by Candace Robb
As she was crossing Ousegate she was hailed by a familiar voice, and turned to find Agnes Dell approaching. Lille and Ghent sniffed in her direction but knew not to get too close—Agnes was skittish around them. The woman looked wretched, hollow-eyed and drained, her borrowed gray gown wrinkled and so tight around her ample breasts and upper arms that Kate could imagine the woman’s discomfort. Dina had hemmed up one of Clara’s gowns for her, but Agnes was much rounder than her benefactor.
“I cannot go back to Dame Hawise’s house, Dame Katherine,” Agnes began as she reached Kate. “I pray you, speak with Dame Eleanor, tell her that Nan is far better seeing to her mother than I am. And she seems to want to be there. She came back to the house this morning, asking whether her man had appeared—he has not—and fretting over the children. And she told me about Hans.” She crossed herself, breathing hard.
So Nan still expected Robin to appear.
The crowd of people flowing to and from the shops and offices on Ouse Bridge parted around them with curious glances.
“I was on my way to the minster deanery,” said Kate. “Where are you going? Home?”
“To the minster to pray for Nan’s wretched mother. And for Hans.”
“Why there?”
“I want my prayers to be heard. Such a great holy place—I prayed there for my Leonard’s soul.”
Agnes’s reply silenced all argument. “Then walk with me,” said Kate. “We will be less noticeable than we are standing here, eh?” She signaled to Lille and Ghent to continue up Coney Street as Agnes fell into step beside her.
“Did you know that Jocasta Sharp sends food to Dame Hawise and the children each day?” said Agnes. “She is a good woman, much like the beguines in her work but that she is married.”
“Dame Jocasta is a very fine woman.” Kate admired her friend, a wealthy woman who had made it her mission to care for the city’s poor. Jocasta carried out her work with the enthusiastic support of those she had assisted in the past. “Agnes, you say that Nan should have the care of her mother, yet surely she went into service for you in order to support her family. What do you propose?”
“That Nan do her duty. I have released her from our service.”
“So harsh, Agnes?” The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Kate ignored her. “In any case, that decision was not yours to make.”
“We can find another maidservant. She is not happy with the beguines.”
“And you, Agnes. Are you?”
“Do you doubt me? Did I not obey Dame Eleanor and sit with Nan’s mother, listening to Dame Hawise wheezing and sighing and complaining all through the night? I invited her to pray with me, explained to her the joy of the beguines’ faith, but she cares nothing for that. And the children are wild, the house filthy. I yearn to be back with the others, Dame Katherine.”
“So you released Nan from Dame Eleanor’s service for your own comfort.”
A little gasp. “I—no! Nan is unhappy. Would you speak with Dame Eleanor?”
“I will, but I cannot promise she will hear me.”
Agnes thanked her. For what, Kate did not know. She was not greatly inclined to help the woman at the moment.
“Do you know anything of Nan’s lover, Robin?” Kate asked.
“Now that she’s confessed who he is, yes. He was one of John Paris’s warehousemen. When he worked during the day he was one of several of the men who would come to my house for dinner midday. John considered it part of Leonard’s duties, though my husband was often away, so, in truth, it was my duty. It also went toward the rent on our house. As for Robin, when he was promoted to the night watch at the warehouse, he betrayed John’s trust, consorting with thieves, and John let him go, though he kindly did not hand him over to the sheriff.”
“Why not?”
“I never asked. I have not seen Robin in a long while. Of course he would avoid being seen on Hertergate. Nan did not tell me it was Robin she met at Hawise’s. I trust she knew I would warn her away from him. He knew the house, Dame Katherine. No wonder he knew where to search for the key. I am that angry—I told Nan that even if she were happy, she is no longer welcome in any household in which I reside.”
She seemed quite certain that Robin was the intruder. Kate wanted proof. “Do you feel Nan shares the blame for his act?”
“She admitted to me how she bragged about all the lovely things in the Martha House. What things? I have seen nothing of great value. Though it is said that Dame Eleanor has some grand gowns in her chest, and jewels, Nan should not have seen them.”
As they parted in the minster yard, Kate encouraged Agnes to speak to Dame Eleanor herself. “You must convince her that you are sincere in desiring a life of prayer and work, a life without a man, Agnes.”
“Why would you doubt it?”
“I know that you and John Paris were guests in my house on High Petergate.”
Agnes blushed and averted her eyes, uncertain what to do with her hands of a sudden. “That was—I feel only shame for that.”
Kate watched the woman cross the yard to the minster, broad shoulders hunched, head bowed. The brief encounter had changed Kate’s impression of the woman. “Go in peace,” she whispered. There was a story to her relationship with John Paris. But that was a conversation for another time.
Dean Richard’s housekeeper, Helen, greeted Kate at the deanery door with a little frown.
“Oh, my dear, I have heard about the troubles at your mother’s Martha House. I am so sorry.”
“Bless you, Helen.” As Kate stepped into the hall she noticed enticing smells from the kitchen—cinnamon, butter, fresh-baked pies. “My uncle and the archbishop are expecting me.”
“They are, to be sure.” Helen reached down to rub Lille’s and Ghent’s ears and whisper a promise of ham bones. “I am about to take Dean Richard and His Grace the archbishop some refreshments in the parlor. Go ahead in.” She paused, touching Kate’s arm. “Your uncle did not like that His Grace wished you summoned here.”
“Why?”
“When Scrope requested the meeting, his stated purpose was to discuss the defense of York. He wishes to be seen as doing all he can to support it.”
“Against his mentor’s prodigy, Henry of Lancaster?”
“I know, it seems to go against his natural inclination, but as Archbishop of York his fealty is to the anointed king.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“That? Nothing. Richard Scrope arrived this morning with a different matter on his mind, rumors about the events at your mother’s house.”
“God help us.”
“Yes. In truth, both men are quite disturbed by Dame Eleanor’s ambition to establish a beguinage, as they are calling it, in York. This is one issue on which they are quite agreed. You are forewarned.”
“But why summon me? Why not Mother?”
“Your uncle and your mother? Have they ever conversed without argument?”
No indeed. But then, who did escape argument with her mother? “Is that why he declined to act as spiritual guide for her Martha House?”
“As I said, it is more. He disapproves the beguinage. And—well, I do wonder what Dame Eleanor has done that so alienated him. In the past he has regarded her with mild irritation. But this—your uncle is rarely so sharp. I am doing my best to ignore him.”
“All this because Mother chose to found a Martha House?”
“Truth be told, I doubt he could tell us the cause. Men’s feelings are as mysterious to them as they are to us. Now go, before they hear us and think we are conspiring against them.”
“Is that the mood?”
“That is my sense of it.”
“Do they know I found a body on the riverbank this morning?”
A nod. “The sheriffs’ men can go nowhere without gossips following on their heels. His Grace brought word of it. How awful for you, my dear. Your mother’s servant. Did you know him well?”
“No, not well. Hans moved to Thomas Holme’s
household after accompanying Mother on her recent journey to Northumberland.”
“Ah. But he did arrive in Dame Eleanor’s company. More cause for distrust, you see. Poor man. May Hans rest in God’s grace.” Helen crossed herself, then patted Kate’s shoulder. “Go on. I will settle Lille and Ghent in the kitchen, then come serve the three of you.” She clucked to the dogs and herded them off to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.
Outside her uncle’s parlor Kate paused, gathering her calm like a protective cloak. She reminded herself to take time to think about a question before answering it, to offer nothing beyond a simple answer, then wait for more questions. Nodding to herself, she lifted her hand to knock, but paused. Helen’s comment about their suspicions that the women were conspiring against them gave her an idea. What if she conspired with them, bargaining a fair exchange, favor for favor? The air felt slightly lighter, her mood brighter. Fear fell away, allowing space for cunning. Smiling to herself, Kate knocked, then entered.
Lamplight played along the rich colors in the tapestries, and on the cushions spread around the chamber. The shutters of the one window were flung wide, inviting the air from the shaded garden into the chamber. But not enough. Her uncle’s forehead glistened with sweat as he rose to welcome her, gesturing toward a chair that had been placed so that both he and the archbishop could observe her. Richard Scrope inclined his head to her respectful greeting and asked whether her beautiful hounds had accompanied her.
“They have, Your Grace, and are now enjoying the hospitality of Helen’s kitchen.”
She took her seat, fussing for a moment with her sleeves while composing herself. It was most appropriate that the archbishop had not risen; he was the power in the room. Even so, she took it as an ill omen of the outcome of this bargaining session, that the two Richards held themselves so stiffly. She felt herself following suit, perched at the edge of her chair, resenting the atmosphere in the room. If either of them had just hours earlier stumbled upon the body of a man beaten to death, they would not subject themselves to such a meeting.
“Now then,” said Helen from the threshold as she held open the door for a young clerk to set a tray on the table near the dean. A pie heaped with spiced fruits and custard, bread, butter, cheese, bowls, goblets, and a servant holding a flagon of wine and pitcher of water, ready to serve.
Though Helen was almost as skilled in the kitchen as Berend, Kate had no stomach for food at the moment. She did accept a goblet of wine, unwatered, the better to dull her irritation.
Her uncle and the archbishop each accepted a slice of pie, tasting it with apparent pleasure. But as soon as Helen and her helpers withdrew, they put aside their bowls.
Dean Richard leaned toward Kate, his brows pulled together in a concerned frown. His gray eyes softened for a moment. “My dear Katherine, is it true that you came upon a murdered man on your walk this morning? One of Dame Eleanor’s servants from Strasbourg?”
“It is, Uncle.”
“May God calm your troubled heart.”
“It was a disturbing beginning to my day.”
“What do you know about this man?”
“No more than you do, I imagine, Uncle. He was most recently employed in the household of my neighbor, Thomas Holme. Why do you ask?”
The archbishop made a little sound.
Her uncle’s frown deepened, his dark brows pulling together. “We are merely concerned.”
Clearly it was more than that. “You are most kind.”
“And what of the beguine who sleeps with a dagger, whose gown and shift were stiff with someone else’s blood?” asked the archbishop.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not understand what it is you wish to know.”
“What do you know of Sister Dina?” her uncle asked in a quiet voice.
“She is a skilled needle woman. Mother hired her to make her mourning robes in Strasbourg, and she was impressed by her compassion and quiet wisdom. I know little more.”
“I heard that she became agitated while Dame Eleanor was sitting with her at the maison dieu,” said Scrope.
Magistra Matilda must be quite the tittle-tattle. “Your Grace, I humbly suggest that you continue this conversation with Dame Eleanor. She is the one who knows her servants and the beguines whom she brought with her from Strasbourg.”
Scrope nodded, sat back in his chair, elbows on the arms, hands steepled. “What do you know of beguines?”
“They are dedicated to God and good works, celibate, and, rather than bringing large dowries to convents, they work to support themselves—which means the life is available to women of lesser means. Other than their work outside the Martha House, I see little difference between them and the poor sisters of York.”
“Pope Clement condemned them,” said her uncle, picking up his goblet, sipping his wine. “And the Holy Fathers who have followed him have concurred.”
“I am fond of the three sisters. I see much good in them, no harm. They do not preach, as did Marguerite Porete.”
“How do you come to know about the heretic Porete?”
Kate had stepped in it now. Brigida had told her of Marguerite. “I cannot recall. Perhaps you, Uncle?”
The dean frowned, shook his head. “Not I. Dame Eleanor, no doubt.” She saw what Helen meant—he spoke her mother’s name as if it were a curse.
Archbishop Scrope leaned forward. “You say you see no harm in them. Even Sister Dina, with her dagger beneath her pillow?” He held Kate’s gaze, as if eager to hear her rebuttal.
“A woman must often defend her virtue and her life against those who would force themselves on her, Your Grace. I assume she suffered some terrible experience in the past, a terror she has not yet forgotten. How could I condemn her for finding comfort in a form of protection? We do not as yet know what the intruder was after, or what he had done to Sister Dina. Which brings me to my proposal.”
Her uncle shook his head in warning, but the archbishop sat back and sipped his wine, gesturing to her to continue.
“In exchange for introductions and information, I will keep you apprised of my investigation into the intruder and Hans’s murder.”
“You have agreed to assist Dame Eleanor in this?” His Grace asked.
“I have chosen to do so.” Kate glanced at her uncle, who scowled into his cup. She had never seen him like this. “Kin help kin.”
His eyes, when he lifted them to hers, were most unfriendly, his strong jaw, usually expressing a comforting air of command, jutted forward, as if challenging her. “Cliffords do, but Frosts? That would be news indeed.” He snorted. “You would be best to remember how much trouble your cousin William and your mother, both Frosts, have brought you. How much sorrow.”
She could not deny that. But neither could she reconcile this angry man with the uncle who had supported and comforted her during those troubles. His voice was sharp, his tone challenging. What did he know? “Do you mean to warn me, Uncle?”
“I do.”
The archbishop cleared his throat. “I will leave that to the two of you to discuss. You speak of introductions, Dame Katherine. To whom?”
Kate was relieved to break away from her uncle’s scowl. “Abbot Thomas of St. Mary’s and Prior Norbert of the blackfriars, to begin.” She explained her interest—Sir Elric’s visit to the abbey, the infirmarian’s caution, the brawl at Toft Green so near the Dominican friary, Friar Adam’s subsequent visit to the Martha House.
Richard Clifford muttered something that sounded very much like a curse when she mentioned the blind friar and his assistant. “Friar Adam. Why did Dame Eleanor send for him?” he growled.
“It is puzzling,” said Scrope. “It would be far more convenient to approach the Franciscans. Their friary is so close to her house.”
“Friar Adam had no invitation. He came of his own accord,” said Kate. “Hence my interest. He heard of their need for a confessor from Isabella Gisburne Frost. He claims to be her confessor.”
“Frosts,�
� the dean muttered.
“Isabella is far more Gisburne than Frost, Uncle.”
The archbishop chuckled. “She speaks my own thoughts, Richard. Isabella Gisburne is her father’s daughter through and through, God help her.” He turned back to Kate. “And the information you require?”
“My usual sources have become secretive when I most need to understand who is fighting for what.”
“Your usual sources being your influential guests on High Petergate?” asked the archbishop.
Kate appreciated Scrope’s blunt question. She had long guessed he knew the nature of the local patrons of her guesthouse. “Yes, and my fellow guild members. I sensed a great deal of conflict in the aldermen and their friends at the guild meeting yesterday.”
“Ah, the meeting at the merchants’ hall, yes. What was the purpose, might I ask?”
“The guild master read out the orders from the Duke of York, listened to members’ concerns, and then made a modest attempt to organize help toward those here to defend the city against Henry of Lancaster. The ease with which he withdrew the proposal was telling. All the while he watched the row of aldermen. I know, I sat at the end of it.”
“With your partner, Thomas Holme?” asked the dean.
She nodded.
“And has he become secretive as well?” the archbishop asked.
He had. And perhaps not only because of the political conflict but also because he regretted hiring Hans and Werner.
They are challenging you, Kate, Geoff whispered in her head. Even our uncle, who has been your ally in the past.
No one trusts anyone at present, Geoff. Now quiet. I must be sharp.
Kate remained silent.
“And was your cousin William Frost in attendance?” asked the archbishop.
Pointed questions might mean they knew something. “He is not a guild member, Your Grace,” she said. “Do you ask because of his wife’s connection to Friar Adam?”
It was her uncle who responded to the question. “Two violent incidents connected to Dame Eleanor’s household—past or present—in as many nights, Katherine. And, coming in the midst of the threat to the peace of the realm, my inclination is to suspect everything, everyone. It is all one dangerous knot, and we must tease out the threads, discover how they are intertwined.”
