Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

No doubt Bertold, Owen's friend who had succeeded him as Lancaster's Captain of Archers, had praised him to his new lord, thinking it certain that Owen could not be content in his new life. And it was true that nothing since had felt as comfortable to Owen as the evenings spent drinking with his men after a day of training. He enjoyed learning the art of the apothecary, and he found peace working in the medicinal garden, but his body yearned for more activity.

However, Owen yearned for nothing so much as Lucie, and the summons from John of Gaunt had come less than two months before they were to be wed. Owen had gone to Thoresby with his problem, feeling that the Archbishop was indebted to him.

Archbishop Thoresby was happy to help. He had returned to York from Windsor Castle and his duties as Lord Chancellor to settle a dispute about a relic between one of his archdeacons and a powerful abbot. Archer could travel north to see to the problem. Meanwhile, Thoresby would return to court and argue that Archer's talents were better spent training bowmen on St. George's Field on Sundays and holy days. In this way, York could provide a skilled troop of bowmen at need. King Edward would surely tell his son to desist.

Owen was thus beholden to Thoresby, and the Archbishop's summons could scarcely be ignored, no matter what Bess thought. Tom nodded at the smooth peg and put his knife away.

An unsmiling Michaelo showed Owen into the hall of the Archbishop's palace. Thoresby sat in the light of a casement window, examining a parchment. He looked up as Owen entered and gestured for him to join him at the table.

"Word of the murder has probably traveled through the city already, Archer."

"No doubt."

"We must get to the bottom of this before I leave for Windsor."

"I want nothing to do with this."

"I have no choice. I am surrounded by incompetence. I asked the

guard how it happened that he did not hear the attack. He made a speech about how the murder happened on the far side of the minster, and that I would have been more likely to hear it. It is a wonder my silver is not stolen while I am away."

"Murder within the minster liberty is rare, Your Grace. The guard would not be alert for the sounds."

"Hmpf." Thoresby looked back down at the parchment. Owen noted that it was a map.

"You are leaving soon?" Owen said.

"The wedding of Princess Isabella is in three weeks. As Lord Chancellor, I am needed to work out the details of the marriage contract."

"Surely the negotiations were completed long ago?"

"The bridegroom presents unique problems."

"Enguerrand de Coucy? But he's been the King's prisoner of war for some time. There at court, right there where you can watch him. What problems does he have power to make?"

"He owes the King ransom money. He insists he be released of this as part of the dowry the King settles on Princess Isabella. De Coucy claims the ransom will impoverish him. We must be certain that de Coucy is telling us the truth about his holdings. I have spies all over France and Brittany. And spies spying on the spies. Nothing will be certain until the day of the ceremony."

"With such affairs of state to attend to, why concern yourself with the murder of a wool merchant? Give the bellyache to Jehannes. He's Archdeacon of York."

"Will Crounce was a member of the Mercers' Guild. The guild is too important to me. I count on them for much of the minster fund."

"The minster fund. I understand that's also why you took Brother Michaelo as your secretary-his family offered you a large sum."

Thoresby let the map curl up and tossed it aside. He glared at Owen. "I do not owe you an explanation, Archer."

"No. Of course not." Owen sat down.

"I want you to find out whatever you can about the murdered man."

Owen settled back, stretching out his long legs. "It would help to hear the details."

Thoresby glanced down at Owen's outstretched legs as if about to reprimand him, then met Owen's eye and shook his head. "The story is not so long as that. Two or three men attacked Crounce as he walked past the minster last night with a lady friend. The men slit Crounce's throat and cut off his right hand."

Owen nodded. "And the lady?"

"She fled."

"Can she identify the men?"

"We do not know who she is."

Owen frowned. "Then how do you know-"

"A boy was following them."

"Why?"

"The boy's mother is ill. She asked for Crounce."

"And the boy does not know the woman Crounce was with?"

"He says she wore a hooded cloak."

"In June?"

Thoresby shrugged. "The hand is missing, by the way."

Bess Merchet rushed past Brother Michaelo and barged into the Archbishop's chamber.

Thoresby rose with an exclamation of irritation. "Where's Michaelo?"

"He's about to come through that door and complain that I ran over him," Bess said. She placed her bundle on the polished wood table and nodded toward it, her cap ribbons aflutter. "Do you look at that, Your Grace. Found it in one of my guest rooms." She looked at Owen, surprised. "So Tom's right. You are still the Archbishop's man."

Brother Michaelo appeared in the doorway, nostrils flaring and slender body quivering with righteous indignation.

Thoresby glanced at Bess Merchet and back at his secretary. "Are you coming in to announce Mistress Merchet?"

"She burst into the anteroom, Your Grace. I could not stop her."

"I am sure that has been the complaint of better men than you, Michaelo. Now that you are here, bring us some brandywine."

Michaelo sniffed, but hurried away to obey.

Thoresby smiled at Bess. "You have not made a friend."

"I am not here in the busiest time of my day to make friends, Your Grace. Examine the bundle if you will." Bess sat down without invitation and leaned forward expectantly.

Thoresby had a good idea what the bundle contained and wished to delay the unveiling until the brandywine arrived. Such unpleasant experiences were better softened with a drink.

But Bess was impatient. "Please examine it, Your Grace. As I've said, I'm a busy woman."

"I presume it's the hand of the man found murdered in the minster close?"

Bess sat up straight. "Indeed it is. How did you guess?"

"It is the way of such a disturbing event that anything unusual happening on the same day is connected to it in some fashion. The bundle is the right size for the missing hand."

"I found it in Gilbert Ridley's room. They'd argued last night, you know."

It was Thoresby's turn to lean forward. He knew Gilbert Ridley. A representative of Goldbetter and Company in London and Calais, important merchants in the King's financial dealings. Ridley was also a member of the Mercers' Guild. "Who argued?"

"Gilbert Ridley and the dead man, Will Crounce."

"How do you know the name of the dead man?"

Bess shrugged. "Heard it at the bakery this morning. Did you mean to keep it a secret?"

"Not at all."

Michaelo came in with the wine. He filled three cups and departed silently.

Thoresby took a drink. "Tell me about this argument."

"Little enough to tell," Bess said. "They were at the inn last night. Raised voices and red faces. I marched over to tell them to behave. Will Crounce left in a huff. Gilbert Ridley apologized and went to his room."

"You overheard nothing?" Owen asked, breaking his silence.

Bess glanced at Owen and then dropped her eyes to her cup. She hated to admit to a customer that she eavesdropped.

"I know that it is not your way to gossip," Owen said, "but it would be most helpful if we had an idea what they argued about."

"Well, they were loud, as I've said. From what I could hear, Crounce accused Ridley of ruining the lives of two good women."

"Gilbert Ridley a womanizer?" Thoresby said. "That fat, gaudy man with the piggish face? I never would have guessed. He must buy favors."