The Service of the Dead

They were a solemn party, William, Roger, Kate, Jennet, Berend – though Lille and Ghent thought it a rare treat to lead her out Bootham Bar into the wide world beyond. The Forest of Galtres was surely their idea of the heavenly abode. They strained against their leashes, eager to run, but with the Sunday afternoon strollers Kate did not think it wise to let them loose. Besides, they were a marked group, she and William each connected in some way to the scandalous deaths the past week. Well might folk stare at them, wonder where they were wayfaring on a Sabbath afternoon.

But as the group moved out beyond the walls of St. Mary’s Abbey, the dogs’ ears began to twitch as if they sensed someone coming up behind. Kate, too, sensed that someone behind them watched too closely. Now Berend lifted his head, glanced round. Jennet, too. Roger exchanged a look with Jennet.

Quietly, Kate suggested that she and Jennet could be spared, for they would not be digging up the body. And the dogs were best at tracking a tracker. Berend and the others would continue, while she and Jennet would hang back and do what they could to catch their shadow, then either escort him back into York or bring him along. The latter only if she believed it was the murderer. Anyone else should not see the grave in the forest.

The plan agreed, the men went on ahead as Kate and Jennet lagged behind with Lille and Ghent. As they entered the cover of the first dense grove of trees, they pretended to be stopping for a rest beneath a venerable oak a little way off the road. Even in the weak winter sun the oak cast a shadow with its thick limbs. Snowdrifts like frozen waves made walking a challenge, and Kate felt the dampness seeping into her boots and her skirts growing heavy as they brushed along the melting surface. Crouching down, she unfastened the dogs’ leashes. They shook themselves off, then gracefully picked their way through the drifts, noses to the ground, curious about who had been there before them. Kate and Jennet leaned against the wide trunk, softly talking about nothing in particular, their ears pricked for the sound of someone stealing up on them. Both held their knives hidden beneath the folds of their cloaks, at the ready.

Perhaps this was the beginning of the end of the search. The murderer might have underestimated Kate. He might reveal himself.

“Do you think we imagined being followed?” Jennet asked.

As if her question had been taken as a signal, someone approached, trying hard to move silently. But the crusty snow made stealth impossible. Crouching down, Kate whispered to Lille and Ghent, “Find.”

They took off into the brush, and in no time at all she heard Lille’s proud bark, and the sound of someone attempting to run. Kate and Jennet took up the pursuit, eventually seeing a man moving surprisingly quickly through the trees. But Lille and Ghent were gaining on him, spurring him to become reckless, and at last he pitched forward with a thud and a curse.

“Skirt round, see if he had a companion,” Kate whispered to Jennet, then hastened toward the downed spy.

He lay on his back trying to blow aside the fur collar that had twisted round and covered his mouth as he fell. Ghent’s forepaws on his chest prevented the use of the one hand not stuck beneath the cloak. “Clever Ghent,” she said, “pinning down that arm.” Lille stood near the man’s head, growling.

“Call them off, I beg you, Mistress Clifford.”

Kate cursed as she recognized the man. Lionel Neville’s manservant, Fitch.

“Has your master sent you to spy on me, Fitch?” Kate asked.

He tried to talk, but he’d managed to twist the collar even tighter, preventing speech.

Kate motioned for Ghent to ease away, but stay alert.

Fitch sat up, straightening his collar, pulling off his hat to shake off the snow, spitting the fur from his mouth.

“Well?”

“No, Mistress Clifford. No. Course not. I thought maybe you were out seeking Sam. I am worried for him.”

She did not for a moment believe him, but it was a curious choice, to mention Sam. “Has Sam been spying on me for your master?”

“No! We are just friends. Old friends. Like I said, I am worried for him, with all the deaths, and him taking off to Beverley in the snow.”

That interested her. And, looking more closely at his fur-collared cloak, she remembered another one. An older one that had been tossed into Jocasta Sharp’s cart. Of course she’d seen that old one before. And this one. They were Lionel Neville’s castoffs. “And when did Sam tell you he was off to Beverley?”

She saw the dawning on the man’s face, how odd it would be for her servant to stop at Lionel’s home, to tell this servant, friend or no, that he was leaving on a mission for her. Though heading out Walmgate was one route out of York toward Beverley, still, she did not believe Sam would take the time. Unless he had been asked to do so.

“I have no idea of Sam’s whereabouts,” she said.

He glanced on down the track as if hoping to catch sight of Berend and the others, then started as Jennet came up behind him.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she said. “You are a good runner, Fitch. We might have lost you had it not been for the snow.”

He straightened and began to give her a long-toothed smile, then caught himself. “I am looking for Sam.”

Jennet laughed. “You are a poor liar.” In a sudden move she grabbed his right arm and pushed up his sleeve. Bandaged. Seeping. So it was a fairly fresh wound. “See, Mistress Clifford? This is where Jenkins cut him last night. What were you doing lurking in the alleyway, Fitch? Waiting for Sam?”

Jerking his arm from her grasp he shrugged and mumbled something Kate could not hear. No matter.