A Twisted Vengeance

With a sharp intake of breath, Eleanor straightened and patted Kate’s arm. “I see why you like Jocasta Sharp. She is so kind, so helpful. Friar Gerald will serve very well for us. Bless you, Katherine.”

Kate spent the time after dinner lazing in the river gardens, letting Lille and Ghent explore with Petra and Marie while she sat beneath a linden with Sister Clara. They began in silence, Kate listening to the life of the garden – the birds, a persistent woodpecker providing the rhythm beneath the songbirds’ melodies, with insects buzzing about in a wild counter-tempo. Her companion fingered beads, murmuring prayers. Petra and Marie addressed Lille and Ghent in French, dissolving into giggles whenever the hounds regarded them with their soulful eyes, as if asking for translation.

“Children, dogs, a garden, a river. God’s gifts for troubled hearts,” Sister Clara said, pausing in her prayer. Peering into Kate’s face, her own shadowed by her veil, the beguine whispered, “But not comforting enough for you, I see. Is it Hans’s death?”

“All that has happened weighs on me, but it is my mother’s silence that darkens this sweet moment.”

“Silence? Dame Eleanor?” Clara gave a little laugh, but quickly sobered. “I have noticed that she uses speech as if it weaves a protective shell round her. One cannot break through to what is truly in her heart.”

Well said. “She hides something that causes her pain. But it is that pain I must plumb to understand what is happening here – the murder, the intruder. I need to know what happened in Strasbourg so that I might prevent another death – perhaps hers.”

Clara placed a hand over Kate’s, pressing it gently. “I will pray for her heart to open to you. You are everything to her.”

“You are the second person who has told me that today. But we have ever been at war with each other.”

“Not war. I sense nothing but love. It is life that has come between you. If you put all that has happened aside when you come together, you will see only the love, the godhead, heart to heart, soul to soul.”

“Beautiful words. I have tried patience, stepping away, waiting – but I see no crack in the shell. She gives no hint of what happened.” Kate turned on the bench and took Clara’s hands, looking into the eyes that radiated such warmth. She could not imagine how someone could be so unguarded. “Would you speak to her as you just did to me?”

Clara blinked. “I would if I might speak so to her. With Dame Eleanor one must be less direct. I will think what readings might inspire her.”

Readings. Well, it had worked with Dina. Kate thanked her, and they resumed their former occupations, Clara praying, Kate worrying, both of them watching the girls, who were down by the water, picking flowers to adorn each other’s hair.

Petra and Marie still fought, yet it was clear that they also cared deeply for each other, Kate thought. Perhaps she should spend more time with them, discovering how they managed to have such peaceful moments.

As the afternoon lengthened, Sister Clara rose to go about her duties, and Kate gathered the wanderers and led them home. Too much sitting. In late afternoon, the two great oaks in Thomas Holme’s yard cast long shadows across Kate’s garden – the perfect time to practice at the butt without being blinded by the sun’s glare. The archery might help Kate collect and order her thoughts. Petra and Marie wandered over as she was stringing her bow, fingering the arrows, asking whether it was Seth’s father who had fletched them.

“Many of them,” said Kate. “Would you like Seth to show you how to do it? I could take you to the guesthouse one afternoon.” After guests had departed and before they arrived for their evenings.

“I would prefer to learn how to shoot the arrows,” said Petra. “How old were you when you learned?”

“My father had a bow made for me when I was ten, so a little older than you. But my brother Walter – your father – let me play with his old bow long before that. Out in the fields, where Mother would not see. She wanted my hands soft and smooth for embroidery and weaving.”

“But you weave.”

“I do. And I did with Mother.”

“But your needlework is sloppy,” said Marie.

“Thank you, yes, it is, and ever will be,” said Kate. “So you disapprove of archery?”

“No! If Petra learns, so do I.”

“And your soft hands?”

“Matt’s cousin Bella has lotions that will keep even a gardener’s hands soft and smooth, she says. And you wear those hand and arm guards.” Marie plucked at the leather.

“Ah.” Kate smiled. Marie’s affection for Petra seemed to inspire more curiosity. A blessing. “Your first lesson, then, is stillness. Sit down and be as still as you can be.”

The girls, giggling, sank down in the grass just behind her.

Kate paused a moment, eyes closed, quieting her mind. It took longer than usual, but at last she felt the calm spreading out to surround her. She had just reached for an arrow from her quiver when the gate in the hedge swung wide and Eleanor swept through, bearing a bowl.