The Service of the Dead

A nod. “I s-swear.”

“Go on with Jennet.”

Lionel was a terrible judge of men. Fortunate for her. Even more fortunate that they had caught Fitch and turned him back before he saw the body buried in the forest. But perhaps most useful was his account of the man who came to Lionel for information about Lady Kirkby. Hubert Bale? She must think how to draw out her brother-in-law.

She waited beneath the oak until Jennet and Fitch were out of sight, then told Lille and Ghent to lead her to Berend. They trotted off, choosing the smaller track that branched off toward Wigginton, eventually leading her off through the brush to a line of ancient hollies. The sound of shovels came from just beyond the prickly hedge, and when she had found a way through, she saw the men’s cloaks and jackets hanging on the thick limbs of a willow at the edge of a clearing. Berend and Roger were bent over, digging.

A flash of memory. Her brother Walter watching as her father and a servant dug a grave, a bundled body lying to one side. Dread rose up, chilling her hands and her feet, blurring her vision.

Steady, Kate, Geoff whispered.

She took a deep breath and the memory dissolved. Ghent leaned into her, sensing Geoff.

That was Father digging? Geoff whispered.

Who else was left?

There is so much I have not seen. How have you hidden these memories from me?

I’ve hidden them from myself. I am not sure why they are breaking loose. It worried her. They weakened her.

I am here to strengthen you.

I would prefer to have you here in the flesh. Now be quiet. I need a clear head.

Lille whined. She’d already caught the stench of death from the grave. Gently, Kate commanded the dogs to stay back beneath the tree, stroking both of them, reassuring them. Herself as well. They steadied her.

As she stepped into the clearing she assured Berend’s bent back that all was calm. He and Roger leaned into the work, the shovels short-handled, the best that could be done since they needed to fit in a sack Berend could conceal beneath his cloak. He had deemed it best not to call attention to himself with such tools on the Sabbath, particularly if they were being watched. The two were shoveling out the dirt, as William raked the piles away from the edge with a spade he must have brought with him. Or, rather, Roger. She could not imagine William being aware he owned such a tool.

“Our shadow was Lionel Neville’s manservant Fitch. Jennet is escorting him back to the city,” she said as she joined them. “He will not give her trouble.”

“Fitch?” Berend glanced up, chuckling. “Poor man if he tries. So Neville set a servant to spy on us?” He nodded. “Of course he would want to know what we were about.”

William leaned on the spade. “Lionel Neville? Why?”

“No doubt to find a way to deprive me of my share in the business. He is ever hopeful of finding something scandalous so that he might demand the business in return for his silence.”

“Would he do that?”

“Of course he would. He’s a Neville. He believes himself far worthier than I am. He has lost hope that I will forget the terms of Simon’s will and tumble into marriage, thereby forfeiting my share. So he is looking for another way in. Which is why I am so cautious.” She gave her cousin a look that she hoped reminded him of the trouble he had brought her. In truth, Lionel was not so different from William, who hoped to get her married off so he would feel less responsibility, though in truth he had done more to ruin her than any other.

But William simply muttered, “That Neville bastard,” and resumed his work raking the dirt. Until he began to gasp, then dropped the spade and turned away from the grave with a gloved hand to his mouth. “God in heaven,” he groaned.

Kate smelled it as well and lifted a corner of her cloak to cover her face.

“Yes, we are there.” Berend tossed aside the shovel and knelt by the grave.

“Pity the thaw has begun.” Roger adjusted the scarf over the lower half of his face.

Berend wore one as well. Even so, Kate wondered at how they went about their business, leaning into the grave, brushing the dirt from the shrouded body with their gloved hands.

Roger tugged open the top of the shroud. “Good we did not sew him in,” he said. “Well, there he is. Not a pretty sight.”

Berend sat back on his heels, slowly shaking his head as if not believing what he saw. “Hubert Bale. I never would have credited it had I not seen it with my own eyes. The man was invincible.”

“I do not care to think what that means about our adversary,” said Roger. “Was he an assassin?” Berend gave a curt nod. “Then whoever murdered him was also well skilled in the art of death.”

Holding his gloved hands over his nose and mouth, William crept close to the grave, peering down.

“So this man was not Jon Underhill, but Hubert Bale?” he asked Berend, who nodded. “An assassin? Not King Richard’s man?”

“He would serve whoever could afford him – kings, dukes, wealthy merchants.”