The Service of the Dead

Above, the rooftops glistened and steamed, below, puddles in the narrow streets shimmered darkly. Kate kept her gaze low, ensuring that Lille and Ghent did not lead her through the deepest streams flowing between the cobbles. There were fewer puddles in the center of the street, but she stayed well to the side, beneath the eaves, where it was quieter and away from the rooftop runoff. Darker, but drier overhead and better for thinking.

Sifting through all the revelations of the day, Kate felt as if the earth were shifting and reforming beneath her feet. Suddenly her usual worries seemed such simple issues, minor problems that threatened neither life nor limb. She would give anything to have her greatest worries be how to accommodate as many important couples as possible, how to tuck away a goodly amount of money while remaining choosy enough for her customers to feel special, or how to keep the business a secret from the rest of the city and her wards. She was dizzy juggling all she had learned and what she suspected while staying alert to her surroundings, straining for subtle changes in the street sounds. Time and again she turned, certain someone was following close behind. She started at the gentlest greeting, eyeing everyone with suspicion. Lille and Ghent began to pick up her mood and shy at sudden movements.

Despite her efforts to focus on her own thoughts, snippets of the conversations swirling round her began to coalesce and form a story. People believed that Connor had murdered his mistress, Alice Hatten, then taken his own life. She halted in midstride, to the great confusion of Lille and Ghent, who barked in unison then came close to sniff her hands.

“Dame Katherine?”

She shook her head at the neighbor eyeing her with concern. “Lost in my thoughts, Peter. How are Ann and the baby?” His wife had delivered two days earlier, their first child, long-prayed-for. Peter’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ann is happier than I have ever seen her, and our son is thriving. I swear he’s done a week’s worth of growing in two days.”

They laughed, nodded, blessed each other’s households, parted.

Matilda Baker slipped into step beside Kate, asking after Phillip, poor lad, finding the stonecutter who had hanged himself. Kate forced herself not to correct the woman. The rumor might be all for the best, as her uncle had suggested. She assured the woman that Phillip was in good hands, thanked her, wished her a good day. God be thanked, the woman nodded and moved on before Kate lost control and chided her for heedlessly believing rumors.

The early start to the day and all the emotion began to take its toll. Noticing she was rushing, Kate slowed down. She dreaded the prospect of another trip to the deanery and back home again before sunset. If only the long-term tenant in the house next to the guesthouse would move on – or die, she thought, then quickly crossed herself – but if Odo Marsden would agree to move she might bide closer to the heart of the city. Twice she had asked him to consider one of her other properties, and once she had simply offered money; but he would not budge. He was an elderly man, set in his ways, but his family was – unfortunately for her – long-lived. Once he was gone she might sell or lease the Castlegate house, bringing in welcome income to tuck away for the future. High Petergate felt closer to the heart of York. She might be far more comfortable there, close to the guesthouse.