Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

Owen's fist slammed into the table. "And what was he doing here?"

"Did you hear me? He has offered to help."

"I don't want his help."

Lucie's eyes flamed. She jumped up, knocking her stool backward. "Oh, indeed? I humble myself and risk my immortal soul gossiping with the citizens of York for you, and you reject the help I found? How gracious you are." She stormed out of the room.

Owen felt like a hypocrite for criticizing Ridley's marriage.

Martinmas. One of Thoresby's least-favorite feast days. As the Archbishop grew older, he disliked November more and more, the beginning of a long darkness. He especially disliked November in York. He usually managed to stay in Windsor until spring, but this year several of Thoresby's archdeacons were misbehaving and he thought it wise to make his presence felt among them. Trouble with his archdeacons had an unpleasant tendency to involve murder.

But the feast was not entirely gloomy. Gilbert Ridley had made a most generous gift to the minster's Lady Chapel, one of Thoresby's contributions to the glorious cathedral, and the one closest to his heart. Considering the size of the gift, Thoresby could do no less than invite the man to dine with him.

The Archbishop was worried about the dinner; it was the first time he would be speaking to Ridley since Will Crounce was murdered, and it must be obvious to Ridley that Thoresby had made no effort to find Crounce' s murderers beyond the initial inquiries made by Archer. Gilbert Ridley might require an explanation.

But Ridley could not be too angry if he donated all that money for Thoresby's Lady Chapel. .

And, after all, Archer had come up with nothing. Even Martin Wirthir, the go-between for Ridley and Crounce, had eluded Thoresby and Archer. Wirthir appeared to have vanished.

Thoresby paced. It was no good. He had to admit to himself, if to no one else, that it was the situation at Sheen that had turned his thoughts away from Will Crounce's murder.

When Thoresby had arrived at Windsor, there were orders- worded as a request, but from the King-that Thoresby was to go to the royal castle of Sheen and escort Queen Philippa to Windsor. Having a deep and abiding love-courtly, to be sure-for Queen Philippa, Thoresby had been happy to oblige.

But a new lady-in-waiting had ruined the occasion for Thoresby. An impertinent upstart from a family grown rich in trade, seventeen-year-old Alice Perrers offended Thoresby by her mere presence in the same room as Queen Philippa. Bold of eye, blunt of tongue, with a laugh that shattered the peace of the lovely Sheen, Alice Perrers had inexplicably become Queen Philippa's favorite.

And once the entourage arrived at Windsor, Thoresby discovered, to his disgust, that King Edward delighted in Alice Perrers's undisguised attempts to woo him. But that was nothing to what he'd discovered next.

On his second evening at Windsor, Thoresby was invited to sup with King Edward in his chambers. Alice Perrers was also invited. She wore a low-cut gown of soft, thin, clinging wool. And as she turned and curtsied to the King, Alice Perrers's silhouette and the way her hands hovered over her stomach revealed to Thoresby that she was with child.

Thoresby was stunned. The young woman was a nobody. Not even a beauty. Plain as the Queen herself, but with none of the Queen's sweet nature to compensate. And yet, by the fawning attention the King paid her, it was clear that Alice Perrers was a favorite. Such a common woman, invited to sup with the King, allowed to flaunt her bastard-for Thoresby knew she was unmarried.

Thoresby made it his business to find out what he could about Alice Perrers.

Which was very little.

She was a plague child, as they called those born during the first visitation of the Death in England, and had been orphaned by that same pestilence. Her uncles had paid a merchant family to raise her. And then, a few years ago, the uncles decided to bring Alice

back into the bosom of the family and to train her to be a courtier. Alice had a little money-enough to attract a respectable husband and more learning than was good for her, judging by Thoresby's own reaction to her impertinent comments-and a defensiveness that betrayed her upbringing in a merchant household. Thoresby despised her.

He could not very well ask courtiers how Perrers's uncles had bought the Queen's favor, but as Lord Chancellor, Thoresby had access to all legal and financial records. He had his chief clerk, Brother Florian, scour the records for two names, Crounce and Perrers.

Brother Florian reported that Crounce had indeed been a minor member of Goldbetter's company; he was mentioned once, as a source of a letter presented by Ridley to a Crown court in defense of Goldbetter. Perrers was in no Crown records.

"However," Brother Florian said with a smirk, "it is common knowledge in London that this Perrers carries King Edward's bastard."

"Sweet Heaven." Thoresby stared at Florian in disbelief. "How could he choose such a creature? And to humiliate the Queen with such- It is impossible. Are you certain?"

"My best sources confirmed it."

Thoresby felt as if the world had just turned upside down. And with Perrers on his mind, and having found that Crounce was such an insignificant member of Goldbetter and Company, Thoresby had lost interest in Crounce's murder and had recorded it as a case of robbery.

But had that satisfied Ridley?

When Michaelo showed Gilbert Ridley into the hall, Thoresby stared at the merchant in confusion. Thoresby remembered Ridley as a barrel of a man, rather like a boar. But the man before Thoresby was pale and anything but round. Emaciated, with the slack flesh and bad color of someone recovering from a serious illness.

"I had no idea you'd been ill," Thoresby said.

Ridley shook his head and sat down at the board. "No, no, I have not been ill. Well, nothing that I consider an illness. I-" Ridley sighed, passed ringed fingers across his brow. "It has been difficult accepting my friend's death. You remember. Will Crounce. Murdered right here, near the minster. Butchered." Ridley shook his head.

Thoresby nodded. "Of course I remember what happened to Will Crounce." Noting that Ridley's hands trembled as he lifted a goblet of claret to his mouth, Thoresby thought to reassure him. "I am sorry our investigation turned up nothing. Will Crounce left little record of his life and apparently had no enemies."

"I know you did your best. I was unable to help your man Archer. I assure you I was most grateful for your help at the time."

Ridley gave the Archbishop an oddly sweet smile. By God, it was as if the man had found God through the death of his friend, Thoresby thought. Found charity and humility, two graces he'd most sadly lacked before. "We did what we could," Thoresby said.

Ridley nodded. "Will and I had- You know about our business partnership. We were young and hopeful and thought we might do well for ourselves. And so we did. We did that. It could not have happened without Will. He had a way with people that I never had. A gentle voice, a manner that reassured." Ridley took a long drink of the wine. Tears shone in his eyes.

"We had no luck finding the Fleming who worked as your go-between, Martin Wirthir," Thoresby said. "We suspect he goes by another name in York."

"It is unlikely that Wirthir comes to York anymore. He has no reason for doing so."

Thoresby nodded. "And no one would come to the North Country by choice. It is a place one must be sent."

Ridley shook his head. "I disagree. I could not wait to come home to the moors, the heather, the silence of the winter snows, the first frost that crunches underfoot."

"My dear man, to speak in such poetic terms of this wasteland …"