A Murdered Peace

by Candace Robb

  “It was not my secret to share.”

  “And then it was.”

  “Because I need his help.”

  “By the rood, I am wasting time talking to myself.” Bess bent to her work, dismissing Kate.

  13

  SECRETS AND SPIES

  Walking slowly through the groups of soldiers, Kate paused just outside the door of the apothecary and glanced back at Elric, still arguing with the elderly knight. Shadows beneath his eyes were the only hint of exhaustion. Back straight, his dress impeccably tailored and tidy as ever—thanks to his squire Harry, no doubt. Had he gone to Jocasta’s? If not, she needed to know about the soldiers. The feud between the royal cousins had sown fear in everyone’s hearts, and now, with the murders, the soldiers, the king’s men, and rumors of a traitor’s wife hiding in the city, one stray spark and the crowded tenements would explode in violence.

  Noticing some of the soldiers regarding her, she embarked on a meandering course to Jocasta Sharp’s house. Crossing into Stonegate, she slipped down the alley that led to Drusilla Seaton’s home. The maidservant answered on Kate’s knock, shaking her head. Her mistress had returned from a night out and gone straight to bed. It took a little persuading to convince the woman that Kate wished only to pause long enough to catch her breath—the mist was chilling her—before she moved on. Stationing herself in a window, she watched the alley for a decade of Hail Mary’s, and when no one had passed through by then, she thanked the puzzled maidservant and hurried on through to Grape Lane, which she traversed only so far as another small alleyway, and so on until she wound up in Dame Jocasta’s back garden. The sun was just breaking through the mist, creating eerie swirls that dizzied her as she lifted her eyes to a man crouched on the kitchen roof, replacing tiles. Another man stood near the rain barrel at the corner of the house, the tool for breaking through the ice dangling from his hand. She nodded to both of them as if her appearing there were the most ordinary event, and knocked on the rear door of the house.

  A lad opened the door, and Jocasta’s terrier, Lady Gray, came rushing out on her short legs to circle Kate and greet her with happy barks. As Kate scooped up the dog she heard Dame Jocasta calling to the lad to “step away from that door! What were you about?”

  “Dame Jocasta?” Kate called softly as she stepped into the house, standing still for a moment with the squirming terrier in her arms, letting her eyes adjust to the soft candlelight. Every shutter in the house was closed against the daylight. A wise precaution.

  “My dear Katherine.” Jocasta stepped out of the darkness to pluck Lady Gray from her arms and set her on the floor. “Forgive my witless prattle. I did not anticipate—But why did you come to the garden door? Were you followed?”

  “I noticed no one, but mean to take no risks. I come to warn you of the temper of the city.”

  “I have heard,” said Jocasta. “Sir Peter Angle is keen to stir up the people so that he might play the hero. Sir Elric says he will have all he can do to contain the damage that arrogant fool might wreak.”

  “Sir Elric? When did you speak with him?”

  “Why, last night, of course. He has already suggested ways we might be less obvious. And he promises that his men will be invisible.”

  That solved the mystery of where he had spent the night. Kate tried to hide her surprise with an innocuous comment about being glad Jocasta felt reassured by his presence.

  “I am indeed. He gave instructions to my usual helpers in how to remain hidden yet with clear sight of the doors or the windows—all the places someone might try to sneak into the house. And he showed them how to have the advantage when creeping up on an intruder. They could talk of nothing else when they came in this morning to break their fasts before going to their homes to sleep. He has promised that at least one of his men will be here at all times to assist until the danger is past. Bless you, Katherine.”

  Was ever a woman more wrong about a man? Kate thought.

  Do not taunt yourself, Kate, Geoff whispered in her mind.

  Jocasta tilted her head, studying Kate. “You did not know of this, that he had watched through the night.”

  “No. I had asked him to set some men to watch from today.”

  Jocasta smiled. “God guided you in this. You opened your heart, and He showed you the way.”

  Divine providence might guide Jocasta, but it had never figured in Kate’s decisions. Her own heart had led her into trusting Elric, and it had not led her astray. She was grateful for that.

  “You carried in the chill of the morning, that clinging mist that turns to ice against the skin. Will you come warm yourself?”

  “Later, my friend.” As she was turning away, Kate remarked, “You have improved on the disguise. For a moment I did not guess who the lad was.”

  “I thought it wise. But I am worried. She has hardly spoken to me. As long as you are here . . .”

  Kate owed it to Jocasta, having thrust this upon her. “Of course.”

  Jocasta led Kate down the passageway to the hall, where Margery sat primly on a chair near the fire, feet together, posture upright, hands folded, chin up, dark hair escaping the felt hat, falling down over watchful eyes. She made a comely lad, though a close observer might notice a weight about his features, wise beyond his years, the dusting of freckles and the creases that suggested a happy disposition such a contrast to the eyes—grave, unblinking.

  “Katherine.” In another time, when Margery took her hand Kate would have smiled, anticipating her friend’s impish grin and a boast about how well she had disguised herself. Who would think that Lady Margery, who traveled with cartloads of gorgeous clothing, could be hiding behind such a costume? But not today. She was solemn as she said, “I would say you look well, but I know you, Katherine, I know those shadows beneath your eyes bespeak nights spent pacing as you worry. I beg your forgiveness for burdening you with my trouble.” Her entire being bespoke a spirit drained.

  “My complaints are as nothing compared with your suffering,” said Kate.

  “Would you care for some hot spiced wine, Katherine?” Jocasta offered her a bowl. Kate had never seen her so ill at ease, so uncertain what to do.

  Cupping her hands round the bowl, Kate held it to her face and inhaled the steam, appreciating the warmth while she observed the two women, considering how best to proceed. Jocasta, sitting beside Margery, took one of her guest’s hands in hers and rubbed it to bring up the blood. Neither woman was in any mood for idle chatter.

  “I need to know whether there is anything you have not told me, Margery,” Kate said. “If Sir Elric is to argue your case with the king’s man, he must understand what happened, and in what order.”

  “By the king’s man you mean Sir Peter Angle,” Margery said with heat.

  “The king’s man who is lodging with your cousin, William Frost,” said Jocasta with a knowing look.

  They knew much. “You may see that as a compromising position,” said Kate, “but it might benefit our cause. I have arranged for a spy in William’s household, with my cousin’s permission.”

  “In truth?” Jocasta nodded. “Then it is well done, Katherine.” She rose from her seat. “I will bring more wine, and some bread and cheese?”

  “I am not hungry,” said Margery.

  Kate had a long walk ahead of her, to her mother’s to fetch one of the beguines to accompany her, then on to the castle. “I would be grateful,” she said.

  As Jocasta saw to it, Margery surprised Kate by asking after Marie, Phillip, and Petra.

  Kate filled the silence with tidbits about the children until the servants had set up the food and wine, and Dame Jocasta had settled, this time choosing a chair that allowed her to see Margery’s face.

  “You would be wise to have Lille and Ghent with you at all times,” Margery warned.

  “This morning I felt Jennet needed them more.”

  Slipping off the hat, Margery ran her hands through her hair. Someone had artfully cut a few locks to fall o
ver her forehead, giving the effect of a lad when she wore the hat. But the color had not been so well applied, coming off on Margery’s hands. Lifting her darkened palms she said, “How I wish I might wash this out.”

  She would look less haggard without the sharp contrast between her pale skin and her hair, but too easily recognized. “Best you keep the disguise for now,” said Kate. “At some point we will need to move you again.”

  “I am preparing a better dye for you,” said Jocasta as she passed Margery a rag with which to wipe the dye off her hands. “Oak galls, alum, and urine fix better than the nutshells you have been using.”

  Margery made a face as the cloth darkened. “I pray that is true.”

  “Tell me how you came to be traveling with Berend,” said Kate.

  “Who told you?”

  “Berend told Sir Elric. Why did you not tell me?”

  “Would you have continued to help me had you known the trouble I brought him? Will you now?”

  “You forget yourself,” said Jocasta. “One would think you were ungrateful.”

  Margery pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I would not blame either of you for throwing me to the dogs. I pray you forgive me.” She stared down at her hands. “I do not know what I would have done without Berend. I pray he does not pay with his life for his kindness to me.”

  It is of little comfort that she realizes the danger in which she has placed him, said Geoff.

  He was in danger from the moment he answered Salisbury’s summons, Geoff.

  “I threw myself on Berend, begged him to take me with him,” said Margery. “I could not stay there. They would have found me. If they would not believe Thomas had no part in it—why would they accept my innocence?”

  As if the king were being reasonable, said Geoff.

  “You must find a way to free Berend,” said Margery. “He had nothing to do with the plot, I am certain. He condemned Salisbury. He did not come to Cirencester in the company of the rebels. When Thomas saw him, the rebels were already at the inn.”

  “He came to you?”

  “No. Thomas was in the abbey church the night before—” She crossed herself. “The abbot had written a letter of introduction for him, addressed to the abbot of a monastery in Cornwall.”

  “Previously you’d said you did not know Thomas’s plans,” Kate noted.

  “Did I?” Margery frowned.

  Lies were like that, slippery things. “No matter. The abbot had written a letter—”

  “Thomas was collecting it when Berend arrived. While the abbot was giving Thomas his blessing, he said the abbot suddenly glanced up with a gasp. ‘Berend Osgood? Is it you? But your ear.’ Clearly he had known Berend long ago. Thomas stepped away and let them exchange greetings, and then he invited Berend to stay the night with us. But the abbot would not hear of it. ‘I must hear about my friend’s adventures. Another night, Sir Thomas. Another night.’”

  Berend Osgood. Another piece of his story Kate had never known. Berend Osgood. Was he from Cirencester? And what was this about his being the abbot’s friend? Berend had not described him so.

  “So you had no chance to talk to Berend that evening?” Kate asked.

  “No. Thomas—” Margery shook her head as tears fell. “No, he came straight back with the letter.”

  “Do you have it—the abbot’s letter?”

  “No. Thomas was carrying it when . . .” Margery shook her head.

  Pity, Geoff whispered.

  “How did you come to be traveling with Berend?” Kate asked again.

  “He found me in the barn, with the groom’s body. Carl was pacing back and forth, praying and weeping. I was covered in blood—Thomas’s and the groom’s. God guided Berend to us. He helped my manservant bury the boy. And then—I could not stay in Cirencester, to do so would endanger my family even more than we already had. Berend slipped out after dark with my sister’s husband and recovered Thomas’s body. My sister promised to bury him as soon as they might do so secretly. This they did for me.” A sob. “I hoped that my departure would save them. I told them to denounce me, denounce Thomas, deny any knowledge of his body, say that I had taken it.” She stopped, staring at her hands. “I pray they are safe.”

  Once a family is cursed . . .

  It is not the same as our story, Kate.

  No, Geoff?

  “They recovered Thomas’s body, but not the letter?” asked Kate.

  “Nothing he was carrying,” Margery whispered. “The mob had stripped him of his clothes. Everything.”

  Why the whisper? Kate wondered. Why now?

  You do not believe her?

  The story keeps changing. Why?

  “Will you rest now?” Jocasta asked.

  Margery fixed her too-bright eyes on Kate. “Did you hear that Henry’s head was crawling with lice at his crowning?”

  Petra’s vision.

  “I want him to suffer,” Margery said flatly. “For all the days left to him may he never feel safe, may he never trust another, may he cower in the sight of God, who will avenge the good men Henry brought down. And then may he rot in hell.” She shook her head. “I cannot give myself up to Sir Peter. You and Sir Elric must find a way to free Berend so that he and I can continue to Scotland. We must not fall into the hands of the usurper.”

  “Scotland?”

  Margery studied Kate. “Speak to Berend.”

  Jocasta made an impatient sound. “My lady, you place yet more friends in danger with your demands.”

  Margery did not meet her eyes.

  “You might be safer to escape separately,” said Kate.

  “He has my jewels.” Margery looked defiant.

  “About them. You lied to me about the dymysent I saw in the silversmith’s shop.”

  Margery looked away. “I meant to protect him,” she said softly.

  Rising, Jocasta declared the conversation over. “Come, my lady, you are overtired. You must rest.”

  To Kate’s surprise, Margery permitted herself to be led away. No, this was not the Lady Kirkby she had known.

  After Katherine had departed, Bess could not settle to her tasks. She had a nagging feeling about Trimlow the baker. There had been a cockiness in him when she’d complained this morning about the bread he’d delivered, as if he no longer felt dependent on her custom. The cur. He’d been the one to point the finger at Berend. Now that was interesting. Suddenly in the money, was he? She sent for his wife, said it was urgent she speak to her.

  Edda Trimlow’s pretty face was marred by a bruise on her cheek and a split lip.

  “I had a word with your husband this morning about his delivery. I’ve never seen the like from your ovens—lumpy and tasteless. Serve that to my customers and they won’t return, will they?”

  Edda stuttered her apologies for the inferior quality of the bread as her eyes flitted about the public room of the tavern, anything not to look Bess in the eye.

  “Come. I do not mean to shame you, my friend.” Bess led Edda into her more private space. “Had he told you of our conversation?”

  “He said you complained about the bread.”

  “Did he tell you that he thumbed his nose at me and strutted out as if he could not be bothered? As if he doesn’t need my custom of a sudden?”

  Edda looked alarmed. “Of course we do, Bess. I will speak with him.”

  “And suffer more injuries?” Bess laid a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “What’s he done to you, eh? What’s he beaten you for? What’s he hiding?”

  “He lied, Bess. He lied about seeing Dame Katherine’s man with the spice seller. It’s those men sleeping in the shed in the back garden. They paid him to say it. He did not go out that night. A baker needs his sleep. I told him he must confess.” She touched her bruised cheek.

  “Men in the back garden, did you say?” Bess led Edda to a chair, offered her some ale. “I will just go sort this out while you have a little rest. Do not leave until I return.”

  Out in
the yard, Sir Elric was pacing. The king’s men were gone, as were most of the soldiers.

  “You might want to take a few men and search Peter Trimlow’s back garden.”

  Stepping out of Jocasta’s house, Kate blinked against the glare of sun on surfaces still wet with mist. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall to wait for her heartbeat to slow. She had been shaken by how Margery’s ordeal had transformed her. How had she not noticed it before? At the guesthouse? Had she been too intent on protecting her? Of course. But now, seeing how even when asking about the children she had spoken without her usual warmth, and in those moments when she had exhibited some emotion it did not reach her eyes, it had shaken Kate.

  She is much like you when I was carried home, said Geoff.

  No. Kate remembered tears, wailing as she threw herself on his body. Not at all.

  You stood still as death and so pale it was as if the lifeblood had been drained from you as well as me. I could not leave you.

  Be quiet. I need to think.

  You do not believe her story.

  I felt—Something about her time in Cirencester is false. She keeps changing her account. And then there are the coincidences—Thomas and Berend at the abbey. Berend finding her in the barn.

  Too many coincidences.

  Yes, Geoff.

  You do not want to doubt her.

  She is my friend. As is Berend. He did not tell me everything either. Scotland?

  He meant to tell you as little as possible.

  Even Elric was not to tell me all.

  But you will help them.

  I will.

  With Elric’s help.

  Yes. Apparently his disappointment in me has not changed that. But Margery—In her state, can I trust her not to endanger us all? You say I was like her. Would you have trusted me?