by Candace Robb
“Merek watched us even after we moved on,” said Seth. “Whenever I glanced back toward him his beady eyes would be just flicking off, pretending I hadn’t caught him. He went hurrying away when we were leaving the market.”
“With someone?” Kate asked.
“Not that I could see. I slipped round behind a stall to watch him. He was in a hurry, dodging round people.”
“Good work,” said Kate. She turned back to Griselde. “You had two things to tell me—the second?”
“The visitors, yes. We had visitors, well-spoken men, though not of noble status, two of them, travel-worn, but their clothes were of fine cloth and leather, and beneath their cloaks I noticed badges, livery, but you know I am not good at recognizing the houses.”
Kate described the two men she’d encountered by St. Michael’s near Ouse Bridge.
“The very men. They said they were stopping at all the inns and guesthouses in the city to warn us of two men and a woman looking for a place to hide. One of the men was probably limping on his left leg. And a woman, not young, but still handsome, well dressed.”
Margery had gone quite still.
Lady Margery, Carl, and—Berend? “What did they want with them?” Kate asked.
“They warned me not to give them shelter. That they are wanted by King Henry and it would be treason to help them.”
“Was there another man in your company, Mary?” Kate asked.
Without turning to look at Kate, Margery said, “We did walk for a while with a farmer coming to market.”
Was Margery lying? Did she come with Berend? “Did they say anything else?” she asked Griselde.
“They warned me to insist on seeing whoever wanted lodging, not agree to make arrangements with a third person.” Griselde smiled. “Of course they could not know how careful we are.”
“Did you say any more to them?”
“They asked whether we had rooms available. I explained we have no rooms to let at present, so we were in no danger of accepting such lodgers. Then they wanted to know who was lodging here. I told them that we obey all the laws of the city regarding notifying the council of strangers biding here.”
Which was rare indeed. “And they accepted that?”
A sniff. “What could they say? They had no standing here.”
“Good. You must send Seth to tell me if the men return, or if Carl appears. At once.”
Griselde frowned. “Should I keep the men here until you come? What if—”
“No. I just want to know. Seth, watch which way they go as they leave, if you would.”
“Do you know who the men were, Mistress Clifford?” asked Seth. Too eagerly.
“Your visitors might have been the king’s men as their badges were Lancastrian livery. The king is calling on Lancastrian retainers from all his holdings, so not all wear the royal livery. But now you know, so tell me if you see any others with such badges, or wearing blue and white livery, for that matter.”
“God help me,” Margery whispered.
Griselde crossed herself. “And Merek the spice seller?”
“Next time, ignore him.”
“Gladly,” said Griselde. “Cock of the walk, he counts himself.”
Seth did not look so sanguine. “He should be watched.”
Kate promised him that he would be, by Sir Elric’s men. Rising, she thanked all three, then called to Lille and Ghent and began to depart.
“About Phillip,” said Griselde, hurrying to escort Kate to the door, “I had not thought how it would rob him of time to rest.” She searched Kate’s expression, clearly looking for forgiveness.
Kate understood why they had done it, but a woman must always be firmer with her business associates than a man needed to be, else people would take advantage. “I was surprised you risked keeping it from me. I might not be so understanding next time.” She was fond of Griselde, and compassionate toward Clement, but disappointed, and wanted them to know that. She put up her hand to quiet another apology. “I will find help for Clement. Until then, Phillip may continue to help him. But you will not send for him. Let him come in his own time.”
Chastened, Griselde nodded. “God go with you, Mistress Clifford.”
“And you, Griselde.” And with us all.
Back at her own home, Kate led Lille and Ghent round the back of the house to the kitchen, where she found Jennet standing over the fire, her freckled face flushed from the heat and the vigor with which she was stirring. “Marie will have my hide if she discovers I let her fine stew stick to the bottom of the pot.” With Berend gone, Marie and Jennet were sharing kitchen duties, Marie assembling something for Jennet to cook before leaving for her lessons. “I don’t know how Berend does three things at once. I cannot seem to watch the yard and keep dinner from burning.” With her forearm she blotted the sweat from her brow, taking a moment to look Kate up and down. “You might want to dry your skirts and boots before you go up to talk to him.”
“Him?”
“Berend.”
“He’s here?” Kate went back to the door, half-expecting to see the king’s men. But the yard was empty.
“Up in your chamber, I should think, not in the yard,” said Jennet. “He doesn’t think I saw him, but I told you making the gate at the bottom of the steps open with a creak would stand us in good stead. I caught a glimpse of him as he was climbing up.”
Pray God he meant to tell her who he’d been watching, and why he’d left without a word, how he was tied to the uprising.
Jennet tilted her head, studying Kate. “You are not half so surprised as I expected. You knew he was back?”
“I did not expect him to come to the house. But yes, I saw him earlier, near Ouse Bridge.” Kate told her of the encounter.
Jennet muttered a curse. “King’s men. I don’t like the sound of that. Nor his stealing up the steps without even peeking into the kitchen. But he’s up there waiting for you. I’ve had my ears pricked since then. He’s not come down.”
Kate went to the fire and shook out her skirts, stalling for time to resolve her roiling emotions—joy that he had come to her, fear for him, dread about what he would reveal.
“Well?” said Jennet. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“We need to listen for Berend,” said Kate, taking care to speak softly. “Or for whoever might follow him. Where’s Matt? Did you alert him?”
A nod. “He’s in the hall. When I went in to warn him we got to talking—well, whispering so Berend could not overhear us from above. That’s when this stuck to the bottom of the pot.” Jennet muttered a curse and resumed stirring. “I do not want to think what punishment awaits me. That child is cunning.” But she was smiling. Both girls loved Jennet and would do anything to be permitted to follow her on her perambulations around York and out the gates, checking in with her eyes and ears. No matter how difficult the lives Jennet described, the girls thought it all exciting. And, in truth, both had lived through difficult times before they had come into Kate’s household that hardened them in ways that broke her heart. But Jennet agreed with her that they must now be kept safe and away from danger.
“If a stranger comes asking questions, you know what to do,” said Kate. “And don’t let the hounds fool you into feeding them—they’ve just had a feast at the York Tavern, and more at the guesthouse.” She returned their leads to their hook by the door.
Jennet whistled. “The York? Old Bess permitted it?”
“I will tell you all about it. And I have a new task for you. Learn what business Cecily Wheeldon has with Jon Horner. Or, rather, what role he plays for her.” She met Jennet’s curious gaze. “No, not a prospective client. Thomas Holme’s nephew is interested in the widow.”
“Horner’s slippery as an eel. I look forward to it.”
Still Kate hesitated. “I don’t know what to expect of Berend. He seemed a stranger out on the street.”
“Not to the hounds.”
“No, not to them.” Kate looked over at
Lille and Ghent, stretched out near the fire, calm, satisfied after their outing and unexpected treat. She had trained them well. They had seen Berend, known him, obeyed his signal, no hesitation.
“Go on, then,” Jennet said softly. “At least he’s alive, and moving about on his own two feet.”
She was right. Many a night Kate had stared at the ceiling worrying about Berend, what had become of him, fearing that she might never know. No matter what he told her, it was better than forever wondering. She went out into the yard, stepping back close to the wide trunk of the oak, seeing that no one was visible on the second story landing and the doors were shut. Hers was nearest the stairs, then the girls’ room, and a spare for Phillip or guests. Each had a small shuttered window looking out onto the landing, and hers had another on the street. None of the shutters were open. Even the snow on the railing was undisturbed. One would never know she had a visitor. Crossing back to the bottom of the steps, she noticed wet prints leading up, but none of them were complete prints, certainly not enough to tell anything about Berend’s condition, whether he was limping. She almost wished Matt were not so efficient about clearing the snow from the steps.
You are stalling, Geoff whispered in her mind.
She was. All she need do was go up, see him for herself.
In her old house, the steps up to the solar were inside the hall, an added security; here, the stairs to the second story chambers were outside the house. In warm weather they might keep the door near the foot of the steps open, so that anyone in the hall might see someone approaching, but in winter that was not feasible. So they’d installed a noisy gate at the bottom, not locked, but hung on its hinge so that it gave a loud, harsh squeak when swung open—unless one knew how to lift it and swing it out. Berend knew to do this, but Jennet said she’d heard the squeak; he’d intended to alert whoever was there of his presence. Heartened, she climbed, avoiding the two creaking risers rigged by Matt and Jennet in case an intruder managed to open the gate silently.
She paused on the landing before her own door, taking a deep breath, then drew her dagger from the hidden scabbard in her skirt and kicked the door wide. Just in case.
“It’s me. Berend.” The familiar voice came from the far corner.
Strange how even now the mere sound of his voice comforted Kate. But she reminded herself to stay alert. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that he had the street-side shutters slightly opened and stood where he could watch the busy intersection of Petergate and Stonegate. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
“I expected you sooner,” he said. “I watched you arrive a while ago.”
Kate told him to step away from the window. “I want some light to see you while we talk.”
Berend moved aside as she crossed the room, still holding her dagger at the ready, and opened the shutters.
He eased himself down onto the bench at the foot of Kate’s bed with a soft sigh and bent and flexed his left knee a few times, then began to rub it. Limping on his left leg—yes, he would be. So he must be the one seen traveling with a woman and another man. How many trios like that could there be on the road to York?
“An injury?” she asked.
“You know what days on horseback are like.”
She crouched down in front of him, lifting his chin. “A new scar beneath your eye.”
“It is nothing.” The angry flesh twitched as he spoke, belying his casual tone.
Compared to missing toes, fingers, ear, that was true. But the cut had come perilously close to his left eye, and the flesh was still red, angry, likely still painful. He should be applying a comfrey or arnica cream to draw out the heat and keep the skin soft to minimize the scar so that it did not pull. But he did not seem in the mood to welcome advice, no matter how well meant. “Left knee, left eye. Battle wounds?” she asked.
“The knee is stiff from travel, that is all.”
His voice was hoarse, and Berend sagged as if he carried a great weight on his shoulders. Sitting back on her heels, Kate studied his shadowed eyes, sunken cheeks, filth caked into lines of weariness. His tunic, shirt, hose, cloak all needed laundering. He stank. As had Margery.
“You left abruptly without a word to me,” she said. “Why?”
He fixed his eyes on the floor just past his feet. “So I need not explain.”
That he had lost his bearings? That he meant to slaughter the king’s sons? She prayed he had not so betrayed his soul. “Why are you here now?”
“The Lancastrians I was watching—they are searching for someone,” he said. “Did they question you? Is it Margery Kirkby they seek?”
He had come to find out what the Lancastrians had said to her, nothing more. Her disappointment surprised her. Kate did not know what she had expected—had she thought he would say he’d come because he needed to see her, make sure she was safe, that when he’d seen her on Coney Street his heart had called him to her? Was she so foolish?
Margery Kirkby was uppermost on his mind. She was curious about that, curious about many things. She wanted to learn as much as she could before she told him what she knew of the men, and Margery, not simply spit it out and risk that he would vanish again.
“The spice seller, Merek,” she said. “What is he to you?”
Berend glanced up, surprised. “Is he still in York?” He nodded as if that was good news.
So he did know him. “He is. And he seems far too interested in you—where you’ve been, how long ago you left,” she said. “Shall we trade stories? You first.” Kate leaned against the wall, too agitated to sit, her arms crossed, holding her breath as she watched Berend, who worked his stiff knee.
In the silence, she could hear a cart clatter by down on the street, a woman shouting, “Stay out in the middle, you blind arse!”
Berend looked up and met Kate’s eyes, grinning at the woman’s cry. Kate did not mirror his smile.
“Merek,” she said.
“I know him,” he admitted. “From long ago. He carried messages for the lord I served at the time, but I knew him to be slippery. He would not flinch about betraying anyone for a price. He came here on a mission for the son of my former lord.”
So Merek had come here in the service of John Montagu, Earl of Salisbury. Kate had not expected that. “Is he in York because of you?”
Berend winced as he stretched out his left leg. Kate fought her instinct to offer to send for Matt’s cousin Bella, a skilled healer.
“Well? Is he?”
“I was his original purpose. Or one of them. Had delivering the message to me been his sole purpose, he would be gone. I fe—I thought he would have been long gone.”
Feared he would be long gone, that is what he’d begun to say, what his face expressed, and the relief when she’d said he was still in York. “He frightened Griselde with questions about you,” she said.
Berend leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “I will talk to him.”
“So he came to find you for the Earl of Salisbury? What was the message?”
He looked stricken. “You already knew of my connection to Salisbury?”
So it was true. “That you were in his father’s household. Yes, I just learned of it, and I know that Salisbury was one of the leaders in the plot to assassinate Henry and his sons. Were you part of that?”
A subtle squirm. “I would never agree to the murder of children. His sons are boys—fourteen, thirteen, eleven, eight. It was madness from the beginning. To think they might put Richard back on the throne by committing such a heinous act—madness.” Berend sat up straight enough now, his eyes on fire, challenging her and all the world for questioning his honor. But he knew much, that was plain. And the question had discomfited him.
Kate felt she was at last seeing his sincere emotions—outrage, pain, exhaustion. And something else—guilt? For what? He had been among the rebels. She sank down on a bench across from him and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. “I could not imagine you harming a chi
ld,” she admitted. “But when you left without a word I doubted what we had. What was the message?”
“The earl wanted something of me, but when I learned what it was, I refused him. I did not mean to cause you pain.”
“Refused to murder the king’s sons?’ she asked softly.
Her question was met with silence.
“What are we doing, Berend?” When he still did not answer, she opened her eyes and sat up, reaching for his hands, his scarred, strong hands. For the first time in her experience they were cold. He looked away, as if rebuking her gesture of friendship. “You are in danger,” she said. “I know that much. I know the king believes you were part of Salisbury’s conspiracy.”
“Sir Elric told you that?”
“Yes.”
Still he did not look her in the eye. “What do you know of the Lancastrians we saw today?” he asked.
She told him what little she knew, including the description the men had given Griselde. “It was you, wasn’t it? With Margery and her manservant?”
Berend bowed his head, whispering a curse.
“What has this to do with you?” she asked.
“Nothing but that I chose the worst time to return.” His voice was rough with weariness.
“Because you are known to be connected to the Montagu family, now marked as traitors to King Henry? And traveling with Lady Margery Kirkby, whose husband was marked as a traitor?” She did not mention Berend’s known itinerary, the most damning piece.
He withdrew his hands—gently, not in anger—and looked her in the eyes. “Salisbury, Montagu, Kirkby. It is dangerous to be associated with any of those names at present. Even you look at me differently.”
“I am angry about how you left. And—what I said—I doubted everything, the trust I thought we had. And what I’ve learned about you since—there is so much I did not know.”
“You have been investigating my past as you do potential customers?”
“No! It is not like that. Your disappearance has been noticed. People talk. And I feared for you.”
“How much do you know?”
She chose which details to share. “I know that at one time you served John, Baron Montagu. I know that he left you a piece of land in his will. Which made me wonder why you came to work for me. A cook who owns land? Why would you so humble yourself?”
