The Service of the Dead

It was dark by the time they returned to Castlegate. In the comforting warmth of her own kitchen, Kate relaxed as she watched Berend moving about, freshening Lille and Ghent’s water bowl. He laughingly rewarded their shameless begging with a bit of meat despite all they had eaten at the guesthouse, sharing the generosity with Lady Margery’s dogs. When they were settled, Berend sank his large, scarred hands into the bread dough that would rise during the night. She wondered at his ability to move after his exertion in the forest. No, she did understand. His heart was heavy tonight. She had felt it as they walked home across the city, his distraction, his weighted silence. If a gentle rain had not begun as they walked home, she would be out in the garden quieting herself with her bow.

“You grieve for Hubert Bale?” she asked.

She thought he had not heard her question, lost in his own mind. Belatedly, she was glad he had not heard. It would only remind him if he had succeeded in pushing his thoughts away.

But after kneading the dough for several moments he paused, nodding. “I do. I doubt that he had a chance to make his peace with God at the moment of death. I am sorry for that. We all deserve that. I will find a way to give him a proper Christian burial.”

“Ask Jocasta Sharp to help.”

“Thank you, but I have my own resources, Dame Katherine.” He pressed the dough, lifted it, slapped it down, kneaded it. “I was blessed with a second chance. To reform, to find peace and wholeness in nurturing and protecting this household. I have discovered the comfort of daily tasks – day after day, cooking, baking, repairing things round the property, shopping.” He paused again, with the ghost of a grin. “Assassin to housekeeper. I suppose Bale must have thought me mad. One head wound too many. But my heart is at ease. I never would have believed it possible.” He kneaded awhile longer.

She wondered at his ability to smile at himself, he, who had come face-to-face with his own mortality in seeing someone he knew lying in an unblessed grave. But he was not entirely free of his own past, or at least he blamed his occasional disappearances on a need to go off and clear his mind. He would return a few days later exhausted, but calm.

She found herself unable to find the humor in her own situation, and she knew that for a bad sign. Even amid the violence her family had always found things to laugh about. But all she could think tonight was how her dream of achieving the financial ease that would afford the liberty of choosing when and with whom she would wed was ever farther beyond her reach. If Hubert Bale had come to York on a mission for King Richard, he would be missed, and others would come asking questions, turning over every report of his movements until they arrived on her doorstep, her secret scheme exposed, her reputation ruined. And that was just one of her worries. Alice’s and Connor’s deaths were linked to Bale’s murder. What of Phillip? Would the murderer fear what Connor had told him? Or whether Phillip had seen him with Connor the morning of his murder in the chapter house? Might he decide to eliminate any possibility of Phillip identifying him? This she feared even more since seeing Phillip at the deanery in the late afternoon.

Lille and Ghent came over to settle, one on either side of her, warming her flanks. She stroked their wiry fur, grateful for being pulled out of her worries.

“They sensed you fretting,” said Berend, covering the dough with a large wooden bowl.

He cut thick slices of bread, slathered them with butter, and handed one down to her as he came to settle beside her, careful not to disturb Lille.

“Three slices, Berend?”

“The dig, the walk, Griselde’s less than inspiring stew…”

He made her smile. “She does not have your magic in the kitchen.” But it had been a comfort to be in Lady Margery’s bright company. William, too, seemed glad of it. Lady Margery had met him at the door on their return and said, “I do not suppose this is the time to discuss my husband’s peace effort?” William, dusty, drooping with exhaustion, had surprised them all by saying, “No better time. I welcome the distraction. In truth, I used you as my excuse for coming to the guesthouse.”

Margery had laughed. “We must come up with a clever explanation for the dirt on your shoes, leggings, and cloak. Perhaps I attacked you in the garden?”

Kate had been pleased to see the two of them laughing together. Something good might come of all the sorrow.

“Seeing Hubert Bale in that grave…” Berend shook his head. “He and I, all the assassins, we were ever aware that we balanced on the edge of death, but we imagined glorious ends, cut down in the midst of combat with a worthy adversary. As the Norsemen believed that they would enter Valhalla if they died with sword in hand. But Bale’s was a pathetic death. Strangled with the silken rope from bed hangings.” Berend sighed.

Kate put a hand on his strong forearm. “Courage seemed its own protection. I thought my brothers invincible. I doubt it will be of any comfort to you, but my fear is that he did die at the hands of a worthy adversary. And that bodes all the worse for us.” She leaned over to pour more ale. “This is maddening. The murderer has us dancing to his tune. He acts, we react. What if that is his intention? To keep us too busy to see what is right in front of us?”

Berend popped the last bit of bread into his mouth and reached for the bowl of ale at his feet, laughing as Lille, the shameless flirt, sniffed at his hands then rolled over for a stomach rub. It was awhile before he settled back, bowl in hand.

“So what have I not seen?” Kate asked. “Is it possible the murderer has been in my undercroft on High Petergate all along, observing how we dealt with Bale’s body, watching the rhythms of the household? And if so, is this all about the guesthouse? Or Lady Kirkby?”

Berend sipped his ale, staring into the fire. His brows knit together as they did when he was puzzling something out.

“What are you thinking?” she asked when the silence stretched on.

“What if we are looking at the wrong pattern?”

“Is there a pattern other than connections to William, Lady Kirkby, someone watching them?”

“That is the question. We have assumed William Frost to be at the center of it all. Or possibly Lady Kirkby and her mission.”

“Someone had been following William,” said Kate. “The first murder was in the guesthouse, and Bale wanted access to Griselde and Clement.”

“How did he intend to win their cooperation? According to Phillip, it sounds as if he did add something to the wine so that they heard nothing. But how was that to win them over? Would you tell me again all that Phillip told you?”

While they had been at the guesthouse, Kate’s uncle had sent a servant with the request that she come to the deanery – Phillip said it was urgent that he talk to her. Her ward was not one to call anything urgent. Lady Margery assured her that all was in hand. Two of her servants were caring for Odo; Griselde had seen that he had a hot meal and would continue to do so.