Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

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.

The guard at Bootham Bar paid no attention to the boy who hobbled along beside the dung cart. Jasper had hidden in bushes near the Archbishop's palace until he caught his breath and decided where to go. Now outside the city walls, he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving that no one had been waiting for him. He had only to follow the Abbey wall to St. Mary's Tower, and then around to the river. The Riverwoman's house was easy to find. Jasper could force himself to go that far.

But his right arm throbbed, and with every step he fell more heavily on his right leg. Although the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, Jasper was already soaked through. In his terror, he had left his cloak at the minster. He reached St. Mary's Tower and rounded the corner of the Abbey wall, heading down toward the river. The closer he got to the river, the colder he felt. His head hurt and his stomach rumbled. He had not eaten in a day or two; he could not remember exactly how long it had been. That frightened Jasper, to forget when last he'd eaten. He always remembered his food.

The ground became uneven as he passed among the flimsy structures of the vermin city, and Jasper kept stumbling in the rutted mud. Babies cried, brushfires burned smokily in the damp, dogs barked incessantly and sniffed at Jasper as he passed. Icy rainwater puddled everywhere. Jasper looked at no one; he just tried to keep his footing. He was cold enough with his feet so wet; he did not want to fall and get himself even wetter. The wind had picked up and the river was rising. It must be raining or snowing hard up on the moors. Jasper groaned, knowing that meant he probably would have to wade out to Magda's hut, which stood on a muddy rock at the water's edge of the floodplain.

Indeed, when Jasper had battled his way to the edge of the huts, he could see the Riverwoman's strange home rising out of the swelling river. The water surrounding her hut did not look too deep yet, but crossing it would soak Jasper's feet completely. He hesitated, wondering what would happen if she wasn't there. But even as he stood, the water continued to rise. Jasper must cross now or find another refuge, and he could think of none.

He strode in. The water was deeper than he had guessed, soaking him halfway up his calves, and with his injured leg it was hard work keeping upright in the current. By the time he climbed the slope to face the serpent's head above the doorway, Jasper could not stop his teeth from chattering. The sea monster leered at him, and Jasper imagined he saw its tail flicker at the back of the hut. He closed his eyes and stepped up to the door, banging on it so that the Riverwoman would hear him above the wind. No answer. Jasper stepped back and checked the roof. Smoke curled out, so her fire was lit. He knocked again. Still no answer. He pushed on the door, too desperate for the heat of that fire to be polite.

The smoky hut was dark but for the fire in the center. Jasper took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. Something brushed his forehead, giving off a dusty scent. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust. All along the rafters bunches of herbs were hung to dry. A few tables and benches were scattered around the room, and there were two curtained corners where Magda Digby must have beds. Jasper checked them. No one was there. The beds looked inviting. Maybe he would take off his wet clothes and nap until she returned. He pulled a bench close to the fire and laid his clothes along it so they might dry. They were all he had. As he tucked his torn shoes at the edge of the fire circle, he noticed a bowl of broth simmering on a stone. He reached over and stuck a finger in. A green, bitter taste. No meat or fat of any kind in it. Some sort of herbal infusion. Not very appealing. But it was hot, and he was so cold. Jasper took a small bowl from a stack and poured himself a bit of the broth, drinking it down quickly. He shuddered as his tongue discovered its bitter taste. But it warmed him inside, and for that he was

grateful. He dropped down on one of the beds and was asleep in moments.

Severe stomach cramps woke him. Jasper clutched his middle and got out of the bed, not wanting to foul it. He was giddy and could not get his balance. He sat down hard in the rushes and bent double, retching. He crawled away from the mess, but it felt as if fire and knives were ripping his stomach out. Jasper curled up on his side and moaned as his stomach cramped again. He was frightened. People died from pain like this. He tried to pray, but his thoughts would not stay on the prayer. That frightened him even more. If he could not pray, how could he die in a state of grace? He drifted in and out of a dream that he had shrunk to the size of a mouse and was drowning in a bowl of bitter green broth that he must not inhale or drink. In another dream, a brown-robed friar carried Jasper's mother to one of the curtained beds in Magda's hut and told Magda to see to the boy first. "No!" Jasper cried. "Save my mother. Don't let her die again!"

Then someone was bending over him, smelling of river and earth and fire. "Jasper, open thine eyes. What hast thou eaten, Jasper? Magda must know. Was it the green broth?"

He nodded weakly and closed his eyes against the light from the oil lamp Magda held up to his face.

"Foolish boy. That was not for thee. That was for the lass who must rid herself of her lord's babe. How much didst thou drink, Jasper?"

"Little bowl." He pointed feebly in what he thought was the direction of the fire. "My mother?"

"Not your mother, poor lad. Just the lass whose physick you sampled," Magda said.