Candace Robb - The Lady Chapel

The innkeeper frowned and pulled on his ear. "Why would I be knowing a thing like that?"

"Where I grew up, a lord's land was the place of choice to train bowmen. We started with small bows and small game, and worked our way up. Nothing like poaching to teach one to be alert as well as go after a moving target."

The innkeeper chuckled. "So ye're a man o' the land, eh? Well, I could tell you how it used to be. But no one goes near it now."

"I daresay His Grace would consider it worth double our bill for last night."

The innkeeper's eyes opened wide. "Ye'd pay double?" He bobbed his head then, accepting the terms. "Come without. I'll draw it for ye." They stepped outside into the glistening fog. The innkeeper found a twig, then squatted on the packed mud and drew a rough map of the Scorby land.

Owen guessed by the detail that the property was considerable but not immense, and that it would be difficult to patrol it all constantly. The defenses were primarily at the front, where they would make the greatest impression.

"You've been most helpful." Owen rose, his knees crackling from the long squat in the damp cold. "Would you stoke the fire and put out some food in the room we ate in last night?"

His host nodded proudly. "We've already lit the fire."

"You're a good man." Owen went up to see whether Thoresby was awake.

The Archbishop was pulling on his boots. Owen noted with interest a jewel-handled dagger strapped to the Archbishop's right ankle.

"That's a work of art."

Thoresby turned, startled.

"The handle of that dagger on your ankle."

Thoresby looked down, then back up to Owen. "You recognize the handiwork of your own people. It is Welsh made."

"Taken as booty or received as a gift?"

Thoresby chuckled. "You always think the worst of me. It was a gift, Archer." He pulled on the boot and stood up. "So. I take it that instead of riding straight to Ripon, you think we should see whether Wirthir walked into Scorby's web?"

"Were you listening to my conversation with the innkeeper?"

"I saw the two of you squatting in the mud when I went to the privy."

"I think we should pay a visit to Scorby."

"Was he able to suggest a discreet approach?"

"Aye. It's much closer than I'd thought. We'll be there before midday."

The Scorby land was gently rolling on the far east, but buckled into hills with rocky outcrops and sparse topsoil to the west. The manor house had been built at the far west of the arable land. Owen headed for a spot just southwest of the house, where the innkeeper had assured him a track had been worn by poachers that would keep them hidden from any watchers near the house until they were directly behind it, in a blind spot, shielded from the house by stables.

The enveloping fog had given way to a winter sunlight, pale and low to the horizon. The frost had melted from the trees, but still crunched underfoot. As they turned onto the poachers' track that

wound through a valley between two outcrops, they once again moved into crystalline trees that shimmered in a vaguely glowing mist that was the best the sunshine would do all day.

"A God-forsaken place," Thoresby said as they moved into the shadowy valley.

"I'm glad the innkeeper did not tell any tales about this place. I've enough imagination to make it uncomfortable."

"I was a boy in the Dales," Thoresby said. "And I don't care for such valleys in winter, which is the season here for half the year."

"No wonder you're not fond of it." Owen checked that his bowstring was still dry and warm in the pouch at his waist, then wrapped his cloak closer about him. "We'll come out behind the outer stables. From there perhaps we can discover if anything is up-whether Scorby's busy slitting more throats."

Thoresby crossed himself. "This Paul Scorby sounds a cursed soul."

"You'd be the one to judge that, being a churchman."

They rode on in silence, chilled by the vapor that the sun drew from the frosty earth and trees but could not dispel. The stony hills towered on either side. Their horses were skittish and took all their attention.

In time, they passed beyond the outcrops and rode out along a tree-lined stream where the sun again warmed them a little. They let the horses drink, though slowly at first for the water was icy. Then they proceeded with caution. The stables should be near. They walked their horses, listening, keeping the horses away from the rocky edges of the stream where their hoofs would clatter.

Rooftops appeared beyond the trees, then the outline of long, low buildings. They tethered their horses. Owen strung his bow and crept forward to scout. Thoresby stayed behind until Owen could discover whether Scorby and his men were about and where they were. It would not do to have their horses taken from behind.

Owen stayed downwind of the stables so that the horses there would not scent an intruder and give him away. A whinny and the sound of a hoof against wood told him his precaution had been wise. He dropped down and studied the moated manor house beyond the stables. An old, venerable house. Moss crept up the walls surrounding it. A brackish stench came from the moat.

Owen crept closer. As he watched, a door opened in the wall and six men emerged. They climbed onto a rickety bridge that led across the moat to a point near the stables. It was not a drawbridge, but a makeshift affair that would be burned down at the first hint of trouble. One of the men stumbled and was steadied roughly. Owen squinted. The stumbler was Martin Wirthir. Something was wrong with his arm. Ambrose Coats walked behind Martin with his hands bound. Scorby brought up the rear.

Careful to keep low and out of sight, Owen slipped back to Thoresby and told him what he'd seen.

"You think they're coming here for the execution?"

Owen nodded.

"What's our plan?"

"With four of them, I think you'd best surprise them on horseback, while I'm up on the roof of an outbuilding with my bow. When they see you, I'll stand and shoot before they can turn round."

"I can wield this sword."

"Good. I count on it."

They mounted and rode up to the stables. Owen tethered his horse once more and climbed up on a roof with a slant to it, behind which he could crouch until Thoresby rode forward. Thoresby guided his horse around the building, bending low over the beast's neck. The procession of men had passed over the bridge and was moving through brush at the edge of the moat, toward the stable yard. Thoresby sat, waited until he could hear them, then burst into a gallop, yelling like a banshee. He shot past the six men, moving their attention away from the stables. Owen rose, taking aim.

With an angry shout, Scorby ordered his men to go after the intruder. Owen shot one in the shoulder, another in the back of the leg. They both stumbled, howling in pain. Thoresby heard them and turned.

Scorby spun round, spotted Owen, drew out a knife, aimed to throw. Owen put an arrow through Scorby's upraised wrist. Scorby dropped the knife and fell to his knees, clutching his arm.

The man with the arrow in his leg writhed on the ground in pain. The third, unwounded man went after Thoresby, who reared up and brought his sword down on his attacker, slicing through shoulder and neck. The man slumped to the ground, motionless. The man wounded in the arm took off for the bridge. Owen shot him again, this time in the leg, then jumped off the roof and cut Ambrose's bonds.

Wild-eyed, the musician grabbed a pitchfork and shouted, "Scorby, you bastard. Look at me."

Scorby turned, snarling like an animal, and lurched to his feet still clutching his arm, the arrow quivering.

Ambrose let out a war cry and threw the fork at Scorby with a precision and grace that amazed Owen. Scorby screamed as the tines pierced his torso. The impact threw him backward to the ground.