The Service of the Dead
Page 7
And now the silence felt rife with menace.
Jennet groaned and sat up, listening. “Hubert Bale has become a specter of the night. He might be anywhere.”
As if she had not been thinking the same thing, Kate reminded Jennet that Sam and the dogs were below in the hall. “They will warn us. And we don’t even know that Hubert Bale survived.”
“Berend would be surprised if he had not.”
It was true. Berend doubted that the man strangled in the guesthouse had been Hubert Bale, the best assassin he had ever encountered, unless he had been attacked by an equally skilled assassin.
“Such as?” Kate had asked him.
“Someone from King Richard’s own network of spies. His Grace might have learned of Bale’s mission, and, knowing his reputation, sent someone to prevent Bale from murdering royal supporters.”
She’d argued that the situation was all the worse because the identity and motive of the murderer were as yet a mystery. “We must find Alice and protect her, discover who was murdered, and by whom, and why. Your mission is to identify the dead man. Exhume him or wrest a description out of the servant who helped bury him. That is our focus.”
“As you wish,” said Berend. “As long as you appreciate the danger.”
She assured him that she did. Of course it bothered her that, according to Berend, Hubert Bale was a man so ordinary in appearance—height, weight, coloring, features—that he moved through crowds unnoticed. Even those he attacked struggled for a description of any aspect, even clothing, that would assist identification. “He left survivors? I thought he was an assassin.”
“Some of his missions were to maim—intimidation, not execution.”
“God help us.”
Kate had hoped for a clearer image of the man who might count her partly or wholly responsible for an attack in her guesthouse. They could not rely on recognizing a face, but must mark behavior.
Jennet was right. If Bale was the murderer on the loose, he could be anywhere. As Kate lay in bed she tensed at every gust of wind, each creak of the house, and cursed William for endangering her and all she held dear.
“I feel some satisfaction thinking how frightened your cousin must be,” said Jennet. “Either his guest or a stranger murdered, and Master Frost put Bale there that night.”
Kate sighed into the darkness. Despite his betrayal, she did not wish harm to her cousin.
Don’t be soft, Geoff growled in her head. She felt him brush her cheek with his lips. She must still be half asleep. Glad you have such a loyal maidservant. Sharing a bed with our brothers and our servant Tuck was comforting only for the heat. If we lay awake worried or tensed for trouble, we never admitted it to each other.
What are you doing here, Geoff? But she knew. When she was in danger, he was there.
Jennet abruptly sat up. “I surrender. I cannot sleep. I will begin my search.” She slipped out from beneath the pile of bedclothes.
“It is still dark.”
“I do my best work in the dark, remember?”
Before she came to work for Kate, Jennet had used her tailoring skills to create clothing in which she might squirrel away valuables lifted from houses she slipped into at night. That was how they had first met, when Kate came upon Jennet emptying the shelves in the hall into the roomy pouches of her clothing. Simon had slept through the incident, and by the time Sam appeared Kate had invited Jennet out to the kitchen for a chat—with Berend as backup in case the young woman was not as interested in “honest employment” as she claimed.
Smiling at the memory, Kate rose as well. It was a relief to dress and then help Jennet transform herself into a young lad, all in silence so as not to wake Phillip and Marie.
For her present purposes Jennet had removed most of the bulky compartments from the tunic and breeches. Nowadays the compartments she inserted in her own and Kate’s clothing were for weapons, and the tailoring for ease of movement. Kate blessed the night Jennet had attempted to rob her. “Three knives, Jennet?”
A soft laugh. “Never too many.”
“No. Not for us,” Kate agreed. She never let down her guard, never. When the last strand of hair was tucked into Jennet’s roomy hat, Kate checked the landing. “It’s clear.”
Jennet strode to the door, already in character.
“Trust no one,” Kate whispered.
“Only you, Dame Katherine.”
“And Berend.”
A cocky shrug, a curt nod. “He’s kept quiet about me, it’s true.”
“Be back before sunset. We have a watch on Petergate.”
Jennet nodded, then slipped onto the landing, down the stairs, and out the door.
How Kate yearned to tuck her own wild hair in a hat, don Geoff’s breeches and shirt, and rush off after Jennet. How free she was. No eyes watched Jennet for missteps in propriety. Secrecy weighed Kate down, pinned her in place. Outside—all the gossips. Inside—her wards. And through it all she must emulate the ideal of the virtuous widow. She itched for some practice at the butt in the garden, but with Jennet gone Kate must see to her wards.
Women may be better at comforting each other, but men are so free, Geoff.
Free to die. Or haven’t you noticed?
“Who was that?”
Kate’s heart leapt as Marie padded out onto the landing squinting and yawning, swaddled in a blanket.
“Jennet. I sent her off on an early errand.”
A whine. “Who will dress me?”
“Curl up on my bed while I fetch something warm to drink. Then I’ll dress you.”
The girl shuffled past and managed to climb onto the bed without unwrapping herself, rolling to the center, facedown.
Kate slipped a sheathed dagger into a slot in the front of her gown, then moved the scrip attached to the elegant leather and silver girdle on her hips to doubly conceal it. Not enough protection. Glancing back to check that Marie was not looking, Kate pushed aside a chest and peeled back a section of floorboard to reveal the little casket in which she kept the small battle-axe—a third the size of a soldier’s, but efficient and deadly—that her father had given her on her twelfth birthday. She kept it sharpened and ready, in the fine leather pouch that was small enough to slip into the compartment in the right side of her skirt. She would prefer a larger weapon, but even this was difficult enough to hide. No voluminous skirts for her; the less fabric the better. With the axe, the dagger, and the wolfhounds, she was as ready for trouble as she could be.
Marie began to snore.
Kate took a deep breath, preparing for another day of pretending all was as it should be in her world. She had grown so skilled in duplicity she thought that if all fell apart around her she might run away with a company of players and do quite well for herself. Turning that possibility over in her mind, she stepped out onto the landing, closing the door behind her.
Phillip shuffled out to join her, his face flushed from sleep, his buttons awry on his jacket. He yawned in her face as she reached to redo his buttoning.
“Mother of God, put your hand over your mouth when you yawn, Phillip. And chew some anise on your way to school.”
“I can button my own jacket,” he growled, turning away from her and bounding down the steps with the grace of a deer in the forest. Down below Lille and Ghent barked as Phillip rushed past their bed in front of the hearth. He ran out the rear door, but they waited until Kate gave them a nod before they dashed out with him. She saw that Sam had already put away his sleeping pallet. He had grumbled about the privacy he lacked when sleeping in the hall, having grown accustomed to his room in the front house. But he had agreed. So all were up early this morning.
On another snowy morning seven years ago, she had awakened from a dark dream to discover all the men and the hunting and guard dogs gone from her father’s hall, only the pups Lille and Ghent left behind. She had run up to her brothers’ chamber and found them gone as well. It was no surprise, but she’d wanted to see for herself. It was then that she�
�d heard the muffled sobs. Followed the sounds through the hall, past the buttery and pantry. More than one woman wept. Oh God, please, not one of my brothers. She’d hesitated in the kitchen doorway, crossed herself, stepped through. Her mother and her maidservant were bathing a body. Her brother, her sweet brother Roland.
Stop it! she ordered herself.
It’s worse seeing it through you. I’d been so angry I didn’t really see his body.
You’re too much in my head this morning, brother.
She stepped into Geoff’s boots and out onto the crusty snow. So cold, God help her, tonight she must wear several more layers to stand watch behind the guesthouse. She could not afford to be too stiff with cold to move and wield a weapon. She and Geoff had stood watch as children when an attack was imminent, serving as runners to warn the elders as the marauders appeared. Always the Scots were tagged as the attackers, even when her family or another English household had stirred the embers of the ongoing feuds. In winter, in snow, she and Geoff would huddle with the dogs beneath layers of skins that had to be shaken now and then to relieve the weight of the snow drifting over the lookouts cut into hillsides. The pack of dogs had been well trained, never making a sound.
Lille and Ghent bounded up to her now, shaking off the snow in a spray that chilled her unprotected face. She laughed and rubbed their backs with her gloved hands. “Hungry?” She signaled permission to go on along the cleared path to the kitchen door—bless Berend or Sam for shoveling it. The dogs trotted a few paces, then stopped before turning toward the alleyway to the street, alert, ears pricked. Lille growled.
An intruder. Hah! Kate withdrew beneath the eaves, slipping her axe from its sheath as she crept down the path to the alley, taking care to avoid the light spilling into the narrow space from Thomas Holme’s lanterns. She saw no shadow. Perhaps she was wrong about an intruder. Would one be so foolish as to choose a lamp-lit alley? Lille and Ghent, trained to respond when she drew her weapon, squeezed past on either side to take the lead. They came to a standstill as someone in the alley stepped onto ice-encrusted snow, the noise loud in the predawn hush. Another mistake suggesting this was no threat, stealth not the stranger’s intent. Yet Ghent growled.
Kate raised the axe and leaned to peer round the corner. It was Sam, the white hair sticking out of his hat and catching the lamplight.
“God save me,” he said, shielding his eyes.
Behind him she noticed a slight movement. Ghent and Lille would not growl at Sam’s approach, nor that of anyone else in the household. Someone was shadowing him.
“Drop to your knees, Sam,” Kate whispered as she stepped away from the corner, aimed, let fly the axe. In the charged silence she heard the weapon spinning round and round, landing with a solid, satisfying thud. A curse, a tearing sound, a flicker of movement.
“Stay!” she commanded Lille and Ghent—they were trained to kill once she had used a weapon. She rushed down the alley. Nothing. The street was deserted but for a peddler pushing a cart, and a neighbor gossiping with her best friend. Kate cursed herself for being too cautious, calling off her hounds. She was out of practice.
Back in the alley, she pulled the axe from the wooden archway separating the yard of the small street-front building from her own larger house. A piece of cloth came away with the blade. Wool with a fur lining. No wonder the curse rather than a cry or groan; she had caught the edge of the shadow’s clothing. A cloak, it would seem. Gratifying. Her senses had not entirely dulled with city living. She bent down to the dogs, let them sniff. “Find.” She followed them out to the middle of the street, where they lost the scent. She asked her neighbor whether she had seen anyone running from the alleyway.
“I did. He followed your serving man into the alley, then came running out. He threw his cloak in the rag cart, then hurried off toward the castle. Such an odd thing to do in this cold. Is there trouble?”
So that was why they’d lost the scent—the cart. “Bless you, no. Nothing for you to worry about.” Kate called over her shoulder as she picked her way along the crusty snow to the ragman’s cart, Lille and Ghent trotting alongside.
To her surprise the person pushing the cart was neither a ragpicker nor a man. Kate motioned Lille and Ghent to her side. “They will not harm you,” she assured the woman.
“I see they are well trained. I commend you on that.” The woman pushed back her hood and studied Kate. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance. Jocasta Sharp.” She extended a gloved hand. “And you, with your fine hunting dogs. You must be Katherine Clifford.”
Jocasta Sharp, the wife of one of Kate’s customers at the guesthouse, with a fine house by All Saints Church. Kate took her hand. “The women back there thought you were a ragpicker.”
Jocasta opened her arms to show off her simple but well-cut garb. “You see with your eyes, without prejudice, unlike those women who saw me as a ragpicker. My husband calls it a humiliation that his wife sees to the poor. My devotion to Christian duty shames him.” She tapped the heavy cloth covering her load. “You want the fine cloak the thief tossed in my cart, I’ll warrant. Tuppence to redeem it. For the poor of the parish.”
“I’ll gladly give you that and more if I might take it now and come to your house later today with the money and more clothes.”
The woman tilted her head. “You did not take the Neville name. A Clifford born and a Clifford you remain, and your mother a Frost.” She nodded. “As you are your own woman, I believe I can trust you. Your offer is more than fair, Katherine Clifford. God watches over the poor of our parish.” She handed Kate the cloak, bid her a good morning.
“Did you get a good look at the thief?” She saw no point in correcting Jocasta’s assumption that he’d stolen the cloak.
“I saw but the back of him, and he wore a hat that quite covered his hair. Queer that he stole the cloak. The clothes he wore beneath were just as fine.”
“So you did not see him approach my house?”
“No. He startled me out of my prayers when he tossed the cloak on my cart. Sudden hard times, I would guess. Fortune’s wheel claims us all eventually. I suppose he might have lost his own cloak. Or sold it. May God watch over you, Dame Katherine.” Jocasta moved on, the wagon’s wooden wheels clattering on the cobbles.
Kate draped the cloak over her shoulder to free her hands. “Come, Lille, Ghent.” They headed back to the house.
In the alley, Sam was pacing. “What happened? What do you think you saw?”
“Someone slipped into the alleyway behind you. Ghent and Lille sensed danger. The neighbors said he was indeed following you.”
“Oh. Yes. I do recall there was someone walking near me. I thought he meant to ask the way, but he never spoke.”
“That is all, you say? You cried out, Sam. Lille and Ghent were growling. My dogs know you. They don’t growl at you. He was behind you. My axe caught a bit of his cloak. The dogs caught the scent and helped me retrieve the rest.” She handed him the piece of cloak that had caught on the archway.
Sam held it at arm’s length as if it might burn him, shook his head, quickly handed it back to her. “Why would the knave follow me into the alley?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? How long did he follow you?”
“I don’t know. He never spoke. I should have challenged him.”
He grows too old. Just a manservant now, Geoff whispered in her mind. He’s older than Simon would be, were he still alive.
Kate wondered. Sam was the only one of Simon’s original servants she had retained. She’d never had cause to complain about him. Too old? Perhaps. And embarrassed to have led the man to the house.
“Where had you been so early in the morning, Sam?”
“At the guesthouse. I rose early to return the letter to the pack in the shed. I thought if I returned it before dawn . . . But I found the barrow righted, the pack gone.” He drew the letter from his scrip and handed it to her. “I blame myself for not going last night.”
“He did, God help me, and now I see he did not overstate this man’s stealth.”
Poor man, he was shivering now. She told him to go get warm in the kitchen.
“Should I talk to Master Frost’s man Roger before I leave for Beverley?” Sam asked.
“No, we will not bother Master Frost’s household.” Kate no longer expected William to weaken the protection around himself and his family by sending any of his men to Beverley. Alice was nothing to him, or worse, a liability. Nor would she send Sam to Beverley now that he was either marked or caught in a lie. As Berend opened the door to Lille’s and Ghent’s barks and bowed all four in, Kate told Sam she was postponing his journey. “I want to know more before I send you.”
Later, when Marie was dressed and loudly arguing with her brother in the kitchen and Sam was busy shifting more of the firewood from the shed to the hall, Kate took Berend aside to tell him of Sam’s discovery at the guesthouse, and what had happened as he returned home.
Berend’s expression was grim as he took the letter for safekeeping. “If Bale is alive, he will want this. That is a fact.”
“Then hide it well. What of the cloak—is it something Bale would wear?”
“I never knew him to wear fur. He did not pamper himself. I need to see the corpse.”
“I fault myself—”
Berend put a finger to her lips. “We move forward. I have some good news. I paid a visit to Matt early this morning on my way to the baker. Already he is moving about with the aid of a crutch. His injuries were not as dire as we feared.”
That was a bit of good news. This would be a good time to switch him to her household and Sam to the guesthouse. Sam and Seth. “Griselde and Clement will be happy to hear he is doing so well. Does he recall anything about the accident?”