by Candace Robb
“What of the boy?”
“He spoke mostly of Rosamund.”
“He might be Salisbury’s son.”
“Marie and Phillip might not be Simon Neville’s children. They look nothing like him. But Katherine did not demand proof.”
“No, she did not.” What proof could there be? For Berend, the boy’s age might expose the lie.
Berend shrugged as if to say no more need be said.
Elric left that line of questioning. “Did they try to hold you?”
“For a day, and then—confusion. Something alarmed them and they fled, leaving me locked up in a windowless room. Warren, an old friend, released me after Salisbury and his companions had ridden off.”
“And then?”
“I settled into a corner of the tavern and drank myself into sweet oblivion. Woke on a flea-ridden pallet to the news that the plotters had been routed. Warren meant to seek sanctuary at St. Mary’s Abbey in Cirencester. He wanted me to ride with him, guard his back.”
“Sanctuary in Cirencester.”
Berend nodded. “I disliked the plan, but not for the reason you have in mind. It took me west when I meant to go north and east to York, to Merek. I meant to force him to tell me the truth about Rosamund and the child. But Warren offered me a horse if I would ride with him. I owed him my life.”
“He was meeting up with the others?”
“You are asking whether Warren tricked me? I have had long to reflect on that, but I’ve come to no conclusions.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still at St. Mary’s, if he is wise.”
“Why did he not leave with you?”
“The abbot knows me, knows my sins. He permitted me to stay one night, but then I was to ride on. It suited me.” Berend flexed the fingers on his intact hand. “But I rode right into madness, the rabble furious about the fire the Earl of Huntington’s man had set as a distraction, and determined to show their loyalty by hunting down the traitors. Or incited to do so. So many townsmen armed so quickly, so adept at slaughter?”
“You believe there were king’s men leading them.” Elric nodded. “Do you think the abbot knew what you would find in the town? Did Warren?”
“I have wondered how I came to the market square just as the crowd attacked the escaping rebels.” Berend turned his scarred hands over and over in his lap. “They mobbed Salisbury and his men, shouting curses and ‘For King Henry!’ while tearing the men off their horses, seething like flies on a corpse, beating them, stabbing them. I fled for my life—down alleyways, through barns—”
“You were chased?”
“A few broke away and came after me, thinking I was one of the rebels. I left my horse in one of the barns and continued on foot. Lost them. For how long, though? I thought to lie low in a barn. God must have guided me. How else did I choose the very barn in which—” He stopped, as if remembering himself.
“In which Lady Kirkby hid?” Elric asked.
A curt nod. “And her manservant. I did not recognize her at first. I saw a woman perched on a milking stool in the corner, staring at nothing, a man whispering to her—‘My lady, we must go, we must hasten.’ But we were far from the crowd by then, and she was beyond hearing. When he noticed me, he caught up a pitchfork and came at me. By that time I knew her. I shouted my name, and Dame Katherine’s. ‘Your lady is my mistress’s dear friend. I would not harm her. I pray you—’ I don’t know what convinced him, but he tossed aside the pitchfork before he did me more harm than this eye.”
“God in heaven, he came so close?”
“I was certain I was dead. Or blinded.”
“But you did not run.”
“How did I come to find her? What heavenly agency led me there? I could not run, not seeing how she sat there, holding—it—in her lap, and she had begun to keen.” Berend crossed himself, covered his face, his breathing rough.
Are we animals? Is this what happens to a people when we raise up a king who murders his anointed cousin? Elric pushed the wineskin toward Berend. “Drink.” He wished he had two wineskins. But his companion was more in need.
Berend picked it up, took a long drink. Coughing, he stoppered the skin, wiped his mouth, faced Elric. “Her man fell to his knees before me. ‘My lady has seen such a thing as no wife should ever witness.’ He began to weep. I guessed what it was that she held in her lap. I went to her, knelt to her, asked her what we should do with her husband’s head.” His voice breaking, Berend looked away.
Elric let the silence settle a while, fighting the urge to bombard the man with questions. When Berend’s breathing steadied, Elric permitted himself to ask, “How in the name of all the saints did she escape the crowd with the head?”
“A boy took it. A trophy, holding it over his head and crowing. She rushed after him. Her man said she ran swift as a greyhound, holding up her skirts and running like the wind, he had never seen the like. He found her in the barn, holding the head.”
“And the boy?”
Berend shook his head. “I saw no sign of him. Of course she was soaked in her husband’s blood.”
“So she is here in the city?”
A nod.
“Safe?”
“I believe so.”
“Why did she come here?”
“I asked her where she wished to go and she said it did not matter. I could not leave her. A sleepwalker she was, until we were close to the city. She seemed to wake then, talking about her husband, talking, talking, like bees buzzing in her head she could not stop talking about him. His love of truth. His belief in basic goodness.”
“Did Merek’s death have anything to do with the Epiphany Rising?” Elric asked.
“Epiphany Rising? Is that what they call it? An ignoble plot it was, not an uprising.” Berend rubbed his head. “It was madness. But to be slaughtered as they were . . . God rest their souls.”
Elric tried another approach. “How did you come to possess the casket?”
“Merek gave me the casket on my return. He said I was the only man he could imagine making it across the border with it. The arrival of Parr and Sawyer frightened him, you see. They’d been in Salisbury’s household, then Rosamund’s, then cast out, accused of theft, abuse of a maidservant, and spying on Salisbury when he visited. Merek believed they might have heard the scheme to return Richard to the throne. He said there could be no other explanation for their arrival in York. And they clearly seemed to know of a casket of great value.”
Parr and Sawyer spied on Salisbury? Elric could offer them to Sir Peter as even better informants about the uprising than Berend. “What did he intend to do?”
“Run. Lionel Neville was arranging Merek’s passage on a trading ship leaving the following day.”
Neville had failed to mention that to Katherine. “Why would Lionel agree to that?”
“I don’t know.”
“But why would Salisbury entrust the jewels to such a man?”
“Merek Lacy was Rosamund’s brother.”
It began to make sense. “Hence his determination to convince you the child was yours. So you would protect his sister and nephew. And you believe him? How old is the boy?”
“Old enough to be mine. Or so they say.”
“His name?”
“Rosamund named him after Salisbury, hoping he would believe the child his.”
“John? Berend, how likely is it—”
“A man with such sins as I carry leaps at any chance for redemption.”
Most men justified such a past as little different from battle. Eliminating the enemy. “So you’re proposing Parr and Sawyer murdered Merek before they had stolen the casket. Why would they do that?”
“I can’t solve this for you. All I can tell you is that evening Merek took me to the church where he’d hidden the casket, and then he went on to meet with Neville about his passage. Have you heard enough to free me?”
Had he? Elric wanted to believe Berend, for Katherine’s sake. But could he con
vince the sheriffs and the king’s men?
“I need to find Parr and Sawyer. If I can convince the sheriffs that you are the one to flush them out, they might release you into my custody. But the king’s men—I don’t know that I can convince them. Perhaps if you handed over Lady Kirkby—”
“No. Even if I knew where she is—which I do not—I would not hand her over.”
“You said you knew she was safe. How do you know that?”
Berend looked away. “With all searching for her, would we not hear if she had been found?” he asked.
Elric might have accepted that answer had Berend not averted his eyes. He did not like this. Was it possible that Katherine had been hiding Lady Margery all along?
Berend stirred.
Elric’s argument was not with him. “What of the men in the lodging at Oxford? Would you give Sir Peter a list of names?”
“I named the three I knew, and they are all dead.”
“What will you do if you are freed?”
“Take the jewels to Rosamund and the boy. I need to know he is safe.”
Elric understood. He hoped he would do the same. “And Lady Kirkby?”
“She wishes to go to Rosamund. She says it will give her a purpose, for the nonce.” A shrug. “If I am able to find her.”
“You spoke of a servant with her. Did he accompany you?”
Berend hesitated. “Yes. He was still with her when we parted.”
“You have heard something about him?”
“How could I?”
Elric rose. “I will speak with Dame Katherine.” He noted Berend’s alarm before he looked away. “I will say nothing of Rosamund and the boy. But you must tell her everything.” He described the two rings tucked into the pouch bearing the Montagu arms. “She senses the heart of the tale in that pairing.”
“Katherine.” Berend groaned.
“We must first devise a plan to get you out of here without the king’s men seeing us. They will have a watch on the castle.”
“Jennet can help.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.”
This time Elric received a warm greeting from the bailiff, who motioned toward two chairs arranged before a fire, a flagon of wine, and two cups sitting on a small table in between. “Unless the young man will be joining you?”
Elric shook his head. He’d left Matt out in the corridor with orders to warn him at once if the king’s men arrived.
He had just settled and the bailiff had offered to pour the wine when Edmund Cottesbrok, one of the sheriffs, strode through the door, preceded by his clerk holding aloft his mace of office as he announced his master’s presence. Elric had forgotten the ceremony with which the sheriffs proceeded through the city. Tongues would be wagging. He cursed himself for not thinking of that. Too late now.
“No, I pray you, do not trouble yourself to rise,” Cottesbrok said, throwing off his cloak and perching on the other chair, nodding to the bailiff to pour for him as well. He lifted his cup, proposing a toast. “To your health, Sir Elric, and that of Lord Neville.”
“You have had some news?”
“I received a message from William Frost, the mayor-elect, who recommends we cooperate in this matter. He believes you are well on your way to discovering the murderer. True?”
Elric wondered how Frost knew of this. Katherine? He found her mark on everything he touched. “What I can tell you is that you have an innocent man in your dungeon, a man who is suffering crippling shackles, no fire, nor cloak, and bare feet in a cold, damp cell.”
Cottesbrok made a concerned sound, but a slight shift in posture prepared Elric for the refusal. “There is the matter of the king’s men,” he sighed. “You understand there is little we can do to deter them. Sir Peter has informed Wrawby and me that he will arrest Berend for treason the moment we release him.” John Wrawby was his fellow sheriff this term. “Until you can convince him that Berend took no part in the plot against King Henry and his family, our releasing him only plays into Sir Peter’s hands.”
Elric glanced back at the pair standing by the door. “Might we speak in private?”
Cottesbrok gestured to his clerk and the bailiff to refresh their cups and then leave. When the door had closed behind the men, the sheriff settled back in his chair, crossing his legs, looking down his long nose. “I can guess what you mean to propose. But before you suggest spiriting him away, Wrawby and I would have you consider the mood of the aldermen and freemen. Everyone has heard how mobs chased down those rumored to be part of the plot against the king and his sons and slaughtered them. Outside the law, without trial. Many here condemn that, it is true, and Berend has friends in the city. He seems to inspire strong loyalty. He might be safe, people might go far to see that is so. But Sir Peter and Captain Crawford are men determined to prove themselves to the new king. And they may have allies in the city. Are you ready to risk your future?”
His argument gave Elric pause, especially the part about Sir Peter possibly having allies in the city. King Henry might have chosen him for this task for precisely that reason. “What do you propose instead?”
“He stays here until you can clear his name.”
“What if I need his help to clear his name?”
“It is not ideal. Nothing is at present. This whole business has the stench of—” Cottesbrok cleared his throat and took a drink. “I merely point out the risk.”
Elric took his wine and went to stand by the fire, staring into the flames, considering how quickly word had spread through the city of the shifting fortunes of the warring cousins the past summer while soldiers were massed there prepared to defend it against Henry of Lancaster. Defending the city for King Richard they were, and heaven help the Lancastrian exile. But then, as the word traveled through the ranks of the great army that Henry was collecting as he rode west, and all the nobles and their men defecting to his cause—even York’s mayor and aldermen offering Lancaster financial support—the soldiers broke up their camps on Toft Green and quietly slipped out the city gates. They joined the uprising in support of Henry of Lancaster, who promised to be a more generous, wiser, more Godly king. Who could have predicted that sudden turnabout?
And now, how quickly would word of Berend’s release spread? How certain was Elric that the people of York would protect Berend? Would he have sufficient supporters with the power to protect him? There was wisdom in keeping him here. Safe.
“Is there another room like this in the castle?” Elric asked.
Cottesbrok frowned. “What do you mean, a room like this?”
“Warmed by a hearth, with a narrow embrasure allowing a little light and air, some comfortable furnishings.”
“Ah. For the prisoner.”
“For the man being held here for his own safety.” Elric marked the man’s apologetic wince, but still asked, “Or did I misunderstand your point?”
“No. Of course not. But if Sir Peter hears Berend might walk out at his leisure, that he is not in chains . . .”
“Would you consider yourself fortunate to be locked, barefoot and without a warm cloak, in a cold, damp dungeon with no fire, little air or light, shackled so that you could not take a full stride, and lacking even a bench on which to sit?”
The sheriff bowed his head. “You have made your point.”
“Either you prepare comfortable accommodations for Berend, or you assist me in slipping him past the king’s men. And swear on your life that no one in your service will reveal that Berend is no longer in the castle.”
“You would threaten me?”
Elric inclined his head, but did not speak the words as Cottesbrok glanced toward the door.
“You are not certain of your own men,” said Elric. “I understand.” A sheriff served from one Michaelmas to the next, one year, insufficient time to form a bond of loyalty he might trust. And the bailiff was likely to be standing right outside the door, doing his best to hear all that passed between them.
Cottesbrok rose. “I will show y
ou the room. It can be locked, a man stationed outside.”
“For that I want the present jailer. He will choose a man he trusts to relieve him at night.”
The sheriff nodded.
“And you will permit the beguines on Castlegate to bring him his meals and see that he has all he needs.”
“God in heaven you test my patience, Sir Elric. Are we to bow to him when we enter?” Cottesbrok snapped.
“I have spent the past hour in a cold, dank dungeon, sitting on a hard bench, listening to a man bare his soul to me. I am in no mood to appease your temper. I simply want him treated as the honorable man I believe him to be.”
Raised brows, but a nod. “Of course. It will be as you decree.”
12
ORDEALS
When Kate returned, Marie was giving Petra a cooking lesson, with much rolling of the eyes and sighing.
Jennet sat by the door keeping her hands busy with a distaff and spindle, creating a fine wool thread. Without pausing in her work, she invited Kate to sit beside her. “The girls are too busy arguing to overhear if we speak softly.”
“I called on Dame Jocasta.”
“And?”
“She was sorry Griselde found the maidservant lacking and went to fetch her.”
Jennet grinned down at the spindle. “That is a relief.”
“Yes and no. I did not mean to involve her.”
“She might have refused.”
Kate sighed as Lille settled at her feet, warming them.
“I had a visitor,” said Jennet with a glint of excitement in her eyes.
“Elric? Berend?”
“No, sorry, one of my eyes and ears, the scrivener I’ve befriended. He’s discovered more about Jon Horner.”
A good source, eager to make trouble for a man who gave those in his profession a bad name. Horner had set himself up as a scrivener to prey on the desperate, threatening to reveal their bad debts and illegal trades if they did not pay for his discretion—charging a fee more than double the customary.