The Lady Chapel

7

Rain pounded against the minster. It drummed down on the paving stones and the supporting columns where the roof was unfinished. The wind played every opening in the stones, wailing, shrieking, moaning, humming. But the sounds did not frighten Jasper. They comforted him. He was curled into a ball and tucked into a small opening in the Lady Chapel wall, inside, near the choir, where he was protected from the rain by the scaffolds of the masons. The masons and carpenters, members of his father's guild, let him stay there; they tried to protect Jasper. But he could not stay long. He must not stay anywhere too long, or the accidents would begin.

Even here.

Jasper had thought at first that he had gotten clumsy, what withhis mother's death and the horror of witnessing Master Crounce's murder and his thoughts being on them all the time, but the Riverwoman told him that it was dangerous for him to blame himself, that he'd best watch his back.

"Thou'rt the only one can point a finger at the men who murdered thy good Master Crounce. Thou sayest it was dark, thou couldst not see faces, but their fear and guilt will make them certain thou sawest, and they will fear thee. They will want thee dead, Jasper. Magda does not like to think of thee wrapped in a shroud like her dear Potter. Watch thy back and come to Magda when thou canst, show her thou'rt alive."

The Riverwoman was strange and frightening, with her piercing eyes and bony but strong hands, her clothes made of many colors, sewn together from others' castoffs, her sudden movements-so unexpected in a person her age, her weird house with the Viking ship upside down on the roof, the sea serpent hanging upside down to greet the visitor with a leer, and her scent-smoke, roots from deep in the earth, river water, blood. But Jasper trusted the Riverwoman as he trusted no one else. His mother had told him that Magda Digby was the only person in York who owed no one, and so she was free to be trustworthy; no one could wring a secret from her. So Jasper had gone to her when he'd broke his arm falling off a roof he was helping thatch, and again with bruises and cuts he suffered when he fell in a stable and grazed his side against a plough that had been half-buried in hay.

After the stable incident, Jasper decided to listen to the Riverwoman's warning. And his caution paid off. As soon as the folk he worked for began asking questions about Master Crounce's murder, Jasper disappeared. And the accidents stopped. Now and again he would return to the protection of the masons and carpenters at the minster, but even that was not safe for long.

So his comfortable cranny in the minster was a temporary home, one he appreciated at the moment with the storm beating against the stones. He curled up in a tighter ball and went back to sleep. But something woke him. A footstep, a sense of someone near. Jasper squirmed to the edge of his cubbyhole and looked out, wondering whether he had pushed too far back into the darkness and had missed the dawn. He always tried to wake at dawn so he could relieve himself in private before the masons arrived.

At first Jasper could see nothing. It was still dark except for a predawn grayness where the roof stopped. But he heard something. It sounded like the hem of a cloak or skirt dragging on the paving stones. And there was a scent. Lavender water. His mother used to wear lavender water when Master Crounce visited. Jasper wondered whether it was his mother's ghost come searching for him. She would come to comfort him if she could. He would like that. He would like his mother to hold him and stroke his hair and tell him stories of his father.

But Jasper's several months on his own had taught him to be wary. If he was wrong, if it wasn't his mother but someone trying to make Jasper feel safe enough to reveal himself, he could be killed. So Jasper held his breath and listened.

"Blessed Peter, where's the stone?" someone muttered. A woman's voice. "Five hands from the corner, six stones up, they said."

She was close enough now that Jasper could hear her quick breaths. There was a scratching sound. Then something snapped. Jasper jumped at the sound, he was so tense.

"Cheap knife," the intruder muttered. "She's such a miser. Sharpens knives until they're parchment thin-Aha!"

The sound of stone sliding against stone.

Jasper could see her shadow now, as the grayness brightened into a feeble dawn. She faced the wall just beyond Jasper's hiding place, crouching down, pulling at something. A stone, from the sound of it. She had hidden something behind a loose stone, he guessed.

Jasper shivered. He did not wish to witness anything he might be sorry for. He wiggled back from the edge of his hiding place. His stomach growled and he held his breath, certain that the growl had echoed through the minster. But she did not come. Jasper relaxed and began to twist himself around so his pale hair would not stick out and give him away. Then the rags he wore would be mistaken for a pile of mason's rags. But as Jasper moved, he stirred up dust, and his nose betrayed him with a mighty sneeze, which so surprised him that he bumped his head.

"Who's there?" the woman demanded. She reached in and pulled Jasper from the hole, scraping him along the rock and dumping him on the stones three feet below. She was surprisingly strong. Jasper landed on his right side, his arm and leg bent beneath his weight. The pain left him breathless.

She kicked him. "Little spy!"

"I was sleeping," Jasper cried, terrified. He thought his arm and leg might be broken. He could neither protect himself nor run.

She grabbed him by the cowl of his tunic and dragged him toward the light, then took his head in her hands and studied his face. "Why, it's Jasper de Melton. Well, you've followed me for the last time. He's after you, you know. He plays with you and brags about it. But he's lost track of you. You're a clever one."

Dark eyes, a large mouth, large hands. He could not see much more. Jasper thought he had seen her before, but he could not remember where. "How do you know my name?" he asked.

"Everyone in York knows your name. And outside the city gates, your fame has spread all the way to-" She laughed. "But that would be telling."

Jasper painfully wriggled out of her grasp. She lunged for him, dropping what she'd been clutching in her right hand, a bloody bundle. It fell to the ground. Jasper kicked it away, hoping she would go after it. It rolled out into the rain, the cloth unwinding to reveal a human hand.

Jasper screamed.

The woman pulled a knife from her cloak and raised it above him.

Jasper threw his hands up over his head, shielding himself.

She laughed. "Do not worry, Jasper. The point broke off in the stone, and I've no stomach to poke you to death with a blunt knife." She picked him up by the cowl again. "But from now on I'll carry a sharpened knife with a very good point. And if I hear you've said one word about what you've seen, or describe me to anyone, I will kill you. Or he will." She laughed again.

Jasper knew her now. He remembered that laugh from Corpus Christi Day. The woman who had laughed at Master Crounce.

She dropped him, grabbed up the hand, and stuffed it under her cloak. "Remember," she said, with a glint in her eye that made Jasper think she looked forward to stabbing him. And then she ran out.

Jasper pulled himself up to his knees and said a prayer of thanksgiving for his deliverance. When he tried to stand, a sharp pain ran up his right leg. He clenched his teeth and stood up straight. His right arm hung useless. The pain in his arm was a dull throbbing. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He wanted his mother. He wanted things to be as they once were, his mother waiting for him, Mistress Fletcher yelling at him not to run up the stairs because it gave her a headache. Jasper felt hot tears on his cheeks.

But things were not as they once were. Jasper was alone. The Riverwoman had been right. He had enemies. Master Crounce's murderers. Jasper must disappear. He limped out of the minster.

One of the city bailiffs stomped into the shop, cursing the weather and then apologizing as he noticed Lucie standing at the counter. "Forgive me, Mistress Wilton, but it is a Hellish world out there today, all this rain and wind." He shivered and set a damp pack down on the counter before her. "1 took the liberty of pausing at the York Tavern and asking if Mistress Merchet might come here."

Lucie eyed the leather pack curiously. "What is this about, Geoffrey?"

Bess came bursting in the door. "So you've found a pack under Foss Bridge you want me to identify, eh?"

Geoffrey doffed his cap. "Mistress Merchet, I need you to tell me whether you recognize this pack, and then Mistress Wilton must identify the contents of a pouch within it." Geoffrey nodded to the travel-stained saddle pack on the counter. "It was found under a pile of rocks near Foss Bridge."

Bess touched the damp leather. "May I look inside?"

The bailiff nodded.

Bess opened the flap. Inside was a leather wineskin, empty, a change of clothes, several drawstring pouches, a small account book, a knife and spoon, and a pair of soft, impractical shoes in bright red. "Gilbert Ridley's, no doubt about it," Bess proclaimed.

"See the stone set in the spoon handle? Those shoes. The color of the jerkin." She nodded. "Gilbert Ridley's."

The bailiff looked pleased.

"And I am to identify the contents of which pouch?" Lucie asked.

The bailiff handed her a leather one, greasy with handling. "Take care opening. 'Tis a powder."

Lucie opened it gingerly, sniffed, touched a fingertip to the powder, which was damp from its sojourn under the bridge, touched the powder to her tongue, stood with her eyes closed for a moment, tasting it, sniffed the powder again, poked at it with her finger, feeling the grain, seeing the different colors. "Well," she said when she finally looked at those awaiting the verdict, "this is a dangerous powder. It is a mixture of things, mostly healthy. But then there's the arsenic. Not enough to kill at once, or quickly. It would kill gradually, over a period of time." She tested the weight of the pouch in her palm. "I would guess this quantity would have lasted Ridley more than a fortnight, considering the concentrations of the other ingredients. Or Ridley's victim, I suppose. But if you look at the pouch, it was once much fuller. Twice as much again. So I would say it was his, since he had been in York but two days."

Bess crossed herself. "Lord have mercy, why would anyone have done that to Gilbert Ridley? He was a proud man, but he did no harm."

The bailiff looked uncomfortable. "You say this would kill gradually, Mistress Wilton?"

Lucie nodded. "This would be administered by someone looking for a slow, painful death, not the death that Ridley finally suffered. You said he was ailing, didn't you, Bess?"

"Indeed," Bess said. "Stomach complaint. So bad he had become a shadow of himself."

Lucie nodded. "This 'remedy' would do that over time."

"Then I will deliver this up to you for Captain Archer," the bailiff said, "as the murder of Master Ridley occurred in the Liberty of St. Peter."

Lucie took the pack and set it down on the floor behind the counter.

"And there is something else that will be of interest to the Captain," the bailiff said.

"More?" Lucie said. "Your men have been busy."

"This had naught to do with us, Mistress Wilton. Tis the artisans at the minster. They say Jasper de Melton, the lad who witnessed the first murder, disappeared this morning without his cloak. There was blood and signs of a struggle. They are afraid for him."

"I don't understand," Lucie said. "I thought the boy was missing."

The bailiff nodded. "As did we. Now they say the boy's been taking shelter in the minster now and then, and they've been keeping it secret in memory of his father, who was a carpenter, you see. And this morning the boy's gone. Out into the storm. Without his cloak. I thought the Captain ought to know, Mistress Wilton."

When the bailiff had gone, Lucie stared down at Ridley's pouch of poison, which she turned round and round in her hands. Her eyes were sad.

"What are you thinking, Lucie?" Bess asked, touching one of Lucie's hands to quiet it. "Are you disturbed about the boy? Or that Ridley had two enemies?"

Lucie let the pouch lie, but still she stared down at it. "Both. At first I thought this was a simple matter of robbery. Then I thought perhaps revenge upon a false business partner. But Gilbert Ridley was also being poisoned. Slowly. Ridley had told His Grace that his stomach complaint came on him after Crounce's death. He said his wife made a remedy for him. Something noxious. He said he sometimes thought that his complaint had worsened since he began taking the remedy. But he took it because he knew his wife had his welfare in mind."

Bess studied her friend's face. "And you think the arsenic mixture was that remedy?"

"It is a horrible thing to contemplate, a wife slowly poisoning her husband, no matter the reason. And yet Owen once suspected me of that."

Bess snorted. "I cannot believe Owen suspected any such thing. He thought you might have poisoned Montaigne, and accidentally Fitzwilliam, but not Nicholas-did he?"

"He did, Bess," Lucie said, her voice almost a whisper.

"Well, it all turned out in the end," Bess said lamely.

Lucie smiled up at her friend. "We have yet to be sure, but I think it turned out, yes. And now I must write all the facts down for Owen. He will be angry about the boy. He told the Archbishop the boy was in danger. I must send a messenger to Beverley with this pack and the letter."

"My groom can take it," Bess said.

Lucie was glad of the offer. "Thank you. 1 trust John to get it there safely."

While Owen put his few things in his bag, Cecilia Ridley paced the room.

When he could ignore her pacing no longer, Owen asked, "What is it?"

She would not look him in the eye. "Could you and your men stay another night?" She glanced up, looked away as if embarrassed. "I keep thinking, if Paul is going to change his mind and come back, it will be today or tonight. So if you could stay that long, in case I need you. ."

Owen wanted to leave. He missed Lucie and worried that she would be out there in the rain, praying over Wilton's grave. "What about your men? They will be here. Your Steward should be aware of your concern."

Cecilia shook her head. "Jack Cooper? He's no fighting man. None of them are. One night is all I ask. I do not like to ask at all, but it would make such a difference to me."

Owen had to admit that he was rushing with his duty, and besides, it was already midday. At this time of year that meant he would not get far before twilight.

"One more night. We will leave early tomorrow."

"Thank you. I shall not forget your kindness."

"But I will make use of the time," Owen said. "I would like to speak with your Steward."

"Why?"

"He might know something about your husband's business that you do not know."

Cecilia bristled. "Indeed."

"Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you."

"I know. And you might be right. Jack Cooper's house is behind the great hall. At the stream. There's a path beyond the stables. You

will see it. But he may be anywhere on the land at this time of day."

"I will find him."

Owen went out back, past the bake ovens and the building in which the serious cooking was done. He checked in the stables. His horse was groomed and quiet. Three children huddled around a sleeping dog.

Owen found the path and was at the cottage in perhaps fifty strides. Trees would shade it in summer, but now the trees surrounded it like skeletal sentinels. Owen knocked at the door. It was a comfortable-looking cottage with two shuttered windows, one on either side of a door that was fitted well into the doorway and looked to be heavy oak. Ridley had been generous with the quarters for his Steward. Owen knocked again and had turned to leave when the door behind him opened.

A rumpled looking man with a pockmarked face and graying hair stood in the doorway, blinking at the daylight, meager though it was. "Ah. You're the Archbishop's man came last night. I'm Jack Cooper." He held out his hand.

Owen shook it. "I am glad to find you here. I had resigned myself to walking across this entire estate looking for you today."

The man frowned. "Why would you be looking for me?"

"You have heard about Master Ridley's murder?"

"Oh, aye. Terrible thing, that was. Highlanders, I'd bet. No one disliked Master Ridley enough to do that to him."

"May I come in?"

Cooper thought about that, then shrugged. "You're used to better, coming from the great hall, but you're welcome, to be sure. I was having a rest. Stood watch out at the gate last night."

"But my men were there."

Cooper nodded. "I thought we should have some men from the household there, just the same. Master Ridley would have wanted it."

Inside, the house was smoky and warm, a fire burning well in the middle of the room. A pallet was pulled up near the fire. A cup beside it.

Cooper saw Owen's eye take in the scene and was quick to explain, " 'Twas a night for neither man nor beast, Captain Archer. I was chilled through all my clothes and then some. Thought I'd never stop shivering. Made the fire, stripped out of my wet things, put a hot poker to some spiced wine, and lay down close to the fire as I could get without burning myself."

Owen looked around the large room. The walls were whitewashed to brighten it, there were fresh rushes on the floor. A woman's touches. "Wives are always good at undoing a chill, eh?" Owen said.

"Aye, but Kate's away," Jack said. "Tending her sick mother," he added in a nervous tone.

"Are you recovered enough to talk with me?" Owen asked. "Answer some questions about your late Master?"

"I've warmed up just right. Come." Jack pulled a bench out from the wall and placed it within the fire's light. "Could you drink some ale?"

"I could at that, Master Cooper."

"Oh, Jack is fine, Captain Archer."

Owen nodded. "Then I'm Owen to you."

They settled down with two tankards of ale. Not as fine as Tom Merchet's, but acceptable. Jack Cooper stretched his stockinged feet out to the fire, toasting his toes. The cottage was quiet.

"Are your children with your wife?" Owen asked, making conversation before he launched into questions.

"Nay. They're out in the stables watching over a sick dog. Keeps 'em out of my way and makes 'em happy." Jack took another drink. "So what is it you'd like to know about the Master?"

"Did you ever meet any of his business partners?"

"Aye. Master Crounce, God rest his soul," Jack crossed himself.

"Other than Crounce?"

Jack screwed up his face and thought. "Nay." He shook his head. "I don't remember meeting any others."

"How did you get along with Master Crounce?"

An odd look flickered across the man's face. "He was a big help to Mistress Ridley. And always fair in his dealings with us who work the estate." Jack shrugged. "Cannot say much more than that. Is it true you lost your eye to a Saracen?"

Owen grinned. "Wish it had been a Saracen. If I'd killed him, I would have been forgiven all my sins. But it wasn't on crusade. The King's war, that's where I lost the eye." Owen took another drink.

The ale improved with time. "What is it you didn't like about Will Crounce?"

Jack looked surprised. "I said nothing about not liking him."

'What didn't you like?" Owen asked softly.

Jack looked down at his simmering toes. "It doesn't make me the murderer of Master Crounce and my Master."

"I never thought it did."

Jack took another thoughtful sip of his ale. "Master Crounce should have married again."

Owen thought about that response. "You mean he needed a woman?"

Jack nodded, still watching the fire.

"He got too friendly with Mistress Cooper?"

Jack closed his eyes. "I never caught them at it, but a man knows."

"Did you speak with him about it?"

Jack faced Owen now. His look said Owen was a fool to ask that question. "He was Master when my Master was away. I could not accuse him. Besides, it was Master Crounce recommended me to Master Ridley. I could not be ungrateful."

"Did he make free with other women here?"

Jack glanced back at the door, as if to make sure they were alone. "I don't like to tell tales, but I wondered about him and Mistress Ridley, if truth be told. Something in the way they caught each other's eye, something feeling too much like husband and wife."

"I wondered about that myself," Owen said, "so you haven't betrayed your Mistress, Jack. I thank you for being so honest."

Jack nodded and squinted up at Owen. "I'm no fool. You don't become Steward by being a fool."

"That's why I wanted to talk to you. The Steward sees into the heart of the estate."

Jack smiled. "Couldn't've said it better." He was quiet a moment. "So how did you lose your eye?"

Owen was tired of the story, and he needed to get out in the fresh air. The smoke was making his eye water, and any blurring of the good eye made him uneasy. He was as good as blind when his right eye failed him. But he owed Jack Cooper something for his hospitality and honesty.

So Owen told the Steward about the Breton jongleur he'd rescued from his companions and set free, only to catch him a few nights later slipping through the camp slitting the throats of prisoners whose ransoms would be most valuable to King Edward. As Owen attacked the jongleur, the jongleur's leman had attacked Owen. Owen had killed both of them, but not before the bitch had opened his eye.

Jack listened with a face shifting between wonder and regret. "1 would have liked the life of a soldier, I think."

"Perhaps. But by now you'd have more wounds on your body than you could count, if you were still alive. And you might be missing a limb or two."

"But I would have done something I could tell my boy about."

Owen shrugged. "If you even had a boy."

"No children yet?" Jack asked.

"No. But I've been married a year is all."

"Well," Jack said, "children will come, most like." He nodded. "And you'll have good stories to tell them."

Owen stood and stretched. Rubbed his eye. "God bless you for your hospitality, Jack." Owen held out his hand.

Jack jumped up and shook it heartily. "I wouldn't be thinking a jealous husband could be the murderer. Crounce was one for the ladies. But not Master Ridley. Not that I could tell. So why would someone do it?"

"That's the question, Jack."

"You know, you asked about business partners besides Master Crounce. There was John Goldbetter. He came once, and such a fuss they made over him. An impressive man, with fine clothes. But no rings that could match my Master's."

The rings. Owen had forgotten about them. He wondered how many of Ridley's rings were missing, along with the hand.

"How did Goldbetter act toward the Master and Mistress of the hall?" Owen asked.

"Oh, it was a good visit," Jack said. "His jokes made the ladies blush. He praised everything set before him. A most pleasant man."

"Thank you, Jack. I must be off now. God be with you."

Owen walked back to the house, deep in thought.

Cecilia met him, her face tear-stained and pale. "They have brought Gilbert's body," she said, one hand pressed to her middle, one near her mouth. "It is unholy, what they did to him." She looked deep into his eyes, asking for comfort.

Owen stood there woodenly, resisting the temptation to take Cecilia Ridley in his arms to comfort her. He recognized the hunger in her eyes and did not believe himself saint enough to resist it. He must do something to calm her. He had the powdered valerian root in his belt pouch that Lucie had suggested the widow take to sleep. He called for wine, slipped in some of the powder, and sat quietly watching Cecilia Ridley drink the mixture. He waited for the color to return to her face. Cecilia had found the wounds on her husband's body a shock, even though Ridley had been cleaned and wrapped in a shroud with sweet-smelling herbs.

"There was no need for you to look," Owen said.

"Of course there was need. I had to make sure he was prepared properly. Now I am reassured." Cecilia sipped some more.

"Can you describe all the rings your husband was wearing when he departed?"

"Rings? What do I care about rings?" Cecilia cried.

"If some are missing, we might find your husband's murderers by searching for the rings."

"Oh!" Cecilia gave him an apologetic look. "Of course." She rubbed her eyes. "I should be able to tell you what Gilbert wore that day. . " She put her head in her hands and thought.

Owen hoped he had not put too much of the powder in the drink. He had not wanted it to take effect so soon.

But finally Cecilia lifted her head and nodded to Owen. "That day Gilbert wore the rings he usually wore to impress. He said Archbishop Thoresby was a proud man. And, as this gift was for the chapel in which the Archbishop meant to be buried, Gilbert wanted the Archbishop to be proud to have our money. He wore four rings: a pearl, a ruby, a moonstone, and one hammered gold with no gems."

Owen remembered how Ridley's rings had glittered in the summer sun. "Quite a fortune to wear on the road."

Cecilia shrugged. "Gilbert was foolishly proud of his success. But I think he rode gloved."

Owen motioned for the servant Sarah, who waited nearby. "Now

you should sleep," he said to Cecilia. He would check for the rings on Ridley's remaining hand and in the pack Ridley had left at the York Tavern.

Cecilia stood up, but stumbled. Sarah caught her, letting her Mistress lean on her shoulder for support. Cecilia said to her, "I'm suddenly so dizzy. Thank you for the shoulder." Cecilia looked up at Owen. "Gilbert also carried a small pack with him everywhere. Money and other important things. I did not see it among the things they brought." She rubbed her forehead. "What did you put in the wine?"

"Valerian root," Owen said. "You will sleep a while. It is important that you rest."

"I would have preferred to choose my own time," Cecilia said, but she let Sarah lead her up the stairs.

Owen waited until they were out of sight before he began his search. Ridley's pack contained little. A pair of sturdy boots; a fur-lined hat with a long cloth drape to protect the neck; a wallet that held a twist of thread, a needle, and a small pair of scissors; another wallet with a comb, a small polished-steel mirror, a chunk of rose-scented soap wrapped in oiled cloth, a small bottle of rose-scented oil, a razor, and an ivory toothpick. The traveling apparel of a dandy, for certain. A plain pair of leggings and a soiled shirt completed the contents. There was no jewelry of any kind.

Owen turned to the corpse. Cecilia had not rewrapped the shroud, but just draped it over her husband. For that Owen was grateful. He would much rather lift a sheet than unwind it. It seemed less disrespectful, though he did not know who he thought would be offended, the corpse or God.

Gilbert's left hand lay palm up. Owen tried to shift the rings around on the fingers, but the swelling made it impossible. He knelt down and lifted the hand. A pearl and a moonstone. So the ruby and the hammered gold rings had probably been on the severed hand. Owen doubted they would still be on the hand if it was ever found.