The Service of the Dead

The dinner had been almost a comedy of discomfort, everyone talking around the death that negated Eleanor’s elaborate plans for the journey north. The last course had barely been served when Kate could sit no longer.

“Would you join me in the garden, Mother? We must talk.”

“I am eating, Katherine. And it is raining.”

“Wear your cloak.”

“You are welcome to use my office,” said William. “Tib will unlock it for you and bring you some wine.”

Kate strode out, calling to her mother to follow. Huffing and tsking, Eleanor arrived in the lamp-lit building just across from the front entrance and immediately assumed the role of hostess, adding cushions to the chairs Tib arranged by a brazier. Another servant followed with wine and goblets, then stoked the fire.

As soon as the servants withdrew, Kate launched into an account of the past few weeks, sparing her mother nothing. She needed to know. When her mother would interrupt, Kate raised her voice and carried on. Eventually, Eleanor simply bowed her head and listened through to the end. When Kate finished, her hand shook as she lifted the goblet of wine to her lips. It was not the story, but her mother’s presence.

Have I not suffered enough? Kate asked God.

Apparently not, said Geoff.

Eleanor’s silence was brief. “No. No, I cannot be blamed for all this. You and your brothers – I brought you to York to stop your talk of going north to track Andrew. Let him go, I said. Let the blood feud die.”

“Me and my brothers? It was Father who instilled in us a distrust of all Scots and a particular enmity with the Cavertons. If you must blame one of your children, place the blame where it belongs – Walter.”

A sob. “My poor son.”

Kate closed her eyes and silently said a few Hail Marys. She would never forgive her mother, never. But it was no use venting her anger at the woman. Eleanor was not one to accept fault. She was adept at twisting criticism so that it reflected back on the critic. Kate judged it best to talk of something else before she began fingering the dagger hidden in her skirt. “Tell me about your three poor sisters. Beguines, you called them? How did you come to be their escort here?”

“Their families were all known to my dear Ulrich.”

“Why have they chosen York for a new house?”

“I chose it. I am establishing a house here, as I was just telling William and Isabella. You were at the table.”

“Why?” Seeing the spots of color on her mother’s cheeks, Kate softened the question. “You had so short a time with Ulrich. Your grief – is this foundation in his memory? Will they be praying for his soul? And perhaps those of my brothers? Our father?”

“All of that. Of course.” Eleanor fussed with the flagon of wine on the table, shifting it slightly to the left.

“You do know that my partner and neighbor, Thomas Holme, founded a maison dieu attached to our parish church in Castlegate? With poor sisters. Perhaps he might advise you, Mother.”

“I do not need his help.”

“It would be a courtesy to consult with him.”

“It is he who should consult with me. What does he know of poor sisters? I have observed them closely, their good works.”

Kate felt her anger building again. “I pray you, Mother, do not antagonize him. I need his friendship. I have worked hard to build–”

“York needs this.”

“What do you know of this city and its needs?” Eleanor and her cursed meddling. “Who are you to judge? You, who pushed Walter toward the Cavertons? How could you not see the danger in that? Do you realize the enormity of what happened here? The deaths? The threat to my wards? To me?”

“My sisters will pray for you as well.”

“I do not want prayers. It is too late for prayers. What I need now is some peace. Peace in which to calm my business partners and reassure them that all is well. But of course all is not well. We are all holding our breaths as we wait to see how Henry of Lancaster responds to the king’s threats to deny his inheritance. The king’s men boarded my ship. Did you know of that?”

Too late Kate saw the trembling mouth, the tears. She was out of practice with the woman.

“No,” Eleanor said quietly. “No, I did not know of that.” She drew a deep breath and shook her arms as if fluffing her feathers. “Tell me about your dinner with Archbishop Scrope and Dean Richard. And what about this knight, Sir Elric? I understand he is not married.”

Kate stared at her mother, bereft of words for several heartbeats.

Long enough that her mother continued. “You are the heiress now, you know. The land in Northumberland is yours now that Walter is dead. You need a husband to help you with the estate.”

“I need no husband to do that,” said Kate. “Nor do I want the manor up north. I will entrust William to arrange with some family member to exchange the land for property near York. I have built a life here.”

“William? But, Katherine.”

“How can you do this? You have just learned of the death of your last surviving son and you talk of this?”

“I will pray for him anon. You are my remaining responsibility. What about Walter’s daughter – Petra, did you call her?” Eleanor rose to exchange one of the cushions on her chair for one across the room, then settled back, shaking her head. “What an odd name, Petra.”

Kate felt the outline of the hidden dagger. “What about Petra?”

“Katherine, dear, bringing her up with Simon’s French bastards. Is it seemly?”

“Will you shun bastards in your Martha House? Will your holy women refuse them prayers? Or charity? You do realize that Petra is a bastard?”

They regarded each other for a good long while. Kate noticed the new lines radiating from the corners of her mother’s eyes and her upper lip, as if she had developed a habit of squinting and pursing her lips in disapproval. Charity? Piety? Not her mother. Kate guessed the poor sisters were no more than a convenient cause to fill the void left by Ulrich’s death. She pitied the next man her mother snared, and the unfortunate sisters who would be left stranded in a foreign country.

At last Eleanor sighed. “You must admit that your household is peculiar, Katherine.”

“No more than yours, Mother. Three young Alsatian women and an armed retainer you call a factor, with an accent suggesting he originated in Wales but has lived for quite a while in the Holy Roman Empire. A mercenary? And I’m curious about the one sister – Brigida? She speaks Parisian French, and though her gown is simple, the fabric is expensive. New cloth. Just a merchant’s daughter?”

“My, you have learned much in your time here. But not enough. Wealthy merchants often hire Parisian tutors for their children.”

“For girls?”

“Her parents had expected her to marry well.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose and leaned forward, taking Kate’s hands. “What of Geoffrey? Do you still believe he is with you?”

“My brothers are dead,” Kate said, with finality.

Kate?

My brothers, Geoff, not my twin.

Eleanor smiled – she still had a lovely, warm smile that lit up her green eyes – and let go Kate’s hands with an encouraging little shake. “Good. I am glad you are over that. Now, my dear, I have a request. I should like the use of one of your sweet houses on High Petergate for my Beguines.”

“Straight on to your latest scheme. You must be mad to ask that of me.”

“Katherine, this is holy work. My women will pray for Walter’s soul. For the souls of all our departed kin.”

For just an instant Kate entertained the notion of installing her mother’s holy sisters in the house that Odo Marsden had vacated, then waiting for her to puzzle out the comings and goings in the guesthouse next door. But of course that was too dangerous. Her mother did not know the meaning of discretion.