by Candace Robb
He bowed to her. “You will stay the night, Dame Katherine. I will see that Sir Alan and his men keep well away from your company. I am sending a messenger to inform Dame Eleanor and your household that you are safe and the danger past.”
Kate considered protesting the delay in returning to York, but thought better of it. “Once I have had a wash and a cup of brandywine, I would have you hear my confession, Your Grace.” No matter how deserved the killing, it was still a sin requiring absolution.
“Of course.”
A servant escorted Kate to a bedchamber, bringing a basin of warm water, lotions and cloths, a goblet, and a flagon of brandywine. Kate poured herself a measure more than she usually considered wise and sank down onto a chair near a window, pushing open the shutter just in time to see Berend exit the stone outbuilding. Glancing toward the palace, he turned and headed toward the river. No, not away from me. She wanted him near. There was no one else with whom she could share the turmoil inside. But she knew this mood, and that there was nothing for it but to let him be.
Drinking down the brandywine, she closed her eyes and felt the heat in her face, her throat, her chest. Rising for more, she caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror beside the basin of water, her hair wild, face smudged. She set down the goblet and had just begun to scrub at her face when someone knocked on the door behind her.
“Might I serve as your lady’s maid?” asked Helen, peeking in.
“Bless you, yes.”
Kate spent a long while with His Grace, confessing that she could not be certain she had not aimed for Griffin’s heart—she had been so angry, though she was unsure whether it was because he had dared to threaten Lille, or, worse, because she had missed the first time, when she’d aimed for his shoulder.
Scrope was of the opinion that she was misguided in seeking reasons to chastise herself when she had ample cause to consider Griffin a deadly threat. “He had murdered three men, abducted a woman and left her to die, and those are only the sins he committed in York. He also murdered your mother’s husband, Ulrich Smit. In truth, you did him a favor. I am sure Griffin knew that he would have been hanged or beheaded and much preferred being shot right there. He may even have coaxed you to it, knowing your bond with Lille.”
“I would agree but that it seems Ulrich was accused by Baron Roos of treason. If this is true, Griffin acted as an agent of the baron in defense of the realm.”
The archbishop sat back with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Yes, I see why you question your actions. I absolve you, and I am certain King Richard would absolve you of any sin regarding this deed. Smit, if indeed guilty of treason, should have been handed over to the law for trial. Your uncle the dean agrees. It was not Baron Roos’s place to mete out punishment for crimes against the state. Or the Clifford family. Yes, one might argue that the man who paid with his life was merely carrying out orders, but so, too, were Smit’s servants.” He leaned forward, forearms on the table, looking Kate in the eyes. “I absolve you of any stain of sin in this deed. Take comfort in knowing that you have ended your mother’s ordeal. You are a courageous and loving daughter.”
A courageous and loving daughter. She could imagine her mother shaking her head and launching into a litany contradicting such praise.
Richard Clifford threw the document he’d been holding onto the table. It skittered a distance, knocking other parchments to the floor. He pressed a hand to his brow, as if that might clear his head. “God help me, Katherine, had I known what Sir Alan had planned I never would have set him up in your house. Never. But why should you believe me? Even as I say it I know that I suspected something. His explanation for not wearing the Roos livery—that the family did not want to be noted as supporting King Richard against Duke Henry . . . But it was the secrecy about who he was, his request that I say nothing of our connection, of his being in John’s guardian’s household . . .” He cursed. “I did not want to know. That is the sad truth of it.”
Kate stood with hands pressed to the long table, pained to feel enmity toward this man she had held so dear. “I care nothing for your excuses, Uncle, you with your secret meetings with Griffin. I want to understand why this happened. What did Griffin tell you? What drove Baron Roos to command these deaths?”
“Sir Alan would be better able to tell you, but even he knows little more than his orders.”
“I do not trust myself to speak to him. Not yet.” It was difficult enough to stand here listening to her uncle squirm under a belatedly active conscience; the uncle she had loved, trusted, entrusted with her wards when she’d feared they were in danger. She stood alone, betrayed by her own family. “I will hear it from you!” She slammed her hand down on the table, startling him. “Tell me what you know. Then I will hear my mother’s side of it.”
“I pray I have not turned you against your mother.”
“It is a little late for that, Uncle.”
He bowed his head. “When I understood the severity of Ulrich’s betrayal of the family and the realm, and the extent of the vengeance planned by my brother Robert—for our brother David, blood for blood, and our cousin Thomas’s widow—for besmirching our good name and risking the realm . . .” He went for the brandywine on a small table near the window, poured generous amounts in two goblets, handed one to her, and drank half of his in one gulp. A pause as the liquor took effect. “Now that I know, I regret what I said about your mother and the Frosts, calling them selfish, and worse. I cannot believe Eleanor knowingly betrayed David in such wise. Surely she was ignorant of Ulrich’s part in the feud with the Cavertons. I cannot believe she could love him had she known that he had set into motion the feud that destroyed her sons and her husband.”
The Cavertons. God help her. Kate fortified herself with several sips of brandywine before she asked, “How did Ulrich betray my father? What had he to do with the Cavertons?”
“He was an agent of the French, working for the Scots-French alliance—in secret, of course. The Cavertons were part of the link through which he fed to the Scots all he learned from your father and his neighbors on the English side. He was also passing money and documents back and forth, but your family’s unwitting contribution was the information about border activities. Ulrich had been particularly well paid by the French when John’s father, Thomas Clifford, was Warden of the West Marches. You would have been but a child then.”
“My memory of Ulrich goes back to early youth.” Kate sank down onto the chair she had earlier refused. “God help me.” The Scots and the French had used her family, used up her family.
Damn him to hell. Geoff’s fury felt like the blood rushing in her head.
Quiet, I pray you, Geoff. Let me hear what our duplicitous uncle has to say.
As the dean continued, she came to learn that even her father’s death was suspect—her uncle believed he had not died of a fever but rather of a slow poison, a gift from Ulrich to the Cavertons for their service. He had also assisted that family when possible with information about Kate’s family, their comings and goings, strength and weaknesses.
Kate’s heart hurt with the enormity of Ulrich’s betrayal.
“And Mother learned of this?” she whispered, breaking a long silence.
The dean nodded. “In Strasbourg, already wed to Smit.”
“How in heaven’s name—Why—why would Ulrich wed her? How could he look her in the eyes, knowing the pain he had caused her?”
“Protection? God knows. They had been lovers for years. Perhaps he did not think of her as part of the family he destroyed.”
“Did Griffin kill Smit?” she asked.
“He did.” Dean Richard crossed the room and knelt to her, taking her hands. “No, do not think it. You were right to execute him. Smit deserved to die, but the others? And what of Nan and Thatcher?”
The concern in his gray eyes, this was the uncle she loved. But she was not ready to forgive him. She withdrew her hands and turned her back to him.
“Griffin had another manda
te,” he said. “To find Ulrich’s gold. The French paid him well.”
“Did he find it?”
“No. I tell you this so that you do not make the mistake of trusting your cousin Baron Clifford or the Roos family in future,” said the dean. “Nor should Dame Eleanor.”
“So the robberies were an attempt to find the gold, with Robin and his fellows taking the risk? Why wait so long?”
“Sir Alan knows only that he was sent to hurry Griffin along.”
“How much gold?”
“More than your mother would dare carry from Strasbourg to York in such a small company.”
“Mother has been spared because she might still lead them to the gold?”
“Yes. And because she is a Clifford, if only by marriage.”
“I need air. I need to walk with the hounds.”
“Of course.”
In the early morning, as the sun woke the countryside, Kate rode back to York deafened by the storm in her mind, Berend silently leading, the hounds flanking her. Her uncle had been unable to answer all her questions, and Sir Alan had not bothered to learn much about his mission. He served William—Baron Roos—and obeyed his commands. Why would he question them? He had used the Duke of York’s call to arms as the perfect cover in which to complete the task of revenge against Ulrich and the retainers and servants who had assisted him in his spying.
Sir Alan had ridden out before Kate and Berend had broken their fast. He and his men would join the companies supporting Duke Henry, riding westward to confront King Richard. Archbishop Scrope saw no point in charging him. The man with blood on his hands was already dead. Griffin, the instrument, would be buried in an unmarked grave.
“An assassin knows his fate,” Berend had said. “Rage all you wish, Dame Katherine, I understand, but Griffin himself would tell you that you waste your breath. God will judge Sir Alan, his men, the Cliffords, the Rooses, in his own time, his own way. The law sees only the murderer.”
“And what of me?”
“You were the law in this instance. The archbishop of York sent you out with his blessing.”
Kate wished she might have drunk until she was so numb she fell into a blessed forgetfulness. But she had work to do. Questions that must be answered. She had talked to Sir Alan after her long walk with the hounds, wanting to hear his version. He confirmed that Griffin’s primary reason for pursuing Eleanor to York was to recover the gold. It was not enough to have murdered Ulrich and all his retainers; the Cliffords wanted the gold with which he had been rewarded by the French for his spying. Not finding it in Strasbourg, he believed Eleanor had it and would lead him to it. Hans and Werner might have knowledge of it. When they proved ignorant, Griffin had no more use of them and carried out their sentences.
Where was the gold? Was her mother still in danger?
Both the archbishop and her uncle assured Kate that Baron Roos would be exposed and ruined should any harm come to her or Dame Eleanor. But with such uncertainty in the land, Kate did not see how they could be so certain of their own future power.
At the sign of an alewife, a bushel basket on a pole in the yard of a small farm close to York, she and Berend paused to water Lille and Ghent and their mounts, and to refresh themselves.
“It is good to be free of Sir Elric and his men, eh?”
Kate was moved by how Berend had put aside his mood to engage her, draw her out of her dark study. But he had chosen an unwelcome topic. She was not ready to tell Berend of her arrangement with Elric. How after meeting with her uncle and the archbishop she had sought out Elric in the stables and invited him for a twilight walk in the gardens. As soon as they were far enough that no one might overhear them, she asked how much he knew about Griffin’s mission. He was hesitant at first to admit how much he had managed to learn while at the palace, but she persisted in her questioning until he confessed that he knew all of it. At another time she would have cursed him, but at present she was relieved.
“My mother will not be safe until Baron Roos possesses Ulrich Smit’s gold.”
“And you have a plan.”
“I agree to be the earl’s eyes and ears in York if your men in the city are my eyes and ears regarding anyone too curious about my mother, her Martha House, or my household. And, if I have need of them, your men will summon support from Sheriff Hutton Castle.”
“And the letters?”
“I will see what I might discover about them.”
He had smiled. “Agreed. I look forward to a long and interesting partnership.”
They would see about that. If Lancaster prevailed, Westmoreland might have need of Sir Elric elsewhere. He might never return to his post at Sheriff Hutton. And if King Richard prevailed, there was no predicting Westmoreland’s fate and that of his properties.
This morning, while Berend had prepared their horses, Kate had bid farewell to Sir Elric in the palace yard. He and his men were off to the northwest, to Raby. He had kissed her hand, and again expressed his delight in their partnership.
“We have an agreement, Sir Elric, not a partnership.”
He’d bowed. “As you wish. But I can hope.”
She had not told Berend. Not in his present mood.
Now, in answer to his question about her relief in being free of Elric, she said, “I am grateful for all his help. But it is good to be heading home, just you, me, Lille, and Ghent.” She emptied her cup, called the alewife’s son over to refill it.
“Steady now, we are not yet within the gates of the city,” he warned.
She hardly felt the effects of the ale, though it tasted strong.
“What are you stewing over?” he asked.
“How could we all be so fooled by Ulrich Smit? He was an honored guest in our house. I named Lille and Ghent for the cities he told us about. Mother loved Ulrich. She took him as her lover long before Father’s death. Father’s murder,” she whispered those last words.
“Clearly the man excelled in his work. Which is why the French paid him so well.”
“The gold. Where is the gold?”
“Dame Eleanor is resourceful.”
“She is indeed. That is what worries me.”
Berend rubbed his shoulder, stretched. “We should continue.”
“Wait.” Kate put her hand on his and looked into his eyes. “I am sorry, Berend. I would not have you suffer the pain this has stirred for you.”
“I could not let you deal with this alone.”
They studied each other for a long while, then withdrew their hands and split the rest of the tankard.
“Katherine! You stayed the night at the archbishop’s palace! You must tell me all about it.” Eleanor reached out to embrace her, but Kate slipped out of her reach. She had something she must do before she spoke to her mother.
Ignoring the questions, the protests, Kate stormed up the steps and into the bedchamber of the beguines, startling Sister Dina, who had been resting with a cloth over her eyes.
Kate stepped back, remembering herself. “Forgive me. I was so intent on my mission, I did not think to knock.” A gray gown with as yet a solitary sleeve lay on a table by the window. The dimensions were for someone wide and short. “Are you making this for Agnes?”
Removing the cloth from her eyes, Sister Dina sat up. “I do this for her, yes. Did you know—her mother was a—how is it—a midwife? She knows plants, physic—no, medicines.” She nodded, whispering the last word again. Her accent was still thick, but her vocabulary much improved. “We learn much about what we might find here, in city and out in country. We are grateful.”
“And Dame Eleanor?”
Dina made a little face. “She struggles to accept her, but I have hope? Faith.” She nodded. “She will see. Agnes will prove to her. And Nan.”
“Nan has been welcomed back into the household?”
Dina nodded. “Rose is happy.”
Much had transpired since Kate was away. A day and a night. Was that all?
“What do you seek, Dame Ka
therine? Griffin—The messenger said—”
“Griffin is dead. I made sure of that. Judge me as you will—” Kate closed her eyes. Perhaps she had drunk too much, to barge in here and then say that to Dina. “Forgive me.”
Dina reached out to touch Kate’s hand. “Me? Judge you?” She put Kate’s hand on her heart. “Nothing to forgive. How do I help?”
“The golden Christ child. I need to see it. Just guide me to where I might find it.”
“I help you.” Dina went to the closest of three chests tucked in the corner where the roof slanted to the floor. As she knelt down and lifted the lid, Kate knelt beside her. “Small casket. Under cloak.”
Kate felt for it, lifted it out. It took some effort.
Dina nodded as Kate sat back with the casket on her lap.
“It is heavy. The casket, the carving of the Christ child, oak. Here.” She took Kate’s hand, turned it over, placed a key in her palm. “Open it.”
Within the small casket was a carved wooden Christ child painted gold. It lay on a bed of gold damask hemmed in gold thread. “The golden idol.”
“No idol. Not gold.” Dina smiled. “We use it to feel in our prayers the love a mother feels for her child. But for us, all God’s children.”
Kate lifted it, admiring the delicacy of the carving, the face with a sweetness that gave it life. But though the heft of the carved child was substantial, it did not explain the heft of the small casket. She handed the child in its golden bed to Dina, who took it with puzzlement. Returning her attention to the wooden casket, Kate compared the depth of the inside to that of the outside. So simple. She felt around and found something like a small pin in the corner. A slight tug lifted the false bottom. Beneath it lay a leather pouch. Drawing it out, she untied the leather cord and teased open the pouch, letting several gold coins drop into her lap. A mere sampling of what was hidden within. Ulrich’s gold.