The Service of the Dead

by Candace Robb

  “Have you considered my proposal?” he asked as they crossed into Nessgate, almost home. “My silence and protection for your information?”

  “And if I refuse?”

  A small smile. “You are a formidable warrior, Dame Katherine. I prefer to be your ally, not your foe.”

  “Then perhaps we understand each other.” She thanked him for the escort and excused herself for not inviting him in. “Petra is with her tutor today in the hall. I prefer that we not disturb them.”

  “Ah. How is she fitting in your household?”

  Kate shook her head. “Phillip has chosen to stay with the Granthams for a while, until Marie becomes accustomed to Petra’s presence.” She smiled. “It is an uneasy peace. Like ours.”

  She nodded to him, signaled to Jennet, and was turning down the alley when Elric barred her way.

  “One more thing, Dame Katherine.” Curious how chilly blue eyes could be. “Your cousin William mentioned that Jon Underhill had shown him a letter carrying King Richard’s seal. We found no such letter on the corpse.”

  “So you have exhumed him? To give him a proper burial, I hope?”

  An ambiguous shrug. “Frost said Underhill had a pack with him when he was escorted to your guesthouse that fateful night. Is that in your possession?”

  “You know that it is, Sir Elric. You searched for it yourself up in my bedchamber.”

  He cleared his throat and looked down at his boots for a moment. So he had a conscience. “Forgive me, Dame Katherine, but I had orders. And for all that I found no letter.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you know of the letters.”

  “I know of the one William glimpsed. Was there another?”

  A slight twitch beneath his left eye. “You miss nothing, do you?”

  Kate merely arched a brow. “It grows cold out here.”

  “Of course. Forgive me for keeping you, Dame Katherine. I pray I have not jeopardized our partnership with my trespass.”

  “And I pray it is not repeated.” She wished him a safe journey back to Sheriff Hutton Castle, then strode on down the alley, her heart pounding. She must find a safer place for the letters than the floor of her solar, somewhere they would be secure even should someone set fire to her home.

  20

  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, OIL AND WATER

  Early April 1399

  Dame Eleanor felt a shiver of anticipation as her traveling party approached Micklegate Bar, its battlements guarding the south gate of the great city of York. More than six years had passed since she had paused before mounting her horse, taking one last look at the city wall, fixing it in her mind’s eye so that she might revisit it in memory from time to time. She had been on her way to a new adventure, having married a wealthy spice merchant from Strasbourg, and was quite certain she would never return. Even her daughter’s marriage had not drawn her back. Yet now, here she stood, having dismounted in order to lead her horse through that well-guarded gate and into the city.

  She shivered and pulled up the fur-lined hood of her traveling cloak against the chill rain that had begun falling just as the city came into view. Still cold in early April. But of course. It would be even colder in Northumberland, where she had spent most of her first marriage. At least her son Walter’s wedding was a month away. By May the weather might prove felicitous for journeying north to celebrate it.

  Already she missed Strasbourg. Though it sat at the foot of the Alps, it enjoyed a more temperate climate than York. Or had Ulrich’s love simply made it feel warmer?

  “Dame Eleanor?” Her man Griffin peered at her face, shadowed by the hood. “Are we to proceed?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She glanced over at her companions and saw how their shoulders crept toward their ears. Brigida was visibly shivering. “Come along, my dears. We shall soon be warming our hands at my nephew’s hearth. His manse is just within this gate.” She prayed that was so, that they were expected. The decision to leave Strasbourg and set up her Martha House in York had been sudden, of necessity. She had written a letter, but whether it had preceded her to York she could not know until she was face-to-face with her nephew William. He had procured his late father-in-law’s great house on Micklegate, a manse large enough to house Eleanor and her three companions, as well as the two servants and Griffin. It was only a temporary sanctuary, until Eleanor persuaded her daughter Katherine to part with one of the sweet houses on High Petergate that had been part of her dower. There might be tenants to evict, but surely for her mother, and to the benefit of her immortal soul . . . Eleanor, though, had never mastered the art of predicting how her daughter might respond.

  Griffin knocked on the substantial oaken door to William’s fine house. The confusion evident on the face of the servant who answered was disappointing.

  “I pray your master informed you that he was expecting us,” said Eleanor.

  A large woman stepped in front of the servant with such determination that the keys on her gold and silver girdle tinkled delicately. All in velvet in late morning, and it was not even a feast day. Isabella Gisburne Frost. She was certainly her father’s daughter, keen to remind all how much she was worth. Eleanor prayed her nephew had not caught the malaise. He had been an honest, worthy man when she had parted with him. But he had made a name for himself, and such things did go to a man’s head. “I know nothing of my husband expecting guests. You are—?”

  “I have come to see my nephew, William Frost. I am his aunt, Eleanor Clifford. You do not recognize me?”

  “Dame Eleanor who lives in Strasbourg?” The chilly gaze warmed slightly, but the narrow, colorless lips remained pursed as if she detected a bad smell. “It has been a long while.”

  My, what an unattractive woman William had wed. Eleanor did not remember her as quite so long in the face, the eyes so close together and small, the nose so sharp, the torso so . . . abundant. They ate well in this household. Too well for some.

  “Lived, my dear Isabella. I have returned to York as a widow, a wealthy widow, and William has welcomed me to bide with you until I have set up my own household.” Or he would, were he the man she believed him to be. Hoped him to be.

  “William said nothing to me—”

  “It is raining again,” Eleanor remarked, stepping aside and motioning Dina, Clara, and Brigida to enter. “I had thought delaying the journey to arrive in April I might avoid such dreadful cold. Alas, it seems I have forgotten how long winter lingers here.” She slipped past her reluctant hostess and shepherded the young women toward the hearth. A hearth, not a fire circle. How forward-looking. “Did your father install this, or was this my nephew’s addition to the hall?”

  “My father, of course. Though my husband installed another for our dear Hazel’s bedchamber. It is better for her lungs.”

  So their one child was cursed with her father’s weak lungs. “Yes, of course, poor William. He was the youngest, you know. The runt of the litter. His lungs were weak from birth. That is why he spent summers with us up north, breathing and strengthening. My sons put him through his paces. Put muscle on him.”

  “Your sons. Yes.” For a moment the woman’s face softened with sadness. But only a moment. “Who are these women, Dame Eleanor?” Isabella’s beady eyes looked down the considerable length of her nose at the young women timidly holding their hands out to the fire.

  “They are Beguines, Isabella. Lay sisters, poor sisters. I am not certain what you call them here. They will set up the Martha House I am founding in York, to tend to the souls and welfare of the poor. Dina, Clara, Brigida.” The three young woman bowed and offered a blessing in French.

  Isabella frowned. Difficulty with the accents, perhaps, or perhaps she was the sort who felt uneasy around pious virgins. “And this man?” Isabella gestured toward Griffin, who had remained near the door, arms folded, as the two servants hustled past him with Eleanor’s baggage.

  “Griffin. My late husband’s factor.” And armed retainer. But naming him a factor, a
man of business, was clearly what would reassure this woman that the man was not a barbarian come to ravage her. He had served as Eleanor’s escort—three young virgins, precious cargo, God knows. Griffin had been armed and ready to defend them.

  “A factor? Do you intend to trade here in York?”

  “Perhaps.” Eleanor looked around. “Where is my nephew?”

  “At the council chambers or . . . He is a busy man. But I expect him for dinner.” The woman’s eyes were suddenly far away, probably thinking how to extend the food for the unexpected guests. Or praying that her husband had not forgotten to inform her that he was dining elsewhere, forcing her to entertain Eleanor and her three women without him. “Would you not be more comfortable in your daughter’s home? Do you remember it, situated next to Thomas Holme’s lovely manse, and across Castlegate from the gardens that lead down to the Foss?”

  Eleanor remembered Simon Neville’s house as much too small for her traveling party. It was her daughter’s additional houses in the city that interested her. But she must approach Katherine with care. Her daughter could be quite stubborn when she felt pushed. “This will suit us very well, Isabella my dear. If you would just show us where we might shed our traveling clothes and wash?”

  Kate and Griselde stood in the repaired and refurbished hall next to the guesthouse, discussing whether or not to lease the house with furnishings or without. Odo was now comfortably lodged in the home of a midwife in Fishergate, and Berend had just supervised the transfer of the spices to the small house in front of her own on Castlegate. Much to Lionel’s dismay, she had hired a clerk whose sole job was keeper of the spice. Young Seth was delighted with the work.

  “Furnished is best,” Griselde concluded. “Then it is always at the ready.”

  They were about to climb to the solar when Jennet rushed in. “Dame Katherine!”

  “God help us, what has happened now?” Kate asked, seeing Jennet’s flushed face, the mud on her hem.

  “It’s your mother. Dame Eleanor. She has just arrived in the city.”

  Kate felt her heart turn over.

  God help you, Kate, Geoff muttered.

  “Mother is here?” Kate groaned. “Did Ulrich decide to return to York?”

  Jennet shook her head. “Apparently she is a widow again, and she has brought three poor sisters with her, to open a house here. To serve the poor of the city.”

  “That part of Walter’s story was true?”

  “You will hear soon enough. She is biding at Master Frost’s house on Micklegate and Mistress Frost has sent Tib with an invitation for you to dine there today.”

  She could not. No. It was too soon. “Does she know about Walter?”

  “Tib says she has proposed that the Frosts make the journey north with her, for the wedding. Dame Isabella wants you there now. She says it is your duty to break the news.”

  Kate muttered a curse. Nothing was so bad that her mother’s presence would not make it worse. Far worse. And to be the one to deliver such news, such blame.

  The dinner had been almost a comedy of discomfort, everyone talking around the death that negated Eleanor’s elaborate plans for the journey north. The last course had barely been served when Kate could sit no longer.

  “Would you join me in the garden, Mother? We must talk.”

  “I am eating, Katherine. And it is raining.”

  “Wear your cloak.”

  “You are welcome to use my office,” said William. “Tib will unlock it for you and bring you some wine.”

  Kate strode out, calling to her mother to follow. Huffing and tsking, Eleanor arrived in the lamp-lit building just across from the front entrance and immediately assumed the role of hostess, adding cushions to the chairs Tib arranged by a brazier. Another servant followed with wine and goblets, then stoked the fire.

  As soon as the servants withdrew, Kate launched into an account of the past few weeks, sparing her mother nothing. She needed to know. When her mother would interrupt, Kate raised her voice and carried on. Eventually, Eleanor simply bowed her head and listened through to the end. When Kate finished, her hand shook as she lifted the goblet of wine to her lips. It was not the story, but her mother’s presence.

  Have I not suffered enough? Kate asked God.

  Apparently not, said Geoff.

  Eleanor’s silence was brief. “No. No, I cannot be blamed for all this. You and your brothers—I brought you to York to stop your talk of going north to track Andrew. Let him go, I said. Let the blood feud die.”

  “Me and my brothers? It was Father who instilled in us a distrust of all Scots and a particular enmity with the Cavertons. If you must blame one of your children, place the blame where it belongs—Walter.”

  A sob. “My poor son.”

  Kate closed her eyes and silently said a few Hail Marys. She would never forgive her mother, never. But it was no use venting her anger at the woman. Eleanor was not one to accept fault. She was adept at twisting criticism so that it reflected back on the critic. Kate judged it best to talk of something else before she began fingering the dagger hidden in her skirt. “Tell me about your three poor sisters. Beguines, you called them? How did you come to be their escort here?”

  “Their families were all known to my dear Ulrich.”

  “Why have they chosen York for a new house?”

  “I chose it. I am establishing a house here, as I was just telling William and Isabella. You were at the table.”

  “Why?” Seeing the spots of color on her mother’s cheeks, Kate softened the question. “You had so short a time with Ulrich. Your grief—is this foundation in his memory? Will they be praying for his soul? And perhaps those of my brothers? Our father?”

  “All of that. Of course.” Eleanor fussed with the flagon of wine on the table, shifting it slightly to the left.

  “You do know that my partner and neighbor, Thomas Holme, founded a maison dieu attached to our parish church in Castlegate? With poor sisters. Perhaps he might advise you, Mother.”

  “I do not need his help.”

  “It would be a courtesy to consult with him.”

  “It is he who should consult with me. What does he know of poor sisters? I have observed them closely, their good works.”

  Kate felt her anger building again. “I pray you, Mother, do not antagonize him. I need his friendship. I have worked hard to build—”

  “York needs this.”

  “What do you know of this city and its needs?” Eleanor and her cursed meddling. “Who are you to judge? You, who pushed Walter toward the Cavertons? How could you not see the danger in that? Do you realize the enormity of what happened here? The deaths? The threat to my wards? To me?”

  “My sisters will pray for you as well.”

  “I do not want prayers. It is too late for prayers. What I need now is some peace. Peace in which to calm my business partners and reassure them that all is well. But of course all is not well. We are all holding our breaths as we wait to see how Henry of Lancaster responds to the king’s threats to deny his inheritance. The king’s men boarded my ship. Did you know of that?”

  Too late Kate saw the trembling mouth, the tears. She was out of practice with the woman.

  “No,” Eleanor said quietly. “No, I did not know of that.” She drew a deep breath and shook her arms as if fluffing her feathers. “Tell me about your dinner with Archbishop Scrope and Dean Richard. And what about this knight, Sir Elric? I understand he is not married.”

  Kate stared at her mother, bereft of words for several heartbeats.

  Long enough that her mother continued. “You are the heiress now, you know. The land in Northumberland is yours now that Walter is dead. You need a husband to help you with the estate.”

  “I need no husband to do that,” said Kate. “Nor do I want the manor up north. I will entrust William to arrange with some family member to exchange the land for property near York. I have built a life here.”

  “William? But, Katherine.”

&nb
sp; “How can you do this? You have just learned of the death of your last surviving son and you talk of this?”

  “I will pray for him anon. You are my remaining responsibility. What about Walter’s daughter—Petra, did you call her?” Eleanor rose to exchange one of the cushions on her chair for one across the room, then settled back, shaking her head. “What an odd name, Petra.”

  Kate felt the outline of the hidden dagger. “What about Petra?”

  “Katherine, dear, bringing her up with Simon’s French bastards. Is it seemly?”

  “Will you shun bastards in your Martha House? Will your holy women refuse them prayers? Or charity? You do realize that Petra is a bastard?”

  They regarded each other for a good long while. Kate noticed the new lines radiating from the corners of her mother’s eyes and her upper lip, as if she had developed a habit of squinting and pursing her lips in disapproval. Charity? Piety? Not her mother. Kate guessed the poor sisters were no more than a convenient cause to fill the void left by Ulrich’s death. She pitied the next man her mother snared, and the unfortunate sisters who would be left stranded in a foreign country.

  At last Eleanor sighed. “You must admit that your household is peculiar, Katherine.”

  “No more than yours, Mother. Three young Alsatian women and an armed retainer you call a factor, with an accent suggesting he originated in Wales but has lived for quite a while in the Holy Roman Empire. A mercenary? And I’m curious about the one sister—Brigida? She speaks Parisian French, and though her gown is simple, the fabric is expensive. New cloth. Just a merchant’s daughter?”

  “My, you have learned much in your time here. But not enough. Wealthy merchants often hire Parisian tutors for their children.”

  “For girls?”

  “Her parents had expected her to marry well.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose and leaned forward, taking Kate’s hands. “What of Geoffrey? Do you still believe he is with you?”