The Lady Chapel (35 page)

"It is nothing. Just bit my tongue," Ambrose whispered.

Martin kicked his bound feet up into the groin of the man in front of him. As the man howled and clutched himself, Martin noticed a signet ring on the man's dirty hand. Will Crounce's signet ring. "Sweet Jesu," Martin murmured, realizing what that must mean. What all this must mean. "The Archbishop delivered us into the hands of my nemesis."

"The Archbishop did not," Ambrose hissed. "It was your idea to deliver the letter."

"Indeed." Scorby had resumed his seat. "And how did you guess at your misfortune?" He chuckled. The hand that played with the fur trim on the collar sported a ruby ring.

How had Martin missed it before? "You and your retainer wear the rings of dead men."

"Clever, Wirthir. Do you know, my cousin is angry with me that I have not killed you yet."

"Your cousin? You mean the letter?"

"Yes. Pity you did not recognize the seal of Mistress Perrers. Alice Perrers. The King's beloved."

"Perrers?" Martin groaned. It could not be worse. "When I knew her, she had no seal."

"When you took her money and then sold her name to that Chiriton swine, you mean. Well, yes, my dear cousin Alice has risen rather quickly. She gave birth this autumn to King Edward's bastard son. It has enhanced her position quite remarkably. Clever Alice."

A bastard son for an aging King. Alice Perrers would now wield great power at court. As long as she silenced any accusations of treason. "What has she promised you?" Martin had money hidden away. Perhaps he could bribe this madman.

Scorby nodded to Tanner, who moved to stand behind Ambrose. Scorby smiled. "I am to be invited to court as soon as-- Well, she is angry with me, but when I deliver proof to her that I have completed my task, she will relent." He stood up. "Tanner, hold the musician."

Tanner grabbed Ambrose. Martin lurched away, but he was grabbed by the other two men.

"Loosen Wirthir's bonds and bring him over by the fire," Scorby said. "You know what I must do." He walked away as the two men hoisted Martin up and took him over to a table by the fire, then untied his hands and held him still.

Scorby approached with a sword in hand, a gleeful glint in his eye. "Sweet Alice is angry about the hands, but it was my Kate's request. And, in her memory, I must complete her father's curse."

As Martin and Ambrose screamed their protests, the men forced Martin's right hand down onto the table. Martin looked up in horror at the lust in Scorby's face as he lifted the sword with both hands.

Sweet Savior, forgive me my sins. And give him strength to do it right the first time. In a moment of dreadful clarity, Martin watched the sword descend. It took forever to reach him. He howled at the sight of his blood rushing forth long before the searing pain hit him. And then Martin stumbled, almost fainting.

Ambrose broke out of Tanner's grasp, but the dogs were waiting. "Martin! My God, Martin!" Ambrose was yelling.

Martin looked over at Ambrose and wondered woozily why his friend was on the floor, pinned down by the hounds of Hell.

"Pity that poor Kate could not witness the end," Scorby said. "She hated you the most, Wirthir. Said you'd killed her brother."

"Cauterize his wrist, for pity's sake," Ambrose pleaded. "Martin, can you hear me?"

"I hear," Martin whispered, steadying himself against the table. But Ambrose seemed to speak from a distance, and the room buckled and changed shape as he stood there. His right hand hurt unbearably. "I do not think I can stand up much longer," he whispered. Strong arms caught him up.

"Take them below," Scorby ordered. "I will visit them shortly."

The dungeon with its seeping walls and fetid air was fitting for a house with a moat and drawbridge. Ambrose wondered what the family protected itself against. But his thoughts were all for Martin as he was dumped, unconscious, on the filthy floor. They'd tied a rag on his mutilated wrist, but it was already soaked with blood. Ambrose dropped to his knees beside Martin and put his head on his friend's chest. His heart still beat. Praise be the Lord. Where there was life, there was hope.

"Please untie my hands so I might assist him," Ambrose begged the man who wore the signet.

"And what do you think you might do, eh?"

"I can at least try to stop the bleeding."

The man brought his torch closer and examined the blood-soaked rag. "I suppose, being in the dungeon and all." He untied Ambrose.

"Could you bring some wine for the pain when he wakes?"

"He won't be living much longer. The Master has plans for him."

"But a person can die of pain."

The man snorted. "I'd be dead ten times over." He spat in the corner. "Die of pain."

"There would be no more sport for Master Scorby if Martin dies of pain."

The man looked uncertain. "I'll see about it." He closed the heavy door behind him.

Ambrose sat down and took off his jacket to untie the leather lace that attached one of the sleeves to his leather vest. The lace was thin but strong. He dug in the filthy straw until he found a small, thick twig. Gently he slipped the lace under Martin's mutilated arm and tied the lace tight just above the elbow, then stuck in the twig to

twist the lace as tight as possible. Martin whimpered. Ambrose lifted Martin's head onto his lap and smoothed his sweaty brow.

And then he began to sing. He sang anything and everything he could think of. His intention was that no matter when Martin waked, he would know instantly that Ambrose was there.

Ambrose's voice was hoarse by the time a timid servant came in, bearing a pitcher of wine and two cups. "You've a voice like an angel," the woman said. "We heard you up above. Hide these under the straw after you have some. For later."

Ambrose drank gladly, and when he lifted the cup to Martin's lips, his eyes fluttered open and he drank a little. Ambrose helped Martin sit up. Martin drank more.

"Praise God you have not given up, Martin."

"I should. Perrers. Her uncles won't let me live."

Ambrose helped Martin drink more of the wine. "Now try to rest again."

"The singing. Bless you."

Ambrose folded his jacket and made a pillow for Martin. He finished the wine he'd poured, then hid the jug and cups. Getting up, he paced to keep warm while he sang. When he felt the stiffness go out of his legs, arms, and back, he sat down again and took Martin's head in his lap, singing all the while.

Ambrose had taken two breaks for wine and movement, and the light from the high, barred window had vanished long ago when Scorby came down with his two companions.

"Lift him up," Scorby barked to his men. They lifted Martin and held him upright between them. "It occurred to me that you might bleed to death. And since that is not the death I've planned for you, I'm going to cauterize that nasty wound. Now aren't you grateful?"

Martin slumped between the two men, his eyes fluttering as he tried to open them and keep them open. But he was terribly weak.

"You offer me no thanks, eh? Well, perhaps you do not believe I mean to be so kind." Scorby clapped and a manservant came in with a jug and cup. "Brandywine, Wirthir. From the cellars of my father-in-law, may he rest in peace." He filled the cup and handed it to Ambrose. "Help him drink. It will go better for him with a good dose of brandywine in his belly."

Ambrose helped Martin drink. "They are going to burn the wound, Martin. It is a good thing. It will heal better afterward. But it will be painful."

Martin nodded, understanding. After a few gulps of the brandywine, he whispered, "Enough, Ambrose, my friend."

Ambrose stepped aside. He wished there were something he might do to lessen Martin's pain, but he could think of nothing.

The men dragged Martin out of the cell.

"I must go with him."

Scorby smirked. "It is a good show, 'tis true. And you have entertained the household so nicely today. Certes, I shall allow it." He grabbed Ambrose by the arm and they moved forward, the manservant hurrying after with a torch.

They took Martin down a passage to a room with a stone floor, a fire pit in the center. A fire burned smokily in the pit. Tanner sat by it, heating an iron rod that was flattened on one end. Martin managed to move his feet enough not to stumble. They sat him down on a bench closer to the fire than Tanner's. As they pulled at the cloth binding Martin's stump, he cried out.

Ambrose tried to break away from Scorby and go to Martin, but his captor held him firm. "God's mercy, moisten the cloth before you pull it off," Ambrose cried.

"You heard him, men--moisten the bandage," Scorby said.

They did so, and it went better for it.

Scorby turned to Ambrose. "How did you get the bleeding to stop?"

"I tied a lace up high on his arm."

"Should we remove it now?"

"Dear God, I don't know." Ambrose felt stupid. "Perhaps after you've burned it and bandaged it again."

Scorby nodded. "You heard, men. Now be done with it."

Tanner lifted the smoking rod from the fire and applied it to the stump the two men held out toward him. The stench was sickening. Martin's face was contorted with the pain, but he did not cry out. Tanner touched the rod to the wound several times, then thrust the rod back into the fire and reached for a grease pot.

"What is that?" Ambrose asked. The contents looked crusty and vile.

"Lard."

"Up in my pack there is an unguent jar. Let me apply some of that instead."

Tanner looked to Scorby.

"Forget the lard. Let them use their own supplies. That suits me." Scorby turned to the manservant. "Go up and get the gentleman's pack." He turned to the two who still held Martin up. "Let him sit while we wait. And his friend here can give him some more brandywine."

Ambrose held the cup to Martin's lips. He helped himself with his left hand and took a long drink. With a shudder, he wiped his lips and looked over at Scorby. "I don't understand."

Scorby chuckled. "You mean why I'm suddenly kind?"

Martin shook his head slowly. "No. Why Matthew Ridley hasn't returned and ripped off your balls."

"Matthew?" Scorby looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as if impressed. "You have been thinking. I am amazed that you can still think so clearly. Matthew Ridley." He smiled. "He works for both John Goldbetter and our King--well, Alice Perrers and her uncles, who are the King's most loyal subjects at the moment. Matthew will agree to nothing that will hurt the King, or us, of course. His father had the wrong loyalties."

Martin rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. "And you are a cousin to Perrers?"

"Indeed. We are a close family."

Ambrose frowned. "How did you convince a son to turn on his father?"

"We convinced him that his father was a thief and a traitor. Which was true, but so are all the wool merchants. Or they would be--if they had the right connections. King Edward has not endeared himself to them."

Ambrose began to piece it together. "They are the family you crossed, Martin?"

"Aye."

"But the Perrers family--they sold to the Flemings against the King's orders," Ambrose said.

Scorby grinned. "And it is for that knowledge you shall die tomorrow. In daylight. Where I can watch you suffer. Ah!" The

manservant entered with Ambrose's pack. "Give it to the singer. He can find the medicine and apply it."

Scorby paced around the room with his hands behind his back while Ambrose gently smoothed the unguent on a square of cloth, then pressed it to the wound. He removed the leather lace and used it to bind the cloth to the stump.

Scorby grabbed Ambrose again. "Let's get you back into your nice chamber now."

The men helped Martin back to the dark cell, dumped him down in the foul-smelling straw, then shoved Ambrose in after him.

When the footsteps had died away, Ambrose crawled over to Martin. "Can you hear me?"

Martin moaned.

Ambrose lifted him tenderly and carried him to the drier side of the little room near the door, again using his own jacket for his friend's pillow. He went back and found the wine and cups in the straw.

"Can you drink some wine?"

No answer. He leaned down and reassured himself that Martin still breathed, then poured himself a cup of wine and drank. Leaning against the wall, he chanted the mass for the dead until his voice gave way. Then he curled up beside Martin and slept.

Owen was puzzled as they rode into the yard of the inn at Alne. "Why here?"

"It's the best inn between York and Ripon," Thoresby said. "Wirthir is a traveler. He'll know it."

"Aye, Your Grace," the innkeeper bowed, pleased to be of assistance to the great Lord Archbishop. "They were here last night." He cast an uneasy eye on Owen. "Is there trouble?"

Thoresby did not answer, thinking of his own concerns. "They?" He looked at Owen. Owen shrugged.

"The foreigner was with a Town Wait from your city, Your Grace. He wore the livery of York."

"Shrewd man, to know the liveries of the great cities."

"And it please Your Grace, 'tis my business to know such things."

Owen nodded. "That would be Ambrose Coats traveling with him."

"They left this morning, not in a hurry. Still, they should be in Ripon by now."

"Do you know the Scorby family?" Thoresby asked.

The innkeeper shrugged. "You can't live hereabouts and not know them."

"An unpleasant family?"

The innkeeper shrugged again, uncomfortable under Owen's one-eyed stare. "They're trouble. Paul Scorby, the young master, he's got his men with him all the time. And men like that, they're looking for a fight. My tavern empties when they come. Bad for business."

Thoresby threw his pack onto a table by the fire. "Do you have a room where we could eat in private? And a place for us to sleep?"

"Aye, that 1 do, Your Grace."

When they were settled in a private room with table and fire, Owen asked, "Why stay here? Surely any abbey or noble household would welcome you."

Thoresby leaned back in his chair, massaging his neck with one hand, his eyes closed. "They would be curious about my traveling this way, would want news of the court. I want peace and quiet."