Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

As the couple stepped around the northwest corner into the minster yard, a laugh rang out, echoing weirdly. Jasper stopped and crossed himself. It did not come from Master Crounce or the lady, and it was not a friendly sound. Master Crounce stumbled. To Jasper’s puzzlement, the woman broke from Master Crounce and ran back toward Jasper, who ducked into the shadow of the great minster so she would not find him spying.

The laughter rang out again.

“Who’s there?” Crounce demanded, though his words were so slurred with drink they hardly sounded challenging.

Two men dashed at Crounce from the darkness, knocking him to the ground. One bent over the fallen man, and Crounce’s scream dissolved into a gurgle and a sigh. The other attacker reared up, a sword raised above him, and brought it down with frightening force. He stooped, picked something up, and then the attackers fled.

Jasper hurried to his mother’s friend. “Master Crounce?” The man did not respond. Jasper knelt and felt Will Crounce’s face. The eyes were open. The smell of blood was strong. “Master Crounce?” The boy reached to tug on the man’s hand. But there was no hand – only a hot, sickening wetness. Speechless with shock, Jasper ran for the guard.

“What is it, boy? Seen an angel, have ye?”

Jasper gasped and then bent double, retching.

Now the guard was alarmed. “What is it?”

Jasper wiped his mouth with a handful of grass and then took a few deep breaths. “Master Crounce. They’ve killed him. They’ve cut off his hand!”

As daylight reached his bed in the York Tavern, Gilbert Ridley cursed and turned over. His head hammered. Too much ale, and oh, how he regretted last night’s bitter words with Will Crounce. If he lived through the morning, he would go to the minster and do penance for his sinful pride and anger. Ridley turned over and held his breath as the hammers sent sparks shooting across his vision. Carts rattled by, bells rang. Blast the city. Blast Tom Merchet’s excellent ale.

An odor turned Ridley’s attention to the center of the room. Something lay there, right there in the middle of the room, ready to trip him. He could not remember what he had dropped there. Meat? He must have left the door ajar. How drunk had he been to pass out before closing off the sounds from below? Ridley closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. It was his bladderful of ale, that’s what hurt. He sat up, clutching his head and his stomach, and waited until the room settled around him. That thing on the floor. It looked for all the world like – Oh, dear God, it was a hand. A severed hand. Ridley rushed to the chamber pot and retched.

Father Gideon had given Kristine de Melton the last rites. Now Jasper knelt beside his mother, praying that he might be taken in her place.

Jasper was frightened. On Thursday morning he had been so happy he thought his heart would burst with joy. Now it was Saturday morning, and his joy was a memory. His mother was near death, and his sponsor for the Guild had been murdered. When his mother woke, Jasper would have to tell her the awful news about her beloved Will.

What had Jasper done to be so punished by the Lord God Almighty?

“Jasper?” The hand that reached for his was icy. How could she burn with fever, yet have such cold hands?

“Mum, let me get you some water.”

Kristine de Melton’s lips were cracked from the heat of her fever.

“Will? Is he here?”

Jasper could not say it. He could not send his mother to Heaven worried for him. “Master Crounce cannot come right away, Mum. But he sent his love.”

“He is a good man, Jasper. Let him care for you.”

Jasper nodded. He could not speak with the lump in his throat.

Kristine de Melton smiled, touched her son’s cheek, and closed her eyes. “So sleepy.”

Jasper prayed that God would forgive his little lie.

Bess was at the bakery when she heard about the body. A wool merchant from Boroughbridge.

“What was his name?” she asked Agnes Tanner.

Agnes frowned down at the child who clung to her skirts. “Will. Like my little ’un.”

Bess considered the information. Will, a merchant from Boroughbridge. “Crounce? Did he go by that name?”

“Could be. Sommat like. You knew him?”

“Customer is all,” Bess said. “Seemed a gentle sort.”

“A boy found him. Poor chit.”

“Terrible thing. Was it robbery?”

“Most like. Why else cut off his hand?” Agnes scooped up the child and barked at her eldest to hold the basket of bread straight. “Must be off, then. Greetings to Tom.”

The pounding at the shop door woke Lucie, but Owen had her pinned to the mattress with an arm and a leg. Lucie closed her eyes and hoped whoever it was would go away. She hated to disturb Owen, and she certainly did not want to go downstairs herself.

But the pounding continued. Lucie felt Owen’s muscles flex, and he sat up with a jolt. “Who is it?” he shouted, though the person at the door could not hear him.

“Why don’t you go down and see?” Lucie suggested.

“They’ll want you. If it’s an emergency, they’ll want the Master Apothecary, not her apprentice.” He lay back down with a contented sigh.

“But it’s the apprentice’s duty to find out who it is and what they want.”

“I’m naked.”

“So am I.”

“So you are.” Owen grinned and reached out to grab his wife, but the pounding began again, faster now, louder, as if a boot had replaced the hand. “Blast them!” Owen threw on his shirt, slipped the patch over his scarred left eye, and marched down the stairs.

Brother Michaelo pushed the young messenger behind him, but not before Owen had seen the boy’s foot raised to kick again.

“What do you want?” Owen growled, turning to Michaelo.

Brother Michaelo gave Owen a dazzling smile and bowed. “Forgive me for the early hour, Captain Archer. But His Grace the Archbishop sent me. It is most urgent that you come to his chambers as soon as you are dressed.”

“Is the Archbishop lying on his deathbed?”

“No, praise God,” Brother Michaelo said, crossing himself. “But there has been a murder. In the minster close.”

“Well I didn’t do it.” Owen began to close the door.

Michaelo put out his arm. “Please, Captain Archer, His Grace does not wish to accuse you, but rather to confer with you on the matter.”

That old debt again. Damn the man. “And he cannot wait till decent folk are up and about?”

“He is most distressed by the situation.”

“Is the corpse anyone I know?”

Brother Michaelo’s nostrils flared in surprise. “I doubt it. Will Crounce, a wool merchant from Boroughbridge.”

Well, thank the Lord it was no acquaintance of Owen. “I’ll be there shortly.” He slammed the door. Brother Michaelo was no friend to the household, and Owen did not consider him worth courtesy.

Lucie touched Owen’s hand. He had not heard her come down behind him. “You must go, you know,” she said quietly. Owen heard regret in her voice.

He squeezed her hand. “Aye.”

Bess Merchet hurried back to the York Tavern and straight up to Gilbert Ridley’s room. She stopped at the door with a start. Lying on the floor like a discarded toy was a human hand, fingers curled inward. She would have thought it a doll’s hand made with devilish cunning, except for the horror of the wrist, where hand and arm had been severed messily. “Blessed Mary and all the saints, what has Gilbert Ridley gotten into?” She noted with irritation that Ridley’s belongings were gone. Just like a man to run and leave a mess. She scooped the disgusting thing onto a mat, folded it over so Kit, the serving girl, wouldn’t see it, and took it with her, taking care to close the door behind her. Damn the man. Bess stomped downstairs to question her husband, Tom.