A Twisted Vengeance

In the heat of late morning Dame Eleanor commended Nan and Sister Agnes on their work in the kitchen and adjoining bedchamber. The pooled blood had been mopped up and the stains covered with rushes, Dina’s bedding changed, the stained linen tidily folded in readiness for the laundrywoman.

“Go back to the house. Lie down and rest awhile,” Eleanor suggested.

She opened the shutters and the door in the kitchen, and sat just outside the entrance spinning and keeping watch, while the heat soaked up the dampness from the scrubbing.

When Sister Clara’s gentle shake wakened her, Eleanor silently berated herself for falling asleep. Anyone might have strolled right past her and into the kitchen or the house across the garden. “Is aught amiss?” she asked, gazing up at the comfortable bulk of the beguine. She could never tell what went on behind Clara’s calm façade, her soft brown eyes gazing on the world with benevolence. Was she worried? Angry? Bored? Who could tell?

“Were you in the room when Nan and Sister Agnes changed the bedding?” Clara asked with a note of worry. Ah, but she had less control over her voice.

“No. But I found no fault with their work.”

“Mein Gott.” It was as close to a cry of concern as Eleanor had ever heard from Clara. “Did you move Sister Dina’s dagger? Perhaps you did not wish them to see it? I cannot find it. I’ve searched the room, the kitchen.”

“A dagger? Sister Dina keeps a dagger in her bedchamber?” Dame Eleanor set aside her work and rose. “What is a beguine doing with a weapon?”

“Protecting herself. She slept with it beneath her pillow. I might have thought it merely ornamental, a keepsake, but the blade is long and sharp. Holy Mary Mother of God. Sister Dina carries a burden of such fear. I’ve asked Nan whether she or Sister Agnes moved the dagger, but she swears they took nothing away.”

Remembering the blood, and that it was not Dina’s, Eleanor crossed herself and prayed for guidance as she followed Clara into the small bedchamber. Merciful Mother, it is clear that I do not know Sister Dina at all, yet I felt called to her way of life, drawn by the grace I beheld in her. Was I wrong? Did I mistake grace for cunning? The bedchamber was sparsely furnished, and such a small space it offered little opportunity to hide an ornate dagger. Dina’s traveling chest was in Sisters Brigida’s and Clara’s bedchamber. They had insisted that she not take it out to the kitchen. “It is gone, then.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose at the damp smell.

“Perhaps Sister Dina dropped it when she ran. I imagine she ran.” As Clara raised her head she dashed away tears. “Now Sister Dina’s terrible burden might never be purged from her heart.”

Eleanor drew Clara into her arms, shushing her as she had done her children when they were distraught.

“What happened here last night?” Clara sobbed. “What happened to gentle Dina?”

“Hush, now, hush,” Eleanor spoke softly. Though her head was abuzz, she stayed quiet, letting Clara work through her grief for her friend. Only when, with one last sob, Clara pulled away and dabbed her eyes did Eleanor lay out her plan to have Griffin sleep in the kitchen until they felt safe.

Clara gave an emphatic nod. “Bless you, Dame Eleanor. He is a reassuring presence. It seems I was hasty insisting that no men bide on this property.”

It gave Eleanor, who had advised against the ban, no pleasure to be proved correct in such wise. “Perhaps you might search for the dagger between here and the church,” she said. “Take along my maidservant. I think it best we go nowhere without a companion for the nonce.”

“Of course,” said Clara. “Yes. As we did in Strasbourg. Yes, that would be best.” The beguine moved toward the doorway as if in a dream, almost stepping on the feet of Agnes’s servant, Nan, as she entered the kitchen. “Oh, Nan! Are you rested?”

A little nod. “Master Lionel Neville is in the hall, Dame Eleanor, and asked to speak with you.”

The loathsome Lionel. God help us. Katherine’s late husband’s younger brother was greedy, grasping, scheming, and but half the man his brother was – or Katherine, for that matter. “What does he want?”

“He is concerned about a rumor that there was trouble here last night.”

He is, is he? “Offer him some ale. Nothing better. If he asks, say, sweetly, ‘Poor sisters,’ and smile. You know how.” You smile at all the men.

“Yes, mistress.”

As Nan turned to do as she was bid, Sister Clara called out, “Wait. Tell Sister Agnes I wish to speak with her.”

Nan glanced back. “But what about–”

“Now,” Sister Clara ordered in such a voice Nan skittered away.

Eleanor raised a brow in silent query.

“I see that his visit worries you, Dame Eleanor. If we have brought trouble to you or your daughter, I would know at once. I pray you, question her. You must know what this is about.” Her face brightened with a surprising smile. “I confess, Nan tests me. I offer up my aggravation for the benefit of all souls.”

“Dame Eleanor? Sister Clara?” Agnes stood in the doorway, her face shiny with sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The day had grown warm, and she had been scrubbing, though from the creases in her gown it was clear she had indeed been resting awhile.

“Lionel Neville is taking his ease in the hall,” said Eleanor. “I state the obvious. You know this. You have perhaps exchanged some pleasantries as you passed through in coming here?”

“I did wish him a good morning and ask his business.”

“His answer?”

“That he had come to speak with you about the trouble here last night.”

“I wonder why he is so solicitous?” Why would Lionel Neville’s ears prick up at news of this particular dwelling? Eleanor searched her memory for what she had heard about him. He lived for the day that Katherine remarried so that he might take possession of his brother’s business, but what had that–? Ah, he was known as a niggardly landlord. “Unless he is concerned about possible damage to his property?”

A crease of her sweaty brow. My, my, how the white wimple and veil accentuated Agnes’s high color.

“His property, Dame Eleanor? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t lie to me, Agnes. Am I correct in guessing that he owns this house? Why else would he be so concerned about what happened last night?”

Agnes gave the subtlest of nods, as if hoping she might be obedient without incriminating herself. “He is a kind man.”

Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “Lionel Neville kind? There is not a soul in York who would count him so. You have no talent for lying, Agnes. You were wise to choose silence instead.” The woman’s face had turned an unhealthy crimson. “Oh, for pity’s sake, you cannot be surprised by my disappointment. Had you thought I would be pleased to know he owned this house you would have told me.”

“I meant to tell you, I did. But he asked that I say nothing. He said that the best gifts are those we give without any wish for recognition. It matters only that God knows, it is enough. So I thought … I did not think you would be angry.”

“Had you any sense in that head of yours you would understand why I am. Lionel Neville is – no, I waste my breath.”