by Candace Robb
She imagined her rival, Anne, as a delicate beauty, like her daughter. Marie looked as if a strong wind would shatter her ivory skin. Both she and her brother had rich reds in their dark hair and startling blue eyes. Quite a contrast to Kate, who was sturdy, with bold features, brown eyes, and dark brown, wiry, unruly hair. Kate reminded herself that Simon had called her beautiful, and there was no doubt he’d enjoyed their bed sport and her company, laughing with her, seeking her opinion. She missed him, every day she missed him. His death had robbed her of much joy. Though once his will was read and his account books were opened to her, she had discovered she had been living in a dream.
Marie curled into her pillow with a soft sigh.
What trick of nature erased all trace of Simon from his bastards’ fleshly forms? The Neville family tended to unusual height and barrel shaped trunks. Simon had been tall, fair-haired, with hazel eyes. Was this the cause of his silence regarding them? Did he doubt Marie and Phillip were his? Or had he been waiting until Kate had babies of her own before he told her about the two he had fathered with a beauty in Calais? She would never know. The only child Kate had conceived of him had been stillborn, and two years ago a fever had taken Simon from her. He’d ignored the fever for far too long, believing it would pass on its own. Had his mistress known of his death? According to the children’s account, their mother died almost exactly a year after Simon. Would she have kept the news from her children?
Marie and Phillip had been grieving for both parents when Lionel deposited them on Kate’s doorstep a year ago. “Their mother is dead, two months now. Their French grandam said they are Nevilles and our family’s responsibility.”
Stunned, never having guessed her husband visited a second family on his frequent travel to Calais, Kate had stared at the two small ones. Perhaps not so surprised as she might have been, had she not already learned of Simon’s crippling debts and heard his will. “Two more Nevilles—God save us all. How old?”
“Marie is eight, Phillip eleven.”
They’d reminded her of herself and her twin, Geoff, how they held hands, whispered to each other, examined her and what little of the hall they could see behind her. But she knew nothing of raising children, and she distrusted Lionel’s intentions in bringing them to her.
“Add them to your brood, Lionel. You’ll never notice. Or that of one of your rich cousins.”
He’d clearly prepared a retort. “If you insist on claiming all my dead brother’s property, these are yours.”
There it was. He meant to overwhelm her so she would capitulate to one of the suitors with whom he baited her, and thus forfeit her late husband’s business. In accordance with Simon’s heartless will, the business would go to Lionel upon Kate’s remarriage. “How did their grandam know you were in Calais? Did you call on her? Why?”
The boy responded before his uncle had the time to concoct a lie. “He meant to comfort Maman and fill her with another baby she could not feed.” Phillip’s English was heavily accented, but correct.
God in heaven, the children had understood every word. Kate had assumed they might understand English, but not the way it was spoken in the North. Simon had been so proud of his French, and his London English, they might never have heard a Yorkshire accent. Too late she discovered otherwise. Now the two knew that neither she nor Lionel welcomed them.
Lionel was taking the opportunity to sneak away, but she caught his arm. He was a weak man, easily overpowered. “Simon never acknowledged them, did he?”
“What does it matter? You prayed to have Simon’s children. Here they are.”
She’d slapped him then, hard, and cursed him.
Then she had taken the children’s hands and welcomed them into the hall. But the harm was done, and their hands were limp in hers.
“Time to rise, Marie.” Kate gave the girl’s shoulder a little shake. When the girl did not move, Kate flung back the bedclothes. “Wake up!”
The girl squeaked and flailed for the warm covers. “So cold! Your skirt is wet!”
“It is. It snowed in the night. Now dress and hurry to the kitchen. Berend will feed you before school. Jennet will brush your hair.”
“You brush it.”
“Jennet will brush it.”
“You never have the time for me. Were you out in the garden with your bow?”
Tedious child. Most mornings she sullenly rejected Kate’s offers to comb her hair or help her dress. Of course she was angry, because her grandmother and the Nevilles had rejected her. Kate might have had sympathy, but the girl had no fire. She whined and lay about and gave Kate no clue what might content her. “On your way down, check that your brother is awake and dressing.”
Kate could not rely on them to see to each other’s welfare naturally. Her first impression had been a mistake. They were nothing like she and Geoff, who had been whole only when together, naturally attuned to each other’s every need. Marie and Phillip were bonded only in rejecting her; otherwise they bickered endlessly.
She moved on to wake Phillip, but his bed was made, the space tidied. Calling out to Marie that her brother was already breaking his fast and she must hurry, Kate hastened down the steps, pausing only to slip into pattens before crossing the snowy yard to the kitchen. She sighed with pleasure as the warmth of the large hearth enfolded her. Berend and Jennet glanced up from their tasks to greet her with warm benedicites. On the table were bread, cheese, and winter apples. Lille and Ghent had settled next to the fire beside Phillip, who sat hunched over a steaming bowl.
“Your aim was true this morning, Dame Katherine. Was Master Lionel your target? Father? Marie? Me?”
“Yes to all, Phillip, and more.” Kate gave him a taunting grin, but it troubled her that he had slipped past without her noticing. “Hot ale?” she bent down to sniff. Hot spiced wine. “Well-watered, I hope. It is difficult to attend your grammar master if you are bleary-eyed with drink. And Hugh Grantham expects you after your classes midday to work on his accounts.”
“Well-watered, Dame Katherine.” Phillip ran a long-fingered hand through his curly mane.
Berend handed her a bowl of ale, her preferred morning beverage. Sipping it, she settled next to Phillip. Unlike his sister, Phillip was determined to thrive despite the abrupt, dramatic change in his life. He had offered to keep Kate’s accounts—he had done so for his mother, his grandmother, and several uncles. He showed her how quickly he could add up columns of numbers.
Kate had declined his offer, having no intention of revealing his father’s insolvency. The discovery of the debts had shocked not only Kate, but also his partners Thomas Holme and her cousin William Frost. She had worked hard to secure what was left, primarily property and partial interest in a ship, selling a few tenements and some land, finding lucrative uses for the rest. She tucked away what she could, in her own name, for the future. All the while, Simon’s odious brother Lionel had watched for her to fail. She had disappointed him, and she meant to continue to do so. Besides, she did not as yet know whether she could trust Phillip.
Instead she was helping him develop a gift he preferred to his skill with sums, a gift his uncle had derided, seeing it as menial work, beneath a Neville—no matter that they were a minor branch of the prominent family. Phillip understood stone, and loved to work with it. A city, whether Calais or York, was to him a treasure-house of stonework, from the simple squares and rectangles that composed a wall to the intricate carvings on bosses and capitals in the churches and the minster. One touch informed him of the composition. He said stone spoke to him. She had encouraged him, giving him space for a workshop and purchasing for him some basic tools. Several of his practice pieces adorned the garden. Lionel had scoffed at her “desperate efforts to win the bastard’s love.” Well, she had won Phillip’s gratitude, if not his love. She’d made a deal with Hugh Grantham, a merchant trader and master mason: If Phillip worked on his accounts, he might spend a few hours at the end of each day following one of the journeyman masons in Granth
am’s employ in the minster stoneyard. As an added incentive to quicken Phillip’s journey to apprenticeship, she agreed to add Grantham to her select list of esteemed citizens of York who might rent one of the lovely bedchambers in the house on High Petergate.
Phillip was expressing his disappointment in Connor, the journeyman to whom Grantham had assigned him, when Lille began a rumbling growl and Ghent rose and moved toward the door, his ears pricked.
Jennet hastened to open it. “Sam! And Goodwife Griselde?”
Simon’s former manservant assisted the elderly woman across the threshold and supported her as she eased down onto a chair Jennet had moved near the fire. “I was on my way to the house on High Petergate to discuss young Seth’s responsibilities with the goodwife,” Sam explained to Kate in his gravelly voice. He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his white hair, punctuating his speech with a grin, clearly pleased to prove his worth to her. She had kept him on after Simon’s death to run errands, walk the dogs, and assist Jennet and Berend, fearing he was too elderly to be hired by someone new. She knew he often felt useless, so she had been glad to tell him about his new assignment of supervising Seth in helping Griselde and Clement prepare for Lady Kirkby’s visit. She had impressed upon him the size of the task, as the entire guesthouse would be occupied. “I noticed her on Davygate, looking—well, as you see her. She was leaning against the pillar outside Davy Hall pressing her temples and breathing hard. When she said she was on her way here I thought it best to escort her.” He leaned close to whisper, “She seemed frightened.”
“Is it your husband, Griselde?” Kate asked. “Have the preparations for Lady Kirkby’s stay been too much for Clement?”
Griselde shook her head. She looked a sight, her face ruddy with exertion, her hair escaping her hat and clinging damply to her cheeks, her eyes red as if she had been crying. Kate poured an unwatered cup of warm wine and placed it in Griselde’s hands.
“Drink slowly,” Kate said, crouching down beside the afflicted woman, silently praying that she had not been foolish in entrusting the guesthouse to Simon’s former factor and his wife. So far they had done good work, but it took only one indiscretion. . . . “Take all the time you need.”
But Griselde spoke after the smallest of sips. “I have failed you, Mistress Clifford. I shall”—she shook her head vigorously—“never forgive myself.” Still nodding and shaking her head. “Clement—he warned me. In my pride I did not heed him.”
Unease settled on Kate, to witness the stolid Griselde in such distress. “Drink a little more and take a few good, deep breaths. Phillip, go see that your sister is awake and dressing.” With a whine of protest he rose and slouched out the door. When he was gone, Kate told Sam to stay near the door so he might warn her of her wards’ approach. She would rather Marie and Phillip not hear of any trouble at the guesthouse. They knew nothing of the merchants who frequented it when there were no out-of-town guests.
“Now tell me all, Griselde.”
“Your kinsman, William Frost—”
Last night he would have been in the best chamber on High Petergate with his wealthy mistress. “What is amiss with William?” Her mother’s nephew was an ambitious man, a formidable power in the city, and, as such, could be quite the bully. And he knew about Kate’s financial troubles. But Kate played to his weakness, his loveless marriage to Isabella Gisburne, his passion for the widow Drusilla Seaton. She listened now as the elderly woman described a transgression of such proportions that Kate reluctantly had to interrupt her several times asking for clarification. A stranger and Alice Hatten, a common whore? Had she not moved away? A shuttered lantern? A second stranger? Strangled with one of the silk ropes?
“How did she overpower him?” Jennet asked as she refilled the woman’s bowl.
“I do not believe it was Alice who did it,” Griselde said, seeming calmer now, her breath steadier. “I swear I heard another man’s voice in there last night.”
“Where is Alice?” Kate asked. “And the other man? Did you see him?”
“I only heard him, mistress. And this morning there was only Master Frost’s guest, lying there.” She pressed a hand to her lips and shook her head. “I fear I slept through it all. Two cups of Master Frost’s fine wine was far too much for me. There was no sign of Alice Hatten or the second man this morning.”
Kate sat down beside Griselde, stunned. Here was the crisis that would ruin her. The creditors would hear of a murder in her guesthouse and demand that she sell off everything to cover the debts, for who would stay there now? There was the manor—she might live there, leave Marie and Phillip with Lionel—or William, because this was his mess. What could she do? Had her uncle Richard Clifford, dean of York Minster, enough clout to protect her?
“My cousin William is to blame for this, Griselde. He manipulated you.” Kate patted the woman’s hand. “Now. Have you told anyone?”
“Clement. No one else.”
“Good.”
Kate’s heart was pounding. Calm yourself. This is no time to panic. Perhaps they could see this through. If William took responsibility, all might be well, though she would be looking over her shoulder for trouble at every breath. Damn William to hell. He had shattered what little peace she had attained. Damn him. She would take him down with her—all it would take is a word with his wife, Isabella. William was beholden to his wife for his wealth and his stature in the city, and Kate knew that Isabella would not suffer an unfaithful husband. Then why had her mouth gone dry?
What would Kate’s mother have done? Found another husband and let him protect her. That’s what she’d done when Kate’s father died. A few months of mourning and Eleanor was off to Strasbourg with Ulrich Smit, her new love. Her mother’s example was clearly no help.
Kate rose. “Berend, we may be in danger. I depend on you to protect this household. I’ll take the hounds with me. And Sam will stay at the guesthouse until Lady Kirkby’s retainers arrive.”
Berend folded his muscular arms and nodded. “The children?”
“Jennet will escort them to school and go for Marie midday. You keep her here this afternoon. As for Phillip—you’ve seen his knife. He protected himself on the streets of Calais. He will be safe enough on his own if trouble comes.”
All three of the servants she’d hired—Jennet, Berend, Matt—had lived by their wits and skill with weapons at some point in their lives. She had felt it important. Folk wore more polished masks in York than they did up north, but Kate knew that everyone had a darkness. Everyone. She had seen to it that she felt safe in her own home.
Kate told Sam to go to William Frost. William and his ilk were already comfortable with Sam from his days as Simon’s manservant. “Tell him I need him to come at once to the house on High Petergate. I will be waiting for him. And if he thinks to excuse himself, tell him—quietly, for his ears only—what Goodwife Griselde has just told us. Then come to the guesthouse.”
Griselde had drained her cup and was now silently weeping.
“Jennet, see to Goodwife Griselde while I dress. And not a word while the children are in the kitchen.”
Berend placed a large, comfortingly strong and warm hand on Kate’s back as she moved past him toward the door. “I could go to the guesthouse right now, take care of what is there.”
She thanked him, but declined the offer. “I must see it, and then see that my cousin removes it. Quietly. I leave my household in your care.”
As Kate crossed the yard the hall door burst open, Phillip rushing out, calling back over his shoulder to Marie, “You will go to school hungry.” He mimicked Kate’s manner of speech—the pitch was wrong, but the Northern shaping of the words perfect. A talent she had not guessed. And then he tripped and fell.
Kate rushed to help him up, brushing him off.
His face was red and rigid with resentment. “I did not need your help.”
Too late she realized the insult, showing off how much stronger she was than he. Of course she was. He was but tw
elve years old and had never trained in archery, wielded axe or sword, or even learned to ride a horse. The alleys of Calais had been his domain. But she had injured his pride.
Marie laughed as she ran past. “Stupid boy!”
Kate let them go, hurrying through the hall and up to dress, her stomach in knots once more.
4
THE DEVIL’S FACE
Dog-faced Clement Selby greeted Kate from a bench in the hall doorway, his grizzled and wrinkled visage wavering between joy to see her and worry about the circumstance that called her there. “I have let no one cross this threshold, Mistress Clifford, nor climb those steps.” As if, with his lameness, he had any chance of preventing a trespass.
“Has anyone come asking to do so?”
“Not as such, mistress. There was the laundress. She knows we need fresh bedclothes by evening and she is not happy about the delay.”
“She will be well paid for her patience. You heard nothing in the night?”
He shook his head. “The wine—”
“Yes, my cousin’s potent gift.” Kate took a deep breath. “I will go up.”
Clement called to Lille and Ghent, who had been sniffing the bottom steps and looking up toward the landing with worried growls. “Best leave the dogs with me, mistress.” He bent to touch noses with them one at a time, something few people had the courage to do. Lille and Ghent adored Clement and settled on either side of his chair, their heads in his lap while he stroked their ears.
Kate handed him their leads, then set off up the outer stairway to see for herself the horror the goodwife had described.
She was surprised by the chill breeze when she opened the door, but one whiff had her grateful that Griselde had had the presence of mind to open the shutters. God be thanked it was as yet a subtle odor, but she must remove all trace of it before Margery Kirkby arrived. Damn William for bringing this trouble to her house. Damn him. For two years she had carefully built this delicate enterprise to pay for the masses for her late husband’s soul, despite the mess he had hidden from her. His guild members knew of the request in his will and would wonder if she did not honor it. In one night her cousin had risked it all. Here, before her, lay the body of a man murdered in her place of business. A business that could survive only if the powerful in York felt the house was safe, secret.
