A Murdered Peace

“Forgive me if I seemed abrupt,” he said as they continued down Davygate, the servant quietly following. “You have lost a friend to violence. I pray that you find solace.”

“Friend?” the widow said the word as if tasting it. “He was, on occasion, my late husband’s trading partner, one of several, and we met a few times in regard to an outstanding contract. I considered him an acquaintance, hardly a friend. My concern was more for Goodwife Tibby, his housekeeper. A housekeeper for a widower is often regarded in an unkindly light. Gossips, you know. An unmarried woman living under the same roof– You see the problem.” She paused as they reached St. Sampson Square, looking to see his reaction.

“Ah,” is all he said, with a knowing nod, while in truth he wondered why she had chosen to begin such a rumor. What was her purpose in maligning Goodwife Tibby?

Apparently she did not find his reaction satisfying, for she withdrew into silence as they continued down Peasegate, except to greet passersby. No doubt she still enjoyed being on the arm of a knight in the service of the Earl of Westmoreland. He was glad when they reached her home at the foot of Castlegate. Bowing to her, he wished her a quiet evening.

His first matter of business on reaching York Castle was to request that at least two armed men be placed at Jon Horner’s home on Davygate and another two at Merek’s lodgings.

“But we have the murderer in custody,” said the bailiff on duty.

“I very much doubt that you do,” said Elric. “Have you examined the prisoner? Is he wounded?”

“The man’s head and hands have more scars than I can count.”

“Fresh wounds on his arms or torso? So fresh they are still weeping?”

The bailiff wrinkled his nose. “I did not undress him. Such a search is not my responsibility.”

“I disagree,” said Elric. He reminded him about the bloody knife in Merek’s hand. “If Berend does not have any fresh wounds, the murderer is likely still abroad in the city. If you wish to retain your position you will arrange for men to be posted at Horner’s house, as well as Merek’s, if you have already removed them. Tonight. And, for good measure, at Thomas Graa’s warehouse at the corner of Castlegate and Hertergate.” He explained why.

“I shall need permission from the sheriffs, sir,” the bailiff insisted, but it was clear that Elric had made his point.

“Then get their permission. When I return from my meeting with your prisoner I expect to hear that you have dispatched men around the city.”

Though he bristled, the bailiff did not argue, and, as Elric made his way to the stairs that led down beneath the street level, he heard the man loudly ordering someone to watch his station while he went to Sheriff Edmund Cottesbrok’s home.

Through the iron-bound door Elric heard a chain rattling.

“Pacing back and forth, back and forth. Has not stopped since I shut the door on him,” said the jailer as he put the key to the lock and called out, “Visitor, Master Berend!”

Elric commended him on his courtesy.

“He’s a fine man, Berend is. And if he did murder those men, I’ll warrant they deserved it.” The jailer opened the door and bowed Elric through, handing him an extra lantern and pushing a bench through the door. “Might as well be able to see each other, and to sit.”

Attached to a heavy chain secured to an iron ring in the far wall, the iron bands around Berend’s ankles were linked together so that he could not stride, but must shuffle. Even so constrained, he had worn a path through the rushes laid on the packed earth floor. Elric could sense his frustration, this magnificent bull forced into a paddock far too small. It was enough to make Elric want to shout for an axe that could cut through the chain. He was glad when Berend paused, shielding his eyes against the light from the lantern he carried, so much brighter than the torch set in the wall just inside the door, out of the prisoner’s reach. Apologizing for the sudden glare, Elric set the lantern down where its light would be reflected from the wall, softening it.

The cell was cold, damp, the air not yet fouled, though certainly neither sweet nor copious. Elric noticed the bastards had removed Berend’s shoes. Did they fear the chains and the iron-bound door would not hold him? That the snow would better deter him from escaping? Addlepated cowards, all of them. At least Berend showed no signs of rough handling. That was something.

Elric nodded to him. “I hoped we might talk, Berend.”

The man shrugged his wide shoulders, as if to relieve a kink in his neck. “Did Dame Katherine send you?”

“I come of my own accord, but I carry words of support from her. And Bess Merchet.”

“Merchet? How does she come into it?”

“Katherine sought her out, wanting information about Horner and Merek. In the process, she seems to have made a friend, one who is already your friend.” Elric moved the bench so that Berend could reach it without straining the chain. “Shall we sit?”

Berend shook one of his feet, rattling the chain. “I am at your mercy, it seems. What is it you want?”