by Candace Robb
She began to protest, but it was foolish. He knew. “How did you learn about my guesthouse?”
“I no longer remember how I learned of it. But I applauded you when I did, Dame Katherine. Your late husband was not an honorable man. He and his brother seem two of a kind. Your secret is safe with me. You have nothing to fear from me on that count.”
On that count. “You think Sam might have left the city in the company of Jon Underhill? Why? What was Underhill’s mission?”
“Sir Thomas Kirkby has not always been a man of peace. My lord earl sent Underhill to gauge the mood of the citizens of York who dine with Lady Kirkby.”
“So that is why he approached William Frost?”
“Yes. An influential, highly respected citizen of York.”
“What do you fear this man has done instead?”
“I have no idea. But I will find out.”
His steely gaze made Kate uneasy. This man would discover everything.
“And if you find my servant, what happens to him?”
“It depends on whether or not he is with Jon Underhill. If he is, he will be brought to me at Sheriff Hutton. If not, he shall be delivered to your doorstep.” He glanced up at Jennet. “The other meat dish now, if you will.”
“I cannot believe that Lady Kirkby’s mission is anything other than what she claims it to be,” said Kate. “Both the archbishop and the dean of York Minster have sanctioned her presence here.”
“One is a Scrope, the other a Clifford. I doubt either of their families would remain neutral in a civil war.”
“And the Nevilles would?”
A cough, a grin. “The earl merely wishes to know which way the citizens of York are bending.”
“I see. So why our meeting?”
“My lord still needs an ear among the citizens of York. I hoped that might be you. Or, if you prefer, you might help me recruit your cousin Frost. No need to decide at once.” He tasted the stew. “I must commend the taverner on his kitchen. The steward of Sheriff Hutton is in need of a new cook. Do you think I might lure the man away from the city?”
“I very much doubt it. He is his own man. His family is here, and the merchants pay him a handsome retainer for his services.”
“Ah. Pity.”
They moved to neutral topics for a while as they ate, such as the long winter, the sudden, welcome thaw, each sizing up the other.
Finally Elric pushed his plate away. He sat back, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled. He regarded her with cool blue eyes.
She allowed to herself that he was a handsome man, strong-jawed, well-spoken. She had watched him fight, remembered quite clearly his grace in motion, his skill. She was not immune to his charm. And for that reason, and more, she regarded him with great caution, so she fought a smile with his first words.
“I should very much like to have you as an ally, Dame Katherine. I believe we would work well together.”
“No doubt you would like that. But what value should I find in it?”
“Trouble is coming, of that I have no doubt. You have chosen strong servants for your household, and you have powerful kin. But when civil war breaks out, you will need more than a former assassin and the resourceful Jennet to assist you in protecting your wards and your property. Sheriff Hutton might be a place of refuge for you in the storm to come, and the Earl of Westmoreland is certain to stand with the victors.” He grinned at Kate’s snort. “I am not blind to the self-serving nature of the family I serve. Your family by marriage, eh? I offer you protection, including protection from the petty meddling of my earl’s kinsman, Lionel Neville.” His smile was more dazzling than Matt’s.
Time to escape. Kate rose.
Sir Elric rose.
“You have given me much to think about, Sir Elric.”
“One thing more. I give you fair warning that I am investigating any rumors that come to my attention about several matters that touch on your interests. This fire in your undercroft, the deaths of Alice Hatten and her lover, your cousin’s sudden fondness for the Forest of Galtres. I will, of course, share with you anything that I find. I merely mention this to spur your consideration of my offer. Were we to cooperate, we might resolve these mysteries in a more timely manner.” He bowed to her.
Outside, a steady rain fell. Kate was pulling up her hood when Jennet caught her arm.
“Will you work for him?”
“The question is whether I actually have a choice.”
“He knows too much?”
“If he does not now, he soon will.”
“Sam, that crook-pated lout. He told Sir Elric all about us. My background, Berend’s. If we find him at home, warming his feet in front of the fire, I’ve a mind to geld him.”
“We will worry about what to do about Sam in due time. For the moment we have more important things to sort through.” Kate pulled up her hood as she considered where to head. At this time of day, just after dinner, she might find William at home. Watching for puddles, she pushed through the crowds on Micklegate, heading for her cousin’s house.
17
A COMB, A PAIR OF GLOVES
After the rain, the night was cold and clear, the stars bright. Kate shivered as she leaned out the window of her bedchamber, listening to an owl hunting in the gardens across Castlegate. She welcomed the chill wind stirring her hair, cooling her face. She would prefer to walk out into the darkness. She yearned to take the dogs and walk down to the river, but held herself back—the murders, the fire, Sir Elric’s sudden interest—or, rather, the Earl of Westmoreland’s. But it was Sir Elric’s eyes that haunted her, and the sense of coiled life, ready to spring.
For tonight, Kate had sent Jennet back to her own bed in the little house at the street, not wanting to keep her awake with her inability to settle. But, most of all, she had done it to avoid Jennet’s questions, to which Kate had not, as yet, any answers.
She had indeed found William at home. He had understood the import of Sir Elric’s interest. For now he believed himself safe, convinced that the knight had believed his account of brushing off “Underhill’s” offer, with his explanation that he feared he would be in worse trouble with such a man defending him.
“The key is to keep the lie simple. Liars elaborate,” he told Kate. Moments later, his confidence had crumpled. “But if he finds the grave . . . Why would he think anything other than that I murdered the earl’s man?”
Kate had assured him that he was free to tell Sir Elric about the night at the guesthouse, that he already knew about her clientele.
“But Isabella. If she should learn. Dear God. Whatever he wants of you, Katherine, I pray you, appease him.”
“I stand in awe of the ease with which you ask the women in your life to give themselves freely to those who might help you, cousin. What a heady feeling it must be, your certainty that God chose you for great things, that we have been placed in your path as your handmaidens.” She had goaded him, enjoying his discomfort.
Better than swimming in her own.
She hated that she kept remembering Sir Elric’s eyes, and his form on the practice field. She had been too long without a man in her bed, that was her problem. What York needed was a brothel of men, for servicing women. Berend’s hand on her arm this evening had burned her. Matt’s smile tormented her. A good round in bed and she might have a clearer head. This is how women fell back into marriage—that yearning, that hunger.
Still leaning out the window in the hope that the chill night air might have some salutary effect, Kate distracted herself by recalling, in as much detail as possible, the conversation in the kitchen hours earlier.
Lille and Ghent had sat at her feet, sensing her need for comfort, butting her hands over and over so that she spent most of the evening rubbing them down as she listened and shared.
Clement’s assessment of the inventory results, related through Berend, was that small quantities of spice were missing from almost every shipment. No ordinary thief would take the
trouble to steal a small quantity from each container, yet each weighed less than expected. Or most did. Lionel had missed a few.
To Kate it seemed a petty issue compared with her other worries. But no wonder Lionel had become agitated when she mentioned that Clement and Berend were counting.
The two men had worked late, determined to complete the task, then left one of Lady Margery’s men on guard. This time the arsonist might be Lionel, covering his guilt.
When it came her turn to recount what she had gleaned, Kate began with all she had learned about Sam, particularly his betrayals, and Lionel’s part in encouraging them. “Sam went only so far. It seems he said nothing about the guesthouse. And he mentioned nothing about Bale’s murder. I wonder what stayed him?”
“It matters not,” said Jennet. “He has lost our trust.”
Matt nodded.
Kate agreed. “I will need to think what to do about him if he returns unscathed.”
Berend and Jennet exchanged looks. One thing was certain, Sam could no longer serve in her household. Not unless Kate was able to turn a blind eye to the “accidents” that would befall him.
“And what of his being seen with Hubert Bale?” Jennet asked. “What do you make of that?”
“Sam and Bale.” Berend gazed into his empty cup. “So William Frost is somehow part of this?”
Kate did not believe that. “There is a far more powerful hand in the game now.” She told them about Sir Elric’s offer. And his threat. William’s reaction.
Berend cursed softly.
“So.” She had looked round at her three companions. “What do we know? Are we close to understanding what has been happening? Can we solve this before Sir Elric gets too close?”
“We know that Sam cannot be trusted,” said Jennet. “At some point he was dancing to Hubert Bale’s tune—when he added a sleeping potion to the wine.”
“We know that Lionel Neville is untrustworthy,” said Berend. “And that he has been stealing from you, his own partner. But he has little power in the family. Nor do I think Fitch, for all his sins, is connected to the murders. At worst, Lionel’s failed attempt to spy on you has served as an unfortunate distraction.”
Kate nodded. “Anything else?”
“Clement and Griselde knew of Sam’s nature but said nothing to you,” said Matt.
“Distrust all round,” said Kate. “But about the murderer we still know nothing. Nothing.” She felt the tension round the table, the defeat.
“What would it mean if we partnered with Sir Elric?” Matt had the courage to ask.
“We would become the creatures of the Earl of Westmoreland,” said Berend.
“I need to think it through,” said Kate. “I promise you this, that if I decide to accept his offer, the three of you are free to leave my service.”
“Never,” said Berend, pressing her arm in the emotion of the moment.
Kate had met his eyes as he touched her arm. That was the moment when she thought how wonderful it would be to curl up in his strength, his warmth, to make love to him. Surely her face had flushed.
“Never,” said Jennet.
“If you have need of me, I am yours,” Matt said.
Kate looked round at the three fierce faces. “Bless you.”
“Sir Elric seemed certain that it will come to war,” said Jennet.
A comment met with a silence so charged, Lille and Ghent rose up as if thinking Kate needed protection.
“We all need a good night’s sleep,” she said.
That had been hours ago. Kate drew back into the room, lit a second lamp off the first, and placed Connor’s pack on the bed. Berend said he had added a few things found in the undercroft—a pair of gloves, a woman’s comb, an empty flagon, a broken lock pick. She pulled out the items one by one, beginning with Connor’s tools, carefully rolled up in leather. She untied it, let it roll out on the bed. Stoneworking tools, lovingly cleaned and oiled. Phillip would treasure them. She rolled them up and put them aside. The gloves were clearly not Connor’s—though hardened from the weather, creased and well-worn, they were made of costly leather. The broken lock pick might belong to the intruder, but the pieces of metal held no clues as to who that might be. The flagon was a cheap one. Connor’s shirt had been washed so many times it was remarkably soft, the elbows and wrists and stomach darned many times. His shoes had so much dust embedded in the inner soles they bore the shape of Connor’s feet.
Alice and Connor had come so close to happiness. Kate breathed through the knot in her stomach as she drew out the rest of Connor’s clothes and set them aside.
And then, caught on a loose thread—a woman’s decorative comb, mother-of-pearl on a strip of silver, the comb the whitest ivory. Kate stopped breathing.
It is not possible, Geoff whispered in Kate’s mind. How is this possible?
It had been her most precious possession, a gift from her father for her tenth birthday. To be strong like her brothers, to train with them, accompany them hunting, that was her obsession as a child. She kept secret her love of pretty things, her pride in her dark, thick, wildly curly hair that Roland called raven wings, her delight in whirling about the room in dance and the touch of silk and fine linen on her skin. Her father seemed to guess, always asking her to dance to Roland’s livelier tunes, his face brightening when she appeared in her best gown. And when he tucked the comb in her hair, telling her that the moment he saw it he imagined it just so, a ray of light in her raven hair, her heart had swelled with love and pride. She had taken care to wear it only when she was in her best gown, sure to stay put, not rush out into the fields or climb the hills or muck about with the animals and chance losing it.
So she had never been certain how long it had been missing when she opened the small carved box in which she kept it, wrapped in a piece of velvet. The velvet and the box were there, but not the comb. She wanted to wear it for Roland’s burial, a ray of light in her raven wings. She must wear it. She searched everywhere, accused everyone of stealing it. Her mother had finally confined her to her room for a week to pray for her soul. “All this for a comb, Katherine? You would seed distrust through our household because of a bauble? In this time of mourning?”
She reached for Geoff, to ask him what he remembered, but he was silent.
You know something about this.
Silence.
How did my comb come to be in the undercroft?
Geoff’s silence was deafening. For the first time in all her recent troubles, Kate felt a cold fear gripping her heart. She had not felt this since the darkest days up on the border, when Geoff deserted her.
Forgive me. But I have no idea how it would come to be here in York, he whispered.
You hold something back.
Silence.
I will know in time.
Silence.
She pulled out Hubert Bale’s pack. The letters of introduction, one for Jon Underhill, carrying King Richard’s seal, one for Hubert Bale, carrying the duke’s seal. According to Berend, Hubert Bale was the man’s true name. And he had been here in the service of Westmoreland, who was married to a Lancaster. It fit. Apparently Sir Elric guessed William was the king’s man, hence Bale had presented himself to him with the false name. Interesting, but not helpful. Returning them to the pouch, she slipped off the bed and hid it beneath the floorboards.
Settling back on the bed, she tried to forget the comb. It was no use. Again and again her eyes were drawn to it. She cupped it in her hands, held it to her heart.
A knock on the door. Jennet peered in. “I saw your light as I paced in the garden.” She looked at the bed. “Have you learned anything?”
“I am not sure. Come in, do. I sent you away only so you might sleep.” Now the questions Kate had wished to avoid would be most welcome. She laughed to see that Jennet was fully dressed. “Did you lie down at all?”
“I did. And slept awhile, not long. Then the lists began to march through my head and I thought a walk in the cold would freez
e them.” She looked down at the comb. “Pretty. Was that in one of the packs?”
“Berend found it in the undercroft. It is mine, Jennet. Lost when I was—twelve? Thirteen?”
Jennet looked up with a half smile, as if expecting Kate to admit she was teasing. The smile faded. “You are serious. How is it here? Now?”
Kate shook her head.
“Your cousin William?”
“He was not there at the time.”
“This frightens you.”
Alice’s death was so like Maud’s. And Maud’s death killed Kate’s dream of standing beside her brothers as their equal. It made real the danger that she had sensed but denied, believing she needed only be strong enough. From that day forward she had understood that the danger was real. Her fear turned to anger. To be born a woman was to be cheated of that easy confidence she so admired in her brothers. That anger grew as her brothers circled round her, determined to protect her.
“I am imagining things. It is very like a comb I had as a child.”
“Hmpf.” Jennet shrugged as she sat down on the bed, touching the scattered items. She picked up the gloves. “Worn. Fine, though. A man’s gloves. A wide hand with stubby fingers.” She wiggled one of the gloves at Kate.
Kate forced a laugh. Wide palm, short, fat fingers on muscled arms pushing her down. Stubby fingers gripping the axe, eyes burning. You will pay for this. Running, her lungs burning, her torn gown soaked in blood.
Jennet put the gloves aside, picked up the broken lock pick. “I have one very like it.”
“You do. But this is not yours?”
Jennet patted her skirt. “I carry it always. I never know when I’ll need to find a way in, or out.” She frowned. “You are worried. Still the comb?”
Am I mad, Geoff? The gloves and the comb, are they part of a message? Did the Cavertons take my comb? The deaths all hurt me or someone close to me. Even the attempted fire fits. And if it is all traced back to my guesthouse, it could ruin me. Is this the pattern, Geoff? Is it possible?
Do not go out alone, Kate. Be safe. Take no risks.
