A Twisted Vengeance

by Candace Robb

  But Eleanor merely nodded, settling in one of the high-back chairs. “As we worked the loom when you were learning. Do you remember the songs?”

  Kate exhaled. “I do.” It was a bittersweet memory, conjuring scenes of her brothers crowding into the hall with the dogs and cats, threatening to topple the tall loom. All dead now, all three brothers. Though Geoff, her twin, lived on in spirit, it was not the same, would never be the same.

  Matt’s arrival with ale and food drew Kate out of her sudden melancholy—his smile was a grace, always able to warm her heart.

  “I will be away now.” He hummed a jaunty tune as he strode from the hall.

  Griffin bestirred himself, pouring some ale, slicing some cheese to balance on a chunk of bread.

  “Some woman will be most fortunate in that young man,” said Eleanor. “Or have you claimed Matt for yourself, Daughter? I saw how you brightened with his arrival.”

  Eleanor, with her startlingly green eyes and winning ways—when she chose to use them—had always charmed men into caring for her and dancing to her tune. Her husbands, sons, nephews, cousins, brothers, neighbors—the males had all been hearts to conquer and shape to her advantage.

  Kate chose to ignore her comment about Matt. “So. Lionel paid you a visit?”

  Eleanor’s teasing smile vanished with a sigh, and she bowed her head. “That odious creature. He pretended concern about our welfare, having heard about an intruder.” She fussed with a sleeve. Was that a tear rolling down her cheek? “But Agnes lied to us, you see. The house was not her gift to give. It belongs to Lionel Neville.”

  “God in heaven,” Kate whispered. He must be praying for a scandal in the Martha House, something to ruin her good name by association.

  Eleanor leaned toward Kate, reaching for her hand, pressing it with both of hers. Yes, there were tears spilling down her face. “I am so sorry, Katherine. I didn’t know—I never imagined—I was in such haste. It is my fault. I am to blame. How can you forgive me?”

  Kate touched her mother’s cheek with the back of her hand and shook her head at the impossibility of what her mother had uttered. Never had she heard those words from her mother: sorry, my fault, I am to blame. Months earlier, when she had confronted Eleanor with the horror she had unleashed by carelessly advising Walter, Kate’s eldest brother, to reach out to an old enemy, stirring the flames of an anger that would not be slaked until both men were dead and Petra was an orphan, her mother had refused to take responsibility, much less express remorse. She had even tried to lay the blame on Kate and her brothers. Yet now here she sat, clutching Kate’s hand, asking forgiveness.

  Was she entirely to blame? Kate might have discovered Lionel’s name on the property had she taken the trouble, had she not washed her hands of her mother because of the guilt she would not own. She, Jennet, and Berend investigated the holdings of all with whom Kate did business. It was her own fault for neglecting to do so with Agnes Dell.

  But it was no time for pointing fingers. For Dina’s sake, indeed for all their sakes, Kate needed to discover what had happened in the house Eleanor had leased, whether any or all of them were in danger.

  “Do you say nothing to me, Katherine?”

  Kate placed her free hand over her mother’s. “Forget about blame, Mother. Tell me all that you know. That is how we will discover what happened, whether it was a random encounter or something more sinister.”

  “Do you think the rest of us are in danger?” Griffin asked.

  Kate glanced over at him. “That is what we need to find out.” She patted her mother’s hand and offered her a cup of ale. “Wet your throat, then tell me all. From the beginning. What made you suspect Agnes had not been honest with you?”

  She listened closely as Eleanor recounted Nan’s announcement that Lionel was in the hall, her obvious discomfort and reluctance to fetch Agnes, Agnes’s consequent blubbering, and the conversation with Lionel, the lie about what had happened with Dina.

  “A story perfect for Lionel,” said Kate. “Certain to dissuade him from asking further questions. You were inspired, Mother. Have you informed Magistra Matilda of this version of this morning’s events? This must be our story going forward.”

  “With everyone?”

  Kate thought about Sir Elric, his men, Thomas Holme, Griselde and Clement, the monk at the abbey infirmary. And what had Berend told Sir Alan and his guests?

  “No, it is Lionel’s special tale. With anyone else, say that you do not wish to talk about it. Though if you are pushed . . .” It would not be that simple. Kate threw up her hands. “How can I advise you when I do not know what happened? For now it is best to say as little as possible.”

  Eleanor gently cupped Kate’s face in her hands, then released it with a tearful smile. “I promise to keep my own counsel, except with you. Now. As to what we do about the house—” She explained Sister Clara’s proposal and her own insistence that they consult Kate before making any changes or saying anything to Agnes and Nan.

  Kate caught herself glancing over at Griffin as she might Berend or Jennet to gauge their reaction. The breeze had dried his hair, now a coppery mass of curls that gave him an angelic appearance.

  “Let me discuss this with Berend and Jennet,” said Kate. “Until we come to a decision, say nothing, Mother.”

  “Agnes will ask,” said Eleanor.

  “Advise her to pray. Is that not what she joined with your sisters to learn, how to live all her life as a prayer? Suggest she find a work that is pleasing to God, helpful to the community.” Agnes Dell. What was her story? What was her part in this? “What do you know of Agnes? What reason did she give for her offer of the house and her wish to be a beguine?”

  Eleanor tilted her head back with a sigh, leaning against the high back of the chair. “What exactly did she say?” she said softly. “She spoke of her grief over her husband’s death, and at sea. With no body to clean, dress, bury with blessings and prayers for his soul, she feels robbed of the farewell. She seeks solace, grace, a life devoted to good works. As you say, it is time she found good, honest work through which she might gain grace for herself and her husband’s soul. May God grant them that.”

  Was her mother still referring to Agnes and her late husband, or herself and Ulrich? Kate glanced over at Lille and Ghent. The two slept, Ghent’s head resting on Lille’s back. She rose and helped herself to some cheese and bread. Griffin joined Kate at the table, his back to Eleanor.

  “In truth, I asked Agnes very little,” Eleanor said as she rose to join them. Peering into Kate’s eyes, she demanded, “What do you know, Katherine? I sense there is much you are not telling me.”

  Kate’s hands itched for the release a session with her bow and a quiver of arrows would bring. “I know far less than I would like, and what little I know is confusing. I need to be quiet now and think. Go to the maison dieu, tell Magistra Matilda what you told Lionel. And then quietly go about the rest of your day as if nothing were changed. We can consult further when we know more.”

  Eleanor lifted a hand. “The maison dieu reminded me—Dina sleeps with a dagger beneath her pillow.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? Did she—?”

  “Sister Brigida told me.”

  Eleanor had returned to the loom, running her hands over the threads. “Well, the dagger is missing. Agnes and Clara searched for it between the house and the church, thinking Dina may have dropped it as she fled to sanctuary, but they found nothing.”

  Sanctuary. An interesting choice of word. “What does Dina fear so much that she would resort to such ends as sleeping with a dagger at the ready?” Kate asked.

  Eleanor still fingered the threads. “I wish I knew. I do not believe either Sister Clara or Sister Brigida know.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Griffin said quietly.

  Kate glanced at him. “Will you sleep in Dina’s bedchamber tonight?”

  “I will.”

  “And I will send Sister Agnes to sit with Nan’
s mother,” said Eleanor.

  “Why Agnes and not Nan?” Kate asked.

  “Punishment. For both of them.”

  “But Mother . . .”

  Save your battles, Kate. This one isn’t worth it, Geoff said in her mind.

  I don’t know. Mother’s judgment . . .

  Allow her this small act.

  Of spite, Geoff. Pray God this does not end badly. We don’t know if we can trust Agnes.

  Kate shook her head at her mother’s puzzled frown. “No matter.”

  “You said Simon had this loom made for you?” Eleanor asked. “I should like one for the Martha House—when I feel certain I have one.”

  It was one of Kate’s most treasured gifts from her late husband. “When the time comes, I will introduce you to the man who fashioned this for me.”

  “I pray that it comes to pass.”

  Another unexpected response from her mother. In the past she would have expressed anger at those who stood in the way of her dream. Kate walked Eleanor to the street-side door. “Sit with Sister Dina awhile, Mother. Perhaps, seeing you there, she might confide something—”

  Eleanor nodded. “I will pray for her trust.” Kissing Kate on the cheek once again, she departed.

  Kate watched her walk through the yard and past the small house on the street. She was an elegant woman, her mother, proud, vain, stubborn. But there was something new, a softening, a sadness. A troubling thought—was her mother using the news about Lionel to mask distress over something else? Something to do with Sister Dina?

  Turning from the door, Kate watched Griffin finish what was left of the cheese and bread. She needed to find a way to draw him out, learn what he knew about her mother’s life with Ulrich Smit.

  “You are patient with Mother,” she said.

  What was it about his eyes when he smiled? They seemed to dance. “She obliged me by trusting me above the others in Ulrich’s household.”

  “Others? Ulrich had more than one retainer in Strasbourg?”

  “He did. Though he called us factors.” The grin broadened.

  “What does a merchant need with several retainers?”

  “Surely you saw a few of them when he stayed in your father’s house in Northumberland? He always traveled with two or more. You don’t remember them?”

  “I remember he came with others, but I never took note of them. I understand why he traveled with them. But once he was back in Strasbourg, what was the need? Did he continue to travel after he wed Mother?”

  Griffin ran a calloused hand through his hair. “It is not my place to speak of Ulrich Smit and Dame Eleanor.”

  “She has requested your silence?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  He reached up as if to rake his hair once more. She caught his hand, turned it palm up, studied the calluses.

  “You’re an archer.”

  “I am Welsh.”

  She glanced up, caught his grin, and laughed. “So you are. Do you have your bow and quiver with you?”

  “At my lodgings.”

  “Bring them back with you when you fetch your things.”

  “Is that an invitation? I’ve hesitated to ask if I might join you at practice. I would enjoy that.”

  His hand grew warm in hers. A nice hand. Dry. Strong. She let it go and thanked him again for not mentioning the men who had followed her on the street. “You might do something for me,” she said, shifting the topic.

  “Yes?”

  “The Earl of Westmoreland’s men at the maison dieu. They will be relieved at some point.”

  “I have seen them often, here and elsewhere in the city.”

  “I would like to know where the two lodge.”

  He bowed. “I will follow them when they are relieved.” Opening the door, he glanced back. “Does this mean you trust me?”

  “We shall see.”

  He nodded and took his leave.

  Time to clear her head. From the cupboard near the hearth she plucked her bow and a quiver of arrows. Taking it as a signal, Lille and Ghent rose and shook themselves. Together they went out into the garden.

  Sister Dina’s was a small, stuffy room despite a shutter being slightly ajar. Eleanor opened it wide for a moment, appreciating the pleasant prospect, Thomas Holme’s gardens tumbling down the slope to the river Foss. But the summer afternoon offered little breeze, certainly not enough to risk the danger of inviting access. Though the window was high in the wall, a determined intruder might easily climb with the help of the vine growing up the side of the building and drop into the room. Eleanor remembered a time when Ulrich . . . She shook her head against the unwelcome memory and closed the shutters. Sir Elric’s men guarded the maison dieu. Sister Dina was safe here. But once she woke, Eleanor would insist she return to the Martha House. And then what would Sir Elric’s guards do? She smiled to think what her daughter might say about their presence across the hedgerow. There was something between Katherine and their captain, she could see it.

  Eleanor shifted the high-backed chair in such wise that Sister Dina might see her and recognize her on waking, and close enough that she might hear her prayer. Settling, she drew out her paternoster, shaking out the silver and pearl beads. Bowing her head, she began a silent prayer to calm her thoughts, draw her heart to the place from which she might reach out to Sister Dina, touch her suffering with her own. In the background, sisters quietly called to one another in the hall as they went about their duties, a cart rattled past on Castlegate, a dog barked; not her daughter’s great beasts. Katherine—had Eleanor any hope of regaining her trust? She had taken the news more calmly than Eleanor had expected . . . She shook herself. It was not the time for those thoughts.

  Softly she began to say Hail Marys aloud, watching Sister Dina’s sharp-featured face for a sign of awareness. After two or three rounds, the beguine’s eyelids flickered, but nothing more.

  “Blessed Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a sinner, that I might make amends,” Eleanor murmured. “I see now that I have been a willful, heedless creature. When Ulrich died and I learned—But I do not need to tell you what I learned, our all-seeing Mother. When I understood the depth of his betrayal, and my part in it, I prayed for a sign of how I might redeem myself, how I might atone for my sins. You brought me Sister Dina, a beguine, a sempster fitting me for my mourning clothes, a woman radiating such comforting grace that I begged her to tell me how she came to be so. Sweetly she shared with me the words of Meister Eckhart, his sermons of love, compassion, the light within, the Mother’s grace. ‘Love is nothing else in itself than God.’ As long as I love, I am on the right path.” Remembering herself, Eleanor glanced behind her to check that she was not overheard by anyone but Dina. It would not do to speak of Meister Eckhart in Magistra Matilda’s hearing. Eleanor did not need a rumor spreading that her beguines were heretics.

  She bent close to Dina, looking for a sign that she heard, remembered. Sister Dina had consoled Eleanor and given her hope when she had resigned herself to damnation, certain there was no path to redemption. Did she remember? Did she regret her kindness? Dina gave no sign. Eleanor spoke a few more Hail Marys, then prayed for the beguine, prayed for forgiveness for drawing her away from the safety of Strasbourg. “May God smite me for plucking this good woman from her home and putting her in harm’s way.”

  Sister Dina’s eyes flickered.

  “Do you wake?” Eleanor gently lay a hand on hers. “It is Dame Eleanor. You are safe, my dear. Magistra Matilda has brought you to this quiet room where you may rest.”

  Dina’s eyelids flickered, opened. She turned her hand to grasp Eleanor’s. A firm grip, too firm, tightening, tightening. A look of horror. A quavering thread of voice. “He came for me. He said he would, but I did not believe. No grave can hold him. He will not rest. Cannot rest.”

  “Heavenly Mother,” Eleanor gasped, dropping her beads to squeeze Dina’s wrist until she released the hand.

  But the young woman now clawed at Eleanor’s fa
ce. She cried out for help. Two sisters rushed into the room.

  “Hold her arms. Gently, but firmly,” Eleanor gasped, sitting back to catch her breath.

  “He will not rest!” Dina shrieked.

  Magistra Matilda came striding in and slapped Dina’s cheek. The young woman gasped. “Release her arms,” Matilda ordered.

  The sisters obeyed, backing away.

  Dina crossed her arms, pressing them close to her, as she stared from face to face.

  “You said he came for you, Sister Dina. Who?” Eleanor asked in a voice she hoped was soothing. “Who frightened you?”

  The young woman turned her head away from all of them. “Shamed,” she whispered to the wall. “Shamed. Bloodied. Cursed.”

  Magistra Matilda lay a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should let her rest in quiet, Dame Eleanor.”

  “He made me commit a terrible sin. I have murdered a man,” Dina moaned.

  “We do not know that, Sister Dina.” Matilda spoke with authority.

  But Dina had experienced the attack, not Matilda. Eleanor did not want the magistra confusing Dina, making her question what she remembered of the attack. “Now she is awake, I want to bring her back to my Martha House,” she said.

  “Is that wise? To take her back there? After all, that is where she—”

  “Not out in the kitchen, of course, but up in the solar, where she will be with her sisters.”

  “Of course I have no authority over you, but I urge you to leave her here. There are many of us to watch over her.”

  Too many ears. Too many mouths. No. Eleanor could not allow that. Nor could she abide this arrogant magistra much longer. “I have decided.”

  6

  THE NIGHT WATCH

  At dusk the two households sat in the coolness of the garden. Catching her breath after practicing at the butt she’d set up behind the kitchen, Kate stood for a moment at the corner of the building, watching as Sister Clara and Sister Brigida walked into the garden arm in arm, Clara struggling a little to keep up with Brigida’s long stride. Kate quietly thanked Berend, who stood in the kitchen doorway. It was he who had proposed to feed both households a good meal to end the upsetting day. The two sisters had at first declined the invitation to dine in the garden, feeling they should stay up in the solar with Sister Dina—Berend and Griffin had carried her back to the Martha House earlier, and she was now settled in the room she would share with her sister beguines. Dame Eleanor had argued the wisdom of nourishment and good rest, assuring Clara and Brigida that her own maidservant, Rose, could be trusted to care for Dina for a little while. Kate had seconded her mother, having watched Rose gently arranging Dina’s pillows and covers, placing water within easy reach. Clearly, the two sisters had at last agreed.