A Twisted Vengeance

by Candace Robb

  “I have a few of the best trackers searching for her,” said Jennet. “What of Sister Dina? Did she remember anything of use?”

  All the sorrow welled up, and Kate needed to sit down for the telling. She wanted them to know all, that Dina must in no way ever feel blamed. When Kate was finished, Jennet sat silently, staring at her feet.

  “May her father be thrown into the fires of hell and forgotten,” Berend growled. He put a pitcher of ale and three small bowls on the table beside the vegetables and settled down across from Kate.

  “As you see,” she said, “her memory of the morning agrees with Kevin’s, once he arrived, though it is incomplete.”

  “So Robin was searching the kitchen.”

  “Nan kept a key to the house there,” Kate said.

  “I should have gone to Nan earlier,” said Jennet.

  “There is no point to such self-recrimination,” said Kate. “None of this might have happened if . . . We can always say that. What could Nan know? How can she be of help to Robin now? Might it be true—that he’s dying and he’s asked for her? They would not want to give away their hiding place.”

  “If she isn’t part of the plan, what happens to her now?” Jennet’s frown made it clear what she thought.

  “I’ll go to Toft Green this evening,” said Berend. “We need to know the gossip in the camp.”

  Kate agreed. “I will accompany you.”

  “If I may advise, it would be best if I take Matt. This is a camp of soldiers, and you are a woman. Not only that, but there are those in the camp, many, I suspect, who think Lille and Ghent should be put to better use than guarding your interests here in York. You’ll be noticed and I’ll hear nothing.”

  Kate did not like it, but Berend was right. “I will talk to Agnes.”

  The former mistress of the house was standing over the kitchen fire watching a pot of water, muttering to Eleanor’s maidservant about her mistress’s cursed insistence on boiling everything. She glanced up when Kate stepped into the kitchen, and began to apologize.

  The steam in there was enough to make anyone testy. Kate held up a hand in peace. “I do not disagree. I never knew my mother to require boiled water. Some odd advice taken to heart?” A cure for some pain? A fear of poison? “Heaven knows. Agnes, might we have a word? Rose, would you watch the water?”

  The maidservant gave a reluctant shrug.

  Agnes wiped her brow and neck with her apron, tucking damp strands of her hair back into her plain white cap. Kate led her round to the back of the kitchen, an area of deep shade beneath the eaves and the plane tree, beside the tall hedge. She told her about the man coming for Nan.

  “Dying? Poor Nan! Her heart will be breaking. She bragged that they were to marry and he promised her a house, pretty clothes, a cow, and a hen. I told her that a man will promise anything to get up a woman’s skirts. But she would not hear me, she so wanted to believe him.” Agnes muttered an apology as she drew off her veil and shook out her long braid. “God help us, there is so little breeze.” Strands of wet hair now clung to her damp face.

  As she could do nothing about the woman’s discomfort, Kate ignored her complaints. “Do you know a man by the name of Bran?”

  “Bran?” Agnes cocked her head. “I’ve heard it, but where? It will come to me.”

  “Do you have any idea where Robin might be?”

  Agnes shook her head. “I never knew where he lived.”

  Nor had Nan. “What might Nan have seen in this house that was worth stealing? Some valuables she mentioned to Robin?”

  “Nothing. There is nothing but the house itself. The sisters live so simply. The offerings on the altar are of no value but to them. I’ve no idea what Dame Eleanor has in her chests, but Nan had no reason to know either. Truly. The sisters have so lit—” Her voice trailed off as a man’s voice rose in anger out in the garden.

  Thomas Holme. And now Dame Eleanor’s voice rose in injured retort. Kate caught Agnes’s arm and stopped her from stepping out to look.

  10

  TENSIONS

  “They walked off together,” Thomas was saying. “Have you no control over your servants?”

  “Griffin is not a servant,” Eleanor snapped, “and Werner is now your responsibility. No doubt they have gone off to pray for the soul of their friend Hans. As should we all.” A sniff.

  “My gardener waited for him all afternoon, then did the heavy lifting himself and injured his back. He and Werner were set to finish clearing away the old stone shed down by the water.”

  “That old man should know better.”

  “I should have known better than to hire your servants.”

  “Werner will return and complete the work, I assure you. He is trustworthy.”

  “Is he? I would not know. And what about Hans’s funeral? Have you made arrangements?”

  “I assure you it is all in hand. Magistra Matilda’s sisters have prepared his body for burial, and he will be buried at our parish church. Your parish church.”

  Thomas cleared his throat and spoke too softly for Kate to hear.

  “Why are you so aggrieved?” said Eleanor. “It was Werner’s friend who was murdered last night.”

  “And I am afraid I’ve lost two servants in one day. What monster have you brought into our midst? Why are you in York?”

  When her mother called him a bilious old fool, Kate decided it was time to interfere.

  “Go back to your work,” she told Agnes as she moved out into the garden.

  “I suppose I am a fool—for hiring your servants.” Thomas stood with his hands balled into fists at his side, his face purple with rage. Kate had never seen her business partner in such a state. Her mother had a talent for drawing out extreme emotions in the most tranquil of souls.

  “What is amiss, Thomas? Mother?”

  “She is a snake in the garden, your mother. She’s brought these troubles down on us.”

  Not entirely, thought Kate. There was the matter of Thomas and his friends supporting Duke Henry against their sovereign king. But she calmly said that she and her household were doing all they could to find out why Hans was murdered, and whether his death had any connection to the intruder.

  “Of course it does,” Thomas fairly shouted.

  Kate quietly asked what the connection might be.

  “Her!” The hand he thrust out, finger pointing toward Eleanor, shook with emotion.

  “Might I be of assistance?” Berend came through the gate flanked by Lille and Ghent, who trotted over to Kate, sniffing her hands, then turning their gazes on Thomas.

  “Find Werner,” said Thomas, quieter now, though still angry. “And, for all our sakes, find out who murdered Hans before anyone else has their neck snapped.” He bowed to Kate, to Berend, and, after a moment’s hesitation, to Eleanor, and strode off through the gate in the hedge.

  Lille and Ghent sat down at Kate’s feet and peered up at her through their bushy brows.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but I heard shouting,” said Berend.

  “Oh, bless you, Berend, I am most grateful,” said Eleanor, waving her hand as if to cool herself.

  “Thomas is concerned Werner has disappeared. He has not returned since walking off with Griffin this afternoon,” Kate explained to Berend.

  “Mere hours,” said Eleanor.

  “After last night, I understand his concern,” said Berend.

  “You, too? I’d thought you were made of stouter stuff.” Eleanor sniffed.

  Kate gestured toward a bench at the edge of the garden. “Shall we sit, Mother? I would talk with you.” She nodded to Berend. “Wait for me in the kitchen. I will not be long.” She motioned to Lille and Ghent to follow Berend. Lille rose with a sigh, gazing back at Kate every few steps. Her concern warned Kate that her agitation was palpable.

  “So, Mother, you have that look in your eyes. Where are Griffin and Werner? Did you send them on a mission?”

  Eleanor would not meet her eyes but played with
her sleeve and began to address the matter of Hans’s burial.

  “Do not play the feeble-minded popinjay with me right now, Mother, or I swear I will pluck your tail feathers. Where are they? Where are Griffin and Werner?”

  Tears in her eyes, Eleanor shook her head. “How you speak to me—”

  “People are dying, Mother. Do you understand? Look what Sister Dina has suffered. How much more will she suffer if she hears that Robin is dead?”

  That caught her attention. “Is he?”

  “Perhaps. And her rescuer is seriously, perhaps mortally, wounded. And Hans dead. How much more do you need before you take responsibility and tell me what is happening here?”

  “You blame me? Oh, of course you do. It is ever your way.” Eleanor’s tone was whining, but her mouth trembled and the tears flowed.

  Judging it time to change tactics, Kate took hold of her mother’s hands, startled by how cold they felt on such a warm afternoon. “Mother, what is happening here? Help me protect you.”

  “Protect?” Eleanor withdrew her hands and clasped them in her lap. “Protect me? Why should I require protection? I am in no danger.”

  If Kate were not at once angry and frightened for her mother, she might have laughed. The tremor in Eleanor’s voice, the fear in her wide green eyes, the way she clutched her hands on her lap as if forcing them to be still all betrayed her.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Kate. “If you would begin at the beginning, tell me everything, you might provide some insight, some key that would lead us to the source of all that has happened. Tell me why you are here. How did Ulrich die? You returned so soon after his death—”

  Lurching to her feet, Eleanor snapped, “Unnatural daughter!”

  “Are Werner and Griffin in danger?” Kate asked.

  “Do not pretend that you care,” said Eleanor, stepping into the hall and shutting the door behind her.

  Kate sat on the bench for a while, waiting for her heart to quiet, her thoughts to settle. Not even a gesture of concern and affection had moved her mother to speak. What did she so fear she might reveal?

  There was an incongruous spring in Matt’s steps as he and Berend headed over Ouse Bridge. Thinking it best to calm him before they reached the camp on Toft Green—such exuberance about going out into the city to investigate might be mistaken for a young man’s aching for a fight—Berend asked him about the daggers that were his weapons, whether he had ever used them to defend himself or another, why he chose the two different blades. He kept asking questions until Matt was no longer grinning at everyone who passed.

  To be sure, Matt’s answers were reassuring. Though he’d never struck a mortal blow, he’d been in a fair number of fights and come away intact.

  “Dame Katherine would not have hired me for the guesthouse watch otherwise,” said Matt. “Although she did replace me with young Seth.”

  “You know he’s a Fletcher—by name and training. Fletchers test their own arrows. Seth may not look strong, but he’s an excellent bowman.” Berend grinned and slapped the young man on the back. “A pleasure to meet you, Matt the Warrior.”

  A surprised snort. “I’m no warrior. Just a man who can hold my own in a fight.”

  “Plenty of men who consider themselves skilled in weaponry find themselves on the battlefield unprepared and unable to defend themselves, much less take the offensive. A quick way to lose the loyalty of your comrades. You’re likely to get them killed along with you.”

  “Do you miss it? The fighting?”

  “If you mean would I choose to return to that life—no. I’ve done with that. But the blood lust never fully leaves a man who fought as long as I did. Now and then—” Berend shook his head. “This is no time for such talk. Keep your ears pricked for trouble.”

  They heard the camp before they saw it, intermittent shouts punctuating the low rumble of men’s voices, the scratch of blades being sharpened, the rattle of chain mail being tumbled.

  As Toft Green came into sight, Matt whistled. “I would never recognize it if the friary weren’t right there. It’s all wrong.” Men, tents, cook fires, stretching across the green and butting up against the friary walls. “And so crowded,” he added.

  “Not as crowded as when I last saw it,” said Berend. He noticed signs of trouble here and there—fistfights; men guarding the perimeters of their campsites with knives drawn; men flashing daggers as they danced round each other, drawing blood when they struck. “And far less friendly.” Most appeared to be preparing to move on—sharpening weapons, repairing harnesses, polishing pieces of armor, stuffing clothes into packs. “Looks as if the rumor has spread that Duke Henry’s moved beyond York.”

  “Good news for us,” said Matt.

  “I would prefer to catch the murderer,” said Berend. “And with everyone restive, we’re likely to be attacked simply for being unfamiliar. Stay alert.”

  That sobered Matt. Berend grunted and led the way toward the target campsite up against the friary wall, skirting round the trouble, managing to avoid it.

  The one-legged cook sat on a barrel picking through a pot of stew, a pile of used bowls at his feet. He watched their feet as they approached, shifting so that he could easily draw the dagger hanging on his left hip. When they stopped, he let his eyes travel up to their faces.

  “I know you,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “The spicy recipe for pottage.” The man was not smiling, but at least he had acknowledged they’d met.

  Berend nodded. “Have you tried it?”

  “I have indeed, and my comrades declared it the best they’d ever tasted. Any more secrets to share?”

  “Plenty. For trade. I want to talk to your comrades.”

  A shake of the head. “Not here. Gone drinking. Don’t expect them back till sunrise.” He nodded toward two men wrestling nearby. “Camp’s not the place to be tonight. Rumor is the soldiers’ve sat in this stink hole for naught. The king’s men say someone in the camp sent word to the duke that York was so well defended he’d best move. And so he has, to Knaresborough. ‘But we’re all king’s men,’ they say, ‘else why would we be here?’” A shrug. “Takes little to draw blood when you’ve been sitting in a hellhole with moldy rations and a city full of merchants refusing to sell them food. You cannot blame the anger when they’re here to protect the greedy bastards. And all the while their captains live in comfort, drinking and carousing.” He hawked and spat.

  “Drinking.” Berend nodded. Hearing the man talk—more than he’d said when they’d met at the market—he realized he was from the shire and spoke as if he did not consider himself one of the soldiers. It might mean nothing; the captain called up the men he could rally quickly. But that, paired with no livery . . . “Who’s your captain?”

  The man squinted. “Who are you? Who set you on us?”

  Berend held up his hands. “I just want to talk to your comrades. Can you tell me where they’d be drinking?”

  Another hawk and a spit, a drawn dagger.

  “Steady now, we mean you no harm.”

  The cook began to toss the dagger from hand to hand, his eyes narrowing. Berend could crush him with a blow, but that would not further his purpose. He motioned to Matt to back away, then turned on his heels and strolled away. He reckoned that a one-legged man was not likely to pursue them in retreat—though he kept his ears pricked just in case. If he had not, he might not have heard the soft, low whistle as they passed a tent. He paused, crouching down as if fixing his shoe.

  “You’ll be wanting to ask about an injured man his lot left at the friary gate yesterday morning,” said a voice from the tent. “Men were covered in blood, arguing about laying hold of him and letting the ‘good Samaritan’ get away.”

  That fit. “Bless you for this. Have you seen a Welshman with hair like copper wire and a stout, fair-haired companion?”

  “They’ve been round the camp asking questions.”

  “Today?”

  “They fled a while ago. Before the
wind changed. Men did not like their questions.”

  “You did not happen to hear what they were asking.”

  “No.”

  “May God watch over you,” said Berend.

  “May he watch over us all.”

  Berend rose with effort, wincing at the ache in his knees. Too many years on horseback, too many injuries. He envied Matt the almost complete recovery from his leg injury earlier in the year.

  “Who was that?” Matt whispered as they moved on out of the camp.

  Berend shook his head.

  “How do we know whether to believe him?”

  “Feel it in my gut.” Berend grinned at Matt’s bewilderment. “Our bodies know. Thinking too hard can deafen us to that knowing.”

  Matt shook his head. “Still . . .”

  “So what would you have us do?”

  “Check the friary.”

  Berend nodded.

  Kate, Jennet, Petra, and Marie sat in the garden eating pottage and bread, a warm meal, soothing. They had assembled themselves on a blanket near the hedgerow gate, keeping watch on the Martha House until Griffin returned.

  Kate lifted her face to the sweet breeze. Evening had brought with it a light wind and feathery clouds.

  “We’ll have rain tomorrow,” said Petra. “Maybe as soon as tonight. Can you smell it?”

  Kate nodded. The child was almost always right in her weather predictions, a gift she’d learned from Old Mapes, the woman who had raised her.

  “I welcome a relief from this unrelenting sun,” said Jennet. She shifted closer to Kate, whispered, “Marie is too quiet. She’s been like that all day.”

  Indeed, the girl sat apart from them at the edge of the blanket, leaning back against Ghent’s powerful body, her gaze fixed on the Martha House.

  Putting aside her half-eaten pottage, Kate shook out her skirts and moved over to Marie, settling down beside her.