The Service of the Dead

“We know that Sam cannot be trusted,” said Jennet. “At some point he was dancing to Hubert Bale’s tune – when he added a sleeping potion to the wine.”

“We know that Lionel Neville is untrustworthy,” said Berend. “And that he has been stealing from you, his own partner. But he has little power in the family. Nor do I think Fitch, for all his sins, is connected to the murders. At worst, Lionel’s failed attempt to spy on you has served as an unfortunate distraction.”

Kate nodded. “Anything else?”

“Clement and Griselde knew of Sam’s nature but said nothing to you,” said Matt.

“Distrust all round,” said Kate. “But about the murderer we still know nothing. Nothing.” She felt the tension round the table, the defeat.

“What would it mean if we partnered with Sir Elric?” Matt had the courage to ask.

“We would become the creatures of the Earl of Westmoreland,” said Berend.

“I need to think it through,” said Kate. “I promise you this, that if I decide to accept his offer, the three of you are free to leave my service.”

“Never,” said Berend, pressing her arm in the emotion of the moment.

Kate had met his eyes as he touched her arm. That was the moment when she thought how wonderful it would be to curl up in his strength, his warmth, to make love to him. Surely her face had flushed.

“Never,” said Jennet.

“If you have need of me, I am yours,” Matt said.

Kate looked round at the three fierce faces. “Bless you.”

“Sir Elric seemed certain that it will come to war,” said Jennet.

A comment met with a silence so charged, Lille and Ghent rose up as if thinking Kate needed protection.

“We all need a good night’s sleep,” she said.

That had been hours ago. Kate drew back into the room, lit a second lamp off the first, and placed Connor’s pack on the bed. Berend said he had added a few things found in the undercroft – a pair of gloves, a woman’s comb, an empty flagon, a broken lock pick. She pulled out the items one by one, beginning with Connor’s tools, carefully rolled up in leather. She untied it, let it roll out on the bed. Stoneworking tools, lovingly cleaned and oiled. Phillip would treasure them. She rolled them up and put them aside. The gloves were clearly not Connor’s – though hardened from the weather, creased and well-worn, they were made of costly leather. The broken lock pick might belong to the intruder, but the pieces of metal held no clues as to who that might be. The flagon was a cheap one. Connor’s shirt had been washed so many times it was remarkably soft, the elbows and wrists and stomach darned many times. His shoes had so much dust embedded in the inner soles they bore the shape of Connor’s feet.

Alice and Connor had come so close to happiness. Kate breathed through the knot in her stomach as she drew out the rest of Connor’s clothes and set them aside.

And then, caught on a loose thread – a woman’s decorative comb, mother-of-pearl on a strip of silver, the comb the whitest ivory. Kate stopped breathing.

It is not possible, Geoff whispered in Kate’s mind. How is this possible?

It had been her most precious possession, a gift from her father for her tenth birthday. To be strong like her brothers, to train with them, accompany them hunting, that was her obsession as a child. She kept secret her love of pretty things, her pride in her dark, thick, wildly curly hair that Roland called raven wings, her delight in whirling about the room in dance and the touch of silk and fine linen on her skin. Her father seemed to guess, always asking her to dance to Roland’s livelier tunes, his face brightening when she appeared in her best gown. And when he tucked the comb in her hair, telling her that the moment he saw it he imagined it just so, a ray of light in her raven hair, her heart had swelled with love and pride. She had taken care to wear it only when she was in her best gown, sure to stay put, not rush out into the fields or climb the hills or muck about with the animals and chance losing it.

So she had never been certain how long it had been missing when she opened the small carved box in which she kept it, wrapped in a piece of velvet. The velvet and the box were there, but not the comb. She wanted to wear it for Roland’s burial, a ray of light in her raven wings. She must wear it. She searched everywhere, accused everyone of stealing it. Her mother had finally confined her to her room for a week to pray for her soul. “All this for a comb, Katherine? You would seed distrust through our household because of a bauble? In this time of mourning?”

She reached for Geoff, to ask him what he remembered, but he was silent.

You know something about this.

Silence.

How did my comb come to be in the undercroft?

Geoff’s silence was deafening. For the first time in all her recent troubles, Kate felt a cold fear gripping her heart. She had not felt this since the darkest days up on the border, when Geoff deserted her.