Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

"I should. Perrers. Her uncles won't let me live."

Ambrose helped Martin drink more of the wine. "Now try to rest again."

"The singing. Bless you."

Ambrose folded his jacket and made a pillow for Martin. He finished the wine he'd poured, then hid the jug and cups. Getting up, he paced to keep warm while he sang. When he felt the stiffness go out of his legs, arms, and back, he sat down again and took Martin's head in his lap, singing all the while.

Ambrose had taken two breaks for wine and movement, and the light from the high, barred window had vanished long ago when Scorby came down with his two companions.

"Lift him up," Scorby barked to his men. They lifted Martin and held him upright between them. "It occurred to me that you might bleed to death. And since that is not the death I've planned for you, I'm going to cauterize that nasty wound. Now aren't you grateful?"

Martin slumped between the two men, his eyes fluttering as he tried to open them and keep them open. But he was terribly weak.

"You offer me no thanks, eh? Well, perhaps you do not believe I mean to be so kind." Scorby clapped and a manservant came in with a jug and cup. "Brandywine, Wirthir. From the cellars of my father-in-law, may he rest in peace." He filled the cup and handed it to Ambrose. "Help him drink. It will go better for him with a good dose of brandywine in his belly."

Ambrose helped Martin drink. "They are going to burn the wound, Martin. It is a good thing. It will heal better afterward. But it will be painful."

Martin nodded, understanding. After a few gulps of the brandywine, he whispered, "Enough, Ambrose, my friend."

Ambrose stepped aside. He wished there were something he might do to lessen Martin's pain, but he could think of nothing.

The men dragged Martin out of the cell.

"I must go with him."

Scorby smirked. "It is a good show, 'tis true. And you have entertained the household so nicely today. Certes, I shall allow it." He grabbed Ambrose by the arm and they moved forward, the manservant hurrying after with a torch.

They took Martin down a passage to a room with a stone floor, a fire pit in the center. A fire burned smokily in the pit. Tanner sat by it, heating an iron rod that was flattened on one end. Martin managed to move his feet enough not to stumble. They sat him down on a bench closer to the fire than Tanner's. As they pulled at the cloth binding Martin's stump, he cried out.

Ambrose tried to break away from Scorby and go to Martin, but his captor held him firm. "God's mercy, moisten the cloth before you pull it off," Ambrose cried.

"You heard him, men-moisten the bandage," Scorby said.

They did so, and it went better for it.

Scorby turned to Ambrose. "How did you get the bleeding to stop?"

"I tied a lace up high on his arm."

"Should we remove it now?"

"Dear God, I don't know." Ambrose felt stupid. "Perhaps after you've burned it and bandaged it again."

Scorby nodded. "You heard, men. Now be done with it."

Tanner lifted the smoking rod from the fire and applied it to the stump the two men held out toward him. The stench was sickening. Martin's face was contorted with the pain, but he did not cry out. Tanner touched the rod to the wound several times, then thrust the rod back into the fire and reached for a grease pot.

"What is that?" Ambrose asked. The contents looked crusty and vile.

"Lard."

"Up in my pack there is an unguent jar. Let me apply some of that instead."

Tanner looked to Scorby.

"Forget the lard. Let them use their own supplies. That suits me." Scorby turned to the manservant. "Go up and get the gentleman's pack." He turned to the two who still held Martin up. "Let him sit while we wait. And his friend here can give him some more brandywine."

Ambrose held the cup to Martin's lips. He helped himself with his left hand and took a long drink. With a shudder, he wiped his lips and looked over at Scorby. "I don't understand."

Scorby chuckled. "You mean why I'm suddenly kind?"

Martin shook his head slowly. "No. Why Matthew Ridley hasn't returned and ripped off your balls."

"Matthew?" Scorby looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as if impressed. "You have been thinking. I am amazed that you can still think so clearly. Matthew Ridley." He smiled. "He works for both John Goldbetter and our King-well, Alice Perrers and her uncles, who are the King's most loyal subjects at the moment. Matthew will agree to nothing that will hurt the King, or us, of course. His father had the wrong loyalties."

Martin rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. "And you are a cousin to Perrers?"

"Indeed. We are a close family."

Ambrose frowned. "How did you convince a son to turn on his father?"

"We convinced him that his father was a thief and a traitor. Which was true, but so are all the wool merchants. Or they would be-if they had the right connections. King Edward has not endeared himself to them."

Ambrose began to piece it together. "They are the family you crossed, Martin?"

"Aye."

"But the Perrers family-they sold to the Flemings against the King's orders," Ambrose said.

Scorby grinned. "And it is for that knowledge you shall die tomorrow. In daylight. Where I can watch you suffer. Ah!" The

manservant entered with Ambrose's pack. "Give it to the singer. He can find the medicine and apply it."

Scorby paced around the room with his hands behind his back while Ambrose gently smoothed the unguent on a square of cloth, then pressed it to the wound. He removed the leather lace and used it to bind the cloth to the stump.

Scorby grabbed Ambrose again. "Let's get you back into your nice chamber now."

The men helped Martin back to the dark cell, dumped him down in the foul-smelling straw, then shoved Ambrose in after him.

When the footsteps had died away, Ambrose crawled over to Martin. "Can you hear me?"

Martin moaned.

Ambrose lifted him tenderly and carried him to the drier side of the little room near the door, again using his own jacket for his friend's pillow. He went back and found the wine and cups in the straw.

"Can you drink some wine?"

No answer. He leaned down and reassured himself that Martin still breathed, then poured himself a cup of wine and drank. Leaning against the wall, he chanted the mass for the dead until his voice gave way. Then he curled up beside Martin and slept.

Owen was puzzled as they rode into the yard of the inn at Alne. "Why here?"

"It's the best inn between York and Ripon," Thoresby said. "Wirthir is a traveler. He'll know it."

"Aye, Your Grace," the innkeeper bowed, pleased to be of assistance to the great Lord Archbishop. "They were here last night." He cast an uneasy eye on Owen. "Is there trouble?"

Thoresby did not answer, thinking of his own concerns. "They?" He looked at Owen. Owen shrugged.

"The foreigner was with a Town Wait from your city, Your Grace. He wore the livery of York."

"Shrewd man, to know the liveries of the great cities."

"And it please Your Grace, 'tis my business to know such things."

Owen nodded. "That would be Ambrose Coats traveling with him."

"They left this morning, not in a hurry. Still, they should be in Ripon by now."

"Do you know the Scorby family?" Thoresby asked.

The innkeeper shrugged. "You can't live hereabouts and not know them."

"An unpleasant family?"

The innkeeper shrugged again, uncomfortable under Owen's one-eyed stare. "They're trouble. Paul Scorby, the young master, he's got his men with him all the time. And men like that, they're looking for a fight. My tavern empties when they come. Bad for business."

Thoresby threw his pack onto a table by the fire. "Do you have a room where we could eat in private? And a place for us to sleep?"