by Candace Robb
But he was not laughing. “It is life or death now.”
“It is immaterial now,” she said. Lille growled. Kate hushed her with a touch. “Your warning me means that you’re about to ride north in the earl’s company. I assume to welcome Henry and offer him your support. A letter, letters—it means nothing now. By the earl’s actions shall he be judged.” Not by evidence that he’d spied on both sides, she added silently.
He met her comments with a blank stare.
She shook off his hand and crossed Stonegate into High Petergate. He followed. She paused in front of the guesthouse. “I do not wish you harm, Elric. I will tell no one what I have guessed. Good day to you, and Godspeed.”
“I am not departing York quite yet,” he said quietly, turning on his heels and striding off toward Bootham Bar.
Kate bent to slip the leads out of the hounds’ collars, letting them precede her to the door of the guesthouse. She looked forward to some ale—it had been quite a day, and it was not yet noon.
In the heat of late morning Dame Eleanor commended Nan and Sister Agnes on their work in the kitchen and adjoining bedchamber. The pooled blood had been mopped up and the stains covered with rushes, Dina’s bedding changed, the stained linen tidily folded in readiness for the laundrywoman.
“Go back to the house. Lie down and rest awhile,” Eleanor suggested.
She opened the shutters and the door in the kitchen, and sat just outside the entrance spinning and keeping watch, while the heat soaked up the dampness from the scrubbing.
When Sister Clara’s gentle shake wakened her, Eleanor silently berated herself for falling asleep. Anyone might have strolled right past her and into the kitchen or the house across the garden. “Is aught amiss?” she asked, gazing up at the comfortable bulk of the beguine. She could never tell what went on behind Clara’s calm façade, her soft brown eyes gazing on the world with benevolence. Was she worried? Angry? Bored? Who could tell?
“Were you in the room when Nan and Sister Agnes changed the bedding?” Clara asked with a note of worry. Ah, but she had less control over her voice.
“No. But I found no fault with their work.”
“Mein Gott.” It was as close to a cry of concern as Eleanor had ever heard from Clara. “Did you move Sister Dina’s dagger? Perhaps you did not wish them to see it? I cannot find it. I’ve searched the room, the kitchen.”
“A dagger? Sister Dina keeps a dagger in her bedchamber?” Dame Eleanor set aside her work and rose. “What is a beguine doing with a weapon?”
“Protecting herself. She slept with it beneath her pillow. I might have thought it merely ornamental, a keepsake, but the blade is long and sharp. Holy Mary Mother of God. Sister Dina carries a burden of such fear. I’ve asked Nan whether she or Sister Agnes moved the dagger, but she swears they took nothing away.”
Remembering the blood, and that it was not Dina’s, Eleanor crossed herself and prayed for guidance as she followed Clara into the small bedchamber. Merciful Mother, it is clear that I do not know Sister Dina at all, yet I felt called to her way of life, drawn by the grace I beheld in her. Was I wrong? Did I mistake grace for cunning? The bedchamber was sparsely furnished, and such a small space it offered little opportunity to hide an ornate dagger. Dina’s traveling chest was in Sisters Brigida’s and Clara’s bedchamber. They had insisted that she not take it out to the kitchen. “It is gone, then.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose at the damp smell.
“Perhaps Sister Dina dropped it when she ran. I imagine she ran.” As Clara raised her head she dashed away tears. “Now Sister Dina’s terrible burden might never be purged from her heart.”
Eleanor drew Clara into her arms, shushing her as she had done her children when they were distraught.
“What happened here last night?” Clara sobbed. “What happened to gentle Dina?”
“Hush, now, hush,” Eleanor spoke softly. Though her head was abuzz, she stayed quiet, letting Clara work through her grief for her friend. Only when, with one last sob, Clara pulled away and dabbed her eyes did Eleanor lay out her plan to have Griffin sleep in the kitchen until they felt safe.
Clara gave an emphatic nod. “Bless you, Dame Eleanor. He is a reassuring presence. It seems I was hasty insisting that no men bide on this property.”
It gave Eleanor, who had advised against the ban, no pleasure to be proved correct in such wise. “Perhaps you might search for the dagger between here and the church,” she said. “Take along my maidservant. I think it best we go nowhere without a companion for the nonce.”
“Of course,” said Clara. “Yes. As we did in Strasbourg. Yes, that would be best.” The beguine moved toward the doorway as if in a dream, almost stepping on the feet of Agnes’s servant, Nan, as she entered the kitchen. “Oh, Nan! Are you rested?”
A little nod. “Master Lionel Neville is in the hall, Dame Eleanor, and asked to speak with you.”
The loathsome Lionel. God help us. Katherine’s late husband’s younger brother was greedy, grasping, scheming, and but half the man his brother was—or Katherine, for that matter. “What does he want?”
“He is concerned about a rumor that there was trouble here last night.”
He is, is he? “Offer him some ale. Nothing better. If he asks, say, sweetly, ‘Poor sisters,’ and smile. You know how.” You smile at all the men.
“Yes, mistress.”
As Nan turned to do as she was bid, Sister Clara called out, “Wait. Tell Sister Agnes I wish to speak with her.”
Nan glanced back. “But what about—”
“Now,” Sister Clara ordered in such a voice Nan skittered away.
Eleanor raised a brow in silent query.
“I see that his visit worries you, Dame Eleanor. If we have brought trouble to you or your daughter, I would know at once. I pray you, question her. You must know what this is about.” Her face brightened with a surprising smile. “I confess, Nan tests me. I offer up my aggravation for the benefit of all souls.”
“Dame Eleanor? Sister Clara?” Agnes stood in the doorway, her face shiny with sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The day had grown warm, and she had been scrubbing, though from the creases in her gown it was clear she had indeed been resting awhile.
“Lionel Neville is taking his ease in the hall,” said Eleanor. “I state the obvious. You know this. You have perhaps exchanged some pleasantries as you passed through in coming here?”
“I did wish him a good morning and ask his business.”
“His answer?”
“That he had come to speak with you about the trouble here last night.”
“I wonder why he is so solicitous?” Why would Lionel Neville’s ears prick up at news of this particular dwelling? Eleanor searched her memory for what she had heard about him. He lived for the day that Katherine remarried so that he might take possession of his brother’s business, but what had that—? Ah, he was known as a niggardly landlord. “Unless he is concerned about possible damage to his property?”
A crease of her sweaty brow. My, my, how the white wimple and veil accentuated Agnes’s high color.
“His property, Dame Eleanor? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t lie to me, Agnes. Am I correct in guessing that he owns this house? Why else would he be so concerned about what happened last night?”
Agnes gave the subtlest of nods, as if hoping she might be obedient without incriminating herself. “He is a kind man.”
Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “Lionel Neville kind? There is not a soul in York who would count him so. You have no talent for lying, Agnes. You were wise to choose silence instead.” The woman’s face had turned an unhealthy crimson. “Oh, for pity’s sake, you cannot be surprised by my disappointment. Had you thought I would be pleased to know he owned this house you would have told me.”
“I meant to tell you, I did. But he asked that I say nothing. He said that the best gifts are those we give without any wish for recognition. It matters only that God knows, it is enough. So I though
t . . . I did not think you would be angry.”
“Had you any sense in that head of yours you would understand why I am. Lionel Neville is—no, I waste my breath.”
God help her, she had rushed right into Lionel Neville’s trap. That business with his brother’s will. The man would do anything to push Katherine into the arms of a suitor, always spying on her, looking for an opportunity to trip her up. Or so said young Petra, and Eleanor had learned to trust her granddaughter’s confidences. Eleanor closed her eyes and took a breath. Katherine would never believe she had not known she was leasing the house from Lionel. Nor would she forgive. All Eleanor’s hopes of reconciliation dashed by her own heedless haste.
“I will go to him,” she said.
“Shall I come, Dame Eleanor?” asked Clara.
“No. Take my servant Rose and look for the dagger. No, take Sister Agnes. She could use some fresh air. And, Agnes, as this is not your house, I am at liberty to cast you out. If there is anything more I should know, it is best to tell me now.”
Tears welled in the woman’s eyes as she reached out in supplication. “Dame Eleanor, I beseech you . . .”
“Obey her and you’ve nothing to fear,” Sister Clara said.
Agnes shook her head. “There is nothing more.”
“Good.” Sister Clara took the woman by the arm. “Come, we have work to do.” With a nod to Eleanor, Clara led Agnes out into the garden.
Squaring her shoulders, Eleanor swept out of the bedchamber, through the kitchen, and across the garden, not pausing until she’d taken a few steps into the hall. Lionel had not yet noticed her. Well dressed and tall, Lionel Neville might have been handsome had he possessed any admirable qualities. But there was a pinched quality to his face and a guardedness in his bearing that suggested petulance and defensiveness—quite accurate signs, which might be considered advance warning to those who must endure his presence. At the moment he was leaning toward the altar as if assessing the value of the embroidered cloth, the statues, crucifix, and candle holders.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said.
He straightened abruptly. “Dame Eleanor. I did not hear you enter.”
“I noticed. We are a quiet household.” She bestowed on him her most gracious smile and suggested they sit by the window, where there was a slight breeze. “A gift on such a warm day.” Fussing with her skirt, she schooled herself to silence on the matter of the house. She would consult with Katherine before confronting him about it. “You wished to speak to me?”
“I came out of concern for your welfare and that of your household of women. There is talk of an incident here last night? One of your poor sisters attacked?”
“Attacked? Oh, dear me, no. No, Master Lionel. Oh dear, how shall I put it. Sister Dina had a dreadful dream, and paired with . . .” She glanced away as she cleared her throat. “. . . her monthly courses . . .” A shrug. “I fear she is excitable in that way.”
He had colored slightly and now averted his eyes in embarrassment. “I am sorry for her suffering, but relieved to hear the cause, that there was no assault or intrusion.” He rose. “I pray you, Dame Eleanor, if there is ever anything you might need, be assured you have a friend in me.”
And why would I be such a fool as to believe that? Eleanor growled inwardly. But she smiled as she rose to escort him to the door. “You are most kind. At present Sister Dina is being cared for by the poor sisters at the maison dieu. I trust there will be no more trouble.”
As Lionel ducked out the door and strode round to the alleyway, he glanced back at her with a frown. Wondering whether he had been deceived? Eleanor smiled and nodded to him, then closed the door.
4
RUMORS
Frustrated by how little he had learned from the knights, Berend was about to take his leave when Sir Alan’s squire entered from the alleyway and sidled over to the knight, speaking softly, but not softly enough. People took Berend’s lost ear as a sign he was deaf. But he plainly heard the squire say, “Westmoreland’s man, Sir Elric, has just passed, headed toward Bootham Bar.” The knight nodded, dismissing his man.
“You take an interest in Westmoreland’s men?” asked Berend. He smiled at Sir Alan’s surprise.
The knight flashed an angry look at his squire, then composed himself. “I am curious why he is still here and not on the coast—or Knaresborough, if the current rumor is to be believed—with the earl, welcoming Henry of Lancaster.”
“You are so certain Ralph Neville will choose that side?”
“The Earl of Westmoreland married a Lancaster, did he not? For what other purpose than to cast his lot with that powerful house?”
What indeed. Berend noticed the knight peering at him, as if reconsidering.
“I forgot for a moment that your mistress is a Neville by marriage,” said Sir Alan. “Perhaps Dame Katherine has heard otherwise?”
Berend did not believe for a moment that the knight had forgotten the connection. “Not to my knowledge,” he said as he rose. “It grows late and I would not wish to outstay my welcome. We will talk again.” He bowed and departed.
Out on the street Berend hastened toward Bootham Bar, reaching it in time to catch a glimpse of Sir Elric just passing through the gate. He noticed how Elric tilted his hat over his face as he passed a party of knights and foot soldiers arriving on the other end. Cautious about being seen here? But of course he would be aware that those loyal to the king would wonder about the Earl of Westmoreland for the reason Sir Alan stated—married to a Lancaster . . . Berend followed, surprised when Elric turned down toward the gates of the Benedictine abbey of St. Mary’s. Now what might he want there?
A group of clerics and two peddlers with a wagon provided the cover Berend needed to draw close to the knight as he reached the abbey gate, close enough to hear his request for directions to the abbot’s house and the infirmary.
Seeking permission to visit a wounded colleague? Berend nodded to himself, rubbing his scarred ear.
The guesthouse hall benefited in such weather from several windows on each alley, allowing for a refreshing breeze. Kate sat with her back to one of the windows and closed her eyes for a moment while Goodwife Griselde led Lille and Ghent out to the kitchen for water. The heat and the events of the morning had already wearied Kate, and it was not yet midday. She meant to quiet her mind, but it kept jumping to Elric, that moment of warmth, and warning.
“I’ve cold meats, bread, cheese, and ale,” Griselde announced as she returned to the hall. Kate nodded, eyes still closed, listening as the housekeeper’s husband, Clement, entered from the kitchen, his limp giving him away. She smiled to hear yet a third member of the procession. Berend—she would know his tread anywhere. Solid, sure. When they were assembled round the small table, Kate opened her eyes and sat up, brushing a stray curl back behind her ear.
Griselde rose to help, tucking the curl into the crispinette. “When you arrived you looked as if your morning had been full and troubling, Mistress Clifford. I thought to give you a few moments to rest. I am glad to see you already more at ease.”
Would that she were. Kate patted the woman’s hand in thanks. “Our day began far too early.” She nodded to Berend. “So much to tell. I don’t quite know where to begin.”
“As ever, at the beginning. The hounds sounding the alarm,” said Berend.
“That is how it began,” said Kate.
“I am eager to hear of what happened,” said Griselde as she settled across the table. “Jennet asked me to tell you what she learned about Nan’s mother. I invited her to wait for you, but she was in such haste.” A shake of her head. “On the subject of Nan I’ve plenty to say. And about her mistress, Agnes Dell.”
Kate remembered Griselde’s dismay at the news that Eleanor had chosen Agnes Dell’s house as her Martha House, how she’d sniffed at the news that Agnes meant to bide with them as a sister. She had predicted it would be but a brief partnership. Kate had refrained from comment, asked for no explanation, in truth told Gr
iselde she wanted to hear no more. Her mother had judged it a mutually beneficial arrangement. She might make of that what she would. She did not need to share her suspicion that her mother’s pretense at piety served a temporary need to conceal her true reason for fleeing to York.
“Perhaps you might start with your news,” Kate said, now regretting how she had silenced the woman, wondering what she might have prevented had she known more.
Griselde settled back with her bowl of ale in hand. “Jennet said to say that Nan’s mother, Hawise, has long been ill. She sleeps through most of her days, attended by the four children who have not yet left to go into service. All too young for such responsibility, if you ask me,” Griselde huffed. “That was me, not Jennet. It is true that Nan comes at night, but the children seemed to be keeping some secret about that—frightened eyes, pokes in the ribs. Nan has a reputation on the street for being easy, loving the men, that is what Jennet heard. So she intends to explore some of the rumors further, see whether Nan visits her mother alone. As for Agnes Dell, I’ve told you that Dame Eleanor did her beguines no favors in moving in with that lot. I should know, Agnes had been here often enough with her husband’s employer, your neighbor John Paris, both before and after she was widowed.”
“John Paris’s Agnes? That I did not know.”
“I tried to tell you, Mistress Clifford. But you did not wish to hear what I knew of Agnes Dell.”
“I remember. My anger clouded my judgment.”
Griselde pressed Kate’s hand. “Dame Eleanor has caused you trouble and great sorrow, I know, Mistress Clifford. You will be glad to hear that since Agnes took up with your mother’s beguines she has not been here.”
“At least that.”
“Do not blame yourself,” said Berend. “We know now, when we most need to know, eh?” His expression was caring, without judgment.
Kate relaxed a little. “What else do you know about Agnes, Griselde?”
“She was no better than her servant Nan, so they say. There was much gossip about Agnes and her boarders.”
