Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

Thoresby led Jehannes to a chair. "Sit down. Michaelo is bringing some brandywine. Forgive me for making you speak of it. But on Ridley's left hand- Were there two rings?"

Jehannes nodded.

Later that morning, masons working on the Lady Chapel found a bloody rag, but no hand, no jeweled rings.

Thoresby did not like it. Impossible to consider it a coincidence. Obviously, Crounce's hand had been delivered to Ridley's room last summer as a warning. So to whom had Ridley's hand been delivered now? Thoresby sent for the mayor. All the bailiffs, all the guards of the city must be alerted. They must send word of any news of the hand, even rumors. He would not make the mistake of letting the murderer escape a second time.

And then the Archbishop sent for Owen Archer.

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."