A Twisted Vengeance
- Автор: Робб Кэндис
- Серия: A Kate Clifford Mystery #2
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pegasus Books
- ISBN: 9781681774756
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «A Twisted Vengeance». Краткое содержание книги:
As the fourteenth century comes to a close, York seethes on the brink of civil war – and young widow Kate Clifford, struggling to keep her businesses afloat, realizes that her mother is harboring a dangerous secret…
1399. York is preparing for civil war, teeming with knights and their armed retainers summoned for the city’s defense. Henry of Lancaster is rumored to have landed on the northeast coast of England, not so far from York, intent on reclaiming his inheritance – an inheritance which his cousin, King Richard, has declared forfeit.
With the city unsettled and rife with rumors, Eleanor Clifford’s abrupt return to York upon the mysterious death of her husband in Strasbourg is met with suspicion in the city. Her daughter Kate is determined to keep her distance, but it will not be easy – Eleanor has settled next door with the intention of establishing a house of beguines, or poor sisters. When one of the beguines is set upon in the night by an intruder, Kate knows that for the sake of her own reputation and the safety of her young wards she must investigate.
From the first, Eleanor is clearly frightened yet maintains a stubborn silence. The brutal murder of one of Eleanor’s servants leads Kate to suspect that her mother’s troubles have followed her from Strasbourg. Is she secretly involved in the political upheaval? When one of her wards is frightened by a too-curious stranger, Kate is desperate to draw her mother out of her silence before tragedy strikes her own household.
Lamplight played along the rich colors in the tapestries, and on the cushions spread around the chamber. The shutters of the one window were flung wide, inviting the air from the shaded garden into the chamber. But not enough. Her uncle’s forehead glistened with sweat as he rose to welcome her, gesturing toward a chair that had been placed so that both he and the archbishop could observe her. Richard Scrope inclined his head to her respectful greeting and asked whether her beautiful hounds had accompanied her.
“They have, Your Grace, and are now enjoying the hospitality of Helen’s kitchen.”
She took her seat, fussing for a moment with her sleeves while composing herself. It was most appropriate that the archbishop had not risen; he was the power in the room. Even so, she took it as an ill omen of the outcome of this bargaining session, that the two Richards held themselves so stiffly. She felt herself following suit, perched at the edge of her chair, resenting the atmosphere in the room. If either of them had just hours earlier stumbled upon the body of a man beaten to death, they would not subject themselves to such a meeting.
“Now then,” said Helen from the threshold as she held open the door for a young clerk to set a tray on the table near the dean. A pie heaped with spiced fruits and custard, bread, butter, cheese, bowls, goblets, and a servant holding a flagon of wine and pitcher of water, ready to serve.
Though Helen was almost as skilled in the kitchen as Berend, Kate had no stomach for food at the moment. She did accept a goblet of wine, unwatered, the better to dull her irritation.
Her uncle and the archbishop each accepted a slice of pie, tasting it with apparent pleasure. But as soon as Helen and her helpers withdrew, they put aside their bowls.
Dean Richard leaned toward Kate, his brows pulled together in a concerned frown. His gray eyes softened for a moment. “My dear Katherine, is it true that you came upon a murdered man on your walk this morning? One of Dame Eleanor’s servants from Strasbourg?”
“It is, Uncle.”
“May God calm your troubled heart.”
“It was a disturbing beginning to my day.”
“What do you know about this man?”
“No more than you do, I imagine, Uncle. He was most recently employed in the household of my neighbor, Thomas Holme. Why do you ask?”
The archbishop made a little sound.
Her uncle’s frown deepened, his dark brows pulling together. “We are merely concerned.”
Clearly it was more than that. “You are most kind.”
“And what of the beguine who sleeps with a dagger, whose gown and shift were stiff with someone else’s blood?” asked the archbishop.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not understand what it is you wish to know.”
“What do you know of Sister Dina?” her uncle asked in a quiet voice.
“She is a skilled needle woman. Mother hired her to make her mourning robes in Strasbourg, and she was impressed by her compassion and quiet wisdom. I know little more.”
“I heard that she became agitated while Dame Eleanor was sitting with her at the maison dieu,” said Scrope.
Magistra Matilda must be quite the tittle-tattle. “Your Grace, I humbly suggest that you continue this conversation with Dame Eleanor. She is the one who knows her servants and the beguines whom she brought with her from Strasbourg.”
Scrope nodded, sat back in his chair, elbows on the arms, hands steepled. “What do you know of beguines?”
“They are dedicated to God and good works, celibate, and, rather than bringing large dowries to convents, they work to support themselves – which means the life is available to women of lesser means. Other than their work outside the Martha House, I see little difference between them and the poor sisters of York.”
“Pope Clement condemned them,” said her uncle, picking up his goblet, sipping his wine. “And the Holy Fathers who have followed him have concurred.”
“I am fond of the three sisters. I see much good in them, no harm. They do not preach, as did Marguerite Porete.”
“How do you come to know about the heretic Porete?”
Kate had stepped in it now. Brigida had told her of Marguerite. “I cannot recall. Perhaps you, Uncle?”
The dean frowned, shook his head. “Not I. Dame Eleanor, no doubt.” She saw what Helen meant – he spoke her mother’s name as if it were a curse.
Archbishop Scrope leaned forward. “You say you see no harm in them. Even Sister Dina, with her dagger beneath her pillow?” He held Kate’s gaze, as if eager to hear her rebuttal.
“A woman must often defend her virtue and her life against those who would force themselves on her, Your Grace. I assume she suffered some terrible experience in the past, a terror she has not yet forgotten. How could I condemn her for finding comfort in a form of protection? We do not as yet know what the intruder was after, or what he had done to Sister Dina. Which brings me to my proposal.”
Her uncle shook his head in warning, but the archbishop sat back and sipped his wine, gesturing to her to continue.
“In exchange for introductions and information, I will keep you apprised of my investigation into the intruder and Hans’s murder.”
“You have agreed to assist Dame Eleanor in this?” His Grace asked.
“I have chosen to do so.” Kate glanced at her uncle, who scowled into his cup. She had never seen him like this. “Kin help kin.”
His eyes, when he lifted them to hers, were most unfriendly, his strong jaw, usually expressing a comforting air of command, jutted forward, as if challenging her. “Cliffords do, but Frosts? That would be news indeed.” He snorted. “You would be best to remember how much trouble your cousin William and your mother, both Frosts, have brought you. How much sorrow.”
She could not deny that. But neither could she reconcile this angry man with the uncle who had supported and comforted her during those troubles. His voice was sharp, his tone challenging. What did he know? “Do you mean to warn me, Uncle?”
“I do.”
The archbishop cleared his throat. “I will leave that to the two of you to discuss. You speak of introductions, Dame Katherine. To whom?”
Kate was relieved to break away from her uncle’s scowl. “Abbot Thomas of St. Mary’s and Prior Norbert of the blackfriars, to begin.” She explained her interest – Sir Elric’s visit to the abbey, the infirmarian’s caution, the brawl at Toft Green so near the Dominican friary, Friar Adam’s subsequent visit to the Martha House.
Richard Clifford muttered something that sounded very much like a curse when she mentioned the blind friar and his assistant. “Friar Adam. Why did Dame Eleanor send for him?” he growled.
“It is puzzling,” said Scrope. “It would be far more convenient to approach the Franciscans. Their friary is so close to her house.”
“Friar Adam had no invitation. He came of his own accord,” said Kate. “Hence my interest. He heard of their need for a confessor from Isabella Gisburne Frost. He claims to be her confessor.”
“Frosts,” the dean muttered.
“Isabella is far more Gisburne than Frost, Uncle.”
The archbishop chuckled. “She speaks my own thoughts, Richard. Isabella Gisburne is her father’s daughter through and through, God help her.” He turned back to Kate. “And the information you require?”
“My usual sources have become secretive when I most need to understand who is fighting for what.”
“Your usual sources being your influential guests on High Petergate?” asked the archbishop.
Kate appreciated Scrope’s blunt question. She had long guessed he knew the nature of the local patrons of her guesthouse. “Yes, and my fellow guild members. I sensed a great deal of conflict in the aldermen and their friends at the guild meeting yesterday.”
“Ah, the meeting at the merchants’ hall, yes. What was the purpose, might I ask?”