A Twisted Vengeance

Discovering the postern gate of St. Mary’s Abbey locked, Berend cursed at the need to go the long way once more, out Bootham Bar and round to the main gate of the abbey. The Bootham gatekeepers were busy with merchants and more of the armed men coming to the defense of the city. It seemed that today’s fresh influx traveled in smaller groups than they had at the beginning, and he eyed them with unease, certain that some were mercenaries and killers for hire, as he had been at one time. He was not concerned with the ones in livery – they were easily brought to heel by their lords if they caused trouble. It was the ones with no obvious badge of belonging that caused a tingling in his scarred ear. These might as easily be spies for Lancaster disguised as men ready to defend the city for the king; or, perhaps worse, solely interested in plunder and blood sport.

As he passed through the stone enclosure and felt the sun on his head, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. In a moment, four men had drawn daggers and were dancing round each other. No livery. No way to know who had started the altercation, or why. But it was just the sort of fight that could grow into a bloody tragedy – one that a spy might use to undermine confidence in the city’s defenses.

By the time the gatekeeper shouted for help, Berend was in the middle of the fray, tossing one of the dagger-wielding bullies out of the tight circle. Already three more had joined the tussle.

“At your side. You go right, I’ll go left,” said a man in livery, sword drawn, and Berend nodded, drawing his dagger and moving as suggested. Two more joined them, and soon the fighters were sitting on the side of the road guarded by four swordsmen in the livery of Edmund, Duke of York. A fifth, the one who had spoken to Berend, slapped him on the back, thanking him.

“We could use you.”

“So you could. But I’ve left that life behind.”

“You were quick to act just now.”

“I don’t like trouble in my city.”

The man squinted in the sunlight. “I’ve seen you before. With the lady of the wolfhounds.”

Berend did not like the knowing tone in the man’s voice. “So you have. She, too, dislikes trouble in our city.”

“Your wife?”

“My employer.”

“Ah. I can see why you choose to stay.” A leer. “Those are war dogs.”

“They are. And trained from birth to attack anyone they sense a threat to her or anyone in her household.” Not trusting himself to control his rising irritation, Berend nodded to the man and headed down toward the abbey gate.

The man was right about Lille and Ghent. Irish wolfhounds were excellent war dogs – he’d fought alongside some. But he’d never encountered any so well trained as they were. In truth, he had never encountered anyone like Katherine Clifford. He had been in York but a few days when he noticed her moving through the city with her gray sentinels. Intrigued, he’d asked about her. A Clifford, people told him, married to a Neville, connected to the Frosts and Gisburnes – no one to toy with.

So he had been surprised in the best way when she had approached him at the market, sauntering over to him as folk gave way for the imposing dogs. “You are rumored to be a good cook. Is it true? Are you looking for work?”

“I am,” he’d said. His parents had owned a tavern. He’d worked in the kitchen until running away to be a soldier.

“I need a cook. Are you interested?”

He would have laughed at her proposal but that he’d heard on the street how she had caught Jennet in the act of stealing the pewter plates in her hall as the family slept, and had hired her that very night, as her maidservant. An assassin turned cook, he would feel quite at home.

“I can think of no household in which I’d rather serve.”

She’d smiled then, a genuine smile, her eyes warm. “So Jennet was right. She wagered you would agree. Come, Berend, help me shop for dinner. My husband likes spicy food.”

God’s grace was with him that day. He would do anything for her. Anything. Even break the vow he’d made when he walked away from his previous profession. If she ever needed an assassin … But she would never ask that of him. She would do what needed to be done herself.

He was keenly aware of how Dame Katherine would fascinate the warriors arriving in York. Though few were as battle-scarred as Berend, he saw himself in them, himself and all with whom he’d fought. He noticed them watching the three of them, the tall, enigmatic woman with the gray giants flanking her. They imagined in her a woman who would understand their hunger for strength and beauty in a violent world, a woman who could admire their feats in arms, comprehend their stories, what the victories and defeats meant to them. And Dame Katherine would. She did. Berend was grateful for that. He was not worried about her ability to defend herself; he had all confidence in her. But the other women – weak, unarmed, frightened women such as Sister Dina – these were the women for whom he feared. As did Dame Katherine.

As he stepped through the abbey gate, Berend felt a surge of relief. For a moment he forgot his mission and said a prayer of gratitude that there was such a place so near the city, a haven of peace, a sanctuary in which he might lay down his burden of worry. Brothers and servants moved about their chores in silence, their pace much slower than out in the city, as if they had all the time in the world. Berend slowed his own steps, and as he made his way to the infirmary he allowed his gaze to rest gently on the elegant buildings and the lovingly tended gardens. One could forget for a moment the gathering of armed men to defend the city, the sense of imminent danger. He had missed his visits to Brother Martin. The apothecary had indeed provided the same unguent, but her shop was no refuge from his cares.

He rapped gently on the door of the infirmary, drawing his mind back to his purpose. Today the abbey was more than a retreat from the world; it was a source of information. Here he hoped he might discover whose blood stained Sister Dina’s gown.

A dark-eyed, chubby novice opened the infirmary door.

“I have come to speak with Brother Martin.”

The novice gazed up at Berend in startled silence for a moment, then seemed to hear his request. “Oh. I pray you forgive me. It is not every day I discover a stranger at the door.”

And today, at least two? Berend wondered.

“Brother Martin is in the herb garden. Is he expecting you?”

“No. But he will remember me.” Berend slipped off his simple felt hat and tilted his head to display the scar where once was an ear. “That it has healed so well is thanks to his skill.”

A slight frown and a subtle drawing back suggested the novice was not sure he would consider it healed. But he quickly recovered, and, bowing, said, “I will escort you, Master …?”

“Berend.”

Another bow, and the novice stepped out the door, shutting it behind him, and led Berend round the building.

He smelled the herbs before he saw the garden – spicy, sweet, aromatic. And now he beheld the serene order of the beds, heard the murmur of bees and other winged gardeners. Eden. Paradise.

A black-robed form bent over a hedge of lavender.

“Brother Martin?”

The figure straightened, pushing back a wide-brimmed hat that had half fallen over his eyes. “Yes, Andrew, what – Oh, Master Berend.” He came forward, brushing off his gloves, then removing one to take Berend’s hand. “What a pleasure to see you. It has been so long. How is the ear?” His cheer seemed forced.

“Healed, as far as is possible, thanks to your care, Brother Martin.”