The Service of the Dead

by Candace Robb

  She, her uncle, and Lady Kirkby retired to the dean’s parlor where a brazier warmed them. A servant brought mulled wine. They were a quiet trio, absorbing the events of the early hours—the horrible death, the boy’s grief.

  “Such desecration of a sacred space,” the dean muttered, breaking the silence.

  Margery set aside her cup and rose. “I sense that you have much to discuss, but it is not for my ears.”

  “My lady—”

  “No, Richard, you need not apologize. I hope that when you are both more at ease with me you will let me help, if I can. Katherine, I pray you send word if there is anything I can do.”

  “Thank you for staying with Phillip, comforting him,” said Kate.

  “You would have done the same.”

  “Perhaps it is time to take her into our confidence,” Kate said when Lady Margery had departed.

  Her uncle sighed as he settled back in his chair. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed, the lines more etched than usual. “We shall see. Tell me what you noticed, eh?”

  “Connor’s broken nose and split lip might be from the incident in the alehouse, but not the injury to the back of his head.”

  “The alehouse?”

  She recounted what Jennet had learned about Connor’s reaction to the news of Alice’s murder.

  He nodded. “As I mentioned, the men who cut Connor down noted the injuries as well.”

  “You agree it was murder?”

  “I do. And as he died in the minster liberty, I have the authority to decide what is to be done. Connor will be buried as one murdered, not as one who committed the sin of taking his own life. If asked, I will say that in my judgment a man so injured could not have managed such a hanging. But I will ask all to be circumspect with the news, to neither confirm nor deny the rumors, so that we might have a better chance of flushing out the murderer.”

  Kate nodded, agreeing. “But we will not be able to keep this quiet.”

  “Of course not. The rumor will spread, connecting Connor’s death to Alice Hatten’s murder. A lovers’ quarrel ended in tragedy. Perhaps that is not a bad thing. His fellows know of his wounds, and how he could not have hanged himself. They have sworn to say nothing.”

  “So Connor will not be buried as an apostate?”

  “No. I would not so rob him of salvation. I will be criticized for that, but no matter. I gladly absorb the blame in order to shield you, Katherine. For I cannot help but think it is your favor to me, welcoming Lady Kirkby to your guesthouse, that has brought on this triple tragedy.”

  “You believe this is all connected to Margery’s arrival?”

  “If not, it is an extraordinary coincidence.”

  “Hence your hesitation to speak in her presence.”

  “Hm . . . Yes. I confess I had misgivings about her visit. Archbishop Scrope was too keen for me to arrange it. I find it difficult to trust Scrope, with his mentor Arundel in exile with Bolingbroke. I feared her mission might not be so innocent, though she might be unaware she is being manipulated.”

  “I do not believe much slips past Lady Margery, uncle.” But it was good to know her uncle was not at ease with the archbishop. Friction between the dean and chapter of York Minster and the archbishop was to be expected—they presided over the cathedral and its operations, yet it was the seat of the archbishop’s authority. But this was about Scrope’s personal, not his professional, integrity. “What did you learn from the workers?”

  “Your serving maid asked them whether the rope would have been out near the platform. Good question. The men said it would have been stored in one of the rooms up there.”

  “So the murderer was familiar with much about the minster.”

  “Too familiar. The workers were stealing glances at their fellows, worried that the murderer is among them.” He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, shaking his head. “I fear that your trust in Lady Margery might be misguided, and that I have been foolish in supporting her husband. Stealing away as he did has colored his actions in men’s minds. Some call him a traitor to King Richard, others suspect the king has sent him to assassinate Duke Henry.”

  “Perhaps I am too close to these tragedies, uncle, but I find it difficult to see them as part of the rift between the royal cousins.”

  “Did you feel so about the unrest in the borders where you grew up, Katherine? That, too, was born of the wars begun by our king’s great-great-grandfather.”

  “I did. Our feuds grew out of the fields soaked in our family’s blood.”

  “And that began with King Edward leading his army into Scotland.”

  “Providing the opportunity to resume a feud under cover of war.” Kate rose. “I would like to see Connor’s body before I go comfort Marie. I will return in a while to wake Phillip, so that he might tell us all he knows.”

  In late morning Dean Richard had moved Phillip to his own bedroom so that work might resume in the kitchen. In thanks for preparing Connor’s body, the lay sisters from St. Leonard’s Hospital deserved a warm meal.

  Now the boy blinked in the soft midafternoon sunlight as Kate opened the shutters. She stood a moment looking out at the minster, watching water coursing out the downspouts. The thaw had begun and the world, so quiet in snow, was loud with water dripping, sloshing in the street. People cursed as their boots sank into the ooze.

  Remember the stink of the spring thaw? All that had frozen in the snow, rotting corpses of birds, rats, squirrels, mice. All the dung and piss from the horses and cattle.

  A city is worse yet, Geoff. Now go. I need to speak with Phillip.

  She sat down at the edge of the bed. “Marie picked out fresh clothes for you. Dean Richard’s serving man will help you dress.”

  “I dress myself.”

  “Let them fuss over you. They all feel helpless.”

  Phillip sat up. She handed him a cup of honeyed milk, his favorite.

  “Sleep well?”

  “I remember someone carrying me here. But even that did not wake me.” A sigh. “I feel guilty. I should be praying.”

  “Self-abuse will not bring back the dead. I know. I have tried it.”

  “Your twin?”

  “Yes.”

  He finished the milk, setting the cup aside and swinging his legs out of the bed. “Soft,” he said as he stepped onto a bearskin.

  “My uncle enjoys his comforts.” The walls were hung with hunting tapestries, small tables held pewter lamps and candlesticks, and a bench and a chair were piled with cushions embroidered in jewel colors.

  Phillip gazed round the room, but his expression was grim as he turned to Kate. “I know about the murder in the guesthouse. And now Alice Hatten, and Connor.”

  God in heaven. “How do you know about the guesthouse?”

  “I will explain. But the dean will want to hear as well.”

  “Of course. Would you prefer to talk in here, or in his parlor?”

  “The parlor. You can call the serving man to come dress me.” He still looked weary.

  “Would you eat something first?”

  “I can eat while we talk. I mean to sit the vigil.”

  Before she closed the door behind her she asked, “Does Marie know of the earlier murder?”

  He shook his head. “And she must not, not until the killer is found and put away.”

  Kate intended a swifter, more satisfying end, but she simply nodded.

  10

  PHILLIP’S TALE

  Kate found herself alone in her uncle’s parlor. She welcomed the quiet as a respite, at first. Everywhere she had gone this day she had heard talk of the death at the minster. She hastened to assure those who offered their condolences, mistakenly believing it was Phillip who had been found hanging, that he was very much alive, though in mourning for the stonemason who had been his teacher. Most of the gossip swirled round the rumor that Connor hanged himself in remorse for murdering Alice. That woman brought such trouble upon herself, many said. Kate did not bother to answer them.
They would twist any retort to their purposes, the rumor too sensational to discard. William was named the catalyst for the tragedy by many, a detail that would worry her had they hinted of the murder in the guesthouse, but it was his transgression leading to her banishment from his service that had been resurrected for their entertainment. Pampered city folk with loose tongues and too much idle time. Only at the Sharp residence, where she had the opportunity to talk to the friar before he departed for his sad journey to Alice’s sister and cousin in Beverley, did she feel the sorrow of the past week held in appropriate respect and solemnity.

  Still chilled, she warmed her hands at the brazier in her uncle’s parlor, but she could not reach the true cause of her tremors, a chill deeper than any fire could dispel. Any sense of safety she had once felt being in York, away from the northern border, had been undermined by the events of the past week. The delicate balance she had achieved between meeting Simon’s debts and saving for a future she might choose for herself was threatened, the safe haven she had created for Phillip and Marie invaded. She wanted to find the murderer and end this. She wanted his blood. But at the moment, she had only the name of someone possibly connected to all this, Hubert Bale, and a vague connection to Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster. Something did not feel right about that. The deaths seemed far too personal to have been arranged by a noble in exile. She knew she would not sleep soundly until she had eliminated the danger.

  So much for a quiet respite. By the time her uncle escorted Phillip into the room, Kate welcomed the distraction from her own uneasy heart.

  She smiled at the elegant outfit Marie had chosen for her brother. Phillip wore a dark red velvet jacket, deep brown leggings, and red leather boots. Elegant. But the clothes hung loosely, revealing a loss of heft since Jennet had fitted him months ago. Kate wondered what he had eaten the past few days.

  A servant brought food and wine, then withdrew. Kate urged Phillip to eat. He tore some bread, smoothed soft cheese on it, and nibbled at it.

  Dean Richard smiled. “My favorite cheese.”

  Phillip nodded. “I like it. Marie would hate it.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “Tell us how you found him, Phillip,” Kate began. “You said you witnessed nothing, but then how did you happen to be there? I know you stayed the night in Connor’s lodgings.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Jennet learned where you were, and made certain you were safe.” Not safe enough. “Go on, I pray you.”

  “I think it was the sound of the street door closing that woke me. The door to the room was open, and Connor was gone. I pushed open the shutters, saw him hurrying in the direction of the minster yard. He was with another man.”

  “Was he following the man, or walking with him?”

  “With him.”

  She nodded for Phillip to continue.

  “I tried to catch up, but by the time I put on my boots they had disappeared. I thought it must be one of his fellows who had come for him, so I went on to the minster yard, hoping to catch them there. But the yard was dark, and there was no one yet in the masons’ lodge. I didn’t know what to do.” His voice broke. He wiped his eyes on his velvet sleeve. Foolish Marie.

  “How were you able to see him down in the street?” Kate asked softly.

  “A lantern. The stranger carried a lantern.”

  “Why were you with Connor last night?” the dean asked.

  “He went mad in the tavern when he heard that Alice Hatten had been pulled from the King’s Fishpond, and what had been done to her, how she died. I feared he would hurt himself when he sobered up.”

  “They were lovers?” Kate asked.

  “I think so. At least that’s what I guessed when I saw them together the morning after she witnessed the man murdered in your guesthouse.”

  “You know of that?” the dean asked.

  Phillip shrugged, averting his eyes. “I heard them talk about it, and he told me more.” For a moment, it seemed the boy’s weariness took over. He slumped into himself, bowed his head.

  “Phillip, do you need more rest?” Kate asked.

  He straightened and rubbed his cheeks. “I heard you complain to Berend that my father kept things from you that you would have been better off knowing, as all men did, thinking to protect you. But you do it too. If I had known . . .” His voice broke again.

  “You might have prevented Connor’s death? No, Phillip. We knew of it, but we’ve not spoken to anyone who was there in the room that night. We do not yet know what happened. But we will find out. And we will avenge these deaths.”

  “Katherine,” the dean warned, “this is not the border country.”

  “We will argue that point once we know more. For now, we need to hear all that you know, Phillip. Something you heard or witnessed might hold the key. You saw them the morning after the murder in the guesthouse?”

  His slender face solemn, his voice soft, he began to spin out the sad tale of Connor’s last days. Phillip skipped school one morning. Master Grantham had said he would be away, so the boy hoped he might catch Connor at his work and convince him to straighten up so that they could work together. He found Connor working on a corner fit. At first he invited Phillip to watch him at the task, telling him he could then try a corner himself. He had set aside a flawed piece of stone for Phillip to work on—so no worry if it split, no one would care, there were plenty more on the pile. As he watched Connor work, Phillip told him about Grantham’s offer to train him himself, and his own preference to work with Connor.

  “He said nothing until he was finished. Then he said maybe the master was right. He had lost the gift. I argued that he had not.

  “Connor blew on the piece of stone to judge his progress. He fit the chisel into the edge of the cut, then looked sidewise at me, shaking his head. ‘A master is guided by the beauty in his head, a vision. I’ve lost that. I thought myself a good man, a man who would never balk at doing the right thing. Most of all for those I love. But last night . . . I succumbed to my demon. I went first to the tavern, arrived late. . . . Damned I am. Had I been there—’ Then Connor brought down the hammer with such force the chisel sank deep into the stone, splitting it in an explosion of fine particles. With a curse, he dropped his tool. ‘You have promise, lad. Take Grantham’s offer. You will learn precious little from the likes of me,’ he said, then stormed off, shedding his smock as he headed toward the minster gate.

  “I picked up the hammer and ran after him. I tried to tell him he was a good man, I knew he was, but he just told me to leave him be, to work with the master and leave him to hell.”

  Phillip pressed his hands to his face, bowed his head.

  Kate and her uncle exchanged a look. Perhaps it was too much too soon. She was about to suggest that Phillip rest awhile when he sat up with a huff.

  “You see? I was right all along. Connor was not a drunkard, he was sad. He believed he had failed someone. I followed him, to see if I could help.”

  He found Connor behind his lodgings, holding a woman by the arm. “Alice. I know that now. She was trying to break away, he was begging her to stay. She was crying. Her clothes were crumpled and her hair all undone. She looked frightened. He was telling her they had to go away on their own, they could not wait for everything to be readied, it never would be now. She kept saying she would go to her son’s father, he would make it right. And Connor kept saying he was the one who had put her in danger. They were both angry and frightened. I was afraid he would hit her, but she got away from him and told him that he was better off without her. He turned away and marched to the nearest alewife.”

  Phillip tried to follow him, but Connor shooed him away. After that Phillip stole away from school when he could. Usually he found Connor in one of the taverns near the Bedern or near Joan del Bek’s bawdy house, where the mason would ask after Alice. No one had seen her. They seemed surprised to hear she had been in the city. After a while he would go back to a tavern and dri
nk.

  “For two days all he did was drink and search for her. He pretended to ignore me. I guess he hoped I would give up and leave him be. Yesterday I asked some of the other stoneworkers to come with me, to help me convince him to eat something. We almost succeeded. But then someone came with the news about a body found in the King’s Fishpond, a woman named Alice Hatten. Connor wanted to go to her, to warm her, to save her, and the man told him it was too late, her tongue had been cut out before she was thrown in the pond. She was long dead. Connor started to shout no no no no and throw things.”

  Kate was angry that Connor had not seen what he was doing to Phillip, a boy who admired him to such an extent he would do anything to protect him.

  “Have some more food?” the dean suggested.

  Phillip shook his head. “This morning that man must have come for him, or maybe Connor saw him passing. If I had been quicker—”

  “He was not your responsibility, my son,” Richard said.

  “Why did he go with him?” Kate wondered aloud. “Why would he?”

  “I wish I knew why he left, why he did not wake me.”

  The dean poured more wine, watered his own and Phillip’s. Kate set hers aside. “Do you wish to continue, Phillip?”

  A nod. “Just as I was cursing myself for assuming they’d headed to the minster, one of the apprentices came with a lantern to light the fire in the stonemasons’ lodge. I saw fresh prints where someone had broken through the frozen crust atop the snow. I had been following them all along. I think I frightened the apprentice, and he let me borrow the lantern so that I would leave. I think I was crying.” Phillip ran his slender fingers through his hair. “Please say nothing of any of this to Marie. I never let her see me cry.”

  Kate promised she would repeat none of it to Marie without his permission.