12
SHIFTING LOYALTIES
While Richard Clifford was in residence, the deanery hall had been made bright and cozy with colored cushions and tapestries. Now the heavy wood furnishings were stripped bare, the whitewashed walls dingy. Kate’s footsteps echoed down the hall.
The dean answered her knock with a sharp “Come in, come in.”
“Uncle?” He was nowhere to be seen.
“Katherine?” He stepped out from behind the door, cradling a stack of rolled documents. “Good, good. I meant to send Alf with the news of our departure, but this is better.” He moved past her, setting the rolls on a table already piled with documents, candlesticks, and lamps. The room was as gloomy and denuded as the hall.
“You would leave without seeing me?”
He turned toward her, brushing dust from his hands, the front of his gown. “I dislike farewells. We have enjoyed our time together, have we not? Let us remember those moments, not grim handshakes and promises of visits and letters that will never be. Though I hope to return to York, I cannot predict when it might be. I do have something for you. But first, what news have you for me?”
“News?”
“You have come to report what you have learned regarding the incidents at Dame Eleanor’s beguinage, as agreed, have you not?” He turned away, sorting the documents into three piles. “I can deliver your report to Scrope when I join him at Bishopthorpe at the end of the week.”
“I hoped you might advise me about how best to approach Prior Norbert.”
“Oh, Norbert. Remind me what you wished from him.” The dean brushed past her, returning to the cupboard for another armload of documents.
“That is part of my news.” Kate told him about the wounded man left at the door of the blackfriars, possibly Robin the would-be thief. “If he is there, I wish to speak to him. Or send Berend to do so. And if he is not—”
“You become more and more involved in this despite knowing that Dame Eleanor will not thank you for your help.” Richard Clifford spoke to the table, not to Kate. “Has she told you anything about Ulrich Smit’s death? Why she fled to York?” Now he turned to face her, brushing his hands. “Why do you persist in this? God knows you’ve had no peace since she returned.”
“With armed men hungering for battle camped inside our gates I cannot be certain that Mother has brought her troubles on herself. How can you? Do you know something about his death that would cause her to flee?”
“What could I possibly know?” He shook his head as he crossed the room to fetch several large books. This was no temporary move. Despite what he’d said, he did not expect to return. At least not as dean of the chapter of York Minster.
“Have you any idea what the thief wanted?” he asked as he crouched down at an open chest.
Apparently he did not intend to answer her question. Perhaps if she gave him the news he wanted . . . While he loaded the books into the chest, Kate told him about Marie’s encounter, and what she had learned from the sisters about the Christ child. All the while the dean continued his task, pausing now and then to rub his lower back—the chest was deep, the books heavy—never once glancing her way.
“Are you listening, Uncle?”
He nodded as he rose with a grunt. “I heard, I heard. Mothering an image of the infant Christ child—they bring it on themselves, these silly women.”
“It is the vicars choral who are silly. Brigida, Dina, and Clara are pious and dedicated to being of service to the community.”
A shrug. “Perhaps I am mistaken. If they are so, more’s the pity they tethered themselves to Dame Eleanor. Look what she’s done—she takes in a stranger—”
“That is not fair. It was Agnes’s house—”
“It was a poor choice.”
“In your opinion.”
“I cannot believe my ears. You, defending your mother?” He shook his head as he turned back to the table. “Have a care, Katherine. Do not hold onto hope that her spiritual endeavor is a sign of change. She will disappoint you.”
As he had disappointed her of late? “I merely noted that you are placing the blame before the facts.”
The dean shrugged. “As for Prior Norbert, he should be favorably disposed toward assisting your inquiry. He and Friar Adam are not the best of friends.”
“I should simply ask after Robin and request that he tell Friar Adam that Dame Eleanor and the sisters are not in need of him?”
“You might tell him first about Friar Adam, then ask after the wounded man. On second thought, better the other way. A mission of mercy.”
“I am grateful for your guidance in this.” She stepped over to the table, glancing at the rolls. Many bore royal seals. “I see you’ve been doing the king’s work while here in the city. Perhaps I should not have been surprised to hear that both you and the archbishop are abandoning the souls in your care to see to your more temporal duties. But why the haste?”
He moved the documents away from her. “The worthies of York have withdrawn their support from King Richard despite the charter he granted the city, and His Grace and I have been subtly advised to do likewise. But as men of the Church, we strive to remain neutral in this quarrel. We will be of more use in Westminster, where our voices might be heard, than we are here, where our voices cannot.”
“Not by the wealthy and powerful, perhaps, but what of all the others? Both of you are abandoning your spiritual community the moment you are challenged by the aldermen and their cronies—it seems a cowardly retreat.”
“Courage has nothing to do with it. It is about duty.”
“Your temporal duties, but your spiritual responsibilities? How can you disparage the beguines when every breath they breathe is dedicated to God?”
“Personal piety cannot be measured.”
“Yet you claim to measure theirs.”
“When did you become so concerned about matters of faith?”
“When you and the rest of the hypocrites in York set yourselves up as judges of others’ faith.” They stared at each other for a long moment, the dean’s eyes pained, Kate’s own filling with angry tears. She felt lost, hated herself for attacking him. He had been one of her staunchest supporters. “Just months ago you and Scrope hosted Lady Kirkby on her mission to gain support for her husband’s peace efforts,” Kate reminded him. “What of that?”
When the tensions had escalated between the two cousins on the death of John of Gaunt, Henry of Lancaster’s father, Sir Thomas Kirkby had gone to the Continent to discuss with the duke a road to reconciliation. His wife, Margery Kirkby, had traveled to wealthy cities, raising money for her husband’s efforts. As a favor to her uncle, Kate had hosted Lady Kirkby in her guesthouse.
“In winter we held out hope that all might be peacefully resolved. But the royal cousins were not interested.”
“What of Sir Thomas Kirkby? Has he returned from the Continent?”
“I think he would be wise to stay away until all is settled.”
“As you intend to do?” Kate wanted to kick something. “King Richard entrusted you with the Privy Seal, the Wardrobe—indeed you were once his chaplain. And surely you have heard the rumors that a bishop’s miter and crozier are in your future. Will you not stand by him?”
“Will he stand by me? That is the question all ask themselves. The king’s temper flashes at the subtlest suspected insult. What is meant in praise might be received as blame or disrespect.”
“And Duke Henry? Have you faith that he will be of a more appropriate temperament if crowned?”
“He seems a straightforward man. But if he surrounds himself with counselors who fear every twitch signals rebellion—” The dean pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment, then suddenly drew her into his arms, holding her tightly. She could feel his heart pounding. “Such a fierce pride. I shall miss you, Katherine.” A glimmer of hope. This was the uncle she knew. “As I said, I have something for you. I was going to have Alf deliver it, but now I see the error in that.” He released her and stepped back toward the table, plucking a scroll from a small pile to one side. “I’ve signed over to you my property on Low Petergate—the large house a door down from Stonegate. You’ve only to add your signature and seal. Thomas Graa and Archbishop Scrope have witnessed it. I’ve also included two horses.”
Dizzy with the sudden shift, Kate sank down on a chair. “What is this? You are not ill?”
“No. No, not at all.” Richard tapped his palm with the parchment as he looked aside, as if searching for what to say. “Forgive my harsh words about your mother and the beguines. I worry that you are attaching yourself to a woman who is viewed with distrust. If Duke Henry takes the throne, he will never rest easy. The subtle divides we see now will become far more obvious. If King Richard manages to keep his crown, the unease and distrust that have set him on this destructive path will deepen. In either case, you need to ally yourself with the powers in York in order to survive. I know you can do this. You have the heart of a warrior and the head of a merchant prince. With this gift and whatever comes to you from your late father’s estate, you will thrive. Lionel Neville has no claim to it. You will be free to wed whom you will, and all your children will have a good future.”
A heady proposition. “Why me? And why arrange it without consulting me?”
“I have grown fond of you and your household—Phillip, Marie, Petra, even Berend and Jennet. I watched you pick yourself up from the shock of your late husband’s will, embrace the children in whom you might have seen a betrayal. I admire you. Even the guesthouse. Indeed, I believe you would be better able to see to your guesthouse—more important to you than ever for the power it gives you over the city leaders—if you move your household to the house on Petergate. You can run the dogs in the fields beyond the walls. With the horses you can ride out to the manor west of Galtres, the dower property that you’ve slyly hidden from your creditors.”
He knew her so well. Too well. It felt as if he had studied what she would most desire and offered it to her—in exchange for what? “And you ask for nothing in return?”
“Prayers? A welcome when I return? I am leaving in much more haste than I had expected.” His expression was earnest, encouraging. “I have handled this awkwardly.” He held out the roll. “Will you sign it?”
“It must be done in your presence?”
“That is what I promised His Grace and Thomas Graa.”
“I will sign it in Thomas Graa’s chambers. Is that acceptable?”
“You do not trust me?”
“Your offer is generous, but I never sign anything before I’ve had time for careful consideration, Uncle. I pray you understand.”
The dean bowed to the wisdom of that. “And if you refuse, how am I to know?”
She did not mean to refuse, but it was not the moment to reassure him. “Thomas Graa has the means to send a messenger to Westminster. I must think, Uncle.” I must discuss this with Berend, she thought. “But I am moved and grateful. You honor me.”
He shook his head, frowning, but there was no anger in his voice. “I should have guessed you would be cautious. But I agree.” He handed her the roll.
“May God watch over you in your journey.” She kissed his cheek. “I pray you are able to stay peaceably above the fray, Uncle.”
“And you as well. God go with you, Katherine.”
She withdrew from the room in a daze, her mind unable to quiet.
In the corridor, Arnold, the vicar choral, shuffled by with a large box out of which peeked one of the pelts that cushioned her uncle’s bare feet when he rose from sleep. A man who loved his comfort. She had a nagging feeling that she had missed something with her uncle, but what? Perhaps she should return. Or invite him to dine at her home before he left? Resolved, she continued on to the kitchen, pausing just outside, listening to Helen and Jennet laughing at the antics of the household cat, Claws. How wonderfully ordinary. Stepping into the room, Kate sought a chair, settling with a sigh.
“Might I have some brandywine?”
“Oh! In all this fuss I forgot to fetch you something to warm you. Forgive me. Did the dean not offer you anything?” Helen tsked as she went for the flask and found a goblet not yet packed. Italian glass, a vibrant blue. “I see he upset you, as he has done us all with this murderous haste.” Helen sighed. “I shall miss both of you so. As will the dean.”
“I cannot bear to lose either of you. I don’t know what to think—I called him a coward and he offered me a great gift. I’m not so much upset with him as confused. Come dine with us tomorrow. Berend would enjoy the opportunity to make some special dishes, and you can say farewell to the girls.”
“Oh, I should like that. I will pose it to your uncle.” Helen kissed Kate’s cheek, but as she resettled, her expression clouded. “Though I fear he will decline. He has not been himself.”
“Shall I go back and ask him myself?”
“No, no, it’s better coming from me. I can be quite persuasive.” A secret smile.
Kate drank down the brandywine much more quickly than was wise, bringing tears to her eyes.
Jennet pressed her hand, apparently misinterpreting the tears. “What urgent work awaits the dean in Westminster?” she asked Helen, giving Kate time to recover.
“Keeping the king’s peace, collecting taxes to fill his coffers, executing his treaties—all this must continue despite the cousins’ conflict,” said Helen.
“But is it Richard’s peace, or Henry’s?” asked Jennet.
Helen sniffed. “Do not think I hesitated to point that out to the dean. ‘Would it not be wise to wait here until the matter is settled? You might not even be in the new government. King Richard might purge all his officers in spite. And Henry would most certainly wish to choose his own men.’ But he is determined to depart by week’s end.”
“Yes, he sounded resolved.” Kate rose. “And I must be on my way. If I linger much longer, we shall cry on each other’s shoulders and the friars will be at their dinner when I arrive.” She plucked her hood from a chair near the fire, winning a growl from Claws, who had been guarding it. “I forget. Is Claws the deanery cat, or will she travel with you?”
“With me, my dear. A kitchen is a hellhole without a good mouser.” Helen rose to embrace Kate, kissing her cheek. “May God watch over you, and may you find joy in all your days.”
“And you, Helen. May God watch over you both.”
Stepping out of the deanery, Jennet told Kate of her morning’s work, observing Bran among the merchant stalls on Ouse Bridge. Winding round the shoppers, waiting until they were caught up in negotiations with a merchant or in heated conversations. Snip, snip and the purse slipped into his tunic. “He does not look to me like a man who believes he is about to make his fortune by returning to the Martha House to steal a golden idol.” But she had failed to speak to him. One of his intended victims got to him before she had the chance, drawing a knife on him, discreetly, hidden from the crowd, and threatening to castrate him if he ever saw his face again. “I can outpace most runners, but not a man desperate to save his cock.”
They were laughing as they approached the stonemasons’ lodge and spied Phillip standing over a grinding stone.
“I want a moment with him,” Kate said.
He had already caught sight of them, waving. His face, apron, and hair were white with the fine dust from sharpening a pile of chisels. He set the tools aside, wiping his hands on his apron. It did little good—he left a streak of white across his brow as he raked back his hair. “Did you hear? Helen and the dean are going south?”
“Just now, yes. Had you known they were going?”
He shook his head. “I will miss them. Helen fears it will be a long while before they return.”
“I will not be so comfortable about your biding with the Granthams now. You say they are stingy with food.”
“That was my story for Helen.” Phillip grinned, wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving more streaks. Like the storied Scottish warriors who painted themselves before battle. “Is Dame Eleanor’s Welshman escorting them?” he asked.
“Why would you think that?”
“I saw him there yesterday. Early. And then again last night. Well, I think it was him, red hair in the lamplight.”
Kate glanced at Jennet, who shook her head. She’d not managed to track Griffin. The man’s talent lay in disappearing, it seemed. “Tell me all that you noticed, Phillip.”
He looked at the two of them. “What’s wrong?”
“Much is wrong, else why would we have so many soldiers crowding inside the gates?” said Jennet.
Phillip shrugged. “They say many of them are leaving. That knight at your house on High Petergate—Sir Alan? Griselde says he is there all alone now, and she expects him to be gone any day.”
Kate shook her head in wonder. “You have your finger on the pulse of the city, living at Hugh Grantham’s.”
“You might as well if you moved to the High Petergate house when Sir Alan leaves. Then I could see you and Marie and Petra every day.”
Or if she moved to a larger house just past Stonegate.
“When you saw Griffin, was he alone?” Jennet asked.
“The redheaded Welshman?”
Jennet nodded.
“Yes. He has always been alone when I have seen him. But last night he was with Dean Richard. In the minster. I was taking some food to Master Hugh. He was working out a problem with one of the stonemasons up above the chapter house. I noticed the dean kneeling in one of the chantry chapels as I passed. When I came back through, Griffin was speaking to the dean. As I said, copper hair in the lamplight.”
“Kneeling with him?”
Phillip shook his head. “No, standing, though Dean Richard was still kneeling. The dean bowed his head and crossed himself while Griffin was talking.”
“Could you hear what they said?” Kate asked.
Phillip looked askance. “That would be spying.”
“Did you?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Did either of them look angry?”
“Both of them. Though I would say the dean was also sad. Bothered. Something like that.”
“You’ve seen Griffin often? Near the deanery?”
A shrug. “Now and then.”
“And always alone except for last night?” Jennet asked again.
A nod. “Is he trouble?”
Kate looked at Jennet, who grinned at Phillip. “Not if he’s an honest man, eh? Come to dinner tomorrow. Dame Katherine has invited Helen and the dean. Berend will make something special.”
“And then you’ll tell me what is wrong?”
“By then I pray it will all be right,” said Kate.
“So does King Richard, I’d wager,” Phillip said with a shrug, then took Kate’s hand and kissed it. “I will pray that you move the household to High Petergate.” With an impish smile he kissed Jennet on the cheek and shuffled back to take up his work at the grinding wheel. Several times he glanced back over his shoulder, lifting his hand in answer to Kate’s wave.
“Wrong direction,” said Jennet as Kate turned back toward the deanery.
“I need to know what business Uncle has with Griffin.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Dean Richard was pacing the length of the hall when Kate opened the door, not bothering to knock.
“We need to talk, Uncle.”
He paused. “You have made your decision?”
She waved that away. “I understand you and Mother’s Welsh retainer have had several meetings. One last night in the minster. Late last night. What is your business with him?”
He brushed dust off the sleeve of his dark robe. “Ah. Griffin. Yes.” Head down, he took a few more steps, nodding to himself.
Fashioning a good lie?
“He seems determined to extract from me a promise to protect Dame Eleanor. I have explained that I have no armed retainers to offer her, and I leave the city in a few days, but still he persists.”
“She is your brother’s widow.”
“More recently Ulrich Smit’s widow.”
“Is that it? Is the enmity between you and Mother about her remarrying before my father was cold in his grave?”
A hesitation, his eyes sad, and then he gave a little shrug. “Perhaps a little. I do not think David was much mourned by Eleanor.”
Kate would be a hypocrite to defend her mother when she, too, resented her hasty marriage. She returned to the matter at hand. “Does Griffin always come alone? Werner is never with him?”
“Who is Werner?” The dean’s voice caught slightly. Lying? Worried?
“One of Ulrich’s servants. She chose two menservants and Griffin to escort her here with the sisters.”
“Werner and Hans.” The dean nodded. “I see.”
Kate watched how her uncle avoided her eyes. “What do you know?”
“What could I possibly know? Katherine, look to the children and depend on the strong alliances you’ve made in the city. Move to the house I’ve deeded you. A large house, large enough for your household . . .”
“And far from Dame Eleanor.”
“And near Phillip. He misses you. Perhaps I speak out of my own guilt in abandoning the lad. He has found comfort in Helen’s kitchen, and I’ve enjoyed evenings with him over a chessboard. He has a subtle mind and a quick wit. If he ever wearies of working with stone, I would not hesitate to sponsor him for the Church.”
She could not imagine Phillip setting aside his hammer and chisels for the Church. “Tell me about your meeting with Griffin in the minster last night. You argued.”
She smiled at his confusion, the high, noble brow furrowing. “We were observed?”
“You were. It seemed an argument, Griffin standing over you as you knelt. What did he want?”
“So he came to you late at night, seeking you out in the minster—how did he know you would be there?”
“I wondered that as well.” A flicker of something, so quick that Kate had only a vague impression. “Perhaps he is not what he seems? But his message is always about Dame Eleanor.” There was a hesitance in his answer, as if he warred with himself.
“Come dine with us tomorrow, Uncle. Berend would enjoy the challenge of impressing Helen.”
The dean bowed his head. “If all is ready for the journey, I would enjoy that. We can discuss my offer in more depth. I will send word to you in the morning, in good time.”
They embraced, kissed each other’s cheeks, and parted.
“So?” Jennet asked as they turned up High Petergate.
“His story is that Griffin wants his word that he will protect Mother. He will not accept a no, no matter how many times my uncle says it.”
“Dame Eleanor has set him to that? That might be what has so irritated the dean.”
“That is just the thing. I do not believe she sent Griffin. Nor did Uncle suggest that.”
“Would Griffin take it upon himself?”
“God help us. Instead of answers we find more to question.” Kate did not choose to tell Jennet about the deed tucked in the slit in the lining of her sleeveless overdress.
The prior’s apartments were more simply furnished than Abbot Thomas’s, yet the prior himself commanded respect with his aquiline nose, arched brows, and low, resonant voice. His smile was welcoming as he invited Kate to sit. Jennet had chosen to stay out in the yard, listening, watching.
“I am grieved to tell you that the man you seek was injured beyond our ability to save him. He had been stabbed many times and badly beaten,” said Prior Norbert. “He died last night, with his friends round his bed.”
“His friends?”
“Bran and Carter, two ne’er-do-wells, I must say, yet they were loyal to the end,” said the prior. “Robin asked for a woman. Ann? But his friends said she had disappeared. He also asked for his brother Fitch but was told the man had been forbidden to come. By his master.”
“Fitch? Lionel Neville’s manservant?” Kate wondered aloud.
“Oh?” the prior brightened. “Is Neville Fitch’s master? I did not know.”
Kate had had no idea that Lionel’s manservant was Robin’s brother. “Had he any other visitors? Anyone else asking after him? A woman, perhaps?”
“No, no woman, and no one else that I know of, though his friends were keen to discover who brought him to us.” At Kate’s questioning look, he shook his head. “By the time someone answered the bell, there was only poor Robin. Shall I send for Friar William, the infirmarian? He might tell you more.”
Kate declined the offer. Lionel Neville’s manservant Fitch was Robin’s brother. That was an unpleasant twist. Before she departed she mentioned Friar Adam’s visit to her mother’s Martha House and asked Prior Norbert to inform Adam that Dame Eleanor had made other arrangements for a confessor. She would not require his services.
A pained smile. “His companion Friar Walter knows better than to encourage such visits. Rest easy, Dame Katherine. You need not fear his return. Adam does not have permission to offer such services. He is old, infirm, and, God forgive me, but he is much confused of late, believing that he has been given a mandate to purge the world of all sin.”
“But I understood that he is confessor to Isabella Frost.”
“Ah. She visits him often, it is true, but I had not known that he fashioned himself her confessor. I will speak with him, and with Dame Isabella.” He bowed to Kate, thanking her for the warning.
“About Friar Adam’s confusion. Would he go so far as to tell Robin and his friends to steal something from the beguines Dame Eleanor brought to York in order to hold it up as a pagan idol—to defame them?”
Norbert muttered something under his breath as he glanced away. “He did know something of the three rascals. We employed Carter for a short time.”
Another connection. “You did? Is he here?” she asked, her voice crackling with excitement.
“No, alas, he did not work out. Some items went missing.” A shrug. “I thank you for reminding me of my duty concerning Friar Adam. And I shall send word to Lionel Neville, requesting his advice on the burial of his servant’s brother.”
Kate bit back a smile, imagining Lionel’s response.
A sudden squall forced Kate to wait in the prior’s doorway, watching black-robed friars bustle past with their hoods up, hands tucked up their sleeves, feet squishing in their waterlogged sandals. As soon as the rain ceased, the sun burst out of the clouds and she needed to shield her eyes against the blinding glare on the puddles and the rain-heavy shrubs lining the walkway as she hurried toward the church, hoping Jennet had taken refuge within. She found her just stepping out from the church porch.
“So. Did you speak to Robin?”
“He died last night.”
Jennet crossed herself.
“Bran and Carter were by his side, but not Nan. I don’t understand—she loves Robin so. She would have been at his bedside if she could.”
“I have not given up the search,” said Jennet.
“Perhaps she does not wish to be found?”
A shrug. “Even so.”
“Nor was Robin’s brother, Fitch, at his deathbed.”
“Lionel’s Fitch?” Jennet shook her head. “That’s a nasty bit of news. Along with Robin’s death and the dean’s odd behavior, a difficult morning for you.”
“Yes, I believe he meant Lionel’s manservant. The prior hopes so. He now expects Lionel will take responsibility for the burial.”
Jennet snorted. “He might as well ask the Devil for alms.”
Kate agreed. “I think it’s time I paid a call on my brother-in-law.”
They headed out onto Micklegate, passing William Frost’s grand house.
“Your cousin will be happy to see the last of the campfires doused,” said Jennet.
“It is a wonder that Isabella has not found a way to evict them,” Kate chuckled, but her spark of amusement flickered and went out. “I wish I could keep the news of Robin’s death a secret. Sister Dina—”
Jennet pressed her heart, shook her head.
They walked through an eerie, rainbow-sprinkled mist as the hot sun sucked the moisture from the street and the houses round them. The Ouse Bridge, with its buildings climbing up to the crest, shimmered in the weird fog, rooftops sparkling. The sun also teased out the stench of the fish sellers’ carts, by midday always ripe, but even worse now.
“It’s a wonder we can stomach to eat fish,” Jennet muttered.
“It’s Berend’s skill that makes it palatable.”
As they passed the council chambers on the bridge, Kate called out greetings to acquaintances but kept most of her attention on the crowd milling round her. And then she caught a flash of movement, a disturbance in the crowd as someone pushed through. “Jennet, look. Over there.” Jennet looked where Kate pointed. “Bran?”
He turned for a moment, and when Jennet saw his pretty face, she nodded. “That’s him.”
Kate followed Jennet as best she could, but Jennet blended skillfully into the crowd, weaving among the folk who were strolling, talking to shopkeepers, greeting neighbors, trying to push their way through, hurrying to make their next appointment, or home. Kate stepped on feet as often as hers were stepped on, trying to stay in Jennet’s wake. The odor of bodies first soaked then heated almost gagged her so soon after the spoiling fish, and she stumbled, but Jennet plunged on. Ah-hah! Bran was forced to pause as he cut a strap. Long enough for Jennet to step behind him and lock him in a deadly embrace, pressing a knife against his throat, while with her other hand she twisted the wrist of his beweaponed hand until the knife dropped with a clatter, along with the cut purse. Bran was so poorly trained that he hardly struggled. Jennet easily yanked his right hand behind his back. She whispered something in his ear. He groaned, but moved with her as she inched them off the bridge and down beneath the pilings on the bank. Muddy, but quiet.
As Kate joined them, Bran tried to kick out at her. She kneed him in the groin. He doubled over, Jennet not quick enough moving her knife from his throat. Kate saw the blood on her hand and hoped it was not a deep cut, else he’d be of no use to them.
“I’m bleeding! You’ve killed me,” he gasped.
“Clearly not.” Kate pulled him up by his hair, looked at the wound. “It is nothing. Tell me, Bran, why did your friend Robin risk his life to rob Dame Eleanor and her sisters?”
He coughed, spit to one side, cleared his throat.
Jennet grinned at Kate over the thief’s shoulder.
“So, Bran?” Kate demanded.
“How do you know about that?”
“Never mind. Who hired you and what were you after?”
“You’re Mistress Clifford.” He strained to see behind her, into the shadows.
“Ah, you fear the hounds,” Jennet said, controlling him with the arm she held behind his back. One strong jerk and he would collapse with the pain of his shoulder popping out of its socket.
Kate took firm hold of his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze, preventing him from looking round to see what was near. “So you fear my hounds? My great war dogs?”
“It was not me who robbed you, mistress. It was Robin, as you said, may he rest in peace.” He crossed himself with his left hand.
Bad luck, that.
“Yes, poor Robin. Now, if you tell me what I want to know, I will not set the hounds on you.”
“But I—”
“A generous offer,” Jennet said in his ear, startling him. “I advise you to take it.”
He began to squirm.
“Is there someone you fear more than you fear Lille and Ghent?” Kate gestured as if the dogs were right behind her and she was holding them back.
Bran suddenly eased his squirming. Thinking he might be going limp to slip down, Kate reached out. Noticing, Jennet squeezed him tighter. Kate smelled piss. The fool had wet himself.
“Just tell my mistress what she needs to know and I’ll release you,” said Jennet.
“Our mate Thatcher offered us the job.”
“The one-legged cook,” said Jennet.
“That’s him. He said we was to be richly rewarded for the books—holy books—and a golden Christ child, from the chests up in the solar. Agnes Dell’s solar. We would receive more than we ever made at the staithes or the warehouses.”
“He cooked for her,” Jennet said.
“She turned him out without warning. And him a cripple.”
“Who has done quite well for himself,” said Kate. “How did he hear about the items in the chest?”
“That was Robin bragging of his Nan to the soldiers, hoping to join them. The soldiers Thatcher was cooking for.”
“So why was Robin sneaking into the kitchen?” asked Kate.
“For the key to the house. Nan had said—Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. And then, once he had the key?”
“All he wanted that night was the key. In the morning, when the household went to mass, we would slip in, take the books and the golden doll, and slip away, tossing the key in the grass. Nothing simpler, said Thatcher.”
“What happened when you did not succeed?” Kate asked.
“Thatcher warned us to stay away. There were far worse things about to happen there. ‘You don’t want to be caught,’ he said. So we stayed away. Nan is not with you?”
“No,” said Kate. “We are worried about her. You do not know where she is?”
“No. God help her.”
“What did they mean, ‘far worse things’?”
“I don’t know. I swear!”
“Who was Thatcher working for?”
Bran shook his head. “He wouldn’t say.”
“The soldiers he cooks for, they wear no livery. Whose men are they?”
“Don’t know. Thatcher never said.”
“Was he thieving for a friar named Adam?” Kate asked.
“Where would a friar get such coin to pay us?”
“How did you know you’d be thieving for someone with the money to pay?” Jennet asked.
“He’s done well by Thatcher. Fitted him up with a better peg leg.” A shrug.
“Not too sure about that, are you, Bran?” Jennet taunted.
“One more thing.” Kate stepped closer. “Do not tell Thatcher that we talked. I will know if you do. I’ve a man in the camps.”
“Could not tell him if I wanted to.” A shiver went through Bran. “I went to see him just now, to ask about Nan. But he wasn’t there. And the soldiers, they pretended they never saw a one-legged cook. Laughed at me. Bastards.”
He kicked out instinctively, but Kate caught his leg and knocked him off his feet.
Jennet grinned as she pulled him back up, supporting him until he found his footing. “Wouldn’t want the hounds thinking you were dinner, eh?”
“I’ve told you all I know!” Bran whined.
“Where’s Carter?” Kate asked.
“Waiting for me on the other side of the bridge, behind the fishmongers.”
Where no one cared to linger. Good choice. Jennet nodded at Kate’s look, let him go so suddenly that he collapsed in the mud. She kicked him. “Tell your mates to stay away,” Jennet warned. “The hounds will attack anyone who threatens the sisters. They feed them bits from the table. They are their favorite people.” She did not look at Kate as she lied.
Bran rose from the mud, fists clenched. “I won’t be thrown in the muck by a wee lass like you.” The punch never came. He was on the ground with Kate’s boot on his chest, Jennet’s on a thigh. “I swear, I swear we’ll stay away.”
“A pity you pulled Nan into your trouble,” said Kate. “How did you persuade her to help you?”
“She’d do anything for Robin. Thought he was special, been places, knew things. Promised to take her away.” Bran was craning his neck again.
“Goodwife Hawise believes you will do all you can to find Nan and bring her home,” said Kate. “She trusts you. Shall I tell her what vermin you really are?”
“I don’t know where to look.”
“Useless.” Kate lifted her boot, brushed off her hands.
Jennet gave his legs a kick before following after Kate, who was whistling as if calling the hounds. Bran scrambled to his feet and ran off over the staithe. Jennet nodded to several men taking a break, sitting on barrels they were unloading from a barge.
“Routed the cutpurse maggot, eh?” one of them called out.
“That’s me Jennet,” called another.
“Never yours, Cam, never yours. But I’ll take credit for the other,” Jennet grinned as she hurried to catch up with Kate as she climbed back up to Ousegate.