The Lady Chapel

5

When Brother Michaelo came to the apothecary this time, Owen woke to the pounding alone. He tried to think why Lucie might have risen early, but his mind was muddled with sleep. Owen marched downstairs and dispatched Michaelo with promises to be along soon, then went in search of his wife. He found Tildy, the serving girl, fussing with the kitchen fire.

"Have you seen your mistress this morning, Tildy?"

"Out back," Tildy said without looking up.

Owen could tell by the girl's abruptness that she did not want to say more, that even that answer was more than she'd cared to say. Owen knew what that meant.

Outside, a wet snow fell. Owen guessed from the depth of his footprints on the stone path that it had been snowing for a few hours, but there were no earlier footprints in the snow. And yet there was Lucie, her russet cloak billowing out in the brisk wind as she knelt at her first husband's grave. The Archbishop himself had consecrated the small plot in the back of the garden. Nicholas Wilton had been Master Apothecary, and this garden had been both his masterwork and his passion. It had been the day of the first snow two years ago when Wilton was struck down with a palsy from which he had never recovered. Lucie had been remembering Wilton lately. She said it was the time of year. Owen had tried to be patient. He had agreed to the Guild's requirement that Lucie keep the name Wilton as long as she was an apothecary. He had agreed to the papers they'd asked him to sign, giving up any claim to the shop if Lucie should die before him. Those had been administrative details, nothing to do with his love for Lucie or hers forhim. But her grieving for Nicholas tried his patience. And this was nonsense, to kneel out here for several hours in the snow.

"Lucie, for pity's sake, what are you doing?"

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "I could not sleep."

"You've noticed the snow, have you?"

"Of course I have." Her eyes challenged him to say more.

He knew better. He changed the subject. "I've been called to the Archbishop's palace. Another murder in the minster yard."

"Then you must go to him." Lucie's voice held no affection, no regret that he must go out so early on an errand that would no doubt mean he must go away.

Owen did not have fond memories of Lucie's first husband. He did not understand Lucie's continued affection for the man. Nicholas had not deserved her. Not that Owen felt himself worthy of Lucie's love, but he trusted he was more deserving than Nicholas.

"Will you come in with me and share some ale or hot wine before I go?"

Lucie nodded, crossed herself, rose to accompany Owen back into the house. As they walked back through the garden, Lucie caught Owen's elbow. "I do not mean to hurt you."

Owen pulled her to him and hugged her hard. It was enough to know that she cared how he felt.

Archbishop Thoresby sat at a polished table, a scroll curling beneath his hands. "A generous gift to my Lady Chapel. But my benefactor was murdered last night, Archer. I need you again."

"I do not like to leave Lucie at this time of year, Your Grace," Owen said. "This morning she was kneeling in the snow at Wilton's grave. I curse the day you agreed to consecrate that grave in the garden. It stirs up morbid humours."

Thoresby shrugged. "At the moment, Wilton's grave is not heavy on my mind. Ridley's murder is. He was my guest last night. He left here feeling ill, and I let him go alone. He was murdered exactly as Crounce was. It was no accident. Someone waited for Ridley. This was planned. And this time we must find the murderer."

"Have you learned anything new? We came up with nothing last time."

"There is one thing. Ridley had changed since Crounce's death.

His body had gone from barrel-like to skeletal, his disposition from arrogant to humble."

Owen thought about that. "Fear can rob one of sleep and appetite."

Thoresby shrugged. "Poison can have a similar effect."

Owen nodded.

"Perhaps Cecilia Ridley will know something," Thoresby said. "She was dosing him. I want you to go tell her of her husband's death. Before she has had time to talk to anyone else. Ask her who might have killed her husband."

"A churchman should tell her. Not a soldier."

"You are no longer a soldier."

"I look like one. With this patch and scar-" Owen shook his head. "I am not the person for this task."

"I would send Archdeacon Jehannes, but I cannot spare him at the moment. Besides, Cecilia Ridley has met you."

"Aye, and bad news it was I brought that time. She'll think me the messenger of Death."

"Does that disturb you?"

"That is not what most disturbs me."

"And what is that?"

"Leaving Lucie right now."

Thoresby waved the argument away with brusque impatience. "Perhaps your wife would like the privacy to mourn Wilton."

That stung. "She has all the privacy she wants."

"Marriage is not the Heaven you imagined it."

"I have no regrets, Your Grace," Owen said.

The eyebrows raised. "Indeed? Then you are most fortunate. In any case, I want you to go to Beverley. Cecilia Ridley has met you, she did not seem unfriendly toward you, you are precisely the person who should go. I have written a letter of condolence to Cecilia Ridley. Michaelo will give it to you. Two of my men will accompany you."

"Two men? Most generous, Your Grace."

"You are becoming arrogant, Archer."

"I am beginning to find the routine tedious."

Owen took two days riding to Riddlethorpe. He wished he might have done it in one, but the weather and the short days prevented it. By the time the manor's half-timbered gatehouse was in sight, Owen was sorely tired of his companions and their offensive prattle. He wondered whether he and his comrades in arms had been like them, or whether Alfred and Colin were particularly oafish. They ached for a fight, bragged about every scar and broken bone, referred to women by their private parts. If this is what Owen had been like when he first rode into York, it was a wonder that Lucie had ever talked to him. He began to understand why she had such an abiding distaste for soldiers.

When the elderly gatekeeper waved them into the yard at Riddlethorpe, Owen dismounted and left Alfred and Colin to see to the horses. "Then find the kitchen and stay there," he ordered. He could not risk their upsetting Cecilia Ridley. The news he brought was itself too awful.

Fear shone in Cecilia Ridley's eyes as Owen crossed the hall to where she stood by the hearth. "Captain Archer." She glanced behind Owen, checking to see whether she was mistaken and he was not alone. But he was. "Something has happened to Gilbert?"

"Please, Mistress Ridley, sit down." Owen motioned for a servant to bring wine.

Cecilia Ridley caught the gesture and folded her tall frame into a chair with the clumsiness of one suddenly disoriented. She placed her white hands one on top of the other in her lap, and then looked up at Owen, her eyes frightened. "Something has happened to Gilbert."

"Your husband is dead."

Cecilia jerked as if Owen had hit her. Then she made the sign of the cross and bowed her head. "He had been ill," she said softly. Without a word, the servant placed a cup of wine in her mistress's hands.

"He did not sicken, Mistress Ridley. He was murdered."

She looked up at Owen, shook her head. "No. He has been ill."

"He was murdered in the same way as Will Crounce. The throat, the hand."

Cecilia's eyes widened at that. "The same as Will? It was not illness?" She lifted the cup to her lips, paused. "Are you certain of that?"

"Quite certain."

She drank. "But he had been ill."

Owen was familiar with shock from his life at war. Cecilia Ridley's insistence on her husband's illness was a sign of it. The Archbishop had said Ridley was ill and that Mistress Ridley had been dosing him. Perhaps she had not wanted her husband to go on the journey.

"He had dined with the Archbishop," Owen said. "Someone waylaid him in the minster yard."

Cecilia Ridley frowned. "But it is guarded."

"The gates to the minster close are guarded, as they were when Crounce was attacked. But many people live inside the walls. Others come and go so regularly the guards think nothing of letting them pass."

"Gilbert carried a large sum of money."

"That had already been left with the Archbishop."

Cecilia Ridley studied Owen's face. "So you think that someone set out to murder both Will and Gilbert?"

"Yes."

She looked down at her hands and was quiet for a few minutes. "Gilbert's finding Will's hand was a warning, then."

"Or a threat."

"Who"-she swallowed-"who found Gilbert's hand?"

"No one so far."

She nodded, still keeping her eyes down. "Where is his body?"

"Archbishop Thoresby has arranged for it to be brought to you under guard."

She nodded.

"Mistress Ridley, this illness of your husband's, how and when did it strike him?"

Her deep-set eyes widened, her hands played with her keys. "When? Well, 1"-she shrugged-"I cannot say."

"The Archbishop said your husband took a physick you had prepared."

A nervous hand flew to her neck. "Gilbert told His Grace about that?"

"When did he start taking this physick?"

She frowned. "I cannot remember."

"He blamed his illness on Will Crounce's murder."

Cecilia Ridley stared at Owen for a few minutes, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. Owen was about to repeat his last comment when she said, "Yes. Will's death was a great shock to Gilbert. He-well, yes, I suppose his illness stemmed from that."

"What were you giving him?"

"I'm not entirely certain. My mother used to give it to us. Something to calm his nerves. He was not sleeping." She dropped her head for a moment, as if hiding emotion.

"Mistress Ridley?"

She raised her eyes to his, brimming with tears. "What am I to do without him, Captain Archer?"

Now what? Owen was no good at comforting. Besides, what comfort could he possibly offer? Her husband was dead. Nothing would undo that. "Is there any family I can send for?"

"No." She wiped her eyes. "No. They would be no use."

Owen stood up. "I should leave you alone for a few minutes. I could go out to the yard, see to my horse."

Cecilia took a cloth from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, then lifted her head. Her eyes were red, but tearless now. "There is no need for you to go out in the cold. I must go up and see to my daughter. Then we will have something to eat."

Owen watched Cecilia's departing back. She held herself erect, tense. An admirable woman.

"More wine, Captain Archer?" a servant asked.

Owen nodded, held out his cup. "Is there illness in the house?"

The young woman glanced up at Owen and blushed to meet his eye. "Yes, sir. Mistress Anna, she's here for her mother's nursing." She poured the wine and hurried away.

As Owen sat brooding over his gloomy mission, he heard raised voices out in the yard, then running footsteps, dogs barking. The fine hunter drowsing by the hearth perked up, began to bark. Owen got up to investigate, glad for the diversion. He went down the passage between the buttery and the pantry and out back to the kitchen, rounding up Alfred and Colin, who grumbled to leave the warm fire.

"You two have ached for a fight since we began this journey. Be grateful, for pity's sake."

"A fight?" Alfred's eyes went from half closed to wide open with anticipation.

A freezing fog was settling down over the land as the light faded. Owen squinted through the murk and saw a light bobbing out in the direction of the gatehouse. He led his men toward it with caution. As he drew closer, Owen heard an angry voice cry out, "The Devil take you! How can you deny me entrance? I am her husband! If any harm has come to her, it is my place to comfort her. What right had you to bring her here?"

"Peace, my son." The second speaker was this side of the pedestrian archway, a priest. A servant held a lantern, revealing the priest's back.

Owen wondered whether he'd made a mistake coming out without his longbow. He strode up to the priest. In the doorway, blocked by one of the servants holding two huge dogs that strained at their leashes, stood an angry-faced gentleman, who kept just beyond the reach of the dogs. Motioning to Alfred and Colin to stay by the priest, Owen mounted the stairway to the upper window to see who accompanied the man. Two armed men sat their horses, looking nervous. Owen relaxed. They should have no problem holding the gatehouse against the small party. He returned to the priest.

"I merely carry out her mother's orders," the priest was saying. "No one is to enter while Mistress Scorby is in this nervous state."

"Nonsense." The angry gentleman gestured toward the servant who held the lantern. "Jed, tell my father-in-law that I am here."

"1 am afraid he cannot do that," the priest said.

"The Hell he can't. Then you do it, Father. Get Ridley out here."

"He is not here, Master Scorby."

So it was the ill-favored son-in-law. Owen studied him with interest. Scorby had traveled here expecting trouble, judging from the mail shirt visible beneath his cloak. His face, even in the poor light, flickered with emotion.

"And who is that standing behind you?" Scorby said, catching Owen's intense look. "Did you bring in cutthroats to keep me away?"

The priest, surprised, glanced back to see who had joined him. "He's come from the Archbishop of York," the priest said. "He's no cutthroat, but he has two armed men with him who do not seem averse to fighting, should we need them."

Owen knew from the look on Scorby's face that the priest had said the wrong thing.

"So you're fixing for a fight? Men!"

With a clatter of metal, Scorby's men were behind him, knives ready to hand.

Scorby pushed Jed aside. The priest stood firm. "Move aside, Father," Scorby warned.

Owen stepped in front of the priest. "Go inside, Father," he said quietly. "Assure Mistress Ridley that we have the matter in hand." Alfred and Colin joined Owen.

Scorby drew out a dagger.

"Why does the husband of Ridley's daughter Anna come here prepared to break the peace?" Owen asked, keeping his voice quiet, unemotional.

"Because that cursed priest brought her here without my permission."

Owen glanced back at the retreating priest, a small, slender man, then back to Scorby. "Surely the priest did not overpower you in your house?"

Scorby snorted. "I'd like to see him try. No, the coward waited until I was away."

"Then perhaps you have misinterpreted his actions. I will speak with Mistress Ridley, see what this is all about. Meanwhile, I suggest that you head toward Beverley and lodgings."

Scorby lifted his dagger. Owen grabbed the wrist that held the weapon and twisted. Scorby cursed, and his dagger fell to the ground. Owen grabbed Scorby's other hand. The man was not weak, but he could not break out of Owen's strong grasp, though his face grew red with the effort. A bullheaded man who could not size up his opponent and withdraw with grace. Owen had met his type before. Scorby would be trouble. Owen let him go. Keeping his eyes on Scorby, he said, "Alfred, hand the gentleman his dagger. Then we'll escort these three to their horses."

As Alfred walked toward Scorby, one of Scorby's men came at him with a knife. Colin yelled to Alfred, who used his mail-clad head to butt the attacker in the stomach and send him sprawling. Scorby's right fist came up toward Owen's blind side, but Owen, catching the motion, grabbed the upraised arm with his left hand and punched Scorby in the stomach with his right fist.

"Now, as I said, we will escort you to your horses."

Which they did.

As Scorby wheeled his horse round he yelled, "I'll be back. Tell that bitch I'll be back."

Owen turned to Alfred and Colin. "Thank you, lads."

Colin grinned. " 'Twas our pleasure."

"Pleasure?" Alfred snorted. "They gave way too soon for my taste."

Owen nodded. "They might double back. Stay out here tonight. Upstairs. Shouldn't be too uncomfortable. I'll have some ale sent out to you, but see you stay awake."

He walked back to the hall wondering what had possessed the priest to admit that the master was away.

Cecilia Ridley stood just inside the door. "Deusjuva me, I did not expect he would come so soon upon their heels."

"Scorby's wife lies abed upstairs?" Yes.

"An unusual arrangement."

"I hope for the sake of all mothers and daughters that it is unusual."

"Well, my men can hold the gates against Scorby tonight."

"Thank you."

"What is going on here, Mistress Ridley?"

The dark eyes looked affronted by the blunt question. "I am certain it has nothing to do with my husband's death."

"And how do you know that?"

"Gilbert is"-Cecilia shook her head- "was Paul Scorby's champion. Gilbert chose Paul for Anna. I never wanted the match."

"Why did he choose Scorby?"

"Our son, Matthew, lived with the family for a few years. When he left, the family suggested the match between Paul and Anna. Gilbert saw it as an ideal arrangement, wealth on our side, connections on theirs, and the young man ambitious, hardworking."

"So how does your daughter come to be here without her husband?"

"Anna was attacked, went to Father Cuthbert and begged him to bring her here. Paul was away."

"Attacked by whom?"

Cecilia Ridley glanced back at the servants. Seeing them with their heads together by the hearth, no doubt discussing the commotion out at the gate, Cecilia invited Owen to sit down on a bench beside the door.

"We have told the servants that it was thieves who broke into the house." She clasped her hands and kept her eyes downcast.

"Your daughter is badly hurt?"

Cecilia nodded, but did not look up.

"So this is why you dislike your son-in-law so much. Because he beats your daughter."

Owen heard Cecilia take a deep breath. She looked up, tears in her dark eyes. "It is not that I think Paul a bad man, Captain Archer. He is just the wrong husband for Anna. My daughter wanted to join a religious house. Another man, one with more patience, might have convinced her that marriage could be a joyous state, might have won her over. But Paul"-Cecilia shook her head. "He goes into rages over Anna's fasts. And as she retreats, he gets angrier. I could see the impatience in his character. I warned Gilbert."

More shouts were heard outside.

Cecilia looked up at Owen, her eyes frightened. "How long do you think your men can hold the gates against him?"

"Scorby and his men are not the trained fighters we are. But we cannot stay here indefinitely."

"I should go speak with Paul."

"Perhaps if he saw her condition?"

She gave him a surprised look. "He did this to her. How could he not know her condition?" She spoke in a quiet voice, but behind it quivered controlled emotion.

"What do you intend to do?"

Cecilia Ridley shrugged. "Keep him away from her somehow."

"May I see her?"

She gave Owen a searching, not entirely friendly look. "Why?"

"I am an apprentice apothecary. I might be of help."

"I thought you were the Archbishop's man."

"That, too."

"Your life is rather complicated, Captain Archer."

He grinned. "You do not know the half of it, Mistress Ridley."

"What could lead a Captain of Archers to apprentice to an apothecary?"

Owen tapped his patch. "A reminder of how easily Death creeps up on us."

Cecilia stared at Owen a moment; then, seeming to decide something, she rose and indicated for him to follow her upstairs.

The room was next to the one Owen had used when he had come in summer. A brazier kept the room warm. A young woman lay in the bed, the hand outside the counterpane bandaged. Her face was bruised and swollen, one side of her mouth cut. She watched them with one eye; the other was blackened and too swollen to open.

"Mamma?" Her voice was ragged, frightened.

Mistress Ridley crossed quickly to the bed. "It is all right, Anna. This is Captain Archer. He is an apothecary, though he looks nothing of the sort. He thought he might be able to help."

Owen wondered how Cecilia Ridley managed to sound so calm with her daughter so badly hurt, her husband murdered, and her son-in-law shouting at the gate. But it was good that she could manage it, for her daughter looked terrified even without knowing all that was the matter. Owen knelt beside Anna and asked, "Your hand is broken?"

"A finger," Cecilia said. "We pulled it straight and splinted it."

"And applied a salve of boneset?"

Cecilia nodded.

"Is anything else broken?"

"No. The rest are bruises, her face and her stomach. And the cuts on her mouth." She told Owen what she had done for her daughter.

He motioned to Cecilia to step out of the room with him. They stood on an open landing looking down onto the hall.

"Some valerian would calm her," Owen said. "You say her stomach was bruised. Was there bleeding?"

"Yes. But it has stopped."

"Do you think she could keep down some wine with valerian?"

"She has kept wine down."

"Keeping her calm, that is important." Owen rubbed the scar on his left cheek. "Jesus Lord, what sort of man would do that to his wife?"

"He says he has needs and she denies him. That it drives him mad."

"If there is anything else I can do, Mistress Ridley …"

She took his hand and squeezed it. "You are a good man, Captain Archer." Her eyes swept over his face, lingered on his mouth.

She seemed too close. Too intent on him. Owen resisted the urge to back up a step.

Cecilia smiled through tears, smoothed down her skirt, sighed. "And now I must confront my son-in-law."

Owen lay in the room next to Anna's. He jerked to attention at every sound in the house. Cecilia Ridley felt that Scorby would stay away for the night, that she had convinced him to sleep at an inn-Beverley was a large enough town to have several comfortable inns-but Owen could not rest. He tossed and turned on the pallet as he listened to Cecilia Ridley pacing anxiously back and forth in her daughter's room.

Suddenly the footsteps in the next room changed in character, moving decisively to the door, then outside. There was a knock at Owen's door.

"Come in."

Cecilia Ridley held an oil lamp to her face. "Forgive me for disturbing your sleep."

"I've been unable to sleep."

She came in, closed the door behind her, placed the oil lamp on a small table next to Owen, and proceeded to pace back and forth at the foot of his pallet, her hands behind her back.

"What is it?" Owen asked.

"You must help us. Anna must not stay here."

Dear Lord, the woman was panicking. "I want to help, Mistress Ridley. I cannot sleep for thinking of your poor daughter. But she cannot be moved. Not with the bleeding."

"It has stopped."

"If she sits a horse, it might begin again."

Cecilia whirled round and sat down at the side of Owen's pallet. "Worse will happen to Anna if she does not get away. You must see that." Her eyes were dark, huge, and wild in the flickering light.

Owen understood what she feared. Was it not what kept him awake, listening for sounds of the man breaking into the house? But Anna was in no condition to travel. "I cannot understand how Anna bore the trip here," Owen said. "To travel again so soon-" He shook his head. "No, you cannot mean it."

"Merciful Heaven, there is no other solution." Cecilia leaned toward Owen, as if with her body she could convince him how serious this was. "You said she needed calming. How can she be calm if she fears he will come take her back there? There is not enough valerian root in all the kingdom to wipe that fear out of her heart."

True enough, and Anna did need to stay calm to heal. A shower of hot needle pricks across his blind eye warned Owen that he was getting too involved in the Ridleys' problems. He lifted a hand to his scar and discovered that he wore no patch. Of course not-he'd thought he was going to sleep. Amazing that Cecilia Ridley could stare at him with such intensity and not wince at the ugly, puckered lid that would not completely close over the sightless eye. The light in the room was not dim enough to conceal it. Owen reached for the patch on the table beside him.

Cecilia Ridley took it as a sign that he was dressing, that he had decided to help. She stood up. "Good. I'll prepare her."

"For pity's sake, I have agreed to nothing. I merely wished to spare you the sight of this eye."

Cecilia sat back down. "But it is just that about you-your scar, your suffering-that made me think you would help. Could you rest anywhere near the person who did that to you?"

"I killed the person who did this to me."

That made her hesitate. She clutched her hands in her lap and studied them for a long moment.

Something in the terrible effort put forth to keep that back so straight, those hands so still, put Owen in mind of Lucie. "You remind me of my wife."

"Oh? And what would Mistress Archer do in my place?"

Owen did not correct the name. He thought it best that Cecilia have no idea of any imperfection in his relationship with Lucie. But what would Lucie do? Owen thought back to the night that Thoresby, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England, had given Lucie an order and she had refused. She had decided what was best for her husband, Nicholas, and nothing in Heaven or Hell could move her to change her mind. Cecilia Ridley's back looked that stubborn.

"Lucie would confront Scorby with what he has done," Owen said. "Bring him up here to see Anna's condition. No doubt Scorby left right after he'd beaten her. He may not realize how far he'd gone."

Cecilia's eyes opened wide with disbelief. "Are you mad? Anna is terrified. What if he attacks again?"

"I will be there in the room. I will watch his reaction, and I will be ready to protect her. But I suspect that Paul Scorby will go away quietly when he sees his wife's condition. He has nothing to gain by forcing her to travel."

Cecilia shook her head. "No. I cannot put Anna through such an ordeal."

"But you could put her through another journey?"

"Just to St. Clement's Nunnery outside York."

"She cannot travel."

"1 cannot let him near her."

"No matter what you feel, Anna is married to Paul Scorby. He has a right to see her." Owen did not like the pain in the woman's face. He did not like disappointing her. But he must. To take Anna Scorby on horseback through the snow might kill her. But Cecilia Ridley still did not seem convinced. "Do you have any reason to fear Paul Scorby will do more than beat her?" Owen asked.

"Isn't that enough?"

"You misunderstand. I am asking whether you have reason to think Paul means to kill Anna."

Cecilia looked uncertain. "I never thought that. But look how he hurt her. I don't think he can control himself."

"Let us try this, eh? See if being forced to face what he did, and in front of others, might teach him something."

"Perhaps …"

"I am curious. How did the priest let himself get involved?"

"Anna begged him to bring her here, hoping her father would …" Cecilia looked stricken. "Dear God, I had forgotten Gilbert for a moment. How could I?"

Owen took her hands. "You have much to bear right now. You are wonderfully strong."

Cecilia gave Owen a weak smile.

"You know," Owen said, "although I am honored that you offer me the role of champion, I cannot risk it. You must remember that I am here on the business of John Thoresby, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. He would not take it well if I were to break the law for you, Mistress Ridley. Neither would my wife."

Cecilia Ridley flushed, withdrew her hands. "I did not think. . No, of course you must not break the law."

Owen nodded. "So when your son-in-law returns in the morning, let him in. 1 shall come upstairs with you."

Cecilia rose, picked up her lamp. "I will do so." She walked slowly to the door, turning just before she reached it. Her eyes were dark in the lamplight. "I pray God you are right, Captain Archer."

With that, she left Owen to toss and turn till just before dawn, when he fell into a fitful sleep.