Two days after Christmas, on St. John’s Day, Thoresby sent for Owen. An unpleasant surprise. Owen had not expected the Archbishop to return from the Christmas court for at least another fortnight.
“St. John’s Day.” Lucie looked up from her work. “He cannot have stayed at court for Christmas. What could be wrong?”
Owen found the Archbishop glumly staring into the fire. Shadowed eyes and a lassitude in his movement as he raised his hand for Owen to kiss his ring suggested illness. It was too bad, because Owen had intended to point out the Archbishop’s role in Jasper’s misadventures. But if the Archbishop was ill…
“You did not stay for the Christmas court, Your Grace?”
“No. I held my own Christmas court at Bishopthorpe.” The deep-set eyes were unreadable.
“I hope that the cause was not illness.”
“If I were ill, I would hardly choose Yorkshire over the Thames valley for my convalescence, Archer. Why? Have you made no progress?”
“Progress, yes. But there is still much to sort out.”
“Did the information about the unfortunate man in the Fleet prison help you?”
“Indeed. And I thank you for sending word. It is almost certain that the man’s surviving daughter, Kate Cooper, wife to the steward at Riddlethorpe, is involved. She attacked Jasper de Melton twice, by the way, seriously injuring the boy both times. She would have killed him the second time, but was stopped by the boy’s friend, my neighbor’s groom, who died defending Jasper.”
“Another death? What are we dealing with? Lucifer’s spawn? And you say it is a woman?”
“I am certain she is not acting alone. But she is violent. And determined.”
“Why is she not in my jail in the palace?”
“She is missing, Your Grace. She disappeared before I knew she was guilty.”
“I am glad that it is not a matter of your falling in love with your suspect again.”
Owen considered how satisfying it would feel to strangle Thoresby with his Chancellor’s chain. “I wish to point out that the death of the young man—and Jasper’s injuries—might have been prevented had you agreed at the beginning that Jasper should be protected. But, as I recall, the boy was too unimportant.”
Thoresby closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “It would be more useful if you confined yourself to the facts and kept your emotions for your own fireside.”
“Can you discard a young man’s life so easily as that?”
Thoresby sighed. “I do not need someone to count off my sins to me. I am of late too aware of my sins and my mortality for comfort. I sleep little. Have no appetite. And I wonder if my Lady Chapel will be ready in time. Does that please you, Archer? Does that satisfy your desire that I suffer as I’ve made others suffer?”
“So you are ill.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“Then I shall be brief. I have at last made contact with Martin Wirthir.”
“Excellent.”
“He believes the murders are the result of a curse Alan of Aldborough laid on him for betraying him to the Crown. Alan swore he would cut off Wirthir’s hand for thieving. Wirthir thinks that Aldborough might have decided that Ridley and Crounce were also involved. Wirthir is therefore the next—and probably the last—intended victim.”
“What is this Wirthir like?”
“He told quite a tale of betrayal and treachery. A rogue, and not entirely repentant, I think.”
“And this Kate Cooper is the one slitting throats and cutting off hands?”
“As Aldborough’s only surviving child, Kate Cooper seems to be acting with a man or a group of men. There is possibly another family involved, in favor at court right now and eager to eliminate all detractors. As she has disappeared, I cannot question Mistress Cooper. Wirthir leaves for the town of Aldborough today, to discover who was to inherit the estate that is now forfeit to the Crown.”
“This powerful family—what is their name?”
“Wirthir will not say. Claims it is too dangerous for us to know.”
“Hmpf. Probably hopes for money from me. What about Ridley’s condition? The stomach complaint? The wasting away?”
Owen had prepared an answer that would not incriminate Cecilia Ridley. Both Owen and Lucie felt Cecilia’s own remorse was punishment enough. “I doubt that Ridley’s complaint had anything to do with the murders. Unless it was his own feeling of guilt.”
“Why was Will Crounce murdered first?”
“Wirthir thinks that the murderer might have mistakenly believed that Crounce was involved. But he really does not know. It appears that Crounce knew nothing of the betrayal. Indeed, knew nothing of Aldborough’s business.”
“And you say the de Melton boy was injured?”
Owen told Thoresby about Jasper’s two encounters with Kate Cooper.
“It sounds to me as if the second attack and the death of the young man happened under your ineffective protection, Archer. So how effective do you think mine would have been?”
“You can be certain that Lucie and I feel the burden of guilt.”
Thoresby got up, stood in front of the fire, hands clasped behind him, head bowed. “I cannot fault you, Archer. You should not blame yourselves. I am merely disappointed. It sounds more and more as if Ridley’s gift was conscience money. Blood money. I cannot accept it for my Lady Chapel.”
“To my mind, all money given for charity or to the Church is in some way conscience money, Your Grace. What else would motivate merchants, who work so hard to accumulate wealth, to give it away?”
“In that sense, I agree with you. But it sounds to me as if Ridley found it far too easy to forgive himself for acquiring money at another’s expense. Or using others to get himself out of trouble.”
“He offered you the money in good faith. You accepted it. No matter how he acquired the money, he believed he was making amends by offering the money to the Church, for God’s house—at least partial amends. Is that not enough for you?”
Thoresby stared at Owen for a long while before he said, “Let us see this matter to its conclusion if possible, Archer. That is all I ask of you. I do not ask for your counsel, excellent as it may be.” He played with his ring, thinking. “What of Ridley’s son and heir? Matthew, is it not?”
“He is in Calais, managing the business.”
“Curious that he would not come howling back to see that his father’s murderer is caught. Would you be so indifferent?”
“No.”
“Most unnatural.”
“I confess, I had not given Matthew Ridley much thought.”
“Perhaps you should have.”
As Owen rose to take his leave, Thoresby held up a hand. “Aldborough. Do you think I might impose upon this Martin Wirthir to deliver a letter to the Dean of Ripon?”
Owen shrugged. “I will ask him. Ripon is close enough to Aldborough.”
“Excellent. Michaelo will bring the letter to Coats’s house within the hour.”
Owen snarled at Michaelo as he passed him on the way out. His conversation with the Archbishop had left the unpleasant taste of ashes in Owen’s mouth. How unlike the Archbishop’s almost sympathetic behavior before he left for the Christmas court. Something must have happened to cause Thoresby’s early return and his present mood. Something that put Thoresby out of humor and made him think of his mortality. That made Owen smile.
After the brief nones service, Brother Henry returned to the infirmary to give Brother Wulfstan a chance to nap. It was a dreary afternoon with a chill rain falling, and the infirmary was dark. But it should not be quite so dark. Henry was uneasy as he stepped inside. Wulfstan should have lamps set around his worktable or a reading lamp near his chair. Henry found the old Infirmarian nodding in the chair beside Jasper’s cot. He lit a lamp in haste to check the boy. Mercifully, Jasper slept. Henry said a prayer of thanksgiving.
But he could see that their plan to protect Jasper would not work without help.
“We must tell Abbot Campian about our problem, Brother Wulfstan. We need assistance. You must admit that you cannot stay awake as long as you must. Perhaps our Abbot would allow us a novice to share watches with me.”
Wulfstan rubbed his eyes, looking sheepish. “You are right, Henry. Arrogance is my sin. I refuse to admit that I cannot protect the boy myself. But I shall not compound the sin by ignoring your good advice. I shall go to Abbot Campian at once.”
The Abbot sat reading near the fire in his hall, a candle on the table beside him. When he noticed Wulfstan, he closed his book and set it aside. “Come. Sit by me, old friend.”
Wulfstan settled himself with pleasure close to the fire. Though the arcade had protected him from the brunt of the storm, his toes were chilled by the damp walk from the infirmary. “God go with you, my Abbot.” Wulfstan kissed the Abbot’s proffered hand.
Abbot Campian smiled, folded his long-fingered hands in his lap. “Now, my old friend, are you at last going to tell me what you and Brother Henry have been up to in the infirmary?”
Wulfstan was startled. “How did you know?”
“For six days I have seen but one or the other of you, never both together, at meals and services. Do you conduct some experiment that must be watched, I wondered.”
“Oh, no, nothing of the sort, no. It is the boy. Jasper de Melton. You know the boy’s history? Why he is here?”
Campian nodded.
“Well it seemed to me that a certain guest, he told me his name was John—the one who burned his hand on Christmas Eve—he was too interested in the boy. Kept returning to visit him. So Henry and I set up a watch.”
Abbot Campian frowned. “John? Who burned his hand? I am not quite—Oh. Would he have a bandage around the palm of the hand? Just a strip of cloth?”
“That would be him.”
“Well now, you will be happy you have at last come to me. You are rid of him. I bid him a safe journey just after the midday meal. A woman came for him. They went off on fine horses. Very fine horses. But why do you call him John?”
“That is the name he gave me.”
“How strange. I cannot think why he would lie to you. Unless he lied to me? The name he gave me was Paul.” The Abbot frowned down at his white hands. He did not like disorder at St. Mary’s. “I think we must say a prayer of thanksgiving that he has left the Abbey.”
Martin and Ambrose stopped in a small, modest inn at Alne for the night. It had been a cold, wet ride, and they were grateful for the fire and hot food. Especially the excellent ale. As Martin unpacked his saddlebag, he noted the name on the letter he carried for the Archbishop.
“Why, what a piece of luck, Ambrose. It’s going to Paul Scorby, the husband of Anna Ridley. The Scorby land is this side of Ripon.”
Ambrose rubbed a soothing lotion on his hands and pulled on gloves. The long, cold, wet ride and the stiff grip on the reins could wreak havoc on a musician’s hands. “How do you know these Scorbys? More former employers?” His tone was biting.
“Yes. Are you going to hold all of this against me forever?”
“Would I be here if I were?”
“I can hear the disapproval in your voice.”
“It will pass. What is the point about the letter being addressed to this Scorby?”
“If we deliver it ourselves, we shorten our journey and perhaps he will know something of his father-in-law’s affairs that will enlighten us. What do you think?”
“It seems there is everything to recommend it.”