A Murdered Peace
- Автор: Робб Кэндис
- Серия: A Kate Clifford Mystery #3
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pegasus Books
- ISBN: 9781681779270
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «A Murdered Peace». Краткое содержание книги:
England still in tumult at the start of the fifteenth century, as Kate Clifford finds herself working to prove the innocence of her longtime confidante.
It is deep winter in York, 1400, the ground frozen, the short days dimmed with the smoke from countless fires, the sun, when it shines, low in the sky. It is rumored that the Epiphany Uprising, meant to relieve the realm of the Henry the usurper and return King Richard to the throne has, instead, spelled his doom. As long as Richard lives, he is a threat to Henry. So, too, the nobles behind the plot. The ringleaders have been caught, some slaughtered as they fled west by folk loyal to Henry, and the king's men now search the towns for survivors.
A perilous time, made worse for Kate Clifford by the disappearance of Berend, her cook and confidante, shortly after Christmas. Her niece saw his departure in a dream – he said he was honor bound to leave. Honor bound – to a former lord? One of the nobles who led the uprising? Is he alive? She is hardly consoled when Berend reappears, wounded, secretive, denying any connection to the uprising, but refusing to explain himself. When he is accused of brutally murdering a spice seller in the city, Kate discovers a chest of jewels in his possession. Some of the jewels belong to her old friend Lady Margery, wanted by the king for her husband’s part in the uprising. For the sake of their long friendship, and the love she and her wards bear for him, Kate wants to believe his innocence. So, too, does Sir Elric. And he has the powerful backing of the Earl of Westmoreland. All she need do is confide in him. If only she trusted her heart.
“I want to go back to Castlegate. I want to live with the sisters.”
Her mother’s poor sisters, or beguines, now living in Kate’s former home. One of them, Sister Brigida, tutored the girls in French, and had become their confidante.
“Is that truly what you want, Petra?”
A tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. “I want things to be how they were.”
“Oh, my love.” Kate leaned close to kiss her niece on the forehead and gently wiped the tear from her cheek. “I miss him too.”
“Everything is wrong.”
“Sometimes it feels that way.”
“And now Kevin is leaving.”
“I know,” Kate whispered. “But I am here.”
More tears. Suddenly Petra freed her hands, wrapping her arms round Kate’s neck and sobbing. Ghent sighed and moved aside so that Petra could slip onto Kate’s lap. For a long while they sat there, until Petra’s grief was exhausted. By the time the child quieted and rose to go out to apologize to Marie, Kate’s legs had gone numb on the cold stones of the kitchen floor, and her heart was heavy. Everything is wrong. Life was change, and it was not always comfortable. Her niece had perhaps believed that in Kate’s welcoming household that would not be so.
Kate called out to Petra as she reached the door, “Kevin will be just round the corner in Stonegate with his comrades, watching over us. You will see him often, I’m sure of it.”
A fleeting smile, a shrug, and the girl was gone.
Kate pulled herself up from the floor, shook out her legs, and took a few turns round the room to warm herself. Her hand brushed against the bowl Berend used every night for the next morning’s bread, letting it rise in the warmth of the kitchen. She wanted to come out here in the evening to talk over the events of the day with Berend as he kneaded the bread, his sleeves rolled up, arms white with flour, his calm radiating through the room, more comforting to her than the warmth of the hearth fire. And, in the morning, as she and the children stumbled into the kitchen, she wanted him there, always up before them, tending the fire, humming as he stepped out to check the bread. Bald, one-eared Berend with his three-fingered hand and eyes that pierced to her soul, muscles straining the sleeves of his linen shirts – old shirts worn soft with many washings. He was her anchor, her confidant, her best friend, a man she trusted with her life, and those of Petra, Marie, and Phillip.
Honor-bound. He was honor-bound to stay. He had promised to be here for her always. He had promised. And now he was gone. Damn him.
At the guesthouse, Griselde shook her head when Kate asked whether Carl had appeared. She had known it unlikely. If he was in the city, and in distress, or lost, Jennet would have heard. But she had held out a slim hope that he might have been trapped outside the gates, and would have appeared first thing.
“I must be off to the market. A few last things for the celebration this evening,” Griselde said. “And Lady Margery is yet abed. I do not like to leave her.”
Kate promised she would return as soon as she had completed some business in Stonegate. Roland Pendleton, the silversmith, expected her.
“Ah, the last payment on the debt.” Griselde patted Kate’s hand. “That will take your mind off your troublesome guest for a while. Go now. I can wait.”
Pendleton opened the door himself, greeting Kate with a smile. “Today is the day!” The silversmith had been most patient since Simon’s death, assuring her month after month that he knew he would eventually see his money. Escorting her into the office behind the shop, he called to his servant for a flagon of fine claret he had set out the night before, and two cups.
“I know it is early, but this calls for a toast,” he declared, motioning Kate to a seat by the table on which were strewn tally sticks and pieces of jewelry, some whole, some broken. He reached up and pulled down an old ledger in which to record her payment – Simon’s debt had been first recorded years earlier.
Kate’s eyes were drawn to a shiny object that had been tucked behind the old account book. It was a woman’s girdle, the type called a dymysent, the front of the belt an elaborate ornamental silver clasp with silver wings radiating out from it, the back a simple gray silk. An exquisite piece, and one she recognized with puzzlement. It belonged to Lady Margery, a piece she recalled her wearing on several occasions the previous winter. Was it possible that Margery had taken it to the silversmith for repair on that earlier visit, then forgotten it? She had traveled with trunk loads of elegant clothing, so one item, no matter how valuable, might easily be missed. It would explain how it came to be shuffled to the back of the shelf, though she was surprised that Pendleton would be so careless with an object of such obvious value. Or had someone sold it to him? Recently, perhaps? Carl?
She was debating whether or not to comment on the fine workmanship when the servant returned with the wine. By the time she and Pendleton had toasted the settlement of the debt, Kate had decided that until she knew Lady Margery’s reason for arriving on her doorstep in disguise it was best not to call attention to anything regarding her. As soon as the silversmith finished his cup of wine, Kate took her leave, anxious to ask her friend about the girdle.
By the time Kate returned to the guesthouse, Lady Margery had risen and now sat at the worktable in the kitchen staring at the opposite wall, ignoring the bread, cheese, and ale set before her. Her pale, freckled skin, so lovely with her natural red hair, looked ashen against the harsh black dye, and her pretty eyes were sunken in shadows.
“Margery?” Kate slipped onto the bench beside her and took one of her hands, noticing not only how cold it was, despite the warmth of the kitchen, but also how rough. The journey had certainly taken its toll.
But her eyes burned with anger as she turned to Kate.
“What is it?” Kate asked. “Has someone in the household upset you?”
The lady blinked and her gaze softened. “Katherine! No, everyone has been so kind. Bless them. Bless you. Have you news of Carl? I fear for him. We were followed, I am sure of it. But I thought, once I bought the clothes from the lad …” She stopped, staring down at the food.
“Who followed you?”
Margery shook her head.
“I must know how to protect you,” said Kate, “and from whom. Why are you being followed? Where is Sir Thomas? Why are you not with him?”
“Thomas?” Margery crossed herself. “He has passed through fire into eternal grace.”
“Dead?” Kate pressed her friend’s hand. “Margery, what happened to him?”
“What happened to my beloved …” Margery shook her head. “One would not think such a thing could happen in a Christian realm. Thomas was a good man, the best of men. He was slain by a mob at Cirencester. They butchered him at Henry of Lancaster’s pleasure.” She spoke with a cold precision Kate had never heard from Margery.
Pleasure? Surely not, Geoff whispered in her mind. Her twin, dead now seven years, lived on in Kate, protecting her. Womb companions, nothing, not even death, could separate them.
“I will not rest until I have restored my husband’s good name,” said Margery. “Henry Bolingbroke will not ruin the Kirkby family.” She withdrew her hands from Kate’s grasp.