Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

“With all this, I don’t understand why I was not your first victim,” Martin said.

“As I said, there is an art to this. Besides, they were easier to find. I thought their deaths would flush you out. And they did.”

Ambrose felt a tightening in his stomach, realizing how fate had tricked them. They had come here purely by chance. Scorby must be mad – but much good it did either Martin or him.

“So – at least have some ale, gentlemen. And then we will escort you out into the crisp January fields and let your blood melt the hoarfrost and fertilize the pasture for spring.”

Owen woke before Thoresby – he had given the better pallet to the Archbishop, and the old wound in his left shoulder ached from the hard, lumpy bed. He got up, stretching and loosening his joints, then went outside to relieve himself. Returning, he found the innkeeper watching over the stoking of the fire and thought to ask him some questions about Scorby.

But the innkeeper was still put off by Owen’s appearance. “I don’t know why the Archbishop of York be traveling with your ilk, but I don’t trust it.”

“I’m his man. Do his spying for him.”

The innkeeper squinted at him. “How’d you lose the eye?”

With a sigh, Owen told the tale, despite being thoroughly sick of it. As usual, the story won an admirer.

“Captain of Archers to the old Duke Henry? Well, now. Forgive the caution of an old man, but I’m all alone out here with the family and servants and no protection, see.”

“We’ll begin afresh,” Owen said. “Now tell me. How much time would we waste going first to the Scorby manor before heading into Ripon?”

The innkeeper bowed his head and considered, which involved much muttering and tapping of fingers on the table. At last he looked up. “With your steeds, a day if you just ride around, then go on to Ripon.”

“And what sort of welcome might we expect?”

“Welcome?” the innkeeper snorted. “No welcome, but an arrow from the gatehouse and the drawbridge up against ye.”

“So there’s a moat?”

“Aye. And there’s talk of a serpentlike creature living down in the muck. You’d do better to follow His Grace’s plan to head for Ripon.”

“How well were the travelers armed?”

“Swords. Knives. One of them had a whip. That’s all I saw.”

“Neither had a bow?”

The innkeeper shook his head.

“So how do you think they would fare at Scorby’s gatehouse?”

“Ah.” The innkeeper nodded. “I see the problem.”

Owen clenched his fists in frustration and turned to look out at the frosty morning mist. The trees just across the courtyard were only discernible because he knew to look for them there.

He turned back to the innkeeper, who watched him intently. “Do you know the layout of the Scorby lands? Could you show us a way to come in from behind?”

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.