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.
The girl glanced at her, then went back to staring at the hedge.
“Are you conjuring your true love?” Kate asked.
“My what?”
“When we were little, Geoff and I believed that if we stared at something long and hard enough with an image in our minds of what we most wished for, it would appear.”
“Did it work?”
“Only once. But that was enough to make believers of us.”
“What did you conjure?”
“Lille and Ghent’s eldest brother, Macbeth.”
“Macbeth?” Marie sat up, staring at Kate. “You named your noble hound for a Scots king? I thought you hated the Scots.”
“A Scot who killed Scots,” Kate noted.
“Did you conjure him from the dead?”
“No. He and Melisende had been chasing down a deer and disappeared into a wood where we dare not go. Melisende returned, but not Macbeth. Father could not call for him—if our enemies knew Macbeth was in their wood, they would hunt him down. So Geoff and I, we did what we could.”
“And he came.”
“Wolfhounds are smart. Maybe it helped that Melisende was sitting with us.” Kate drew Marie close and kissed the top of her head. “So what shall we conjure?”
“Nan,” Marie whispered.
Not what Kate had expected. “Why Nan?”
“They took her because of the golden baby Jesus. They want to know where it is.”
Kate lifted Marie’s chin. Her heart broke to read the fear in the child’s eyes, see the quiver of her lips. She pulled her onto her lap. “What golden baby Jesus, my love?”
“That man told me I could have any ribbons I wanted if I told him where they kept it.”
“What man? Tell me, Marie.”
“In Hazel Frost’s yard. I was waiting for Petra and Sister Brigida. I thought he was one of Master Frost’s friends. He walked right through the street gate and knelt down to greet me most courteously.” A little sob. “If I had told him, none of this might have happened. But I didn’t know. I’ve never seen a golden baby Jesus.”
The hackles on Kate’s neck rose. “Where did he think you had seen it?”
“In the Martha House. He said the beguines had brought golden idols from Strasbourg.”
“I have seen no golden idols, have you?”
Marie shook her head.
Is that what Robin sought? Fool’s treasure? Geoff whispered in Kate’s head.
“Did you tell Sister Brigida?”
Marie shook her head again, then buried her face in Kate’s shoulder and sobbed.
God in heaven, all this because of a rumor? Was it possible? “There, there, my love, you are safe. I will not let anyone harm you.” Meeting Jennet’s eyes, Kate gestured for her to come take care of Marie.
“Thank you for telling me, Marie.” Kate kissed her head, then lifted her chin, dabbing at her eyes. “When did this happen?”
Marie screwed up her face. “Petra had a tummy ache on Saturday, so we did not go to Hazel’s, and we never go on the Lord’s Day. Friday, it was.”
Two days before the intruder. Kate nodded to Jennet as she approached. “My brave Marie. You have been most helpful.” She kissed her forehead. “We will talk again, eh? For now, would you help Jennet take the bowls into the kitchen?”
“Just across to talk to the sisters. Stay with Jennet and the hounds. I will not be long away. I just need a word with them.”
As Kate started toward the hedge, Ghent gave a little meep and rose to catch up. Marie followed, flinging her arms round him, asking him to stay with her. Bless the child. She could be so prickly, but a little attention at the right time, and she softened. Would that she were easier to understand.
As Kate crossed through the hedge a gust of wind blew her skirts about her.
Eleanor glanced up from the prie-dieu as the opening of the door set the altar cloth and the Blessed Virgin’s silk finery fluttering. Standing in the doorway, Kate cleared her throat to announce her presence. All three sisters—four if one counted Agnes—raised their heads from their prayerful bows and looked at her.
“Sister Brigida, Sister Agnes, I would speak with you.”
Eleanor caught Brigida’s arm as she began to rise. “When we are finished with our prayers, Katherine.”
“I will go to her now,” Brigida said, removing Eleanor’s hand and pressing it firmly as one would a puppy, telling it to stay. She rose and crossed the room. Agnes followed. Kate paused, waiting for her mother’s protest. But Eleanor simply returned to her prayers.
Plucking a bench from the kitchen, Kate placed it facing the small bench beneath the plane tree. She took a seat, inviting the two sisters to sit across from her. Without giving either time to speak, Kate repeated what Marie had just told her. At one point Brigida attempted to explain why Marie had been alone in the yard, but Kate held up a hand and continued. Brigida’s negligence was another issue. When Kate mentioned the golden baby Jesus, Agnes gasped, Brigida frowned.
“Golden?” Brigida shook her head. “It is wood and cloth.”
“So he was right that you have such a doll?”
“Many beguine houses have them. The Christ child in a manger, or a cradle. We place it on the altar during prayers and reflect on the great love God has for us that he allowed his only Son to be born as a human child so that he might live on this earth and suffer with us, show us the way. It is not a doll, and certainly not an idol. No more than the statue of the Virgin or Christ on the cross. But it has no monetary value.”
“Why have I never seen it?” Kate asked. “Have you?” she asked Agnes.
Agnes bobbed her bowed head. “I have.”
“Has Nan?”
“I believe she has,” Agnes whispered.
“Why have I not seen it?” Kate repeated.
“We keep it hidden away when we are not reflecting upon it,” said Brigida. “It has been misunderstood. Men of the Church have sneered at us, saying we play at mothering the Christ child. Some even say we pretend to nurse him. They ridicule us. For no reason. As I said, the purpose is the same as the images in churches—the statues, the crosses. I will gladly show you—there is no gold.”
“Sister Agnes,” Kate touched the woman’s arm. “I think you know something you aren’t telling us. Speak.”
The woman shifted on the bench and raised her head. Her cap was damp. Overheated despite the chill in the air that was raising the down on Kate’s neck. Agnes tucked her chin close, causing her multiple chins to line up beneath her, rather like a cat puffing up to intimidate its opponent.
“Well?” Kate said.
“There is a bit of gold thread in the baby’s garments, and a little gilt crown circling his head. Nan might have asked me if it was of any value.”
“She might have?”
An impatient sigh. “I do not recall all our conversations. She is my maidservant. Was mine. And her prattle is mostly silly. Baubles, men, how tedious she finds her work. I would slap her if I listened to it all. But you get little work out of a maidservant too often slapped.”
Not so unlike her mistress. Kate just nodded.
“Do you think she told Robin that the Christ child was a golden idol?” asked Brigida.
Agnes shrugged.
“This incident took place before the night of the intruder,” said Kate. “Friday. Why was Marie alone in my cousin’s yard, Brigida?”
The sister frowned up through the crown of the plane tree as she thought back. “Petra had a bad tummy. I had escorted her to the privy.”
As Marie had reminded her, Petra had spent Saturday and Sunday in bed. “So Nan told Robin at least a week ago.”
“You are quick to blame Nan,” Agnes snapped. “Poor thing is missing.”
“Do you have a better explanation, Sister Agnes?” Kate asked sweetly. “Was it you who bragged of golden treasures in the Martha House?”
“No! No. Dame Eleanor explained to me why the Christ child is tucked away upstairs, and I told Nan.”
Remembering Agnes’s comments about Nan’s chatter, Kate asked, “Did you tell Nan why it is kept hidden, or simply that it must be?”
Agnes’s gaze slid sideways. “She wanted to see it up close and I refused. I said it was kept secret.”
“Oh, Sister Agnes,” Brigida whispered.
Yes.
Now Agnes’s eyes began to shine with tears. “You do not think Hans died for this?”
“I don’t know,” Kate answered honestly. “If you would leave us now, Sister Agnes.”
“Do not blame yourself overmuch,” said Brigida. “Now is the time to open your heart to the Lord.”
Much good that would do. “If you think of anything that might help us find Nan, come to me at once,” Kate said.
Agnes bowed to both of them and walked slowly back to the house.
“You are thinking of Friar Adam and his questions about idols?” Brigida guessed.
Kate nodded. “My mother said you were taken aback by it at the time. So it is not a question one might expect a friar to put to you?”
“No. I thought he meant it as an insult. But why would he wish to steal it?”
“To bring it to light as proof that the city should shun beguines?” Kate shook her head. “Perhaps he might have encouraged the theft, but the murder I cannot see. For all that I dislike him, he is a man of God. What he might not have considered is that he has no control over the greed of thieves.”
“They might have hoped to keep the golden idol for themselves.” Brigida glanced up as a gust of wind shook the leaves, dropping several in their laps.
“Or they hoped that where there is a little treasure, there might be much more. So they questioned Hans, got angry . . . I admit I cannot make sense of it. Hans and Robin’s trespass might not even be related.” Each new fact seemed but to inspire more questions.
Brigida lifted one of the leaves and twirled it between her fingers. “I do not understand the yearning for others’ possessions. They might fight for the king or the duke and earn their way honorably.”
“You are a true innocent, Sister Brigida.”
Brigida took it as an affront. “Not innocent,” she said with some heat. “We have seen much in our work in the community. I believe most people strive to do good and avoid evil, yet evil is ever in our paths. Some have the strength to resist, others do not. If we might only teach them the benefit.”
Kate disagreed. “You have no control over others. Friar Adam’s belief that he might impose such control is an error for which many have suffered. Perhaps. I cannot yet prove he is behind this.”
“For my part, I regret that I was not there to protect Marie.”
“I do as well.” It was not the time to placate the woman. “You will be more vigilant going forward. In any case, for the nonce you are tutoring the girls in my home, out of danger, so nothing can happen.” As Kate rose, she told Brigida she would go to Dame Jocasta in the morning to speak with her about a more suitable confessor. “We do not want Friar Adam to return.”
“No, Dame Katherine. He is not welcome in our Martha House.”
As Kate rose so that Brigida might return her bench to the kitchen, her gaze wandered toward John Paris’s property next door to the Martha House. It lay on the side with the alley in which Dina, Robin, and Kevin had struggled, and the soldiers had intervened. At her own gate, she called to Lille and Ghent. Jennet came to see why. When Kate told her that she meant to talk to John Paris, Jennet shook her head, not liking the idea.
“I have never trusted that man. Wait until one of us can accompany you.”
“I will have Lille and Ghent with me—John fears them. And his wife, Beatrice, should be home at this hour. John fears her almost as much as he does the hounds. I will be safe.”
A workshop and several tumbledown sheds lay between the Martha House and John Paris’s narrow, L-shaped dwelling. At one time all the property on this eastern side of Hertergate had been owned by one wealthy merchant, and Kate guessed that what was now the Martha House had been the primary residence. It had a more gracious façade than the house she approached, despite its added wing. Perhaps it was the lack of trees and the dark patches of damp and mold creeping up the plaster façade. So near the river, such a house required constant care, and this one did not receive it.
An olive-skinned manservant with dark eyes and a suspicious frown opened the door, courteously but pointedly asking her to state her name and her business. Kate had met him a few times but could not recall his name. And he clearly did not remember her.
A frail voice from somewhere behind him saved Kate. “Alonso, step aside so that I might see my visitor.”
Alonso obliged, revealing the speaker to be Dame Beatrice, Mistress Paris, though so changed since the last time they met that Kate would not have recognized her had they passed on the street. Seated in a wheeled chair fashioned from parts of a garden cart, Beatrice reached out to take Kate’s right hand in both of hers. Despite the house retaining the warmth of the day, the woman’s hands were icy. And no wonder, her skin was stretched taut on her skeleton. A wasting sickness?
“May God bless you, Dame Katherine, it is a joy to see you so well. And your grand dogs. Lille and Ghent, if I am not mistaken. My memory is not what it was since my illness.”
“I did not know you were ill,” said Kate. “Perhaps one of the beguines next door—”
Beatrice gave what seemed an annoyed shake of her head. “I am well cared for by my husband and Alonso.” She reached back to pat the hand of the manservant now standing behind her chair, ready to wheel it at her order. “You must forgive him for his caution.”
“Of course. And I will not tire you. I came to speak with your husband.”
“John? Ah.” Beatrice’s face registered disappointment.
“Do you ever venture out? Might Alonso bring you round to my house for dinner one day soon?”
A sad, slow shake of the head. “Alas, no, I have not stepped out into the light in a long while. I am told that you now have a niece living with you, as well as your mother just across the hedge in Agnes Dell’s home.”
“My niece, Petra, yes,” said Kate.
Beatrice’s eyes shone with tears—of delight or regret or illness, Kate could not guess. “Perhaps your niece might visit me some time. I should like that.”
“We shall! And the beguines—”
Another, more pointed shaking of her head. “I will not have them on my property. I let Isabella Frost know that I disapprove of her hiring one of them as a tutor for her daughter. Fallen women. I will not have them here.”
“Fallen women? I assure you—”
“Magistra Matilda tells me beguines invite such women into their houses, indeed welcome the return of those among them who have fallen from grace.”
Kate was surprised Beatrice would listen to such gossip, but more surprised by the source—not Isabella but the sister. “Magistra Matilda welcomed the sisters into her house and knows they are virtuous women. I pray you misunderstood her.” Was this Beatrice’s bitterness regarding her husband’s relationship with her neighbor? Or the illness? It did not matter. The woman was pinched and angry. “I will warn them not to stray near your home, Dame Beatrice.”
“Alonso, show Dame Katherine to the master’s parlor.” Beatrice reached down to touch Lille, who was nearest, but, sensing the woman’s mood, the hound backed out of her reach.
Alonso came round from the chair and led Kate and the dogs through the hall into the narrow wing of the house, pausing in front of a carved screen that acted as a partial wall. “Master John, Dame Katherine Clifford is here to see you. And her grand hounds.”
A soft mutter, as if repeating Kate’s name and puzzling over it, and then the sound of a chair being moved, footsteps. John Paris appeared, in tidy dress, if slightly worn at the elbows. Work clothes, Kate guessed.
“Dame Katherine. I pray nothing is amiss?”
“Faith, it is, John.”
He thanked Alonso and sent him back to his mistress, inviting Kate to take a seat in his parlor, a comfortable room with a small brazier for winter, windows high in the south and north walls allowing the strengthening breeze to stir the air in the room and cool it. He kept his distance from Lille and Ghent. He was uneasy near all animals, including horses. It was said he had never learned to ride. A story behind that, no doubt. Perhaps a fall as a child. Or a nip. She motioned for Lille and Ghent to sit at her feet and proceeded to tell her tale, keeping it simple: an intruder, no doubt a thief, in the kitchen of her mother’s new home, a frightened beguine, and, one morning later, a servant found in Thomas Holme’s garden, beaten to death.
“God help us,” John whispered, crossing himself. “Do you believe the thief returned, with deadly intent?”
She realized it might sound so, that in simplifying the tale she had not specified where her mother’s servant now resided. But she did not take the time to correct it. “I come in the hope you might assist me with some information about someone you once employed who appears to be involved. A man named Robin. Agnes Dell says that you fired him for thieving?”
“Agnes? Oh, yes, she knew of the incident, of course.” He looked uneasy, averting his eyes. Because of his liaison with Agnes, or something else? “Greedy cur, that Robin. He and his friends as well. I caught three of them in the warehouse one night, filling sacks with spices and animal hides.”
Kate watched John closely as he spoke, observing how he repeatedly moved his left shoulder up and back as if to loosen a knot in his back, how his foot would start tapping, he’d realize what he was doing, stop it, begin again. He said he had noticed items missing from the inventory within a fortnight of Robin’s switch from day laborer to night watchman, so he had set a trap, a second watchman who would already be in the warehouse, laying low to spy on Robin when he arrived. Unfortunately, the man John chose turned out to be one of Robin’s comrades in crime. Or Robin had convinced him to join him. Either way, wares continued to disappear, so John took it upon himself to make surprise visits.
“Took four such to catch the louts. And a third they’d invited so they might carry more. I let them all go and set my own private guard round the warehouse.”
Kate expressed confusion at John Paris’s failure to call the sheriffs, who would have their sergeants take the men away and hold them for the next court session.
He gazed at the floor while he explained, “The quarter sessions were months away, their crime not so grave as to condemn them to the castle dungeon for so long. And hanging—for that would be their fate. I could not do that, even to them.”
“Did you ask who had hired them?”
“Hired them? I don’t understand. They are thieves.”
No merchant would find that a puzzling question. “A man who has reasonable work is not likely to decide to risk more than the very occasional pilfering of small items. What you describe is far too bold for a man working alone. Robin must have known he would eventually be caught.”
He shrugged. “I know nothing of how they work.”
Incurious employer. Unless Paris himself had hired Robin to siphon goods from the merchants who leased space in his warehouses.
“I have not convinced you,” said John. “Am I still welcome at your guesthouse?”
Interesting that should be his concern, considering he had no mistress at the moment. “Not with Agnes Dell. She has chosen to live as a beguine. Celibate, chaste. I advise you to disregard any rumors to the contrary. Have you a new mistress?”
“No. But—you saw Beatrice, how frail she is. A man has his needs.”
Kate had often regretted including him on her list of clients, but she had considered him useful at the time. She had thought she might lease some space in his warehouse on the corner. And she thought it wise to befriend her neighbors. At the time she had been indifferent to Agnes Dell. “You will remain on my list as long as I do not discover you’ve lied to me.”
John Paris shifted, uncomfortable in his chair. “I have not lied to you,” he said. “You don’t think I am somehow involved?”
She did. But she chose not to say so. Glancing down at his desk, she noticed that he was copying accounts from notes to a ledger much like some of Simon’s, those recording his business partnerships with Thomas Graa. And the powerful, wealthy Graa had a particular interest in warehouses. “I believe you once told me you were factor to one of the aldermen.” She lied. He had never admitted he was not his own man. “Was it Thomas Graa?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He might have some insight into Robin and his fellows.”
“If you should ask him—”
“Graa?”
A nod. “He will—” A great sigh. “He does not know about Robin, Carter, and Bran. I made up the difference in money to hide my mistake. If he were to lose confidence in me, there are many who would gladly take over the managing of his warehouse.”
Kate almost pitied him, but she sensed he still held something back. At least she had the names of the three men Paris had caught.
“What can you tell me of Bran and Carter?”
“Only that they were willing to do the work.”
“Carter—was he a carter? That’s surely not his Christian name?”
A shrug. “He went by Carter.”
She let him stew in silence for a few moments, then said, “Might I ask, how did you come to own this property?”
“Own this property? Oh, no, no, I pay your brother-in-law Lionel Neville a sizable rent.”
God help her. Of course he did. “And the warehouse belongs to Thomas Graa?”
A nod. “He sold the property with the two houses to Lionel when he and your late husband thought to live near each other. But then they had a falling out and Lionel leased the property to Leonard Dell and me.”
“Do you also work for Lionel?”
A sharp shake of the head.
“If I find that you have lied to me . . .”
A cough. “I put aside fine items I know he would like.”
“And price them low?”
A shrug. “A man does what he must to keep his landlord happy.”
“What else?”
“An errand now and then.”
“What sort of errand?”
“Delivering letters, for the most part. He does not like to travel through the Forest of Galtres, fears encountering robbers, so he sends me to his cousin’s men at Sheriff Hutton.”
More and more interesting. “In the past few weeks? Since the duke’s landing?”
John started to rise, but when Lille sat up he thought better of it. “Not of late.”
“Yes or no, John. I am not desperate for your patronage.”
“Yes. One letter. A week ago. I do not read them, I swear. I cannot tell you what—”
“Lionel sent you out there within the week? And you handed the letter to whom?”
“Sir Elric.”
“Did he seem eager for it?”
“I interrupted his dinner. He took it from my hands and waved me off to the kitchen for refreshment before my return.”
“Did you deliver an answer?”
John shook his head. “Dame Katherine, I am trusted by this man.”
“And so you shall remain. But the next time you have a letter, I want to know.”
“I cannot.”
Kate rose. “Have you any charges outstanding at my guesthouse? If so, make certain you have the money to hand. I will expect it within two days. Or I shall speak with Thomas Graa.”
“Why do you want to know about the letters?”
He was angry now, feeling used.
Kate shrugged. “I am a Neville, and Nevilles spy on each other.” She smiled. “Nothing dangerous. It is a game with us.”
He was sweating now. But he nodded. “I will tell you when I’ve one to deliver. But you will not touch it.”
“You are an honorable man, John Paris.”
He bowed, oblivious to the insult.
She thanked him and took her leave. Robin, Carter, and Bran. Bran. The name Nan’s mother had whispered to Jennet. It was he who had come for Nan. She shook her head as Alonso glanced up from where he was helping Beatrice eat. Kate called out a farewell and herded Lille and Ghent out the door. As she stepped out into the darkening evening she took a deep breath, relieved to depart that dreary house.