The Lady Chapel (22 page)

Owen smiled. "You must neither talk nor squirm, lad, but you must breathe. It does you no good to get light-headed."

In a few moments, the boy began to wobble.

"Begin again, and this time stand with your feet a bit apart." Owen showed Jasper. "It helps to steady you."

The boy shook his arm out, planted his feet about a foot apart, and lifted his arm with a look of grim determination.

Owen moved around Jasper, adjusting the boy's arm, feeling his back and easing it upright, pushing his head so that it rested straight on his neck. Owen knew how much pain an awkward posture could cause.

Jasper held the stick steady. He lasted longer than Owen had expected, considering the boy's weakened condition.

"Excellent, Jasper. That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll do that again."

"Thank you, Captain Archer." Jasper looked happy for the first time.

Owen nodded. "It's nice to have someone to train from the beginning. I can make sure you have the right habits from the start."

"Tildy says Welshmen are born knowing how to shoot the longbow."

Owen laughed. "Not true, Jasper. We must learn. Practice. It's hard work being an archer."

"I'll work hard, Captain."

Owen looked at the earnest face, the glow in the cheeks from the outdoors and a bit of exertion. "You've shown me that already. Was your father an archer?"

"Just for sport. He was a carpenter. But he was a good bowman. Folk said so."

"A carpenter? I thought you were going to apprentice to the Mercers' Guild."

The boy nodded.

"Did you not want to apprentice as a carpenter?"

Jasper bit the inside of his mouth and shrugged. "Dad fell from a scatfold working in the castle."

"Ah. So your mother thought she'd like you safe as a merchant." Owen nodded. "It makes sense." Though considering the fates of Crounce and Ridley . . .

Jasper cocked his head to one side and looked up at Owen. "Could I try it again?"

Owen grinned and handed Jasper the stick.

The boy took his stance with a determined set to his shoulders, lifted his arm and eased it into position, adjusting his shoulder just as Owen had shown him.

He would do well.

Owen walked away from Jasper for a moment, looking about, checking the rooftops around them. When Owen turned back, Jasper still stood. Owen sat down and waited. The boy's arm trembled slightly, but not badly. Sweat beaded on Jasper's upper lip, darkened the hair that fell over his forehead. At last, with an explosive sigh, the boy dropped his arm. He'd lasted almost three times as long as on the last try.

"So. Today, whenever you notice that shoulder, move it around like this." Owen showed Jasper how to bring his shoulder forward, up, back, and around. Jasper tried it. "Good. That will keep it from getting too stiff to go on with your training tomorrow. That is, if you want to go on." Owen gave the boy a questioning look.

"Oh, yes, Captain. I do want to go on." Jasper smiled.

"You're strong for your age. I suppose it takes some strength to keep the wheels of a pageant wagon greased, eh? Were you tired after a day of that?"

The boy nodded. "My back hurt. And I got some bruises when I missed my footing."

"No doubt. How did you train for that?"

"They showed me the day before as they moved the wagon to Toft Green."

"Did they pick you for your strength?"

Jasper shrugged. "Master Crounce just told me I was to do it. I don't know if they even knew who I was."

Snow had begun to fall softly. Owen stood up. "You'd best get to work picking up the branches that fell last night before they're buried in the snow. Then get inside and have Tildy give you something to warm you. I don't want you getting a chill." Owen patted Jasper on the back. "No doubt you'll sleep more peacefully tonight."

Jasper grew red at the mention of his troubled sleep. "I'm sorry if I wake you and Mistress Wilton."

"I'm sorry you still have nightmares. You're safe with us, you know."

Jasper bent down to pick up some sticks.

"What is it you dream about, Jasper?"

The wary look returned to the boy's eyes. "It's naught."

Owen could see that he'd overstepped the boy's carefully guarded boundaries. He would wait and try again another day.

Sleet pelted against the casement beside the table the King had provided Thoresby for his work. Thoresby sat with his left elbow on the table, his hand supporting his head, as he looked up, idly watching the icy water run down the glass, meander round the imperfections, seeking the sill, where it no doubt puddled and overflowed.

Though he watched the rain, his thoughts were on Alice Perrers, how cleverly she had insinuated her way into the royal household, how she had mastered plucking the strings of the King's affections until they sang at her touch. Thoresby had observed her bend and sway with the King's moods, pry and prod to discover their causes, then side with the King whatever his desire, whatever his complaint--most of the time. So that when she suggested an alternate path, the King listened, for it was so unusual for her to express a contrary opinion that it must be important when she did. Was there ever such another manipulator as Alice Perrers?

Beneath Thoresby's hands lay several documents describing properties in London owned by the King, properties that should rather go to one of the King's children than to Alice Perrers. What did the King see in her? Thoresby remembered the crimson glow

in her eyes his first night at Windsor. Might she have a pact with the Devil? It was not impossible. Now that he thought of it, how else could such a plain, outspoken, immoral woman take over the King?

Woman. Thoresby snorted. More like a girl. She was but seventeen.

And already she had such power--and knew how to use it. Her uncles must have realized her intelligence and seen their opportunity. But how had they gotten her to court? Thoresby could smell a rat, or a pack of them--but he needed proof. His most damning evidence against them so far was the lack of evidence. A family that had climbed to prominence so recently must have done so through business deals and court suits, leaving a trail of paper and vellum. But he could find no such trail behind the Perrers family. They had taken care to cover it up. Damn them. He must have a clear case before he approached the smitten King.

Thoresby looked down at the papers and pushed them aside, reaching instead for the flagon of wine that a pretty maid had brought him. Why couldn't the King satisfy his lust with a girl like the maid, unassuming, happy to be noticed by her lord and master? If she bore the King's child, she would not demand properties in London. The child, of course, would be brought up elsewhere, in a suitable household. And the maid would be happy to be sent away with a purse of gold, to wed a farmer.

Sent away. Now, there was a thought. What if he suggested such a clever match for Mistress Alice that the King could not resist? Someone rich and important to the King.

Failing that, what if she should die suddenly? In mysterious circumstances.

Sweet Mary in Heaven, he was the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. He should not waste his time plotting the death of the King's mistress. She was trivial. Unimportant.

No, that argument did not work. The King had made Alice Perrers important. Her uncles might have placed her at court, but it was the King who kept her there. What Thoresby wanted to know was why the King had chosen her. Perhaps she was indeed the Devil's handmaiden.

Thoresby straightened as he heard a commotion outside his door--the rattle of weapons, an angry footfall. It would be the King,

irritated that Thoresby dawdled over the deeds. Thoresby gathered the documents in front of him. As the King entered, the Chancellor was bent over his work. Feigning surprise and confusion, Thoresby glanced up, then rushed to stand. "My Lord." He made a flustered bow.

High color and dark eyes verified Thoresby's guess that the King was angry.

"Why is my Lord Chancellor asking about the wool smugglers I sent to the Fleet?" Edward demanded.

Thoresby was caught so off guard he could think of no immediate answer. Who had told the King?

"Do you dare disapprove?" the King demanded.

"Disapprove? No, Your Grace. Not at all."

"I will not be told how to finance this war." Edward pounded his fist on the table.

Thoresby lunged for his cup of wine as it began to topple. He managed to prevent most of the spillage. "Your Grace, please let me explain. My clerks were set to gathering background information concerning two murders in York. I would not think of criticizing your decisions, my Lord."

The King sat down opposite Thoresby. "What murders?"

"Two members of the Mercers' Guild. Both murdered within my Liberty of St. Peter. Both in the same manner, their throats slit and their right hands cut off."

Edward grabbed the cup of wine and drank. "So someone thought they were thieves. A deal gone wrong. These merchants are wont to cheat one another."

Thoresby shrugged. "Perhaps, Your Grace. But I desire facts. And since they were agents for John Goldbetter, I thought the records would suggest some motive, and perhaps even the murderer's identity."

"Why do you care about those Northerners, John? Haven't you enough to do as my Chancellor? I did not expect you to neglect your duties as Chancellor when you became Archbishop of York."

"Forgive me if I have offended. Perhaps I am giving too much attention to this. But you see, one of the victims, Gilbert Ridley, had just delivered to me a large sum of money for my Lady Chapel. If the money was stolen, I do not want to use it for the chapel."

The King threw back his head and laughed. "Good God, man, if it's money earned in trade, it's bound to have been stolen from someone."

"Please, Your Grace, I want to please Our Heavenly Father and the Most Blessed Virgin Mary with this chapel."

"You think to buy your way to sainthood? You're no saint, John. You'll fool no one."

"I am quite earnest, Your Grace. I wish to make reparation for my sins."

The King gave his Chancellor a long, searching look. "You know, John, you begin to take your post in York too seriously. Have you no Dean of the Chapter? No archdeacons?"

"Yes, of course, but--"

"There you are. They are to do the work for you. You go up there too often. They will begin to depend on your being there. It makes them lazy."

Perhaps before Thoresby murdered Alice Perrers, he should study her technique. He was handling the King clumsily.

Edward took out a jeweled dagger and poked at something in the palm of his hand, then reached over with the dagger and poked the papers in front of Thoresby.

"What is taking you so long, John? I asked you simply to choose the property that would be best for Mistress Alice."

Thoresby pressed his thumbs into the muscle between his eyebrows. The pain calmed him. He faced the King. "What is best for Mistress Alice in what way? Do you wish her to be inconspicuous? Then you should choose a site well away from London. Do you wish her to be close at hand? Then it would be best to keep her as your Queen's lady-in-waiting. A house in London will keep her away from you. Do you wish to provide a comfortable home for the boy? Again, choose a house well away from court." Thoresby threw up his hands. "You see my dilemma. I find it inadvisable to give such a gift at all."

"Merde. All argument, no substance. You sound more like a cleric every day. You disappoint me, John."

Those words might be the beginning of the death knell for Thoresby's career. But, rather than anxiety, he felt a perverse twinge of relief. He was not himself. He must be unwell.

Unwell. That could be useful. "Your Grace, I confess to not knowing myself of late." Thoresby used his sincerest, humblest voice. "This morbid fascination with the murders, my obsession with the Lady Chapel, my tomb. Perhaps I should leave the court for this joyous season, retreat to York. I am not healthy company--"

"No!" the King thundered. Then, in a quieter voice, "1 will not allow it." The veins stood out on the King's large hands, belying his gentle tone. He was angry. "I need you here to arrange the deed of trust for Mistress Alice. I will not have you running off to the North Country to play with your murders and tombs. The moors have made you choleric, John. That is the problem. The worst thing for you would be to spend the solstice up in that darkness."

"But if I cannot make a good decision, Your Grace--" Thoresby held his hands out, palms up in supplication. "You do not need me for a deed of trust. Any lawyer can draw it up for you."

The King toyed with the dagger, turning it this way and that. A dangerous quiet had descended on the room. Only the crackling fire and the sleet tapping against the window dared break the tense silence.

Then the King sighed. "One might almost think that you disapprove of Mistress Alice, John. But we are old friends. You have served me well and faithfully. I will not entertain such suspicions." The King rose.

Thoresby rose.

"We shall talk again tomorrow." The King's voice was still quiet, controlled. "You will have a decision for me then." Edward turned and marched from the room.

Thoresby shivered. He had not handled that well. Not at all well. Perhaps Mistress Alice had put a curse on him.

16/ Uncomfortable Endounters

Wind whipped around Thoresby as he stood on the battlements of Windsor Castle, watching the dying embers of a fire that had caused a moment of excitement in early evening, way out at the edge of the town's fields. The sleet had stopped as a freezing wind came down from the north. The frozen limb of a tree had fallen on a woodcutter's hut while the family huddled around the supper fire. The hut had ignited, then a pile of wood outside the hut. Two children had survived, faster to run from danger than their parents.

It seemed a random accident, not an act of God. What could man learn from such a death? Not to live at the edge of the forest? Not to have a fire in one's hut? Would their parents dying in such a way, and an infant sibling, make better Christians of the children who survived? Or was all death pointless? Was Thoresby's obsession with the purpose behind the murders of Crounce and Ridley just a search for an antidote to his fear of dying?