by Candace Robb
“Then I shall be likewise.” Swinging wide the door, Jennet apologized as a gust of wind sent rain into the kitchen, showering Lille and Ghent before she’d closed the door behind her. The hounds stood to shake off the spray.
“The girls will not like being alone up in the solar,” said Kate. But instead of rising, she asked for more ale, then settled back to tell Berend about Geoff and her own conflicted feelings about her uncle.
Berend put a cloth over the dough and stretched out beside her, stroking Ghent’s head. “You’ve plenty cause to wonder at Richard Clifford’s behavior. And Dame Eleanor’s, Werner’s, Griffin’s. Even Hans, stealing away to the taverns—something changed him. I wonder whether Werner might explain that. Do you believe Dame Eleanor, that she did not send Griffin to your uncle?”
“I don’t know what to believe where Mother is concerned. And Griffin—I think you trust him more than I do.”
“I did, but he’s given me cause to question my judgment, wandering off as he did. If she did not send him to the dean, what is his game?” Berend sat up and plucked a leaf from her hair, tossed it into the fire. “We need to find him. And Werner.”
Kate stared into the flames a moment. “Agreed. Tomorrow morning, you, Jennet, and I will go out in search of them—Griffin might hide his hair with a hat, but he cannot hide his west country speech. Or his brows—bushy, copper-colored. Someone will have marked him. And Werner—his size, his speech.” Kate set aside her bowl as the wind rattled the shutters. “The girls will be wanting me.”
Berend held out his hand to help her up. His was warm, his grip strong.
“Bless you,” she whispered, and hurried out into the night.
14
THE STORM
A thunderclap and a flash of lightning shook the house, waking Kate. A second flash revealed Petra lying on her back, her eyes wide open, her fingers bending one by one. Counting the distance.
“Close,” she whispered to Kate. Another clap. She counted slowly on her fingers. A flash. “Closer.”
Do you remember counting our heartbeats? Geoff asked.
He was still with her.
How could I forget? That summer the thunderstorms came rolling in day after day. The Trevors’ house burned down. Our great oak.
Marie mumbled something in her sleep, tucked up so tightly against Kate that she could feel the girl’s heartbeat.
A sound. Out in the storm. A man crying out?
I heard it, too, Geoff.
“The kelpies are riding the storm,” Petra whispered.
Kate kissed her on the forehead. “I will go down and ask Lille and Ghent whether we heard a kelpie or a drunk soldier.” Crawling out from beneath the covers, kissing Marie and assuring her that she would be back in a moment, Kate slipped on a pair of shoes, wrapped herself in a woolen mantle, and stole down the steps.
The soft glow from the hearth revealed Lille and Ghent standing by the garden door, their ears moving to catch sounds. Beside them, the loom cast a great shadow on the wall. A movement near the steps. Jennet was sitting up on her pallet, raking a hand through her hair.
“They woke a few moments ago, suddenly, as if they heard something,” she said. “How can they hear anything over the storm?”
“You were lying awake?” Kate asked.
“Thunder and lightning. I never liked it. My mates said it was simply God up above tapping flint. That was no comfort to me.”
“Petra is staring up at the roof listening for kelpies. None of us feel at ease in such a storm. I’ll put Lille and Ghent on their leads and go out, walk round the house.”
“I should go with you.”
“If you wish. Bring the lantern. All but one side shuttered.” She fetched her heavy cloak off the peg by the door and slipped into Geoff’s old boots. Only then did she remember her weapons, up in the solar. She was more disturbed by the storm—or the cry—than she’d realized. “I will depend on you,” she whispered to the hounds as she attached their leads.
Jennet shrugged into a jacket, tucked a dagger in her belt, picked up the lantern. Hand on the door latch she asked, “Ready?” At Kate’s nod Jennet pulled open the door and stood back to allow her out first, with the hounds.
Lille and Ghent trotted out into the garden, Kate following, pulling her cloak close as she bent into the driving rain, chill on her skin. Berend stood in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the hearth light. So he’d heard something as well. Jennet hurried forward to light her way. They proceeded once round the house, Kate’s boots squishing in the soaked grass, the dogs shaking off the rain, halting to listen, then trotting on. They crossed to the kitchen.
Berend’s clothes were soaked, though he stood beneath the eaves. “I could not tell where it came from,” he said. “So I went over to the Martha House kitchen and woke Matt. We walked round the house, the kitchen. Nothing. He’s wakeful now, on the alert.”
“Good. We’ve seen nothing.”
“Jennet could have done this.”
“I needed to see for myself.” She nodded to him and called to the dogs. They strained on their leads, wanting to track behind the kitchen. Already soaked, Kate did not begrudge one more circuit. They sniffed at the fence in the back corner, John Paris’s fence. His midden was on the other side. “Rats,” she said to Jennet, who nodded.
They sloshed back to the house.
Jennet stoked the fire. “I doubt I’ll sleep more tonight.”
Kate shook out her cloak, spread it out on a bench near the fire, put her boots near the hearth. Lille and Ghent shook themselves out, then settled where the fire would dry them.
“You honestly think it was rats?” Jennet asked.
“Not the cry. But Lille and Ghent’s interest, maybe.” Kate yawned. “I will try to sleep a while longer.” She climbed wearily up the steps.
Petra was sitting up, Marie’s head in her lap. “Was it kelpies?”
“Rats, I think. And drunken soldiers finding their way home in the storm. We checked round our house and the Martha House. All is quiet.”
“Murder! Murder!”
Kate opened her eyes. Petra and Marie bolted upright, holding each other. It was just dawn, pale light coming through the chinks in the shutters. Her heart pounding, Kate slipped from the bed, fetched her clothes. “Stay put,” she commanded the girls as she dressed hurriedly, collecting both dagger and axe after such an awakening, tucking them in the slits Jennet had sewn into her skirt.
Someone pounded on the door just as she made it down the stairs to the fire, where Lille and Ghent awaited her. Kate held the hounds by their collars as Jennet opened the door. It was Sister Agnes, her face red, her eyes bulging, her white nightcap askew.
“Dame Eleanor says come at once, the sheriff’s man is at the house and John Paris is threatening the beguines.”
“Stay here with the girls, Jennet.” Kate slipped the leashes through the hounds’ collars and followed Agnes. God bless, at least the rain had stopped and much of the standing water was already soaking into the ground.
Berend met them in the yard. “I heard what she said. Matt’s already gone to see what this is about.”
In the Martha House garden Clara and Brigida hovered round Dina, who was sobbing out a prayer of contrition for bringing all this trouble down upon the house. One of the sheriffs’ sergeants was trying to coax John Paris away down the alleyway toward Hertergate. Kate was about to follow when her mother stepped out of the hall, hugging herself, weeping. Nodding to Berend to go on, Kate approached the cluster of sisters, asking Clara, who seemed the calmest, what had happened.
“Our neighbor rushed into the hall while we were at prayers, demanding that we remove our devil work from his property.”
“Devil work? Benighted dullard. That is his wife, Beatrice, poisoning his mind.” She noticed her mother heading down the alleyway. “I will see for myself. Stay here,” she told Clara. “Comfort Dina and Brigida. Assure them that no one will believe you’ve done anything to cause whatever has
upset John Paris.” Calling to Lille and Ghent, Kate went after Eleanor, catching up to her as she stepped through John Paris’s gate. “What happened, Mother?”
Eleanor turned to Kate, grasping her arm. “He is mad. His man Alonso discovered a body lying by the midden. Paris raised the hue and cry. He says it is Werner. Dear God, I pray he is wrong. How would he know him? It cannot be him. No, John Paris—the man is quite mad. The day we moved into the house he complained about the wagon blocking Hertergate. I sent Werner to threaten him. Oh dear, I suppose he would recognize Werner. Dear God.”
She was babbling, but the pieces were helpful. “What did the sergeant want?”
“To take John Paris back to his house. He is blaming us for this, when it is clearly not our fault. He says we do the devil’s work. The man is quite, quite mad.”
Kate put her arm round her mother. “Perhaps you should stay at the Martha House with the sisters. I will see to this.”
“If it is Werner, I will claim the body, Katherine. He watched over us on our journey with never a complaint.” Eleanor shook her head and crossed herself. “And Griffin as well. I pray he is safe.”
Kate could see her mother needed to see for herself. She steered her toward a small crowd hovering round the midden, Berend among them.
“Oh, God help us,” her mother muttered, pulling a scented cloth from her sleeve.
Berend came to them. “Perhaps it is better you do not see him so, Dame Eleanor.”
“She needs to,” said Kate. “To be certain it is him.”
Eleanor strained to see past Berend to the figure on the ground. “Is it Werner?” When Berend bowed his head, Eleanor struggled free of Kate and hurried forward.
Lille and Ghent danced on either side of Kate, restive. “You knew, my angels, you knew.” Lille looked at Kate, her large brown eyes sad, knowing. Ghent nudged her hand. She stroked them.
With a moan, her mother fell to her knees in the mud and bowed over the body, keening her grief.
Matt, who had been exploring along the back fence, started toward her, but Berend was there first, helping Eleanor rise.
The hounds flanking her, Kate approached the corpse, whispering a prayer to steady herself so that Lille and Ghent might remain calm as she moved close enough to see Werner’s injuries. His throat was slit, his head thrown back so that the gaping wound looked like a mouth opened wide in a silent, eternal scream. He was unshaven, his hair wild, his clothes muddy. With the tip of her boot Kate lifted Werner’s shoulder. It looked like dried blood mixed in the muck on which he lay. So he had likely been here, in the yard, when attacked. The noise that woke her in the night. His attacker perhaps crept up from behind, one stroke of a sharp knife, then eased Werner down onto his back. Someone strong. The murderer’s clothes would be stained with blood. They might look for that. But clothes could be changed, disposed of.
“You, madam,” John Paris jabbed a finger at Eleanor, “you have brought this on us!” Red in the face, his tunic askew, his hair matted on one side from sleep, Paris looked like the madman Eleanor had said he was. “God help me. What will Thomas Graa think?” he whined more quietly.
“Thomas Graa will commend you for raising the hue and cry,” said Kate. “But not for calling down curses on a widow and the poor sisters.”
One of the sergeant’s men restraining Paris gently suggested that Eleanor withdraw to her home. “My men will bring the body to you when the coroner has recorded the death and the circumstances of discovery.”
“One of the men has gone for Friar Gerald,” Berend told Eleanor. “You will wish to be in the hall when he arrives.” To Kate he suggested that he take Lille and Ghent and walk them along the fence.
To Kate’s relief, her mother agreed to return to the house. Handing Lille’s and Ghent’s leads to Berend, Kate put her arm round Eleanor’s shoulder. “Come, Mother.”
Eleanor leaned into Kate.
“It was just as Ulrich looked when they pulled him from the river. Whoever did this—” Eleanor sank down onto her bed.
A memory of Ulrich’s death? Drowned? An accident, or . . . ? Kate felt sick to think they might have prevented this if only . . . Damnable woman! She wanted to shake her mother and demand answers. But this was not the moment to press her. “Let us remove your wet clothes before you settle, Mother.” Kate helped her back up, unlacing her gown, trying not to touch the stains—they stank of the midden.
“I told David the border country was no place to raise children.” Eleanor’s voice was but a whisper, as if speaking to herself. Kate leaned close to catch what she said. “All would have been so different had we come south.”
One moment of clarity and then this. Kate felt the familiar tightness in her stomach from her mother’s seemingly random explanations. She will come to the point, she told herself as Eleanor grasped her shoulder for support, then stepped out of the gown and pushed it toward the door with her stockinged foot. Patience. Padding over to a large chest, Eleanor drew out another gray gown, of fine wool, and held it out to Kate for her help. As Eleanor worked her arms into the sleeves, Kate heard Berend down below, then footsteps on the landing, a knock. She called to whoever it was to come in.
Her mother’s maidservant looked askance. “You had only to call me.”
Kate assured Rose that she was capable of helping her own mother dress.
“Is Friar Gerald here?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes, mistress. He awaits you down below. Dame Jocasta is here as well.”
“Have they brought Werner to the hall?”
“Not yet, mistress.” Rose bobbed and departed, carefully closing the door behind her.
“Leaving him lying in that stench—it is not right, it is not—” Eleanor covered her face with her hands. “So like Ulrich.” She began to sob.
In life Werner looked nothing like Ulrich Smit, but clearly he did so in death. Was this the murderer’s intent? To remind her of Ulrich’s . . . murder? Kate hurriedly finished lacing the front of her mother’s gown, her fingers fumbling as she searched for what she might say to encourage her mother to confide her grief. “How cruel to remind you of your sorrow,” she murmured as she began to help Eleanor to a chair.
But Eleanor pushed her away. “I will go down and pray with Friar Gerald and the sisters.”
No! “What did you mean, that Werner looked so like Ulrich, Mother?” Kate blurted out. “Was your late husband murdered? His throat cut?”
“Of course that is what I meant. And then they threw him in the river.”
Kate felt ill. “Who?”
“We will discuss this anon. Now come. We do not want to keep them waiting.”
Biting back a curse—John Paris’s lunacy was nothing to her mother’s—Kate forced her voice low. “Let them wait. This is important, Mother. Ulrich was murdered? Why? Do you know who killed him? Were you in danger as well? Is that why you fled Strasbourg?”
“You and your incessant questioning. The rest will wait, Katherine. Do not be so selfish!”
Kate watched with despair as her mother swept out the door. Ulrich Smit had been murdered. That changed everything.
15
REQUIEM
Candles and oil lamps lit the altar and circled down round the corpse laid out on the floor before it. Eleanor and Jocasta knelt on prie-dieux, praying, while the gray-robed Friar Gerald knelt on the floor beside the body, within the circle of light. The sisters stood behind the prie-dieux, heads bowed, chanting a litany, their voices soft.
Kate and Berend stood just within the garden door. He’d already told Kate that Lille and Ghent had found nothing, the storm having washed away the scent, though the hounds seemed keen to continue on to the staithe. Matt had offered to go search for a boat on the far bank. An aunt lived near there, and he knew the folk who lived near the bank. If someone had noticed anything in the night, they would tell him. Berend had thanked him and sent him off, for which Kate was grateful.
Outside the circle of light, the shadows lengthene
d as the clouds darkened the day. Another storm—Kate had sensed it coming, the heaviness of the air, the stillness. She closed her eyes, hoping the ritual might quiet her thoughts. This moment was for grief, for prayers for Werner’s soul, nothing else. But her mind continued to spin with the questions and possibilities stirred up by her mother’s revelations. Above Kate, heavy drops began to hit the roof. Pat. Pit pat. Pit pat pat patter. Quickly growing to a loud drumming. Out on the street, a man loudly cursed.
Friar Gerald’s voice rose in prayer and the novice assisting him, just a youth, he seemed, stepped out of the shadows beside Berend and moved forward, adding his high voice to those of the women as he entered the circle of lamps. Friar Gerald rose, took a cup of oil from his assistant, and sprinkled it over Werner. He had died unshriven, but perhaps his spirit lingered. Kate stepped away from Berend as Gerald and the novice approached. Friar Gerald made the sign of the cross over Kate and Berend, and then he and the novice took a seat on a bench near the door.
The service over, Eleanor directed Rose to open the shutters so that the sisters could see to clean Werner and then sew him into the shroud. The flames danced wildly in the draft from the storm.
Jocasta rose to greet Kate. “I came to see whether they were happy with Friar Gerald, and found my answer in that they had already sent for him in their need. Dear God, such a need. What more must they endure?” She crossed herself. “I feel blessed to be given this opportunity to help these gentle sisters, to support them in their grief, to join their beautiful voices lifted in prayer. And especially to comfort Sister Dina, to assure her that the murders are not the result of her courageous act. I will assist them in preparing his body after you have seen what you need to see.”
“And Friar Gerald?”
“He awaits the wishes of Dame Eleanor.”
As do we all, Kate thought.
The maidservants were snuffing the candles not needed by the sisters and setting them on a table to trim. The lamps flickered on the altar.
