Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

“I would hate to dampen your enjoyment,” Owen said, making no effort to hide his irritation with Thoresby’s priorities.

“It will hardly be a pleasurable sojourn for me, Archer. I shall be busy with official duties throughout the celebration.”

Owen shrugged. “What of the boy who witnessed the murder?”

“Jasper de Melton?” Thoresby shook his head. “His mother is dying. Jasper told us what he saw. Leave the boy alone for now.”

“He may know something more.”

“Not now.”

“He may be in danger.”

“It was dark. He could not make out the faces, so neither could they make out his.”

“You know full well the whole city will soon hear this Jasper witnessed the murder.”

Thoresby dismissed the subject with a shake of his head. “Ridley is more important to us. Michaelo will deliver a letter with my seal, introducing you to Gilbert Ridley.”

“Your Grace does not afford me the courtesy of asking for my cooperation?”

Thoresby raised an eyebrow. “I never ask.”

Owen strode out of the Archbishop’s presence bristling; beneath the patch, needles of pain shot across his useless eye. What bothered Owen, besides Thoresby’s power over him, was the Archbishop’s cold unconcern for the boy. Jasper de Melton was of no significance because he was neither a prominent guild member nor rich. Owen hated Thoresby for that shake of the head.

But Owen could not deny the thrill he felt at a chance for a trip outside the city.

Lucie slowly mixed calendula oil into a spoonful of cream with a small wooden spatula. “Beverley?” she repeated without looking up from her work, “they say the minster there is grand.” She was mixing a supply of the salve that kept Owen’s scar from drawing and burning. More than four years and it still gave him pain.

“My purpose is not a pilgrimage,” Owen said.

Lucie handed Owen the jar. “Keep it safe. And use it. I don’t want a rough cheek scratching me at night.” She kissed his scar. “I will miss you, but you have yearned to get out of the city. Too many years of soldiering. You find it hard to sit still.”

Owen shook his head, amazed. He thought he’d kept the excitement out of his voice. “How is it that you divine my thoughts and I still find you an enigma?” He also found it disappointing that she had not protested his going away. “Will you miss me?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Of course I will miss you. I said I would.”

Owen grinned.

“It is hard to run the shop without an apprentice.”

The smile froze on Owen’s face.

Lucie laughed at his consternation. “Silly oaf. I’ll lie awake missing you.”

As Owen gathered what he would need for his journey, Lucie paced their bedchamber. “I wonder whether Gilbert Ridley has any idea whose hand he found in his room?”

“How could he?”

“How will you give him the bad news? Ridley told Bess that Crounce was his dearest friend.”

“Better that than breaking the news to Crounce’s wife. I wonder who will handle that?”

“No need to worry. Joan Crounce died of plague four years ago.”

“Now, how did you discover that piece of information?”

“The stranger I brought to York. He said to watch the Mercers’ play in particular, that Will Crounce had lost himself in his playacting since his wife’s death of the plague.”

Owen looked at Lucie. Her startling blue eyes were fixed on him, waiting for an answer. They had argued about the stranger, spent several cool evenings after Lucie had returned from nursing her Aunt Phillippa. Owen had warned Lucie not to pick up strangers on the road. She was so lovely. Dear God, he knew what the stranger had been after. “Have you seen him again?”

Lucie sighed. “That is not the topic of discussion.”

“Have you?”

“No I have not, Owen Archer. And if I had, what would be the harm in it? I can service only one man at a time, and at the moment I have all I can do to keep you satisfied.” Lucie grabbed Owen’s arm and put it around her slender waist, then pulled his head down for a kiss.

Owen resolved to forget the stranger. “You can do something for me.”

“I have enough to do with the shop.”

“Just ask any customers about the boy, Jasper de Melton. Find out how his mother is, what will happen to Jasper if his mother dies. I take it he has no father.”

“You think Will Crounce was her lover?”

“It seems likely. Will you ask about him for me?”

Lucie gave Owen another kiss. “Of course.”

“Just ask customers to the shop. I don’t want you hunting the streets for him.”

“I won’t have time to get into trouble, Owen.”

“Thank God for that.”

Ridley shifted on the low rock wall on which he had seated himself once he was convinced that Owen had come from the Archbishop. The merchant’s face was reddening with the sun. He shielded his eyes with his right hand to look up at Owen. The gems on his fingers twinkled in the sunlight. “I know why you’ve come. Bess Merchet found the–” Ridley swallowed. “Why would someone put that hand in my room?”

Owen noted the rings. Travelers were attacked on the road for far less. Ridley risked his own life and the lives of the two servants who accompanied him. No doubt he considered his servants little better than pack horses. What an arrogant half-wit to flaunt his wealth so recklessly.

Owen opened his mouth, closed it. Some of his irritation stemmed from having to blink his good eye against the reflections. He detested being so blinded. But he must curb his tongue and get to the point. “One of your business partners was murdered last night. Near the minster.”

“One of my–” Ridley shaded his eyes with both hands and peered at Owen. “Not Will Crounce?”

Blinded again, Owen suggested that they move into the shade. “Your face is reddening at an alarming rate.”

Ridley obliged, then repeated his question. “Was it Will Crounce?”

“Yes. Did you realize that was his hand?”

“Will’s?” Ridley choked. “I – Dear Lord, no. I did not look closely. But even if I had, how would one recognize–? I do not think I would know my own hand lying severed.” Ridley shivered.

“Why did you leave without a word to anyone about it? At least a warning to the Merchets?”

Ridley bobbed his head and averted his eyes, embarrassed. “It was cowardly and thoughtless, and they have been good to me. But I could not think what to do. All I wanted was to get far away.”

“What did you think it meant?”

“I wondered who would play such a hideous trick on me.” Ridley made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand.

Owen stared out across the summer meadows. This road paralleled the Ouse, though they were far enough north that the river was not visible. Still, it was the rich soil of a floodplain, quite different from the moors and dales to the north and west. A gentle landscape. Besides Owen, Ridley, and Ridley’s two servants, there was no one in sight, though Owen could see cultivated fields. It must be midday, and all the laborers off in some shady spot, eating. A breeze stirred the wildflowers. It was so quiet Owen could hear the bees humming. Occasionally one of the horses whinnied or a bird sang out. Such an inappropriate setting for talk of murder.

“You thought of nothing more sinister than that someone was playing a trick on you?” Owen asked.

“That was as horrible as I cared to imagine. And my mind was muddled. I had much too much ale last night. Will and I–” Ridley shook his head. “This must mean he was murdered?”

“It would seem so.”

Ridley took a deep, shuddering breath. “No doubt you have heard from Bess Merchet that I spent the evening with Will at the York Tavern and he left in a temper.” Ridley rose and went to his horse, drew a leather bottle out of his pack. “Sweet Mary and all the saints,” he breathed and took a drink. “I meant to make it up to him today. I did not like his going away angry.” He took another swig and looked up at Owen. “Does Archbishop Thoresby think I murdered Will?”