Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

He looked up from the wooden peg he was whittling to repair a stool. “Master Ridley paid and left in no particular hurry,” Tom said to her question. “Why, Bess? What’s amiss?”

“That Will Crounce he argued with last night was lying in his own blood this morning, that’s what’s amiss. Throat slit open and his right hand cut off.”

“Right hand? After a ring, were they?”

“What do you think?” Bess tossed the mat onto the table, letting the hand roll out.

Tom dropped his whittling and crossed himself. “Jesus have mercy, where did you find that, Bess? Is that–”

“I hardly think there’s more than one hand gone missing in town this morning, do you?”

“Well, no–”

“I found it in Gilbert Ridley’s room.”

“Ridley’s?” Tom frowned and scratched his chin.

“So where is he?” Bess demanded.

“You think he put it there?”

“Whether he put it there or no is not for me to judge, Tom Merchet. What I know is they argue and the man is murdered, Ridley runs off, and I find the murdered man’s hand in Ridley’s room. If I were to judge, it wouldn’t look good for him.”

Tom shook his head. “If he meant to run, would he stop to pay his bill? Or be fool enough to leave evidence? Why move it at all? Let it lie there beside body. That’d be dreadful enough, to my mind.”

All true, but it did not exonerate Ridley in Bess’s mind. “He’s got some explaining to do, that’s all I know.” Bess wrapped up the hand. “You watch this while I tidy up.”

“Tidy up? Where do you mean to go, wife?”

She could not believe the simplicity of the man. “To the minster, Tom. I must take the evidence to Archbishop Thoresby.”

“Why him?”

“It happened in the minster liberty. Agnes Tanner said. So it will be the Archbishop’s headache.”

“Why not just take it next door to Owen? He’s Thoresby’s man.”

“Owen is not Thoresby’s man anymore. He’s Lucie’s apprentice.”

Tom snorted. “You’re wrong there. You’ll see.”

He smiled smugly as he bent back to his whittling.

Last September, a messenger had arrived from John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, ordering Owen to return to his service. An impertinence, for Owen had not been Gaunt’s Captain of Archers, but Gaunt’s father-in-law’s, the old Duke of Lancaster, Henry of Grosmont. Owen had lost the sight in his left eye in the old Duke’s service. When Owen told the old Duke that he wished to resign his post, that he no longer trusted himself in the field, the old Duke had put him to a new task. Owen had learned to read, write, and carry himself as a minor lord, and had thus become the old Duke’s spy. But shortly the old Duke had died, without sons, so that his duchy went to his daughter Blanche’s husband, John of Gaunt, third son of King Edward. Owen had hardly thought that Gaunt would desire the services of a one-eyed archer or spy, so he had prepared to seek his fortune as a mercenary in Italy; but John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York, had chosen to honor the old Duke’s request to see to Owen’s future. He had given Owen a choice: serve him or the new Duke of Lancaster. Not liking what he’d heard of John of Gaunt, Owen had chosen Thoresby.

Gaunt’s sudden interest had to do with Owen’s skill as an archer and a trainer of archers. The return of the plague in 1361 had taken its toll in archers as in all other walks of life. King Edward, obsessed with his ongoing war with France, knew that his longbowmen were his most important assets. He had gone so far as to outlaw all sports but archery. And then he had made it compulsory for all able-bodied men to practice at the butts on Sundays and holy days.

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.”