A Twisted Vengeance

by Candace Robb

  “His temper?”

  “Reflective.”

  “Is the archbishop still in the city?”

  “He took leave of Dean Richard last evening. They shared a remarkable amount of brandywine. When His Grace departed, your uncle went to the minster and did not return until just before dawn, hollow-eyed and silent. Whatever His Grace shared with him, it was disturbing and secret. He has not said a word.” A sigh. “Go to him, my dear. I will dry your hood by the fire and bring something to warm you.”

  12

  SHIFTING LOYALTIES

  While Richard Clifford was in residence, the deanery hall had been made bright and cozy with colored cushions and tapestries. Now the heavy wood furnishings were stripped bare, the whitewashed walls dingy. Kate’s footsteps echoed down the hall.

  The dean answered her knock with a sharp “Come in, come in.”

  “Uncle?” He was nowhere to be seen.

  “Katherine?” He stepped out from behind the door, cradling a stack of rolled documents. “Good, good. I meant to send Alf with the news of our departure, but this is better.” He moved past her, setting the rolls on a table already piled with documents, candlesticks, and lamps. The room was as gloomy and denuded as the hall.

  “You would leave without seeing me?”

  He turned toward her, brushing dust from his hands, the front of his gown. “I dislike farewells. We have enjoyed our time together, have we not? Let us remember those moments, not grim handshakes and promises of visits and letters that will never be. Though I hope to return to York, I cannot predict when it might be. I do have something for you. But first, what news have you for me?”

  “News?”

  “You have come to report what you have learned regarding the incidents at Dame Eleanor’s beguinage, as agreed, have you not?” He turned away, sorting the documents into three piles. “I can deliver your report to Scrope when I join him at Bishopthorpe at the end of the week.”

  “I hoped you might advise me about how best to approach Prior Norbert.”

  “Oh, Norbert. Remind me what you wished from him.” The dean brushed past her, returning to the cupboard for another armload of documents.

  “That is part of my news.” Kate told him about the wounded man left at the door of the blackfriars, possibly Robin the would-be thief. “If he is there, I wish to speak to him. Or send Berend to do so. And if he is not—”

  “You become more and more involved in this despite knowing that Dame Eleanor will not thank you for your help.” Richard Clifford spoke to the table, not to Kate. “Has she told you anything about Ulrich Smit’s death? Why she fled to York?” Now he turned to face her, brushing his hands. “Why do you persist in this? God knows you’ve had no peace since she returned.”

  “With armed men hungering for battle camped inside our gates I cannot be certain that Mother has brought her troubles on herself. How can you? Do you know something about his death that would cause her to flee?”

  “What could I possibly know?” He shook his head as he crossed the room to fetch several large books. This was no temporary move. Despite what he’d said, he did not expect to return. At least not as dean of the chapter of York Minster.

  “Have you any idea what the thief wanted?” he asked as he crouched down at an open chest.

  Apparently he did not intend to answer her question. Perhaps if she gave him the news he wanted . . . While he loaded the books into the chest, Kate told him about Marie’s encounter, and what she had learned from the sisters about the Christ child. All the while the dean continued his task, pausing now and then to rub his lower back—the chest was deep, the books heavy—never once glancing her way.

  “Are you listening, Uncle?”

  He nodded as he rose with a grunt. “I heard, I heard. Mothering an image of the infant Christ child—they bring it on themselves, these silly women.”

  “It is the vicars choral who are silly. Brigida, Dina, and Clara are pious and dedicated to being of service to the community.”

  A shrug. “Perhaps I am mistaken. If they are so, more’s the pity they tethered themselves to Dame Eleanor. Look what she’s done—she takes in a stranger—”

  “That is not fair. It was Agnes’s house—”

  “It was a poor choice.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “I cannot believe my ears. You, defending your mother?” He shook his head as he turned back to the table. “Have a care, Katherine. Do not hold onto hope that her spiritual endeavor is a sign of change. She will disappoint you.”

  As he had disappointed her of late? “I merely noted that you are placing the blame before the facts.”

  The dean shrugged. “As for Prior Norbert, he should be favorably disposed toward assisting your inquiry. He and Friar Adam are not the best of friends.”

  “I should simply ask after Robin and request that he tell Friar Adam that Dame Eleanor and the sisters are not in need of him?”

  “You might tell him first about Friar Adam, then ask after the wounded man. On second thought, better the other way. A mission of mercy.”

  “I am grateful for your guidance in this.” She stepped over to the table, glancing at the rolls. Many bore royal seals. “I see you’ve been doing the king’s work while here in the city. Perhaps I should not have been surprised to hear that both you and the archbishop are abandoning the souls in your care to see to your more temporal duties. But why the haste?”

  He moved the documents away from her. “The worthies of York have withdrawn their support from King Richard despite the charter he granted the city, and His Grace and I have been subtly advised to do likewise. But as men of the Church, we strive to remain neutral in this quarrel. We will be of more use in Westminster, where our voices might be heard, than we are here, where our voices cannot.”

  “Not by the wealthy and powerful, perhaps, but what of all the others? Both of you are abandoning your spiritual community the moment you are challenged by the aldermen and their cronies—it seems a cowardly retreat.”

  “Courage has nothing to do with it. It is about duty.”

  “Your temporal duties, but your spiritual responsibilities? How can you disparage the beguines when every breath they breathe is dedicated to God?”

  “Personal piety cannot be measured.”

  “Yet you claim to measure theirs.”

  “When did you become so concerned about matters of faith?”

  “When you and the rest of the hypocrites in York set yourselves up as judges of others’ faith.” They stared at each other for a long moment, the dean’s eyes pained, Kate’s own filling with angry tears. She felt lost, hated herself for attacking him. He had been one of her staunchest supporters. “Just months ago you and Scrope hosted Lady Kirkby on her mission to gain support for her husband’s peace efforts,” Kate reminded him. “What of that?”

  When the tensions had escalated between the two cousins on the death of John of Gaunt, Henry of Lancaster’s father, Sir Thomas Kirkby had gone to the Continent to discuss with the duke a road to reconciliation. His wife, Margery Kirkby, had traveled to wealthy cities, raising money for her husband’s efforts. As a favor to her uncle, Kate had hosted Lady Kirkby in her guesthouse.

  “In winter we held out hope that all might be peacefully resolved. But the royal cousins were not interested.”

  “What of Sir Thomas Kirkby? Has he returned from the Continent?”

  “I think he would be wise to stay away until all is settled.”

  “As you intend to do?” Kate wanted to kick something. “King Richard entrusted you with the Privy Seal, the Wardrobe—indeed you were once his chaplain. And surely you have heard the rumors that a bishop’s miter and crozier are in your future. Will you not stand by him?”

  “Will he stand by me? That is the question all ask themselves. The king’s temper flashes at the subtlest suspected insult. What is meant in praise might be received as blame or disrespect.”

  “And Duke Henry? Have you faith that he wil
l be of a more appropriate temperament if crowned?”

  “He seems a straightforward man. But if he surrounds himself with counselors who fear every twitch signals rebellion—” The dean pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment, then suddenly drew her into his arms, holding her tightly. She could feel his heart pounding. “Such a fierce pride. I shall miss you, Katherine.” A glimmer of hope. This was the uncle she knew. “As I said, I have something for you. I was going to have Alf deliver it, but now I see the error in that.” He released her and stepped back toward the table, plucking a scroll from a small pile to one side. “I’ve signed over to you my property on Low Petergate—the large house a door down from Stonegate. You’ve only to add your signature and seal. Thomas Graa and Archbishop Scrope have witnessed it. I’ve also included two horses.”

  Dizzy with the sudden shift, Kate sank down on a chair. “What is this? You are not ill?”

  “No. No, not at all.” Richard tapped his palm with the parchment as he looked aside, as if searching for what to say. “Forgive my harsh words about your mother and the beguines. I worry that you are attaching yourself to a woman who is viewed with distrust. If Duke Henry takes the throne, he will never rest easy. The subtle divides we see now will become far more obvious. If King Richard manages to keep his crown, the unease and distrust that have set him on this destructive path will deepen. In either case, you need to ally yourself with the powers in York in order to survive. I know you can do this. You have the heart of a warrior and the head of a merchant prince. With this gift and whatever comes to you from your late father’s estate, you will thrive. Lionel Neville has no claim to it. You will be free to wed whom you will, and all your children will have a good future.”

  A heady proposition. “Why me? And why arrange it without consulting me?”

  “I have grown fond of you and your household—Phillip, Marie, Petra, even Berend and Jennet. I watched you pick yourself up from the shock of your late husband’s will, embrace the children in whom you might have seen a betrayal. I admire you. Even the guesthouse. Indeed, I believe you would be better able to see to your guesthouse—more important to you than ever for the power it gives you over the city leaders—if you move your household to the house on Petergate. You can run the dogs in the fields beyond the walls. With the horses you can ride out to the manor west of Galtres, the dower property that you’ve slyly hidden from your creditors.”

  He knew her so well. Too well. It felt as if he had studied what she would most desire and offered it to her—in exchange for what? “And you ask for nothing in return?”

  “Prayers? A welcome when I return? I am leaving in much more haste than I had expected.” His expression was earnest, encouraging. “I have handled this awkwardly.” He held out the roll. “Will you sign it?”

  “It must be done in your presence?”

  “That is what I promised His Grace and Thomas Graa.”

  “I will sign it in Thomas Graa’s chambers. Is that acceptable?”

  “You do not trust me?”

  “Your offer is generous, but I never sign anything before I’ve had time for careful consideration, Uncle. I pray you understand.”

  The dean bowed to the wisdom of that. “And if you refuse, how am I to know?”

  She did not mean to refuse, but it was not the moment to reassure him. “Thomas Graa has the means to send a messenger to Westminster. I must think, Uncle.” I must discuss this with Berend, she thought. “But I am moved and grateful. You honor me.”

  He shook his head, frowning, but there was no anger in his voice. “I should have guessed you would be cautious. But I agree.” He handed her the roll.

  “May God watch over you in your journey.” She kissed his cheek. “I pray you are able to stay peaceably above the fray, Uncle.”

  “And you as well. God go with you, Katherine.”

  She withdrew from the room in a daze, her mind unable to quiet.

  In the corridor, Arnold, the vicar choral, shuffled by with a large box out of which peeked one of the pelts that cushioned her uncle’s bare feet when he rose from sleep. A man who loved his comfort. She had a nagging feeling that she had missed something with her uncle, but what? Perhaps she should return. Or invite him to dine at her home before he left? Resolved, she continued on to the kitchen, pausing just outside, listening to Helen and Jennet laughing at the antics of the household cat, Claws. How wonderfully ordinary. Stepping into the room, Kate sought a chair, settling with a sigh.

  “Might I have some brandywine?”

  “Oh! In all this fuss I forgot to fetch you something to warm you. Forgive me. Did the dean not offer you anything?” Helen tsked as she went for the flask and found a goblet not yet packed. Italian glass, a vibrant blue. “I see he upset you, as he has done us all with this murderous haste.” Helen sighed. “I shall miss both of you so. As will the dean.”

  “I cannot bear to lose either of you. I don’t know what to think—I called him a coward and he offered me a great gift. I’m not so much upset with him as confused. Come dine with us tomorrow. Berend would enjoy the opportunity to make some special dishes, and you can say farewell to the girls.”

  “Oh, I should like that. I will pose it to your uncle.” Helen kissed Kate’s cheek, but as she resettled, her expression clouded. “Though I fear he will decline. He has not been himself.”

  “Shall I go back and ask him myself?”

  “No, no, it’s better coming from me. I can be quite persuasive.” A secret smile.

  Kate drank down the brandywine much more quickly than was wise, bringing tears to her eyes.

  Jennet pressed her hand, apparently misinterpreting the tears. “What urgent work awaits the dean in Westminster?” she asked Helen, giving Kate time to recover.

  “Keeping the king’s peace, collecting taxes to fill his coffers, executing his treaties—all this must continue despite the cousins’ conflict,” said Helen.

  “But is it Richard’s peace, or Henry’s?” asked Jennet.

  Helen sniffed. “Do not think I hesitated to point that out to the dean. ‘Would it not be wise to wait here until the matter is settled? You might not even be in the new government. King Richard might purge all his officers in spite. And Henry would most certainly wish to choose his own men.’ But he is determined to depart by week’s end.”

  “Yes, he sounded resolved.” Kate rose. “And I must be on my way. If I linger much longer, we shall cry on each other’s shoulders and the friars will be at their dinner when I arrive.” She plucked her hood from a chair near the fire, winning a growl from Claws, who had been guarding it. “I forget. Is Claws the deanery cat, or will she travel with you?”

  “With me, my dear. A kitchen is a hellhole without a good mouser.” Helen rose to embrace Kate, kissing her cheek. “May God watch over you, and may you find joy in all your days.”

  “And you, Helen. May God watch over you both.”

  Stepping out of the deanery, Jennet told Kate of her morning’s work, observing Bran among the merchant stalls on Ouse Bridge. Winding round the shoppers, waiting until they were caught up in negotiations with a merchant or in heated conversations. Snip, snip and the purse slipped into his tunic. “He does not look to me like a man who believes he is about to make his fortune by returning to the Martha House to steal a golden idol.” But she had failed to speak to him. One of his intended victims got to him before she had the chance, drawing a knife on him, discreetly, hidden from the crowd, and threatening to castrate him if he ever saw his face again. “I can outpace most runners, but not a man desperate to save his cock.”

  They were laughing as they approached the stonemasons’ lodge and spied Phillip standing over a grinding stone.

  “I want a moment with him,” Kate said.

  He had already caught sight of them, waving. His face, apron, and hair were white with the fine dust from sharpening a pile of chisels. He set the tools aside, wiping his hands on his apron. It did little good—he left a streak of white across his b
row as he raked back his hair. “Did you hear? Helen and the dean are going south?”

  “Just now, yes. Had you known they were going?”

  He shook his head. “I will miss them. Helen fears it will be a long while before they return.”

  “I will not be so comfortable about your biding with the Granthams now. You say they are stingy with food.”

  “That was my story for Helen.” Phillip grinned, wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving more streaks. Like the storied Scottish warriors who painted themselves before battle. “Is Dame Eleanor’s Welshman escorting them?” he asked.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I saw him there yesterday. Early. And then again last night. Well, I think it was him, red hair in the lamplight.”

  Kate glanced at Jennet, who shook her head. She’d not managed to track Griffin. The man’s talent lay in disappearing, it seemed. “Tell me all that you noticed, Phillip.”

  He looked at the two of them. “What’s wrong?”

  “Much is wrong, else why would we have so many soldiers crowding inside the gates?” said Jennet.

  Phillip shrugged. “They say many of them are leaving. That knight at your house on High Petergate—Sir Alan? Griselde says he is there all alone now, and she expects him to be gone any day.”

  Kate shook her head in wonder. “You have your finger on the pulse of the city, living at Hugh Grantham’s.”

  “You might as well if you moved to the High Petergate house when Sir Alan leaves. Then I could see you and Marie and Petra every day.”

  Or if she moved to a larger house just past Stonegate.

  “When you saw Griffin, was he alone?” Jennet asked.

  “The redheaded Welshman?”

  Jennet nodded.

  “Yes. He has always been alone when I have seen him. But last night he was with Dean Richard. In the minster. I was taking some food to Master Hugh. He was working out a problem with one of the stonemasons up above the chapter house. I noticed the dean kneeling in one of the chantry chapels as I passed. When I came back through, Griffin was speaking to the dean. As I said, copper hair in the lamplight.”