by Candace Robb
Kate crossed herself. “Alice’s blood?”
“I wondered the same. And according to Odo, while Seth was out in the garden, the intruder who hums out of tune was down in the undercroft, setting a fire.”
“God help us. Did you catch him? Was there damage?” Kate asked.
“No and very little. Fortunately we had aired the hall so well in the afternoon that they smelled the smoke at once. Someone had lit the pallet. They were able to drag it out and beat out the few spots that had caught.”
“A gesture not intended to actually burn down the house,” Berend suggested.
“What can this person want?” asked Margery.
“He is showing us how easily he moves among us. Like we did as children,” said Kate.
“Perhaps you did,” said Lady Margery. “We were never so clever.”
“No further disturbance?” Kate asked.
“No, God be thanked. It was quite enough for one evening. I woke at every creak of the house throughout the night. Such a pity. I had felt good after my conversation with William Frost. He promised to speak up in my favor to his colleagues.”
“I suppose he sees it as an attempt at atonement,” said Kate. It would have been far better had he helped Alice. She asked Margery whether she was still comfortable in the guesthouse. “I would not blame you for seeking other lodgings.”
“My mission is far too important to us all to waver in the face of such cowardly attempts to frighten me off.”
In truth, it felt to Kate as if she were the object of attack, not Margery. But that was an argument for another time. “I meant no insult. You are my guest, and I feel responsible for your welfare.”
Margery pressed Kate’s hand. “Bless you.”
One of the dean’s clerks rang a bell for attention, announcing that he would now lead the procession to the chapel, begging them to proceed in an orderly fashion.
Kate excused herself and slipped through the gathered mourners to join Phillip and Marie, and together they walked out into the minster yard behind the Granthams as the first hints of dawn silvered the sky. At the southeast door, Dean Richard’s secretary waited with a tray of tapers, handing one to each mourner. Each taper was then lit by a servant standing beside him.
“I do not like this place,” Marie muttered as they moved forward into the aisle. “There are too many shadows.”
Usually Kate would agree, but this morning she caught her breath at the beauty of the line of light moving through the darkness as the mourners’ footsteps echoed in the soaring space. At the door to the crypt, a clerk advised them to move down the steps one at a time. “With care,” he whispered. “They are narrow and uneven.”
The stairwell had been brightened with white paint and crossed with red lines to give the look of ashlar, but no natural light illuminated the descent, and the stones seemed alive as the candles flickered in a strong draft. The line of mourners moved down, down, until they bent beneath a stone lintel and entered the chapel of St. Mary Magdalene. The low-roofed space, far more welcoming than that above, was fragrant with the warm scent of beeswax. A clerk showed them where to place their tapers, so that the chapel became a constellation of light.
Hugh and Martha Grantham, Phillip, Marie, Kate, and Dame Jocasta were directed to stand behind Connor’s coffin before the altar. The Granthams were subdued, showing signs of sleeplessness and tears. The masons gathered behind them, standing with heads bowed, their rough hands pressed together in prayer.
A murmur went through the crowd, and all turned their heads to observe Archbishop Scrope step into the chapel. Dressed in modest clerical robes, he bowed toward the altar, then took a place at the back beside Margery Kirkby. She smiled, pressing His Grace’s forearm in greeting, right hand to her heart.
So they were friends. That surprised Kate, considering Scrope’s mentor, Thomas Arundel, and his rumored alliance with Duke Henry on the continent. Would Scrope support King Richard if he reconciled with Duke Henry?
Kate was pondering that when Phillip tapped her arm, asking her quietly if that was truly the archbishop come to pray for Connor’s soul. Her nod lit the boy’s face. “Such prayers will surely speed Connor’s welcome in heaven,” he said.
She was struck by her ward’s earnest devotion, and wondered whether what irked Marie was a touch of jealousy—if she saw Connor as a rival, even in death. Kate must think how to convince the child to stay at the deanery.
As her uncle began the mass, Kate bowed her head and prayed that God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints and angels welcomed Alice and Connor. I pray you, gather them to your hearts and hold them close, comforting them. And gently, gently ease the heart of my ward, Phillip. Help him to forget the horror of what he saw.
And help me understand young Marie so that I might protect her.
As an afterthought she added, Help me see my way to loving both my wards as they deserve.
Toward the end of the requiem the sounds of the Lady Mass being sung in the choir drifted down to them, and as she turned to leave Kate noticed smiles on many of the tearstained faces. She glanced back to see whether she could observe her uncle’s reaction. He looked pleased. Yes, he had planned this uplifting final movement. Bless him.
At the deanery after the service, Kate introduced Phillip to the archbishop as Connor’s apprentice. The boy beamed as Richard Scrope described how he had happened on Connor in the masons’ lodge.
He had watched Connor forming the curl of a leaf. “Bent over his work, unaware of his audience, he hummed a little under his breath. I admired his focused attention and the easy joy with which he worked such magic in stone.”
The archbishop shifted his gaze to Kate as he assured Phillip that Connor’s murderer would be found. He would pay for his terrible crime, and for desecrating the cathedral with bloodshed. In that steady gaze, Kate read a challenge, not a reassurance. Her uncle had sensed that Scrope knew of Kate’s secret enterprise. Did he judge her? Unfortunately, he slipped away before she had a chance to speak with him further, to explore whether she had simply imagined the message.
15
THE LION
The sun had been low in the sky as the mourners departed the minster, but now, as Kate stepped from the deanery, it warmed her uplifted face and brightened her heart. She was grateful to have been called out so early, for the breeze carried a chill and the scent of rain; she might easily have missed this glorious moment. Breathing in, she filled her lungs with the freshness of the morning, and, for a little while, let her mind go blank, forgetting her cares.
Cares. Such an innocent word, suggesting domestic trifles or misunderstandings among friends. Not three unsolved murders, a missing servant, and a killer so confident as to stay in the city and taunt her by trying to burn down one of her properties. Lady Margery might see it as her battle to fight, but Kate was not so certain as to risk the safety of her wards.
Which is why she had turned a deaf eye and ear to Marie when she appeared in the hall of the deanery with her pack, demanding to return to the house on Castlegate. Kate had relieved Marie of her burden, taken her firmly by the hand, and led her back to the kitchen, placing her in Helen’s competent care.
“I will watch her like a hawk, Dame Katherine,” the cook promised.
Kate had slipped away before Phillip could take up Marie’s cause. No doubt he would feel the wrath of his sister—she would blame him for inviting her there in the first place. And, knowing Marie, she would extend that to his affection for Connor. Had he not befriended the dead man, they would both be back on Castlegate. Not that the girl seemed happy there. It was a matter of control. Kate understood, but she would not bend to the child’s latest whim.
A scent of roses announced Lady Margery just before she slipped her arm through Kate’s. “I thought my daughters had vile tempers at certain ages, but your ward Marie—there is a special place in heaven for you, taking in that child and giving her such good care. At least you cannot blame your blood. She is all N
eville. Her poor mother. No wonder she died young. Now, where are you headed?”
“To see whether the workmen have arrived to repair the once-lovely residence I own next to the guesthouse.”
“Then let us be off.” Margery signaled to her servants to follow.
Jennet broke away from her examination of the deanery yard, quietly reporting to Kate that she had found no broken locks or loosened shutters that might invite a trespasser. Berend had gone on ahead to organize the workmen and see whether Clement felt capable of some work in the undercroft.
“Forgive me for bringing up my trivial concerns when you have so much on your shoulders.” Lady Margery pressed Kate’s arm. “But far from being frightened away by recent events, I would like to extend my stay for a few days beyond the fortnight we had arranged. Once your cousin William recommends me to his colleagues I hope to have quite a few visitors. I will pay, of course.”
But not long-term, as did Kate’s regular clients. In faith, if the troubles were aimed at frightening Lady Margery away, Kate looked forward to her departure. “Invite a half-dozen couples to each gathering,” Kate said. “Better to entertain the merchants in the company of their peers—it will shame the reluctant into committing some funds for your husband’s mission. The guesthouse hall is quite large, and you can borrow additional seating and tables from the deanery.”
“Then your answer is no?” A pretty pout. “You have clients waiting?”
“Are you not expected elsewhere?”
Margery shrugged. “Lincoln is next. But the wealth is here, in York.” No pout this time, instead a winsome sigh. “Ah me. Perhaps your dear uncle would accommodate me at the deanery. . . .”
Better him than me, Kate thought. “The guesthouse is not an extension of my home, but a trade concern, Lady Margery. Had I the room in my home to welcome your entourage, I would.” Not quite true, but courteous, and apparently well received.
Smiling, Margery assured Kate that she understood, and, arm in arm, they turned onto High Petergate, greeting passersby as they progressed toward the guesthouse. One or two paused to ask them about the shouts and smoke the previous evening. Lady Margery was at her best, telling a tale of elderly, befuddled Odo and an attempt to light a lamp in the undercroft. No one questioned his being down there. All clearly found Lady Margery charming.
A neighbor glanced up as young Seth and Odo approached. “Poor old man. He is so fortunate to have such care in the two of you gentlewomen.”
In fact, Odo looked scrubbed, tidy, and alert, doffing his hat to them before Kate had spoken a word.
“We are out for a brief walk to escape from the hammering,” Seth explained. “The workmen arrived eager to begin, and Berend has them repairing the shutters and doors first.”
“I would like a word with both of you,” said Kate. “Come to the guesthouse when you have had your walk. Goodwife Griselde will not begrudge us her kitchen for a little while.”
Odo began to turn to follow the women, but young Seth stopped him. “The walk will do you good. Once down to the crossing and we will return,” he said, encouraging Odo forward.
“You have remarkable servants,” said Margery. “No doubt because they are yours to choose, unlike your late husband’s.” She gave a little laugh.
“Simon’s servants? Oh, you mean Sam? He seemed better than the others at the time.” Or perhaps she had simply worried that he was too old to find different employment.
“Was he Simon’s man? That explains much. But I meant . . .” Margery sighed.
“His bastards? True. But there are times I am glad to have them with me.”
“The boy, yes, he is a dear. But Marie?”
As they turned into the alleyway they found Berend stepping out from the undercroft, shaking his head at Clement, who breathed hard as he leaned against the wall next to the entrance.
The invalid gave Kate a wry smile. “I saw Odo shuffling down the alleyway and imagined myself nimble in comparison. The truth is not so sanguine.”
“We have kept the door opened and guarded all night,” said Lady Margery. “How is the air in there, Berend? Is it still too foul for Clement’s weak chest?”
“It is far better than I had expected.” But Berend asked Clement whether he was sure he felt strong enough to spend the day in there. Clement assured him that he was quite capable of breathing some smoky air.
“Speaking of that . . .” Berend asked if he might have a word with Kate.
While Lady Margery continued on into the guesthouse, her lapdogs barking wildly to see her, Kate stepped aside with Berend.
“The workmen discovered rags stuffed in all the smoke holes,” he said. “No wonder Odo’s fires created such smoke. Fortunately there are gaps all over the house and roof, and a serious leak over the solar. He would be dead if the house were in proper repair.”
“So whoever lit the fire last night had prepared the house?”
“And Odo was to be the next to die.”
Kate told Berend she would come speak with him more after she talked to Odo.
In between spoonfuls of Griselde’s meaty stew, Odo excused himself for not telling Kate of the intruder from the start.
“I just thought it was Master Neville. He always makes a fuss when he comes to the undercroft, and he whistles a few notes over and over.” Simon had complained endlessly about his brother’s whistling. On Channel crossings he swore he was some day going to silence the man with his fist. “But the other one hums just off the note so it makes me grind my teeth,” said Odo.
“The only difference is the humming off-key rather than the whistling?” Kate asked.
Odo frowned down at the food. “I could not swear to that. But if there is something else, I cannot recall it.” And he was helpless regarding when anything had occurred or whether he remembered hearing someone up on the roof. He was quiet for a while, happily eating, then suddenly looked up. “Is Master Neville now in charge of this guesthouse?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I saw his servant Sam over here. As he is Master Neville’s manservant . . .” He waggled his head, reaching for the small bowl of ale beside the trencher.
Kate put her hand on his, staying him for a moment. “Sam works for me, Odo.”
“Good. That should make Sam’s brother happy.”
“Why should it matter to Sam’s brother?”
“He and Sam had a falling out over Master Neville. I heard them in the alleyway, arguing. His brother said Sam had shifted his loyalties, working for ‘the Lion,’ the bastard they all hate on the staithes, the one who had almost lost him his work, accusing him of stealing a pouch his own servant had set aside. He never apologized.”
Nor would he. No wonder Lionel had so few allies. “This argument, was that after you had seen Sam over at the guesthouse just the other day?”
“Maybe before that?” He shook his head. “My mind is a muddle.”
Kate remembered how Lionel had asked after Sam the night of the murder in the guesthouse. She thanked Odo and handed him the bowl of ale.
Seth sat shaking his head, his bowl long empty. Kate had already asked him about the fire the previous night, but learned nothing new.
“What of you, Griselde?” Kate asked as she rose from the table. “Have you ever seen Sam and Lionel together, or Sam lurking about before?”
“I am certain I have seen him come and go, Mistress Clifford, like the day of—you know.” She glanced over at Odo and young Seth, lowered her voice. “He came with Master Frost’s boy Tib to deliver the barrel of wine. The gift for putting us out. Though I cannot say I ever noticed Master Lionel. I never thought to question Sam being about as you own both these houses.” She leaned close to add, “The old man is fairly muddled in his mind. If you want the truth of it, you might wish to talk to Sam’s brother Cam. He works on the King’s Staithe. He looks much like Sam before his hair went white.”
“Sam accompanied Tib with the wine?”
“It was Sam who ca
rried the barrel to the kitchen. I thought it peculiar—it is Tib who has the muscle—but you had offered Sam’s help earlier. As I recall Sam took his time about it. He helped himself to a bowl, you see. Left it sitting there with a drop in it, bold as could be. I never did understand why you kept him on after Master Simon passed.”
“You never spoke up to warn me against him.”
“Clement had betrayed you in so many ways, all that he kept from you. I could not warn you against doing for Sam what you were so kind to do for us. But he has always been a man looking to make some money on the side.”
Kate thanked her, thanked Odo and young Seth, and returned to the hall. She found Jennet talking to one of Lady Margery’s men. She must be back from examining Connor’s lodgings. She rose to join Kate.
“Are we off to see Master Neville?”
“With a stop at the King’s Staithe. But first I want a word with Clement. Did you learn anything?”
“Connor’s landlord already has a new lodger in the room. I spoke to the landlord’s wife, who had cleaned it, and she said Connor had left only some clothes, some tools.” She held up a pack. “They are all here. She was going to sell them in a few days. I have not given it a good look.”
“We will do that later. Has Lady Kirkby’s man told you anything of use?”
“He noticed a lad poking about the outbuildings the other day, and thinks he has seen him before. Slight, about Marie’s age. Wears an overlarge hat and runs like a girl, he said.”
They exchanged a look.
“Not you?” Kate smiled.
“No, but we know why she might be dressed so. A boy is a wee bit safer out on his own than a young girl.”
