The Service of the Dead

At first Kate blamed the clatter of a loose shutter banging against the house for her agitation upon waking. But after Jennet rose to secure it, Kate still could not settle, going over and over all the missed opportunities of the previous days. It was not merely her failure to have Sam follow William when he disposed of the corpse, but she’d also neglected to examine the body for additional wounds or identifying marks, or search the man’s belongings. They had the pack now, but had he anything on him, something now in William’s possession, or, even worse, something buried with the body? She should have taken Berend or Jennet with her. Since when had protecting her investments and her reputation blinded her to matters of actual survival? She disappointed herself.

And now the silence felt rife with menace.

Jennet groaned and sat up, listening. “Hubert Bale has become a specter of the night. He might be anywhere.”

As if she had not been thinking the same thing, Kate reminded Jennet that Sam and the dogs were below in the hall. “They will warn us. And we don’t even know that Hubert Bale survived.”

“Berend would be surprised if he had not.”

It was true. Berend doubted that the man strangled in the guesthouse had been Hubert Bale, the best assassin he had ever encountered, unless he had been attacked by an equally skilled assassin.

“Such as?” Kate had asked him.

“Someone from King Richard’s own network of spies. His Grace might have learned of Bale’s mission, and, knowing his reputation, sent someone to prevent Bale from murdering royal supporters.”

She’d argued that the situation was all the worse because the identity and motive of the murderer were as yet a mystery. “We must find Alice and protect her, discover who was murdered, and by whom, and why. Your mission is to identify the dead man. Exhume him or wrest a description out of the servant who helped bury him. That is our focus.”

“As you wish,” said Berend. “As long as you appreciate the danger.”

She assured him that she did. Of course it bothered her that, according to Berend, Hubert Bale was a man so ordinary in appearance – height, weight, coloring, features – that he moved through crowds unnoticed. Even those he attacked struggled for a description of any aspect, even clothing, that would assist identification. “He left survivors? I thought he was an assassin.”

“Some of his missions were to maim – intimidation, not execution.”

“God help us.”

Kate had hoped for a clearer image of the man who might count her partly or wholly responsible for an attack in her guesthouse. They could not rely on recognizing a face, but must mark behavior.

Jennet was right. If Bale was the murderer on the loose, he could be anywhere. As Kate lay in bed she tensed at every gust of wind, each creak of the house, and cursed William for endangering her and all she held dear.

“I feel some satisfaction thinking how frightened your cousin must be,” said Jennet. “Either his guest or a stranger murdered, and Master Frost put Bale there that night.”

Kate sighed into the darkness. Despite his betrayal, she did not wish harm to her cousin.

Don’t be soft, Geoff growled in her head. She felt him brush her cheek with his lips. She must still be half asleep. Glad you have such a loyal maidservant. Sharing a bed with our brothers and our servant Tuck was comforting only for the heat. If we lay awake worried or tensed for trouble, we never admitted it to each other.

What are you doing here, Geoff? But she knew. When she was in danger, he was there.

Jennet abruptly sat up. “I surrender. I cannot sleep. I will begin my search.” She slipped out from beneath the pile of bedclothes.

“It is still dark.”

“I do my best work in the dark, remember?”

Before she came to work for Kate, Jennet had used her tailoring skills to create clothing in which she might squirrel away valuables lifted from houses she slipped into at night. That was how they had first met, when Kate came upon Jennet emptying the shelves in the hall into the roomy pouches of her clothing. Simon had slept through the incident, and by the time Sam appeared Kate had invited Jennet out to the kitchen for a chat – with Berend as backup in case the young woman was not as interested in “honest employment” as she claimed.

Smiling at the memory, Kate rose as well. It was a relief to dress and then help Jennet transform herself into a young lad, all in silence so as not to wake Phillip and Marie.

For her present purposes Jennet had removed most of the bulky compartments from the tunic and breeches. Nowadays the compartments she inserted in her own and Kate’s clothing were for weapons, and the tailoring for ease of movement. Kate blessed the night Jennet had attempted to rob her. “Three knives, Jennet?”

A soft laugh. “Never too many.”

“No. Not for us,” Kate agreed. She never let down her guard, never. When the last strand of hair was tucked into Jennet’s roomy hat, Kate checked the landing. “It’s clear.”

Jennet strode to the door, already in character.

“Trust no one,” Kate whispered.

“Only you, Dame Katherine.”

“And Berend.”

A cocky shrug, a curt nod. “He’s kept quiet about me, it’s true.”

“Be back before sunset. We have a watch on Petergate.”

Jennet nodded, then slipped onto the landing, down the stairs, and out the door.

How Kate yearned to tuck her own wild hair in a hat, don Geoff’s breeches and shirt, and rush off after Jennet. How free she was. No eyes watched Jennet for missteps in propriety. Secrecy weighed Kate down, pinned her in place. Outside – all the gossips. Inside – her wards. And through it all she must emulate the ideal of the virtuous widow. She itched for some practice at the butt in the garden, but with Jennet gone Kate must see to her wards.

Women may be better at comforting each other, but men are so free, Geoff.

Free to die. Or haven’t you noticed?

“Who was that?”

Kate’s heart leapt as Marie padded out onto the landing squinting and yawning, swaddled in a blanket.

“Jennet. I sent her off on an early errand.”

A whine. “Who will dress me?”

“Curl up on my bed while I fetch something warm to drink. Then I’ll dress you.”

The girl shuffled past and managed to climb onto the bed without unwrapping herself, rolling to the center, facedown.

Kate slipped a sheathed dagger into a slot in the front of her gown, then moved the scrip attached to the elegant leather and silver girdle on her hips to doubly conceal it. Not enough protection. Glancing back to check that Marie was not looking, Kate pushed aside a chest and peeled back a section of floorboard to reveal the little casket in which she kept the small battle-axe – a third the size of a soldier’s, but efficient and deadly – that her father had given her on her twelfth birthday. She kept it sharpened and ready, in the fine leather pouch that was small enough to slip into the compartment in the right side of her skirt. She would prefer a larger weapon, but even this was difficult enough to hide. No voluminous skirts for her; the less fabric the better. With the axe, the dagger, and the wolfhounds, she was as ready for trouble as she could be.