A Murdered Peace

by Candace Robb

  Kate had mentioned only the wound that had killed Carl. A kindness. She impressed upon Griselde, Clement, and Seth that it was more important than ever that they keep “Mary” out of sight. Though, truly, whoever had tortured him would have come to the guesthouse by now if Carl had talked. But the violence inflicted on him was difficult for Kate to put out of her mind.

  Marie and Petra rushed into the kitchen, breathless with their news, announced partially by each.

  “Berend is in York!” Petra exclaimed. “We must find him.”

  “We must find him and hide him. The sheriffs’ men want him for murder,” said Marie, her eyes brimming with tears. “He is no murderer.”

  “And they call him a traitor,” said Petra.

  Damn the gossips. Kate opened her arms to the children, hugging them tightly to her. “We will prove them wrong,” she said, banishing all doubt from her voice and her heart. She would find a way to prove his innocence.

  Marie was the first to pull out of Kate’s grasp, sniffing the air. “Jennet, did you burn the stew again?” Stomping over to peer into the pot, she began quizzing the reluctant cook.

  “She is a tyrant,” Petra whispered in Kate’s ear. “But she was so upset when we heard folk talking about Berend, and then when Matt admitted it was the truth she burst into tears.”

  “And you?” Kate asked, smoothing Petra’s hair and kissing her cheek. “How are you?”

  Petra bowed her head and shrugged. “I dreamed a woman plucked a rose from a rose bush growing in a little casket. She gave it to Berend, but as he took it, he was pricked by a thorn. A poisoned thorn. He fell, fighting for his breath.”

  Kate drew her back into her arms, holding her close, kissing the top of her head.

  Petra pulled away, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what it means, but I do not doubt him. Or you. I know you will save him.”

  But what if he did not want to be saved? Kate wondered. He had asked her to say nothing of what he had told her. What was Kate’s responsibility regarding him? Honor his wish, or help him? What was her responsibility to the community? Surely to do all that she could to find out the root cause of the violence and ensure that it stopped. And what if that meant betraying Berend in order to save him?

  “You don’t doubt him, do you?” Petra asked.

  “No, my sweet. No.”

  9

  CONFEDERATES

  Before Kate left for the York Tavern she took Jennet aside. “Any thoughts about where Jon Horner might have spent the night, who he might have been with?”

  “Who might be a poisoner?” Jennet shook her head. “What I’ve learned of him so far, he took advantage of folk down on their luck. That sort has many enemies.”

  “I would think this would be someone he trusted enough to eat and drink with. How else might he have been poisoned?”

  “Someone who sold him a meat pie, or a pint of ale?”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No. None of his victims have been in such trades. I will keep looking.”

  With a nod, Kate took the hounds’ leads firmly in hand and headed off to the tavern, her mind busy considering the players in the game so far—Merek, dead; Jon Horner, dead; Lionel, badly injured; Berend, hiding; Margery and Carl—how were they connected to this? She hoped that Bess Merchet would tell her what she knew about Jon Horner and with whom he dined; indeed, Kate would be grateful for anything the old taverner cared to share. And her visit might come to naught, the woman had no cause to trust Kate. In that case, she might at least leave word that she had information for Elric. She wanted to discuss Lionel’s tale with him, Berend’s part in it, and, perhaps most important, that Merek had been killed at the other side of the Shambles from where he had been attacked by Horner.

  Bess Merchet stood in the middle of the public room, hands on hips, a challenge in her eyes as she watched Kate settle Lille and Ghent just inside the open door, one on each side. Colin Merchet assured Kate he would keep an eye on them, which made her smile wondering why he thought they might obey him.

  “They will keep an eye on themselves, Colin. But thank you.” She hesitated, remembering the poisoned meat. “Fetch me at once if anyone shows more than a passing interest in them.”

  He promised to do so.

  “You took your time,” Bess said loudly, interrupting them. “Come along.” She gestured for Kate to follow her to her lair between the public room and the kitchen. Pointing to a chair, she ordered Kate to sit. “You look as if you would welcome a sip of brandywine.”

  “I would indeed.” Kate perched tentatively on an embroidered cushion. “You are kind to offer.”

  “It has nothing to do with kindness.” Kate marveled at the illusion the woman created around her, a large presence, though she was in fact short enough that she stood on a small stool to reach a shelf that would be no stretch for Kate. She brought down a cobalt blue Italian glass bottle, then matching goblets, and lastly a pewter plate with roasted nuts. In steely silence Bess poured a goodly amount in each goblet, setting one in front of Kate, and then took a seat across from her in a high-backed, well-padded chair. Lifting her own goblet, the elderly taverner said, “Let us drink to the health of good friends,” and sipped.

  An odd toast. But Kate gladly sipped. A fine brandywine.

  Bess nodded, as if the drink signaled the beginning of their meeting. “Why did you wish to see me?”

  Taking her cue from the woman’s blunt question, Kate said, “I need your help.” And waited.

  Thick white brows drew together over eyes slightly milky with age yet fierce. The taverner’s rosy complexion was surprisingly unlined, and strands of copper hair mixed in with the white escaped her snowy, beribboned cap.

  “Regarding?” Her tone sharp, as if warning Kate not to waste her time.

  “Jon Horner. I understand he took his meals here. I hoped you might tell me what you know of him. If anyone ever joined him, particularly the spice seller found dead last night.”

  Old Bess sniffed and sipped her wine, her eyes still locked on Kate, who was beginning to wonder whether she was wasting precious time.

  “Horner.” Another sniff. “I paid him little heed.” With that, Bess sat awhile studying Kate, so long a while that the brandywine, which she sipped, and the homely sounds from the kitchen and the public room, began to lull Kate. She was startled when the elderly woman said, “Horner ate alone most days, though that shifty-eyed spice seller joined him on occasion.” As Kate opened her mouth to ask a question, Bess said, “I do not listen to customers’ conversations unbidden.”

  Unbidden. An interesting qualifier.

  “Did he dine with anyone else?” Kate asked.

  Bess tapped the table with a broad finger, rough from a life of hard work, the joints swollen with age. She appeared to be a woman of rich complexities, powerful in her own right, with an income sufficient to afford her the luxury of brandywine in old age, yet with no apparent desire to take advantage of her grandson’s presence to sit back and take her ease. Kate thought she might like the taverner, given a chance.

  “John Paris.” Bess spoke the name as if testing it, and on hearing it, nodded. “He is an occasional customer, so I might not have remembered but that he seemed uneasy when he dined with Horner one day, kept glancing round as if expecting trouble. A man of so little significance in the city, what did he fear? It had me wondering. I did not connect it with Horner at the time, but now . . .”

  Paris’s discomfort while dining with Horner interested Kate. A warehouse he managed for the merchant Thomas Graa stood next to her mother’s Martha House, and Paris himself lived close by. He was also a customer of Kate’s guesthouse, though he had not been there for a while, and she’d had a mind to refuse him in future for she’d had trouble with him the past summer, though related to her mother, not the guesthouse.

  “When was this?” Kate asked.

  “Perhaps a week past, a little more.” Bess looked at something beyond Kate. A parad
e of days? “Just about a week ago.”

  Kate thanked her. She would pay Paris a visit. “Anyone else?”

  “Now and then. No one of note. The sort I would turn away if they were on their own, the ones who never seem to have the coin to pay for what they drink.”

  Possibly useful. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Horner? Or Merek?”

  Bess shifted slightly in her chair, as if getting comfortable. Had Kate passed some test?

  “I know what you are about, Dame Katherine. You seek information that will convince the sheriffs that Berend did not murder Merek. Or Horner. I commend your loyalty. Berend is no murderer. Not now.”

  Bess knew that Berend was in the city? Because of Peter Trimlow’s accusation? Or was there more? Kate chose her words with care. “I was not aware that you knew Berend.”

  “No?” The hint of a smile. “He lodged here when he first came to York. In the large room, sharing with the others. He was well-liked, trusted. He told me about his childhood in a tavern, and I was about to fire my indifferent cook and hire Berend when he told me he had found employment. With you.”

  Berend had never mentioned lodging at the York Tavern. “I did not know.” And it hurt.

  “No one is ever entirely forthcoming, are they?” Bess gave her a knowing, but not unfriendly smile. “He is a man who seeks redemption. He’d not risk his soul for such petty criminals.”

  “Then I can count on you as an ally?”

  A tilt of the head, the ribbons on her cap touching her broad shoulders, the wise old eyes searching Kate’s face with some amusement. “So Berend is in the city?”

  Caught. Kate wanted Bess on her side; she would be a formidable enemy.

  “You say that as if you’d heard, but did not believe,” said Kate.

  A chuckle. “Once checkmated, it is customary to accept with grace. Do you play chess?”

  “I did with my late husband. It has been a while.”

  “You are Simon Neville’s widow, yes. I doubt he was a challenging opponent. A handsome rake with no head for money.”

  Kate gave a startled laugh. “That sums him up neatly.”

  “You will do better. I did the second time round.”

  “You certainly seem far more comfortable than I was on being widowed.”

  “But you have persevered, and gained the respect of the wealthiest merchants in York.” Bess studied Kate over the rim of her cup as she sipped. “I would be your friend, Dame Katherine. But I do not like secrets. Trimlow the baker said he’d seen Berend, but he has been known to see far odder things in his cups.”

  “He drinks here?”

  “He does. Are you choosing what to share and what to keep to yourself? As I said, secrets make a lie of a friendship.”

  “Even if they were entrusted to me and no one else?”

  “Ah.” Bess looked down into her goblet. “That is entirely different.” She was quiet a moment. “I count on you and Sir Elric to make certain that Berend is cleared of all suspicion. See that you succeed. Come to me in the morning if you have not yet found him, and the murderer. I will keep my ears pricked.”

  Kate wondered whether Old Bess’s ears were similar to Jennet’s.

  “Is there anyone else?” Bess asked.

  “Lionel Neville. Did he ever meet Horner here?”

  A roll of the eyes. “That man. He is no stranger to the tavern, but he never sat with Horner. I assure you, I would have made note of that. Why do you ask?” Bess gave her a warning look when Kate hesitated. “I cannot believe you would protect his secrets.”

  Neither could Kate. But his ordeal warranted discretion.

  How can Old Bess help you if you keep so much from her? Geoff asked in Kate’s head.

  Should I trust her with it, Geoff? Do you firmly believe that?

  I do.

  “Do you have a while?” Kate asked. “I have quite a tale to tell.”

  A slight grin and a nod. “There is enough brandywine for it.” Bess set down her empty cup and began to rise just as Ghent gave a bark from the tavern yard, followed closely by Lille.

  Kate jumped to her feet. “Those are warnings.”

  “I have been selfish,” said Bess. “I would not have your hounds come to harm. Sir Elric tells me they sit quietly at your feet, awaiting your command. If that is so, bring them in I pray you.”

  Kate gave her a cursory bow and hurried out, too anxious to see what was wrong to note Bess’s change of heart.

  Colin stood at the door watching Lille and Ghent stride back and forth between the door and toward the street to the extent their leads permitted, sniffing the air and growling.

  “I don’t know what they sense, Mistress Clifford. I’ve seen nothing awry.”

  “They often smell or hear what we cannot.” Kate bent to untie the hounds’ leads, whispering for them to show her. Sniffing the ground beneath the eaves just outside the door, they led her along the tavern building toward the square. The ground close to the house was bare of snow except for quickly melting clumps outlining two pairs of footprints. Parr and Sawyer? Seeing her dogs outside the tavern, had they paused here, hoping to overhear something? And then Lille and Ghent had raised the hue and cry.

  “Track,” she ordered.

  The hounds turned right in the square, leading her past the apothecary and the large Ferriby home, then round the corner onto Davygate. There they were, Parr and Sawyer, trying to push past a cart piled high with barrels. Good. The barking had frightened them off. Keeping hold of the hounds’ leads—they were ready to chase the men down—Kate was about to turn back when she noticed a boy calling to the pair. Skulker, a ne’er-do-well who hung around the warehouses near the staithes, working as an errand boy. Once, when Kate had noticed him at Paris’s warehouse next door to her former home, she had thought to use him, but Jennet had warned her to avoid him unless she wanted the wrong folk to know her business.

  Had the two men hired Skulker? If so, she wanted to see where he was taking them. Down Davygate they hurried, Kate maintaining just enough distance that she did not raise alarms—the hounds did attract attention. For once Kate was grateful for the crowded streets, especially the noisy street barkers calling out their wares, covering the greetings called out to her as she passed. Skulker’s path led down alleyways and round the market, gathering speed as he crossed into Castlegate.

  Kate felt a sudden twinge of foreboding. Castlegate was home to her mother and her beguines as well as to Thomas Holme, and it led not just to the staithes but also the warehouse John Paris managed, Skulker’s favorite haunts. She urged Lille and Ghent to a trot.

  John Paris stood on the street in front of the warehouse, shaking his head dejectedly as he caught sight of Skulker and the two men. Parr and Sawyer broke out into a run, shouting something at Paris, who shrugged and gestured toward York Castle.

  Hoping one of the beguines might know what had happened at the warehouse to draw Parr and Sawyer, Kate slipped into the little school Sister Brigida had fixed up in the small building that fronted her mother’s Martha House. She touched Lille and Ghent to let them know to be quiet and stay at her side. Brigida glanced up from her observation of two girls who were biting their tongues as they struggled to master styluses and wax tablets. As soon as the girls caught sight of Lille and Ghent they jumped up.

  “Can we ride them?” a tow-headed girl cried.

  “Can we?” echoed her freckled companion.

  Lille and Ghent each took a step backward, their ears registering their alarm.

  “They are hounds, not ponies,” Sister Brigida told the girls. Tall, long-limbed, Brigida was well able to reach out and grasp the girls by their shoulders and draw them back to their bench while quietly but firmly enjoining them to sit down and behave. “This is part of your education, learning not to startle any of God’s creatures.”

  The freckled imp was having none of that, and whispered to Lille, “Come, pup.”

  Brigida squeezed her shoulders. “Be still an
d silent, or you will pay with additional copying,” she warned.

  Kate was glad her girls were at home. They would have posed a larger problem, insisting on following her.

  Once the girls settled, Brigida apologized to Kate and asked what she might do for her.

  “You have heard no shouting at the warehouse next door?”

  The tow-head glanced up. “We did! And we saw the sheriffs’ constables rush in.”

  “And then I ordered them to sit down,” said Brigida. “Do you know what’s amiss?”

  “No. Did you see anyone come out with them?” Kate asked.

  “No. I am sorry. But you might ask Sister Dina. She is up above, trying to complete her work on a gown that was promised by this evening.”

  Ordering Lille and Ghent to sit by the door, Kate lifted her skirts and climbed up the steep ladder-like steps to the small solar above. Sister Dina, her round, sweet face furrowed in frowns as she bent to her needlework, did not even look up. Kate cleared her throat, then walked over to her. One hand came up, signaling that she would greet Kate in a moment. A few more stitches, a satisfied nod, and Dina tucked the needle in the fabric and pushed the work aside.

  “Dame Katherine. Welcome.”

  “Did you perchance glance out the window when the sheriffs’ men arrived at John Paris’s warehouse just now?”

  “Is that who they were?” She nodded. “I did. But I am not certain about what I thought I—” she looked up, searching for the English “—witnessed?”

  “Yes, that is the word.” Dina had found English difficult at first, but had been rapidly catching up with her companions, Brigida and Clara. “What did you think you witnessed?” Kate asked.

  “I saw our friend Berend. He was led away like a—” Dina bit her lip, frowned, brought her hands together as if tied.

  “Prisoner?” Kate guessed.

  “Yes. Yes. I would worry, but I must be—” Dina shook her head, “in error? He is not in the city, I think?”

  Kate silently cursed herself for not realizing the warehouse was somewhere Berend might hide. When they had lived next door to it, he had often taken leftover food to the workers there. They loved him for it and might very well hide him. But they might not think to have a care when Skulker was about.