by Candace Robb
“We will find her, Dame Katherine.”
“I pray we find her alive, Berend. So much blood.”
“May God watch over her.”
Mother, Mother, what have you done?
And she will find a way to blame you for all the ill that comes of this, Geoff whispered in her mind.
Eleanor had expected trouble from the silly maidservant. But not of this sort. Considering Nan’s bright clothes and roaming smiles, she had anticipated a lover sneaking in, or Nan sneaking out. She felt betrayed, a too-familiar experience and one that she would not tolerate. She would have her man Griffin investigate the story of a dying mother. As Katherine and her implausible cook withdrew with the dogs, Eleanor resumed her challenge to Agnes and her maidservant.
“Was Sister Dina aware you were not here at night, Nan?” Eleanor asked, not troubling to soften her tone.
Agnes and Nan had settled on a bench in the garden, arms round each other, looking frightened.
“So much blood,” Agnes whispered. “Who is to protect us?”
Coddled city women with no backbone. “I will send for my man Griffin,” said Eleanor. She should not have agreed to the sisters’ injunction against men on the property. “Now answer my question, Nan. Was Sister Dina aware of your absence at night?”
“We did not speak of it, mistress.” The minx kept her eyes downcast. Oh, yes, now she played humble.
“Did it not occur to you that you were exposing her to danger?”
“No.”
Agnes sniffed and pushed out her ample bosom as if to impress upon Eleanor the weight of her words. “We never had trouble here.”
“That is no excuse.” And what precisely would she call trouble, Eleanor wondered, when she kept a maidservant like Nan. She bit back a threat to let Nan go. Too soon. First she would have Griffin find out just where the young fool had been. “For the short term, Griffin will sleep in the kitchen, and Nan will take her rest with my maidservant.”
“On a pallet at the foot of your bed?” Agnes huffed. “And what of Nan’s mother? Who will sit with her at night while the children sleep?”
Eleanor had not considered that. “We shall discuss that later. Sister Dina’s welfare is our first concern.” As it should be theirs. But both seemed entirely wrapped up in their own self-protection. Eleanor glanced at her daughter’s maidservant, Jennet. She was such an odd young creature, freckle-faced and petite with a walk and a manner of speaking far more like a young lad. “Might I trouble you to summon my man Griffin? I want him to search for Dina.”
Jennet nodded. “As soon as I repair this lock.”
“It is broken?” Eleanor went to look.
“As Nan said, it is stuck, not broken.” The young woman took out a small metal tool and fussed with the latch. “There.” She stepped back with a look of satisfaction.
Eleanor thanked her.
“Let us withdraw to the hall and kneel in prayer for Sister Dina’s safety,” said Sister Clara, stepping out of the kitchen and into her role as senior sister. Sister Brigida followed, head bowed, hands folded in prayer.
“I suppose you must leave the door unlocked for Griffin,” Eleanor said to Jennet.
“You need not worry, Dame Eleanor. This tool will allow me to let him in. Shall I tell him to await you in the kitchen?”
“You are able—” Eleanor stopped. “You will find Griffin in—”
“I know where he bides, Dame Eleanor.”
“How—” She stopped herself again. “Bless you, Jennet. Yes, ask him to wait here in the kitchen.”
So the young woman might enter the house whenever she pleased. And knew where Griffin was staying. Eleanor had chided her daughter for her choice in servants, but they certainly seemed to earn their keep and provided her with a sense of safety. She said a prayer of thanks for the help of Katherine and her servants as she followed Clara and the others into the hall, though her gratitude was tempered by a worry that they would discover more than she would wish brought to light. A dilemma.
As Eleanor knelt, the enormity of Sister Dina’s disappearance blotted out all other concerns. Merciful Mother, protect gentle Dina, guide her to a safe haven where we might find her and bring her home to be comforted.
As Kate and Berend neared the Martha House, someone hurried down Hertergate toward them.
“One of the sisters from the maison dieu,” said Kate. She handed him the dogs’ leads and went to meet the woman.
“Magistra Matilda sent me.” Matilda was the mother superior of the poor sisters who tended the sick in the maison dieu attached to the parish church across Castlegate. The three beguines had lodged there while Dame Eleanor was away for a time in the spring. “Sister Dina is in the church, lying before the altar, and . . . there is blood on her gown.” The woman crossed herself. “Magistra Matilda says come quickly.”
Out on Castlegate a few folk were stirring, though so early in the morning they did not pause to chat, focused on going about their business, opening shops, stoking fires, delivering goods for the day’s work. The sister led Kate and Berend to the side door of the church, offering to watch the dogs. “My father raised hounds. I miss them.” Lille and Ghent sniffed her outstretched hand, then her face, and sat obediently as Kate handed her the leashes. The woman’s little cry of delight as Lille nuzzled her hand convinced Kate. Berend was holding open the door.
Kate stepped over the threshold, pausing a few paces in, blinded by the dimness after the early morning sun. Across the church, a figure in gray knelt on a prie-dieu before the lady altar. As the door swung shut behind Berend, the figure straightened, turning toward them. Magistra Matilda. She gestured toward a prostrate figure on the ground before the altar. Gray gown, white veil. Slender. Sister Dina. Kate approached as quietly as possible, lowering herself to her knees beside the woman, placing a hand on her upper back.
“Sister Dina, praise God that you are here. Safe. Your sisters have been so worried.”
At first Dina did not move, not even a twitch, and Kate feared the worst, though there was no evidence of blood pooling beneath her. She sat back on her heels and waited. The prie-dieu creaked as Magistra Matilda rose. Tucking the paternoster beads up her sleeve, she approached, but stopped as Sister Dina drew in her arms and tried to push herself up. She wobbled. Fearing she might fall back on her face, Kate reached out to support her. But Dina went limp in her arms. Kate glanced back toward Berend, nodding.
Berend came forward, and, bending to the slight woman, gently lifted her up in his arms.
Magistra Matilda rushed over with a cry of distress. “What if she wakes and sees him? If it was a man who attacked her . . . Forgive me, my good man, but you look . . .”
Scarred, missing an ear, several fingers, and with a muscular build, Berend was intimidating, Kate was well aware of that. She found it useful. “I need him. And Dina is in a faint, Sister. She is unaware of us. Carry her back to my home, Berend.”
“No. The maison dieu is closer,” said Magistra Matilda. “Let us nurse her.”
Kate looked at Berend, who nodded his approval. “Bless you, Sister. It might be best that Dina not wake in the house in which she experienced whatever frightened her so.”
As Berend carried Sister Dina into the light he paused, gazing down at the woman’s gown. Kate saw it now, blood on her right sleeve and across her torso. Hers? Or someone else’s? They would soon know.
2
A BLOODIED ANGEL
Kate had sent a servant from the maison dieu to let her mother and the others at the Martha House know where Sister Dina was, and that she was safe. Dame Eleanor and Sister Brigida had just arrived when Magistra Matilda beckoned for Kate to come see for herself that Dina had suffered bruises and a small scrape, but nothing to account for all the blood on her gown.
“Dina, did you injure someone in defending yourself?” Kate asked softly.
Though awake, Sister Dina stared off at the ceiling, mute and unmoving.
Perhaps Sister Brigid
a might have more success—she had been Dina’s good friend in Strasbourg. Kate asked her to try. She did, but to no avail. Dina would speak when she was ready. Kate was content that she bide there for now, until she was herself once more and could tell them whether she could bear to return to the Martha House.
“What of her shift?” Kate asked Matilda. “Was there blood on the shift she wore beneath her gown?” She would have worn only that if awakened by an intruder.
The sister gestured to the pile of clothes. Beneath the gown Kate found the shift, encrusted with blood. So it had been quite soaked. Kate ached with grief for the woman’s ordeal.
“Yes, it is a horror to consider what gentle Dina suffered in the night,” Matilda whispered. “A child already so haunted, so frightened. May God watch over her.” The sister crossed herself.
“God expects us to watch over her, Magistra Matilda. Her life is in our hands.”
“I understand, Dame Katherine. You may rest easy.”
No one might rest easy. Especially now, as the city prepared for war. But Kate simply thanked the sister, letting Brigida be the one to stress to Matilda that either she or Sister Clara, or Dame Eleanor, should be summoned the moment Dina seemed ready and able to speak. “Send for one of us at once.”
Magistra Matilda bristled. “Do you not trust us to care for Sister Dina?”
Brigida asked her forgiveness; she was merely worried for her dear friend. “You know how timid she is, how she jumps at loud noises or sudden movements. I did not mean to imply a lack of confidence or trust, just that she may need to see a more familiar face. We are most grateful for your kindness.”
On that warmer note, the four of them withdrew. As they stepped out of the maison dieu, Kate was glad to see how peacefully Lille and Ghent sat with the sister who had watched them. She handed over the hounds’ leads, and all six crossed Castlegate together, separating at the hedgerow gate. Dame Eleanor, who had been quiet all the while, even now deferred to Brigida, who thanked Kate and Berend for taking Dina to safety. Eleanor merely nodded to them, then continued on through the gate.
“I do not understand your mother,” Berend said as they watched them depart.
“You are not the first to say that, nor will you be the last. Perhaps she is irked that we found Dina.” They turned toward the kitchen. “Before we are set upon with questions, I would have your thoughts, Berend. What do you think happened?”
“Are you asking whether this might be the work of soldiers?” He shook his head at her nod. “Knowing so little, I cannot say.”
No longer able to hold back the emotion she had choked down, Kate sank onto the bench beneath the kitchen eaves, letting the tears come. Lille and Ghent settled at her feet.
Berend crouched between them. “You think of Maud?” Kate’s dearest childhood friend, who had been raped and brutally murdered.
“And the shattering of the sisters’ beautiful, trusting calm. I took comfort in the peace of their presence. I saw another way to live.” Without fear, without constant vigilance. “But it was an illusion.” She blotted her eyes with her sleeve as Marie’s voice rose inside. “The girls must not see me this way. Go in. And take Lille and Ghent. I will compose myself and join you in a moment.”
“Of course.” Berend straightened with a grunt. “God help me, I grow too old for such a posture, eh?”
She leaned her head back against the wall and mirrored his gentle smile, watching him as he rubbed his own eyes with his three-fingered hand, then motioned to the hounds to follow him. Strong, steadfast Berend. He never failed her. He opened the door now, laughing at something Marie said in her most imperious tone, throwing it back with a silly comment rewarded by both girls dissolving in laughter.
Bless him, with a simple gesture he eased her back into her own household. All were well, happy, and mostly at peace. Mostly. Marie, a delicately beautiful child, had arrived in York grieving her parents and feeling betrayed by all her kin. In the course of a year and a half she had begun to thaw, but her temper still flared at perceived slights or disappointments. At times she reminded Kate of her own mother.
Hunger and thirst roused Kate. She ordered her thoughts, then rose and followed Berend inside.
All the household was gathered in the kitchen—Jennet, Matt, Marie, Petra, Berend, Lille and Ghent. Though it was just past dawn, the tension of the past hours had brought them all fully awake. The bread Berend had left to rise during the night had been baked. Marie’s work. Kate thanked her, ruffling her curly hair. The child pretended irritation.
“Matt helped. He feared I would burn myself.” Marie sighed and rolled her eyes. Forced to grow up too quickly in her mother’s house in Calais, cooking for the household, Marie took pride in helping Berend.
“Have you saved me some bread?” Kate asked, sliding onto the bench beside Berend.
Marie handed her a warm loaf. Berend poured her a bowl of ale, then returned to his own pieces of bread, slathering them with butter and cheese and eating them quickly, washing them down with good ale. Pulling her small loaf apart, Kate asked him to tell the others what they had discovered. Matt and Jennet both sat up, eager to hear it.
When Berend had told all he knew, Jennet added what she had learned about the lock on the kitchen. “And then Sister Clara shepherded them all to the hall to pray.” Jennet shook her head. “There is a time for prayer and a time for action.”
“I could not agree more,” said Kate. “Anything else?”
“I went to Griffin’s lodgings, told him he was needed. His landlady was not cordial about the early hour.” Jennet helped herself to more ale.
“So there it is.” Kate nodded to Berend, Matt, and Jennet. “I want to hear your thoughts.”
“Sister Dina rarely leaves the house,” said Matt. “I cannot think she has drawn attention to herself. So this was not an attack aimed at her.”
“But people are doubtless gossiping about Dame Eleanor’s beguines,” said Jennet. “They will be known to be young women, and with all the soldiers crowding the city . . .”
“Sister Dina has difficulty understanding us. Or being understood. Though I am beginning to catch much of what she says, it is a struggle,” said Matt. “Might she have misunderstood someone looking for help?”
“In her bedchamber in a private garden before dawn?” Jennet snorted.
Matt blushed. Marie giggled.
“Berend says many of the men are left to find their own beds. He’s warned us not to go out after dark unattended,” said Petra. “Maybe Matt is right.”
“My niece the peace weaver,” Kate whispered.
But she did wonder. It was true that Dina’s speech sounded to all of them like a mixture of languages, but Brigida, Clara, and Eleanor were able to converse with her. Her efforts to learn to speak to the people of York were improving, and now it seemed more a matter of being so timid that Dina chose to go nowhere, see no one, without having one of the others with her. Fortunately she was a skilled sempster, so as her reputation spread, the work came to her.
“Why did Dina not cry out?” Kate wondered aloud. “How is it that she fled rather than calling out for help? Why did Nan not tell the others about her mother? Is caring for the ill not within their calling? Why did my mother assign that room to Dina? I have so many questions.”
She sighed as everyone turned toward her. “I know that I swore before all of you that I would not be swept up in my mother’s Martha House scheme. But I have come to have great affection for all three sisters, and none of them, especially Sister Dina, should suffer for my mother’s poor judgment.”
“I will see what I might learn about Agnes and her maidservant, and whether Nan is caring for an ailing mother. If not, what she’s doing,” said Jennet.
Kate nodded. “I need to see Griselde and Clement at the guesthouse today. I will ask what they know of Agnes and her boarders, and what her late husband did on his long journeys. They keep their ears open about such things.”
“Will Sister Bri
gida take us to Master Frost’s house for our lesson today?” Marie asked. Brigida, who had been schooled for a time in a convent in Paris, was tutoring Hazel Frost, the daughter of Kate’s cousin William, as well as Petra and Marie. They assembled at the Frost house because Hazel was often too unwell to move about in the city. Marie, born in Calais, spoke French, but not the elegant Parisian French that Brigida was teaching the others, so she had insisted on being included.
“Until we know what happened, and whether our households are safe, you will stay close to home,” said Kate. “If Sister Brigida is willing to tutor you and Petra this morning, she may do so in the hall. But you will respect her decision about whether or not she wishes to do so.” She looked pointedly at Marie. “Is that clear?”
Marie nodded and pushed aside her bread to lay her head down on her folded arms. Petra whispered, “Clear,” and went to sit by Ghent, resting her hand on his back. He sighed and sank lower into rest.
Kate smiled at Petra and smoothed Marie’s hair. “Bless you,” she whispered, before turning back to Berend and the others. “I want to know who frightened Dina last night,” she said, as if the interruption had not happened. “It might have been quite innocent. Soldiers spilling out of the taverns drunk, brawling . . . One might have lost his way.”
“Except that he was so quiet,” said Jennet.
Kate agreed.
“You mentioned a boat,” said Matt. “Someone bleeding so badly, would they be able to row?”
“So he had an accomplice.” Berend nodded.
It seemed likely to Kate as well. “Whoever it was,” she said, “they might pose a further danger to the sisters, or to some other household in the city. We need to know.”
“We might talk to the knights who are now your tenants on High Petergate,” said Berend.
