About the Author

Candace Robb studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. The Owen Archer series grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous 14th century; the first in the series, The Apothecary Rose, was published in 1994, at which point she began to write full-time. In addition to the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada and America, her novels are published in France, Germany, Spain, Denmark, Italy and Holland, and she is also available in the UK on audiobook and in large print.

In addition to the Owen Archer novels, she is the author of three Margaret Kerr Mysteries, set in Scotland at the time of Robert the Bruce.

About the Book

High summer in the year of our Lord 1365, and Owen Archer finds himself once again called upon by Archbishop Thoresby to exercise his skills as detective. While York celebrates the feast of Corpus Christi, a man is murdered in the shadow of the Minster, his right hand severed. All the evidence points to a wool merchant last seen quarrelling with the dead man.

But a complex web of rivalries surrounds the wool traders, and Owen is unsure where to turn first. His only witness is a young boy, his only suspect a mysterious hooded woman – and neither can be found. With Thoresby preoccupied at Windsor with the King, Owen is under intense pressure to solve the case, but he soon finds himself ensnared in a plot devised by very powerful masters . . .

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN 9781446440698
Version 1.0

Reprinted in Arrow Books 1997

5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Copyright © Candace Robb 1994

Candace Robb has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by William Heinemann

Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
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www.randomhouse.co.uk

Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
global.penguinrandomhouse.com

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099421368

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Candace Robb

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Map

Glossary

1 The Last Judgement

2 The Offending Hand

3 Ridley’s Pride

4 An Impertinent Lady, a Humbled Man

5 The Ridley Women

6 Goldbetter & Co

7 A Bloody Treasure

8 Down by the River

9 Tonics and Waits

10 Forebodings

11 The Wool War

12 A Gleeful Conspirator

13 Liaisons

14 The King’s Mistress

15 Nightmares

16 Uncomfortable Encounters

17 Jasper’s Quest

18 Tildy’s Secret

19 Grief

20 Desperate Measures

21 Martin Wirthir

22 Complications

23 St John’s Day

24 Connections

25 Wirthir’s Doom

26 Revenge

27 The Quick and the Dead

28 Blood Enemies

Author’s Note

Copyright

For Taddeus Wojtaszek

Also by Candace Robb

The Apothecary Rose

The Lady Chapel

The Nun’s Tale

The King’s Bishop

The Riddle of St Leonard’s

The Spy for the Redeemer

A Gift of Sanctuary

A Trust Betrayed

Acknowledgements

I thank Michael Denneny for enthusiastic feedback; Lynne Drew for a critical reading that helped clarify things; Victoria Hipps for a keen-eyed edit; Paul Zibton for the map; Walden Barcus and Karen Wuthrich for thoughtful readings; Evan Marshall for being everything an agent should be; Keith Kahla and John Clark for all their good humoured help behind the lines; and Charlie Robb for publicity.

Research for this book was conducted on location in Yorkshire and in the libraries of the University of York, the University of Washington, King County, Washington, and the city of Seattle.

And many thanks to my support group that includes The Book Club, Paula Moreschi’s Physical Culture regulars, my family from coast to coast, and most of all the person who never lets me down, Charlie Robb.

Glossary

One

The Last Judgement

Corpus Christi day dawned mild and sunny, answering the prayers of the guildsmen of York, and of all who looked forward to the Corpus Christi pageants. Many saw the dawn, for the plays began with the blessing of the players on the porch of Holy Trinity Church, Micklegate, before dawn, followed immediately by the first performance of the day as the sun rose. Twelve stations had been marked the evening before by banners displaying the arms of the city. Here the audiences would gather. The pageant wagons, over forty of them, would wind their way through the streets, stopping at each station to perform to the waiting people. It would be a long day for the guild members and other players, ending after midnight – a glorious day in which the history of mankind’s salvation by Christ’s sacrifice was brought to life, from the fall of the angels to the Last Judgement.

The Mercers’ pageant wagon had just left the station beyond Ouse Bridge, heading for the stands in St Helen’s Square. It was the last wagon; on it was played out The Last Judgement. Young Jasper de Melton trotted along beside the pageant wagon with his greasehorn, trying to take in all the sights and sounds of the day while listening for the creaking of the wagon wheels, his signal to slather on grease. It was an important job for a boy of eight. The large wooden wheels would soon come to a halt on the narrow, uneven streets without constant attention. Jasper was proud of his responsibility. And for the play of the Mercers’ Guild no less, the richest guild in York. This was a step towards his acceptance as an apprentice in the guild, an honour that thrilled him and filled his mother with pride and hope for a better life for her son than she had been able to provide as a widow. Kristine de Melton had made Jasper a new leather jerkin for this important day.

Jasper should see his mother soon. She had promised to wait at the station in St Helen’s Square, in front of the York Tavern.

As the wagon trundled towards the square, Jasper saw a red-faced man step close, calling out to Master Crounce. The flaps of the performers’ tent opened and tall, lanky Will Crounce jumped down off the wagon, almost knocking Jasper over, and joined the heavyset man, slapping him on the back.

‘Why are you not in the pageant at Beverley, my friend?’ Crounce asked.

‘Me?’ The heavyset man laughed. ‘I have no gift for yelling myself red in the face a dozen times in one day.’

The two turned and walked away, heads close together. Jasper was surprised. What if Master Crounce lost track of time and missed his turn in the play? He played Jesus. His absence would be noticed. It made Jasper nervous just to think of it, for Master Crounce was the man who had sponsored him for his job today and was sponsoring him as an apprentice in a few weeks. Dishonour to him meant dishonour to Jasper.

‘Boy!’ an elderly actor called out. ‘Wheel be squealing like stuck pig.’

Jasper flushed and hurried to do his job. He must keep his mind on the wheels. He would only get in trouble worrying about other folk.

As Jasper rounded the front of the wagon, hurrying out of its way, he saw that the Mercers were next to perform. Squinting against the sun, Jasper searched the crowd outside the York Tavern. At first he did not see his mother. And then there she was, waving and calling his name. He waved back, grateful that he’d been hard at work when she’d spotted him. He would hate to disappoint her.

With a grinding shudder, the long, heavy wagon came to a halt. A small band of town waits played a flourish, and the actors came out from the tent. All but Master Crounce. Jasper bit his nails. Master Crounce must have heard the flourish. But where was he? The actors moved to their places. At last, just as his fellows had begun to murmur about his absence, Master Crounce jumped onto the wagon from behind and climbed to his perch, a rickety platform that would lower him from Heaven to Earth after his first speech.

The crowd hushed as God the Father began. Always they chose an actor with a bass voice for the part.

‘First when I this world had wrought –

Wood and wind and waters wan,

And all-kin thing that now is aught –

Full well, methought, that I did then…’

The player’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. God would sound like this, Jasper thought.

‘Angels, blow your bemes forthwith,

Ilka creature for to call!’

The angels blew their trumpets.

It gave Jasper chills to think that on this day they were given a glimpse of the Last Judgement. He vowed to live a good life so that he might not fear as did the Bad Souls on this day of reckoning –

‘We mun be placed for our sins’ sake

Forever from our salvation,

In Hell to dwell with fiends black,

Where never shall be redemption.’

As the third Angel spoke, Jasper looked up at Jesus, who finally came into the play.

From Heaven, Jesus spoke, ‘This woeful world is brought to end …’

Someone in the crowd giggled. Jasper looked around and saw a pretty woman standing with two men, the heavyset man who had hailed Master Crounce and another. It was the woman who had giggled. The heavyset man glared at her; the other man frowned and bent towards her to say something.

Jasper wondered at the woman’s blasphemy. For even though it was Master Crounce who played the role, a mere mortal touched with sin as all men were, yet he was Jesus this day.

But Jasper soon forgot the incident as Jesus spoke the words, ‘All mankind there shall it see,’ and the platform began its creaky descent through smoke. It was Jasper’s favourite part. When the smoke cleared, Master Crounce as Jesus was standing on the main platform, his cowl thrown back. And then Jasper could see his eyes, shining with the sanctity of his role. Master Crounce was transformed by the part. ‘My apostles and my darlings dear …’

Jasper thought his master wonderful. He loved listening to him. Unfortunately, as Jesus’s last words were spoken, Jasper had to begin the circuit of the wheels, greasing them for departure. He strained to hear the last lines:

‘They that would sin and ceased nought,

Of sorrows sere now shall they sing;

And they that mended them while they might,

Shall remain and dwell in my blessing.’

As Jasper reached the last wheel, he looked up where his mother had sat. She was gone. Jasper was puzzled. How could she leave while Master Crounce still spoke? And then he saw her being led away, supported by two neighbours. Her feet shuffled and her head lolled to one side. Holy Mary, Mother of God. What had happened? The sight haunted Jasper for the rest of the day. Even the sight of Master Crounce’s shining eyes could not ease his fear.

Jasper did not return home until just before dawn the next morning. His mother was asleep; Mistress Fletcher, a neighbour, watched over her. The small, windowless room reeked of blood and sweat; the smell frightened Jasper.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Mistress Fletcher’s large eyes were sad as they gazed on Jasper. ‘Women’s trouble. Came on her in the crowd. A woman in her condition had no business in such a crowd.’

Will she live? the boy wondered, but he could not bring himself to utter the question.

Mistress Fletcher sighed and stood. ‘I’ll be off for a bit of sleep. Be a good boy and lie beside her so you wake if she wakes, eh?’ She patted him on the head. ‘I’ll check in after I’ve fed my own lot in the morning.’

Jasper took off his new jerkin; he would need it clean for his interview with the guildmaster of the Mercers. He tucked the jerkin into a small chest that held his mother’s treasures, a carved wooden cup and an elaborately painted longbow that had belonged to Jasper’s father. Weary to the bone, the boy climbed onto the straw-stuffed pallet next to his feverish mother and fell asleep.

Though the room had no windows, the sounds of the city wakened Jasper. The walls were thin, letting out the heat in winter, letting in the heat in summer. Bells rang, shutters banged, carts clattered by, folk yelled their greetings to one another, a dog barked as if it were being beaten. Jasper’s mother slept on, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Jasper relieved himself in the bucket in the corner, then took the bucket down the outside stairs and emptied the night waste into the gutter that ran down the middle of the street. He would be fined if caught, but it was more important to return to his mother as soon as possible. He would wait to fetch water until Mistress Fletcher returned.

Shortly before midday, Mistress de Melton opened her eyes. ‘I saw you in your jerkin,’ she said, her mouth working so little that the words were more guessed than heard. She managed a sad smile. ‘Proud of my boy.’

Jasper bit his lip, a lump in his throat. His mother was dying. He had seen enough death in his eight years that he recognised it. ‘I was waiting for Mistress Fletcher to come before I went for water,’ he said. ‘Are you thirsty now? Will you be all right if I go for it and leave you alone?’

‘I will stay put.’ Again the weak smile.

Jasper picked up the water jug and went out, scrubbing his face with his sleeve to remove any sign of tears. He was relieved to meet Mistress Fletcher on the stairs.

‘Ma’s awake. I’m fetching water,’ he said.

‘Good boy. I’ll just go up and see if she needs anything.’

In the evening, Mistress de Melton began to toss and sigh. Her fever rose.

‘Jasper,’ she whispered to her son, ‘go to the York Tavern. Find Will. He has a friend there, he will be with him.’

Jasper looked at Mistress Fletcher, who nodded. ‘I’ll watch beside your mother. Go get Will Crounce. He should be here.’

The York Tavern was not far. Jasper peeked inside and saw Master Crounce sitting with the fat man who had hailed him from the crowd yesterday. They were arguing. Jasper, thinking it a bad time to interrupt, backed out the door. He would wait a bit, then check again to see if things were peaceful. He brushed against a hooded person standing just outside the door beneath the lantern. From the scent, Jasper guessed it to be a woman. He moved across the way and sat in the darkness of the overhang.

It was not long before Master Crounce appeared in the doorway, swaying slightly, his face screwed up in anger. Jasper had never seen Master Crounce with such a face. The tall man lurched out the door. Jasper hesitated, frightened, and lost his opportunity. The hooded woman reached out for Master Crounce with a white, delicate hand. Crounce turned, gave a little cry of pleasure, and headed away with her.

Jasper did not entirely understand his mother’s relationship with Master Crounce, but he suspected. And if he was right, then this mysterious woman had taken his mother’s place. So should he follow anyway? What would Master Crounce say? What could Jasper say in front of his master’s new leman?

He decided to follow them. Perhaps they would part company soon and Jasper could then speak with Master Crounce without embarrassing the man.

The couple went through the minster gate. The woman must live inside the liberty. Perhaps she worked for the Archbishop or one of the archdeacons. It was no problem for Jasper to go through. He often did day work for the masons and carpenters. His father had been in the carpenters’ guild. They paid for the room Jasper and his mother lived in, and gave him work from time to time. The guards all knew Jasper. The one on duty tonight knew him well.

‘Young Jasper. Out late, are you?’

‘My ma’s took ill,’ Jasper explained. ‘I’m after help.’

‘Ah. I did hear. During the pageants, was it?’

Jasper nodded.

The guard waved him past.

Jasper stood still in the shadow of the great minster, listening for the couple’s footsteps. They had turned left, towards the west entrance. Odd direction. That was the minster yard, the jail, the Archbishop’s palace and chapel. Perhaps she was a maid in the palace. Jasper hurried to catch up. He did not know his way so well in this direction. He did not like this place in the dark. The minster loomed high above him to his right, a towering darkness that echoed with breezes and the skittering of night creatures. The two he followed rounded the great west front. Jasper hurried past the towers, stumbling in his fear of being alone in this place best left to God and the saints at nightfall.

As the couple stepped around the northwest corner into the minster yard, a laugh rang out, echoing weirdly. Jasper stopped and crossed himself. It did not come from Master Crounce or the lady, and it was not a friendly sound. Master Crounce stumbled. To Jasper’s puzzlement, the woman broke from Master Crounce and ran back towards Jasper, who ducked into the shadow of the great minster so that she would not find him spying.

The laughter rang out again.

‘Who’s there?’ Crounce demanded, though his words were so slurred with drink they hardly sounded challenging.

Two men dashed at Crounce from the darkness, knocking him to the ground. One bent down to the fallen man, and Crounce’s scream dissolved into a gurgle and a sigh. The other attacker reared up, a sword raised above him, and brought it down with frightening force. He stooped, picked something up, and then the attackers ran.

Jasper hurried to his mother’s friend. ‘Master Crounce?’ The man did not respond. Jasper knelt and felt Will Crounce’s face. The eyes were open. The smell of blood was strong. ‘Master Crounce?’ The boy reached to tug on the man’s hand. But there was no hand, only a hot, sickening wetness. Speechless with shock, Jasper ran for the guard.

‘What is it, boy? Seen an angel, have ye?’

Jasper gasped and then bent double, retching.

Now the guard was alarmed. ‘What is it?’

Jasper wiped his mouth with a handful of grass and then took a few deep breaths. ‘Master Crounce. They’ve killed him. They’ve cut off his hand!’

As daylight reached his bed in the York Tavern, Gilbert Ridley cursed and turned over. His head hammered. Too much ale, and oh how he regretted last night’s bitter words with Will Crounce. If he lived through the morning he would go to the minster and do penance for his sinful pride and anger. Ridley turned over and held his breath as the hammers sent sparks shooting across his vision. Carts rattled by, bells rang. Blast the city. Blast Tom Merchet’s excellent ale.

A smell turned Ridley’s attention to the centre of the room. Something lay there, right there in the middle of the room, ready to trip him. He could not remember what he had dropped there. Meat? He must have left the door ajar. How drunk had he been to pass out before shutting out the sounds from below? Ridley closed his eyes, felt sick to his stomach. It was his bladderful of ale, that’s what hurt. He sat up, clutching his head and his stomach, and waited until the room settled around him. That thing on the floor. It looked for all the world like— Oh dear God, it was a hand. A severed hand. Ridley rushed to the chamber pot and retched.

Two

The Offending Hand

Father Gideon had given Mistress de Melton the last rites. Now Jasper knelt beside his mother, praying that he might be taken in her place.

Jasper was frightened. On Thursday morning he had been so happy he thought his heart would burst with joy. Now it was Saturday morning and his joy was a memory. His mother was near death and his sponsor for the guild had been murdered. When his mother woke, Jasper would have to tell her the awful news about her beloved Will.

What had Jasper done to be so punished by the Lord God Almighty?

‘Jasper?’ The hand that reached for his was icy. How could she burn with fever yet have such cold hands?

‘Ma, let me get you some water.’

Kristine de Melton’s lips were cracked from the heat of her fever. ‘Will? Is he here?’

Jasper could not say it. He could not send his mother to Heaven worried for him. ‘Master Crounce cannot come right away, Ma. But he sent his love.’

‘He is a good man, Jasper. Let him care for you.’

Jasper nodded. He could not speak with the lump in his throat.

Mistress de Melton smiled, touched her son’s cheek and closed her eyes. ‘So sleepy.’

Jasper prayed that God would forgive his little lie.

Bess was at the bakery when she heard about the body. A wool merchant from Boroughbridge.

‘What was his name?’ she asked Agnes Tanner.

Agnes frowned down at the child who clung to her skirts. ‘Will. Like my little ‘un.’

Bess considered the information. Will, a merchant from Boroughbridge. ‘Crounce? Did he go by that name?’

‘Could be. Sommat like. You knew him?’

‘Customer is all,’ Bess said. ‘Seemed a gentle sort.’

‘A boy found him. Poor chit.’

‘Terrible thing. Was it robbery?’

‘Most like. Why else cut off his hand?’ Agnes scooped up the child and barked at her eldest to hold the basket of bread straight. ‘Must be off, then. Greetings to Tom.’

The pounding at the shop door woke Lucie, but Owen had her pinned to the mattress with an arm and a leg. Lucie closed her eyes and hoped whoever it was would go away. She hated to disturb Owen, and she certainly did not want to go downstairs herself.

But the pounding continued. Lucie felt Owen’s muscles flex, and he sat up with a jolt. ‘Who is it?’ he yelled, though of course the person at the door could not hear him.

‘Why don’t you go down and see?’ Lucie suggested.

‘They’ll want you. If it’s an emergency, they’ll want the master apothecary, not her apprentice.’ He lay back down with a contented sigh.

‘But it’s the apprentice’s duty to find out who it is and what they want.’

‘I’m naked.’

‘So am I.’

‘So you are.’ Owen grinned and reached out to grab his wife, but the pounding began again, faster now, louder, as if a boot had replaced the hand. ‘Blast them.’ Owen threw on his shirt, slipped the patch over his scarred left eye and marched down the stairs.

Brother Michaelo pushed the young messenger behind him, but not before Owen had seen the boy’s foot raised to kick some more.

‘What do you want?’ Owen growled, turning to Michaelo.

Brother Michaelo gave Owen a dazzling smile and bowed. ‘Forgive me for the early hour, Captain Archer. But His Grace the Archbishop sent me. It is most urgent that you come to his chambers as soon as you are dressed.’

‘Is the Archbishop lying on his deathbed?’

‘No, praise God,’ Brother Michaelo said, crossing himself. ‘But there has been a murder. In the minster close.’

‘Well I didn’t do it.’ Owen began to close the door.

Michaelo put out his arm. ‘Please, Captain Archer, His Grace does not wish to accuse you, but rather to confer with you on the matter.’

That old debt again. Damn the man. ‘And he cannot wait till decent folk are up and about?’

‘He is most distressed by the situation.’

‘Is the corpse anyone I know?’

Brother Michaelo’s nostrils flared in surprise. ‘I doubt it. Will Crounce, a wool merchant from Boroughbridge.’

Well, thank the Lord it was no acquaintance of Owen’s. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’ He slammed the door. Brother Michaelo was no friend to the household, and Owen did not consider him worth courtesy.

Lucie touched Owen’s hand. He had not heard her come down behind him. ‘You must go, you know,’ she said quietly. Owen heard regret in her voice.

He squeezed her hand. ‘Aye.’

Bess Merchet hurried back to the York Tavern and straight up to Gilbert Ridley’s room. She stopped at the door with a start. Lying on the floor like a discarded toy was a human hand, fingers curled inward. She would have thought it a doll’s hand made with devilish cunning, except for the honor of the wrist, where hand and arm had been messily severed. ‘Blessed Mary and all the saints, what has Gilbert Ridley gone and done?’ She noted with irritation that Ridley’s belongings were gone. Just like a man to run and leave a mess. She scooped the disgusting thing onto a mat, folded it over so Kit, the serving girl, wouldn’t see it, and took it with her, taking care to close the door behind her. Damn the man. Bess stomped down to question her husband, Tom.

He looked up from the wood 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 on 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 fearsome enough, to my mind.’

All true, but it did not clear 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 any more. He’s Lucie’s apprentice.’

Tom snorted. ‘You’re wrong there. You’ll see.’

He smiled smugly as he bent back to his whittling. What Tom knew from chats with Owen over tankards late at night was Owen’s debt to the Archbishop.

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 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 honour the old Duke’s request to watch over 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 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 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 practise 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 talked him up 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, he 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 the Archbishop owed him something.

Archbishop Thoresby had been happy to help. It happened that he had just 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 had been sent north to see to the problem. Meanwhile, Thoresby had returned to court and argued that Archer’s talents would be better spent training bowmen on St George’s Field on Sundays and holy days. York could in this way provide a skilled troop of bowmen at need. King Edward fortunately had told 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 in to 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 travelled through the city already, Archer.’

‘No doubt.’

‘We must get to the bottom of this before I leave for Windsor.’

‘I am to investigate?’

‘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 plate is not stolen while I am away.’

‘Murder within the minster liberty is rare, Your Grace. The guard would not be alert to the sounds.’

‘Hmpf.’ Thoresby looked back down at the parchment. Owen noted 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 agreement.’

‘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 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 headache 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.’

Owen nodded. ‘And the lady?’

‘She fled.’

‘Can she identify the men?’

‘We do not know who she was.’

Owen frowned. ‘Then how do you know—’

‘A boy was following them.’

‘why?’

‘The boy’s mother is ill. She asked for Crounce.’

‘And the boy does not know the woman Crounce was with?’

‘He says she wore a hooded cloak.’

‘In June?’

Thoresby shrugged. ‘The hand is missing, by the way.’

Bess Merchet rushed past Brother Michaelo and barged into the Archbishop’s chamber.

Thoresby rose with an exclamation of irritation. ‘Where’s Michaelo?’

‘He’s about to come through that door and complain that I ran over him,’ Bess said. She placed her bundle on the polished wood table and nodded towards it, her cap ribbons aflutter. ‘Do you look at that, Your Grace. Found it in one of my guest rooms.’ She looked at Owen, surprised. ‘So Tom’s right. You are still the Archbishop’s man.’

Brother Michaelo appeared in the doorway, nostrils flaring and slender body quivering with righteous indignation.

Thoresby glanced at Bess Merchet and back at his secretary. ‘Are you coming in to announce Mistress Merchet?’

‘She burst into the ante-room, Your Grace. I could not stop her.’

‘I am sure that has been the complaint of better men than you, Michaelo. Would you bring us some brandywine?’

Michaelo sniffed, but hurried away to obey.

Thoresby smiled at Bess. ‘You have not made a friend.’

‘I am not here in the busiest time of my day to make friends, Your Grace. Examine the bundle if you will.’ Bess sat down without invitation and leaned forward expectantly.

Thoresby had a good idea what the bundle contained and wished to delay the unveiling until the brandywine arrived. Such unpleasant experiences were better softened with a drink.

But Bess was impatient. ‘Please examine it, Your Grace. As I’ve said, I’m a busy woman.’

‘I presume it’s the hand of the man found murdered in the minster close?’

Bess sat up straight. ‘Indeed it is. How did you guess?’

‘It is the way of such a disturbing event that anything unusual happening on the same day is connected to it in some fashion. The bundle is the right size for the missing hand.’

‘I found it in the room Gilbert Ridley vacated this morning. They’d argued last night, you know.’

It was Thoresby’s turn to lean forward. He knew ‘Gilbert Ridley. A representative of Goldbetter and Company in London and Calais, important merchants in the King’s financial dealings. Ridley was also a member of the Mercers’ Guild. ‘Who argued?’

‘Gilbert Ridley and the dead man, Will Crounce.’

‘How do you know the name of the dead man?’

Bess shrugged. ‘Heard it at the bakery this morning. Did you mean to keep it a secret?’

‘Not at all.’

Michaelo came in with the wine. He filled three cups and departed silently.

Thoresby took a drink. ‘Tell me about this argument.’

‘Little enough to tell,’ Bess said. ‘They were at the inn last night. Raised voices and red faces. I marched over to tell them to behave. Will Crounce left in a huff. Gilbert Ridley apologised and went to his room.’

‘You overheard nothing?’ Owen asked, breaking his silence.

Bess glanced at Owen and then dropped her eyes to her cup. She hated to admit to a customer that she eavesdropped.

‘I know that it is not your way to gossip,’ Owen said, ‘but it would be most helpful if we had an idea what they argued about.’

‘Well, they were loud, as I’ve said. From what I could hear, Crounce accused Ridley of ruining the lives of two good women.’

‘Gilbert Ridley a womaniser?’ Thoresby said. ‘That fat, gaudy man with the piggish face? I never would have guessed. He must buy favours.’

Bess snorted. ‘Nay, Crounce spoke of Ridley’s wife and daughter. Mistress Ridley never saw her husband, the daughter is married to a man whom Crounce called a brute and Ridley called ambitious, determined to be knighted.’

‘Where is Gilbert Ridley now?’

Bess shrugged. ‘Paid his bill and left while I was at the ovens. My husband let him go without questioning him. Tom had not heard about the trouble.’

‘And you found the hand in Ridley’s room?’

‘Right there in the middle of the floor. If Kit had seen it when she came up to clean the room we would have had a fine scene, I can tell you. We’d have had no work out of that girl for a fortnight at least.’

‘This argument,’ Owen said, ‘would you say it was serious enough to end in murder?’

Bess smiled at her best friend’s handsome husband and gave a decided shake to her ribbons. ‘Nay. ’Twas friends getting too honest in their cups, just as Master Ridley said.’

‘Ridley went up to his room after Crounce left and stayed there?’ Owen asked.

‘It’s a private room. What he did after we were all abed, I cannot say. The hand could not have walked up there itself.’ Bess looked them both in the eye. ‘And there’s something else.’ Before Thoresby could stop Bess, she had leaned over and unwrapped the unsavoury bundle. ‘Crounce wore a signet ring on his right hand, the hand that lifted his tankard. Gone now. Find the ring, find the murderer I would say.’

Thoresby used a quill to flip the cover back over the hand. ‘I trust I can count on you not to speak of your discovery to anyone else, Mistress Merchet? We do not want to ruin Gilbert Ridley’s good name.’ Ridley had once hinted that he would pledge a large sum to the minster fund.

Bess sniffed. ‘We’ll see about that good name, won’t we? But never fear, I can be trusted, Your Grace. And I hope I can trust you not to reveal to the world at large that such a thing was found in my inn.’

‘Captain Archer and I will use the information only as necessary.’

Bess nodded with satisfaction and sipped her wine. ‘I hear it was a boy found the body.’

Thoresby did not like the way Bess Merchet was settling in for a long talk. He rose. ‘I will keep you no longer, Mistress Merchet. As you say, you are a busy woman.’

Bess drained her cup and stood, smoothing out her skirts. ‘Your Grace,’ she said with a little curtsy.

‘Thank you for your assistance, Mistress Merchet.’

‘I could do no less, Your Grace.’ She swept out of the room with haughty dignity.

Owen waited until he heard the outside door latch shut before he spoke. ‘So. Are you thinking that Ridley murdered Crounce after the argument last night?’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘Too obvious. My guards are idiots enough to leave damning evidence behind them – but Ridley has been a key negotiator in Goldbetter and Company’s business in Calais and London for years. To last that long in such a position takes a clever man. A man good at covering his trail.’

‘Crounce was a business associate?’

‘According to Jehannes, yes. Crounce was Ridley’s man here in York and Hull.’

‘Someone cut off Crounce’s right hand to accuse him of theft? And left that accusation with his business associate?’

Thoresby shrugged. ‘That is what we must discover.’ He walked over to the fire and stood quietly contemplating its depths, his hands clasped behind him. Suddenly he turned. ‘I want you to go after Ridley. He will not be far from the city yet. I presume he is headed home. To Riddlethorpe. His manor near Beverley.’

‘You want me to leave at once?’

‘Yes. Catch him while he’s in shock. See what he knows. Offer to escort him home. You might search his bags. She could be right about the signet ring, but perhaps Ridley took it for safekeeping. As I said, I want this cleared up quickly. I do not want this worry on my mind at Windsor.’

‘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 will 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 co-operation?’

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 was he 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 against 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 if 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 he was coming to watch the Mercers’ play in particular, and mentioned that Will Crounce had lost himself in his play-acting 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.

He 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.’

Three

Ridley’s Pride

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 should someone put that hand in my room?’