The Service of the Dead

by Candace Robb

  Seeing Clement’s eyelids flutter, Griselde plumped the pillows behind him, turned down the bedclothes, and reached out to assist him in sitting up.

  He waved her away. “I pray you’ve no cause to regret your softness, wife.” Clement grunted as he worked his way upright and leaned back against the pillows to catch his breath. “This very morning you must hie to Mistress Clifford’s home and confess to her that this night past we hosted not her cousin William Frost and the widow Seaton, as she’d expected, but a stranger accompanying Alice Hatten, a common whore. She will not be pleased.”

  “Chiding is your morning greeting? No smile? No kiss?” What a choleric old man he had become. “I know what I must do. You need not nag. Chiding.” She muttered the last word as she poured him a cup of ale. But, glad that he sounded more himself this morning, she kissed his stubbly cheek before she placed the cup in his hands.

  “Bless you, wife. I just pray you have not lost us our comfortable living.”

  “Husband, Master Frost vouched for the man and assured me the guests knew they must depart before dawn. I’ll just step up and knock on the chamber door to make certain they’re awake. But first I must stoke the fire out in the hall. It’s a cold morning.” Griselde made a show of confidence striding out of the room, but once out of sight of her husband she crossed herself and whispered a prayer, continuing with Hail Marys while she knelt to stir the glowing embers in the fire circle. She had not told him all the story, how when she had noticed in the early evening that it had begun to snow, she had gone to see whether it blew enough to collect on the outer stairway. The steps were tucked beneath wide eaves so that the wooden treads were passable in all but the worst storms. So far they looked clear at the bottom, but the lantern halfway up had gone out. Muttering about the poor quality of the wicks in the market she’d climbed up to fetch the lantern and change the wick, but found she had no need. It had not gone out; someone had closed the shutters. Wondering whether it meant the couple had already departed, she continued the climb up to the landing that wrapped round to the rear of the house, and the doors to the guest chambers. Hearing voices, she began to turn away, but paused, puzzled, for she could swear she heard not a man and woman conversing, but two men. She blushed with the thought that the stranger had invited another to join him in partaking of Alice’s favors. This was not at all Mistress Clifford’s intended clientele, two strangers and a common whore. But Griselde could hardly barge in and demand that they leave. It was not her place. All she could do was check again that the lamp was lit and wait until morning to report to Mistress Clifford.

  Then, after seeing to her husband’s needs—it had been one of the nights he could not move his legs, so she must do everything for him—Griselde had settled down with a second cup of wine and fallen into a deep sleep. Too deep, too early. She had no idea whether or not both men had stayed. Bad luck that this had happened when her manservant Matt had suffered a bad fall and his replacement could not come until the morrow. It was too much for a woman of her age to care for both her crippled husband and the guests by herself. She should have accepted Mistress Clifford’s offer of more help, she thought. Sam had stopped in during the afternoon to deliver the cask of wine, but left quickly on another errand. Such strong wine. Both she and Clement had slept like the dead after sampling it. She prayed the guests had not drunk so much they were still abed.

  Now she lingered over the fire, warming her hands, dreading the climb up to the guest chambers, and assuring herself that she had done nothing wrong in trusting Master Frost. After all, he had been the mayor of York, was a respected man in the city, and was not only Mistress Clifford’s cousin but also one of her late husband’s partners in trade. Surely it had been right to trust him. But had Clement not been so impaired, or had she a servant to send across the city to Mistress Clifford’s home on Castlegate, Griselde would have reported the change in plans immediately. How unfortunate that Master Frost had informed her of the substitution after she had sent Mistress Clifford and the Fletchers on their separate ways.

  Now easing herself up, her old knees popping, the housekeeper wrapped her cloak round herself and walked out into the pale dawn, the yard made beautiful by a blanket of snow. Looking up the stairway she saw that white triangles had collected in the inner corners of the steps, leaving the treads dry. But down at the foot of the steps the snow was well trampled. She hoped it meant the guests had departed, and rather than have the unpleasant task of waking them and insisting they leave within the hour, she might strip the bed for the laundress and air the chamber. It would be good to have an early start; she and the new servant would have much to do in order to prepare for tonight’s guests in the smaller of the two guest chambers, as well as for the houseful that would arrive on the morrow. Lifting her heavy skirts, she began the climb up to the solar.

  Halfway she paused to check the lantern. Someone had shuttered it again. If the guests had already departed, they had done so in darkness. Honest folk would prefer a lantern to light the way down the steps, particularly on such an icy morning. And if they had not departed, who, then, had shuttered the lantern? The light hung round the corner from the one window in the chamber, and down eleven steps. Surely the light could not have bothered their rest.

  If only Matt had not been injured. He had the ease of a man comfortable with his strength and quick to move to protect himself—as her Clement had before the illness that was wasting him. Crossing herself and praying for strength, she continued up to the landing, forcing herself to keep up the momentum all the way to the door of the larger chamber. She knocked. Firmly. But not so firmly that the door should swing open as it did.

  Inconsiderate guests! Had a good gust come round the corner the room might have been exposed to the weather. Men never considered such matters, but Alice Hatten, that slattern, she should have known better than to leave the door ajar. Grumbling, Griselde stepped into the room calling out, “Is anyone there?” Silence. So they had left. But Mother in heaven, what was that horrible smell? Had they left a full chamber pot to ripen? She was crossing the room to open the shutters for more light when she noticed something large lying beside an upturned chair. Had one of them been so drunk they had spent the night on the floor, and fouled themselves? Furious now, she fumbled with the latches of the shutters in the dim light, flinging them open to let in the fresh air. Still grumbling, she turned round.

  Merciful Mother. She crept closer, holding her breath. The man lay with one arm flung wide, one holding something on his chest. Another step, and she leaned close. Oh, heaven help her, it was the devil himself, eyes bulging out of his blackened face, tongue poking through purple lips. . . . He was holding the end of one of the braided silk ropes. Oh no, no, someone had wound it tightly round his neck. Her hands fluttered toward it, wanting to relieve him, and she fumbled with it a moment, wrinkling her nose at the stench. He had fouled himself, and now he lay in it. A sob escaped Griselde as her cold fingers slipped on the silk. She could not gain a purchase, his flesh had swollen so around it. Thinking to move him closer to the light, she tugged on his feet. Too heavy. She managed to move him only a few inches, and the motion stirred up the foul odor. Blinking back tears of frustration, she fell back, clutching the side of the table to steady herself. A breath. Her mind cleared.

  Oh, foolish woman, he is dead. You waste precious time. You cannot bring him back. He is dead. You must fetch Mistress Clifford. You must tell her what has happened. She will know what to do. God help her. God help us all. God help that poor man. Griselde used the table to pull herself up, then backed from the room, whispering to herself to keep herself focused. He is dead. The stranger is dead. I must not scream, I must not wake all of Petergate. Mistress Clifford would not want the neighbors involved. Mistress Clifford will know what to do.

  She shut the door firmly, vaguely noting that church bells were ringing. Surely not for the dead man. Surely no one knew. Her head spun and she clung to the railing as she worked her way across the landing and
down the steps, her legs shaking with the enormity of the trouble she had brought on her kind, generous employer by receiving the stranger and Alice. Alice Hatten. Where was she? Had she—no, certainly not. How could she overpower such a large man? But where was she? No matter. Mistress Clifford would see to all the questions.

  She found Clement bending over the fire. “Oh, my dear man, you were so right. I should not have agreed to Master Frost’s change in plans.”

  He looked up, alarmed. “What has happened?”

  She shook her head, not yet ready to say the words. “God be thanked that you are able to move about this morning. I must fetch Mistress Clifford. I am setting a bench here by the door. Stay right here and guard the steps until I return with her. No one is to pass. No one but Mistress Clifford.”

  He rose stiffly and came hobbling across the rushes, reaching out to touch her cheek. “You are crying?”

  Her lower lip now trembled so badly she bit it down and stomped her foot. Not now. A deep breath. “The stranger is dead. Strangled with one of the silk ropes.” Tears welled up and she dashed them away with the back of her hand.

  Clement groaned as he sank down onto the bench. “God help us. I told you. And with Lady Kirkby arriving tomorrow for a fortnight’s stay . . .”

  She waved him quiet. “If we are to have any hope of making this right, you must guard those steps.”

  “With my life, Griselde. With my life.”

  “Not even Master Frost.”

  “Not even he.”

  She hurried out into High Petergate.

  3

  CAGED

  Born and raised on the northern border where she need but step out the door to find vast open spaces, Kate Clifford experienced the city of York as an openwork cage in which no matter where she paced she was watched, her movements noted and judged according to the decorum expected of a young widow of considerable means. Or such means as her late husband had led his fellow merchants to believe he had accumulated. It suited her purpose that members of his guild and fellow citizens of York continued to hold Simon Neville in high esteem. Their respect for his memory extended to her, his widow, and bought her time. But Simon’s creditors knew the truth. So far she had managed to keep them quiet, satisfied with small, regular payments, but for how long? One wrong move could undo her. So could Lionel’s tongue, should he see an advantage in ruining her. And now, as King Richard’s troubles muddied the distinction between friend or foe, Kate had moments when she could not breathe. Or sleep.

  Which was why she was stealing down the stairs in stockinged feet, trying not to wake her wards. She moved down to the hall where she lit a lantern from the embers in the hearth. Oh yes, a hearth. Simon had insisted. No fire circle in his hall. Such airs! He had laughed at the horror his brother expressed upon seeing the vertical loom Simon had given Kate, how he had placed it beneath the east window so she might work in the morning light. “Fine ladies do not weave,” Lionel had exclaimed. “Katherine would say, ‘What is that to me? I am no lady fair,’” Simon claimed to have replied. It was all very well for him to laugh at his brother’s pretentions, but in truth all the Neville family considered themselves of noble blood, and Simon’s own extravagance was the cause of Kate’s current financial unease. The lantern light was reflected by the polished pewter plates displayed in the wall cupboard. She could make do without them, she thought, though guests might wonder at the empty cupboard. Perhaps she might replace them with plates of lesser quality. . . .

  From the cabinet at the cupboard’s base she withdrew a quiver of arrows and a bow, then took a seat on one of a pair of elegantly carved high-backed chairs. As she strung the bow the wolfhounds Lille and Ghent circled her, their noses cold, their fur warm from their bed near the embers. Some time at the butt in her garden before the neighbors woke would steady her. She let the hounds out to gambol in the fresh snow while she secured her squirrel-lined cloak to give her arms the freedom to shoot, then at last stepped into her twin brother’s boots, closing her eyes and imagining his smile. When her parents had purged her room of Geoff’s belongings—the treasures, the memories—they had missed the boots and a few other items that had been out in the stables. She had hidden them in her trunk when she came south to York. They wanted her to let Geoff go. But he was her twin. They shared souls, life force. There could be no letting go. Not even his death could separate them.

  Settling the quiver over her cloak, bow in one hand, lantern in the other, Kate stepped out into the eerie whiteness with the sky just beginning to lighten. She paused a moment beneath the eaves, taking a deep breath and remembering snowy mornings up north, doors frozen shut by the drifts. This was nothing. Trudging out to the butt, she placed the lantern on a stone where it would illuminate the target, then backed away, sensing the direction of the wind, sticking out her tongue to catch a flake and feel it melt. She called softly to Lille and Ghent, beckoning them to her side. The wolfhounds knew the mood in which she had come out into the snowy predawn garden. They knew to be still until her arrows were spent or her mood shifted. Ready now, she reached for an arrow.

  Eyes on the target, Kate waited for a sudden gust of wind to subside, then let fly the first arrow. This was for her eldest brother, Walter, for rekindling the feud with the Cavertons by falling in love with their daughter Mary. The arrow hit just above center. Bow bent, arrow notched, she blinked the snow off her lashes. This was for her brother Roland for getting himself killed. She aimed, released, hit the center. A deep breath. These are for you, Geoff, for taking on a guilt that was never yours, walking into what you knew was a deadly ambush, and deserting me. Three arrows in succession surrounded Roland’s.

  Is that what I did? Then how am I still with you?

  Kate shook her head to get Geoff out of it. She could not aim properly when he distracted her.

  It won’t work. You’re wearing my boots.

  Lille and Ghent whined at her feet. They sensed Geoff, especially Ghent. The wolfhounds had been their birthday presents the year before everything fell apart on the border. Lille for Kate, Ghent for Geoff.

  This is for our parents for caging me in this cursed city and marrying me to a Neville. She aimed just to the right of Geoff’s arrows, but hit dead center, knocking out both Roland’s and Geoff’s.

  I applaud you, Kate.

  Now for her brother-in-law’s news the previous evening. Bow bent, arrow notched. This one was for King Richard for preventing Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, and Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, from settling their differences in a trial by combat, and exiling them instead. The arrow struck just off to the right. Another for King Richard, this one for threatening to cheat Henry Bolingbroke of the Lancastrian inheritance on his father’s death. Now the king feared retaliation. If King Richard had honored his cousin Henry, he would not feel so threatened to have ordered merchant ships be searched for Lancastrian stowaways, or have his spies watch those with Lancastrian connections—including the guest Kate expected tomorrow. Dead center, splintering her parents’ arrow.

  I could not have done better.

  She grinned. No, you couldn’t.

  And now the one to cripple the fool whose wagon crippled Matt. Reaching back, her fingers found an empty quiver. Saved by an empty quiver.

  She trudged out to collect the arrows, Lille and Ghent racing out with her, their paws and their wagging tails stirring up a blizzard as they batted the arrows out of the butt, then dug for those that had been covered in new snow. She gathered them up before the hounds sank their teeth into the shafts.

  The chill wind teased open her cloak, and she shivered as the church bells began ringing prime. Such a din of bells. They had kept her awake for nights on end when her mother first brought her to the city, and they still made her head pound and her temper rise. Giving each dog a good scratch behind a proffered ear, she gestured to where light and warmth spilled out the opened kitchen door. The dogs bounded toward it to break their fasts.

  “Dame Katherine?” Be
rend the cook called to her from the doorway as she picked up the lantern and closed the shutters.

  “First I must wake the children.”

  He nodded and withdrew with the dogs, closing the door behind him.

  Back in the silvery early morning light, Kate stood a moment looking up into the spiraling snowflakes and drew a deep, easy breath. Yes. Better now. She headed to the house. Stomping some of the snow off on the slate doorstep, she slipped her feet out of her twin’s boots and carried them into the hall, setting them near the hearth to dry.

  On a table lay the accounts with which she’d thought to catch out her brother-in-law the previous evening. She muttered a curse as she warmed her hands at the fire. It troubled her, the king’s men searching her ship. But no time for worry now. She had much to do. Lighting a lamp, she carried it up the solar stairs to where her wards slept beneath the eaves, one to either side of her bedchamber. At first nine-year-old Marie had shared Kate’s bed, but her complaints murdered sleep. Kate could do nothing right—the covers were too heavy, too light, the room was too warm, too cold, the pillows too hard, too soft, Kate stole the covers, she slept too hot. Enough! Another partition had gone up on the far side of her chamber.

  She drew back the curtains on Marie’s small bed. At rest, the child was a beautiful creature, tiny for her age, delicate, as if of fairy folk. Button nose, full lips, cleft chin, and thick dark lashes that rested so sweetly on cheeks rosy with sleep.

  Neither Marie nor her brother Phillip favored their father, the man to whom Kate had been wed for three happy years. A time of innocence, before she learned all that Simon had hidden from her. Kate had imagined her husband sleeping alone since the death of his first wife, Muriel. She had ascribed his enthusiasm for bed sport to a decade-long hunger—except perchance an occasional night with a whore when the loneliness threatened to devour his soul. Such loneliness—his wife and son dead. How she had pitied him. And all the while, two bastard children about whom he had never spoken were alive and thriving in Calais, in the home of the French mistress he’d kept long past any need for consolation. He’d continued the relationship while married to Kate.