The Service of the Dead

“Go to your brother,” said Kate. “I will come join you when it is time.”

The girl sighed and turned away. Lady Margery led Kate into the corner by the armoires, where Berend and Jennet awaited them.

“Is she always so perverse?” Lady Margery asked.

“When she is disappointed, yes,” said Kate. “What is it? Has something happened?”

“Yes. And I thought you should all hear this,” Margery began. “It happened last night. Your man Seth, who is caring for your elderly tenant across the alleyway, heard someone at the rear door of the hall. We were already uneasy – Troilus and Criseyde had been running in circles by the door, barking. So when Seth came for one of my guards, we were awake and ready to assist. Together they went out to search the gardens. The door to one of the sheds in the guesthouse garden was open, and blocking the doorway was a wheelbarrow with a pile of rags crusty with dried blood. A great deal of blood.”

Kate crossed herself. “Alice’s blood?”

“I wondered the same. And according to Odo, while Seth was out in the garden, the intruder who hums out of tune was down in the undercroft, setting a fire.”

“God help us. Did you catch him? Was there damage?” Kate asked.

“No and very little. Fortunately we had aired the hall so well in the afternoon that they smelled the smoke at once. Someone had lit the pallet. They were able to drag it out and beat out the few spots that had caught.”

“A gesture not intended to actually burn down the house,” Berend suggested.

“What can this person want?” asked Margery.

“He is showing us how easily he moves among us. Like we did as children,” said Kate.

“Perhaps you did,” said Lady Margery. “We were never so clever.”

“No further disturbance?” Kate asked.

“No, God be thanked. It was quite enough for one evening. I woke at every creak of the house throughout the night. Such a pity. I had felt good after my conversation with William Frost. He promised to speak up in my favor to his colleagues.”

“I suppose he sees it as an attempt at atonement,” said Kate. It would have been far better had he helped Alice. She asked Margery whether she was still comfortable in the guesthouse. “I would not blame you for seeking other lodgings.”

“My mission is far too important to us all to waver in the face of such cowardly attempts to frighten me off.”

In truth, it felt to Kate as if she were the object of attack, not Margery. But that was an argument for another time. “I meant no insult. You are my guest, and I feel responsible for your welfare.”

Margery pressed Kate’s hand. “Bless you.”

One of the dean’s clerks rang a bell for attention, announcing that he would now lead the procession to the chapel, begging them to proceed in an orderly fashion.

Kate excused herself and slipped through the gathered mourners to join Phillip and Marie, and together they walked out into the minster yard behind the Granthams as the first hints of dawn silvered the sky. At the southeast door, Dean Richard’s secretary waited with a tray of tapers, handing one to each mourner. Each taper was then lit by a servant standing beside him.

“I do not like this place,” Marie muttered as they moved forward into the aisle. “There are too many shadows.”

Usually Kate would agree, but this morning she caught her breath at the beauty of the line of light moving through the darkness as the mourners’ footsteps echoed in the soaring space. At the door to the crypt, a clerk advised them to move down the steps one at a time. “With care,” he whispered. “They are narrow and uneven.”

The stairwell had been brightened with white paint and crossed with red lines to give the look of ashlar, but no natural light illuminated the descent, and the stones seemed alive as the candles flickered in a strong draft. The line of mourners moved down, down, until they bent beneath a stone lintel and entered the chapel of St. Mary Magdalene. The low-roofed space, far more welcoming than that above, was fragrant with the warm scent of beeswax. A clerk showed them where to place their tapers, so that the chapel became a constellation of light.

Hugh and Martha Grantham, Phillip, Marie, Kate, and Dame Jocasta were directed to stand behind Connor’s coffin before the altar. The Granthams were subdued, showing signs of sleeplessness and tears. The masons gathered behind them, standing with heads bowed, their rough hands pressed together in prayer.

A murmur went through the crowd, and all turned their heads to observe Archbishop Scrope step into the chapel. Dressed in modest clerical robes, he bowed toward the altar, then took a place at the back beside Margery Kirkby. She smiled, pressing His Grace’s forearm in greeting, right hand to her heart.

So they were friends. That surprised Kate, considering Scrope’s mentor, Thomas Arundel, and his rumored alliance with Duke Henry on the continent. Would Scrope support King Richard if he reconciled with Duke Henry?

Kate was pondering that when Phillip tapped her arm, asking her quietly if that was truly the archbishop come to pray for Connor’s soul. Her nod lit the boy’s face. “Such prayers will surely speed Connor’s welcome in heaven,” he said.