorby grinned. "And it is for that knowledge you shall die tomorrow. In daylight. Where I can watch you suffer. Ah!" The

manservant entered with Ambrose's pack. "Give it to the singer. He can find the medicine and apply it."

Scorby paced around the room with his hands behind his back while Ambrose gently smoothed the unguent on a square of cloth, then pressed it to the wound. He removed the leather lace and used it to bind the cloth to the stump.

Scorby grabbed Ambrose again. "Let's get you back into your nice chamber now."

The men helped Martin back to the dark cell, dumped him down in the foul-smelling straw, then shoved Ambrose in after him.

When the footsteps had died away, Ambrose crawled over to Martin. "Can you hear me?"

Martin moaned.

Ambrose lifted him tenderly and carried him to the drier side of the little room near the door, again using his own jacket for his friend's pillow. He went back and found the wine and cups in the straw.

"Can you drink some wine?"

No answer. He leaned down and reassured himself that Martin still breathed, then poured himself a cup of wine and drank. Leaning against the wall, he chanted the mass for the dead until his voice gave way. Then he curled up beside Martin and slept.

Owen was puzzled as they rode into the yard of the inn at Alne. "Why here?"

"It's the best inn between York and Ripon," Thoresby said. "Wirthir is a traveler. He'll know it."

"Aye, Your Grace," the innkeeper bowed, pleased to be of assistance to the great Lord Archbishop. "They were here last night." He cast an uneasy eye on Owen. "Is there trouble?"

Thoresby did not answer, thinking of his own concerns. "They?" He looked at Owen. Owen shrugged.

"The foreigner was with a Town Wait from your city, Your Grace. He wore the livery of York."

"Shrewd man, to know the liveries of the great cities."

"And it please Your Grace, 'tis my business to know such things."

Owen nodded. "That would be Ambrose Coats traveling with him."

"They left this morning, not in a hurry. Still, they should be in Ripon by now."

"Do you know the Scorby family?" Thoresby asked.

The innkeeper shrugged. "You can't live hereabouts and not know them."

"An unpleasant family?"

The innkeeper shrugged again, uncomfortable under Owen's one-eyed stare. "They're trouble. Paul Scorby, the young master, he's got his men with him all the time. And men like that, they're looking for a fight. My tavern empties when they come. Bad for business."

Thoresby threw his pack onto a table by the fire. "Do you have a room where we could eat in private? And a place for us to sleep?"

"Aye, that 1 do, Your Grace."

When they were settled in a private room with table and fire, Owen asked, "Why stay here? Surely any abbey or noble household would welcome you."

Thoresby leaned back in his chair, massaging his neck with one hand, his eyes closed. "They would be curious about my traveling this way, would want news of the court. I want peace and quiet."

Owen fixed his good eye on the Archbishop, studying him while he was unaware. Thoresby's eyes, always deep-set, seemed sunken, as if the man slept little. And yet his face held the ruddy glow of the day's ride. So it was a spiritual-not a physical-malady that the Archbishop suffered since his Christmas visit.

"You returned early from the Christmas court."

Thoresby opened his eyes and sat up. "I hire you to interrogate others, not myself, Archer." He poured himself some ale.

"It might help me to know more about Alice Perrers."

"And she is exactly the demon I wish to forget."

Owen shrugged and sat back with his ale.

When Ambrose woke, he could not get his bearings and wondered why his cat made such a strange, whimpering sound. Then, in the dim light from the window high above, he saw Martin. He had rolled away from Ambrose during the night and lay in the middle of the room, moaning. It all came back to Ambrose in a rush of horror. He woke Martin and gave him some wine. Amazingly, Martin's forehead was cool.

"I dreamed my hand was crushed," Martin said, his voice hoarse and weak. "I could feel it. Such pain. Throbbing as it swelled. But when I reached for it- He will not let either of us out of here alive, Ambrose. I've damned you. Mon Dieu, I never meant to involve you. I tried to keep you out of all this."

"I know, Martin, I know." Ambrose smoothed back his friend's hair. They were sitting quietly when booted feet stomped down the stone stairs and a key rattled in the door. Tanner came in with a torch, followed by two of Scorby's men, one of them carrying a camp chair, then the manservant with a tray on which were bread, cheese, and a large jug. At the end of the procession strolled Paul Scorby, looking refreshed and elegant.

"Good morning, my guests. I trust you slept well?" He stood, awaiting an answer.

"Tolerably under the circumstances," Ambrose said.

Scorby's man set up the camp chair near the door. Scorby sat down. "Then it is time to break your fast and heat your bellies with some good ale. And while you eat and drink, I shall entertain you with the whys and wherefores of your fate."

Scorby motioned to the manservant to put the tray down on the floor and leave.

Martin looked at the food, then back up at Scorby. "If we are to die, why waste food on us?"

Scorby cocked his head to one side. "Oh, dear. Is pain making you fret? Or is it too much brandywine last night? Or a lovers' spat? Have you two argued? You see, I'm quite observant. I've noticed the tender regard. It is much as I imagine the King regarding my cousin Alice. That was your mistake, you know, Wirthir. Underestimating the appeal of my cousin. But then, you have no idea what a man finds appealing in a woman, do you?"

"I am hardly the only person astonished by your cousin's success with King Edward. Alice does not meet most men's ideas of beauty. Even her disposition is unlovely."

Ambrose did not like the direction of this talk. "Quiet, Martin. Eat something. Do not get yourself excited."

Martin shrugged. "You say your cousin is angry with you at the moment, Scorby. Why?"

"Ah. Because I have taken my time with your deaths. Being a woman, she does not understand that death is an art. Just like your music, dear Ambrose. I murdered Crounce first, the most innocent-to both you and my father-in-law the most painful loss. It was delightful how Gilbert Ridley wasted away with his guilty conscience. And then, when he was at his weakest, I finished him. But I confess I dallied also because Kate so hated you, Martin. She wanted you dead first. She was so passionate in her pleading." Scorby closed his eyes and smiled, remembering. "Dear, dear Kate," he murmured, his eyes still closed, "I was sorry to slit her throat." He opened his eyes. "That one I did myself. I did not want my men touching her. She would have been too much of a temptation for these pigs."

"So the whole family but Mistress d'Aldbourg is gone now," Martin said. "Did you murder Alan in prison?"

Scorby nodded. "That was the first step. And buying off Goldbetter, which was simple. But my cousin Alice is so angry with me because you were the most important to eliminate. You know so much about so many people. Do you remember, dear, scheming Martin, the information you sold my uncles about Enguerrand de Coucy's hidden money?"

Ambrose was amazed. "Even Princess Isabella's husband was involved in this? You have been a busy man, Martin."

Scorby laughed. "Too busy and smart for his own good. That is the information that got Alice her position at court. Had you been more cautious about your customers, you might not be about to meet your end."

"With all this, I don't understand why I was not your first victim," Martin said.

"As I said, there is an art to this. Besides, they were easier to find. I thought their deaths would flush you out. And they did."

Ambrose felt a tightening in his stomach, realizing how fate had tricked them. They had come here purely by chance. Scorby must be mad-but much good it did either Martin or him.

"So-at least have some ale, gentlemen. And then we will escort you out into the crisp January fields and let your blood melt the hoarfrost and fertilize the pasture for spring."