A Twisted Vengeance

“It is long past time you confided in your daughter,” said Dame Jocasta. “Now she rides out to confront them without an understanding of the gravity of Ulrich’s betrayal. I pray God watches over her.”

Eleanor had stood in the window, her back to Jocasta, all through the telling. She’d sought the woman’s advice but now dreaded to see the judgment on her expressive face. “How do I mend the rift between us? How do I win back my daughter’s trust and her love?” That is what she had asked. She was disappointed in Jocasta’s response. Should not have, should have – all in the past, and unhelpful. Katherine was riding out to challenge her uncle and Sir Alan, and she would learn all. From them. From the family Ulrich had betrayed. Jocasta was right, it would have been far better coming from Eleanor. “How will she ever forgive me?” It burst from Eleanor as a sob. She covered her face and wept.

Soundlessly, Jocasta rose and embraced her, whispering of God’s compassion, his limitless love and forgiveness.

All very sweet, but Eleanor already had faith in God’s forgiveness; it was Katherine’s of which she despaired.

A light drizzle did nothing to freshen the air, which felt heavy with moisture as they rode through fields toward the trees lining the bank of the Ouse. Kate fretted about her bowstring wicking up moisture and sagging. She had remembered to bring a spare, but it would take time to restring. She must plan accordingly.

You intend to shoot Griffin on sight? Geoff asked.

She had not consciously planned it. No. I want him to talk, to tell me all Mother should have told me.

He’s not likely to oblige.

When he refuses to say more, then I’ll shoot him. She expected laughter.

Instead, Geoff warned her, Do nothing that will endanger your plans for yourself and the children. Do not risk all to avenge Mother’s loss.

Would it be for her mother that she shot Griffin? Or would it be for Nan and Sister Dina? Hans, Werner, and, likely, Thatcher?

What does Dina have to do with this? Geoff asked.

I cannot believe the attempted theft was not part of this plan. Look how the rumors about the beguines have spread. Mother’s attempt at good works discredited, rendered suspect.

Geoff was quiet.

Kate watched as Lille and Ghent explored beside her, pausing now and then to gaze round them, then catching up. Her heart eased. They had been bred and trained for this. Her uncle’s horses would encourage her to run them more often. Blood money or not, she was grateful for the gift. The house would enable her to lease out her present home, adding more regular income. Considerably more. And, as her uncle had reminded her, Lionel could not touch it – a gift in her name, made in her widowhood.

She glanced up as Elric rode back to tell her that they were close to where his man Arne had last tracked Griffin and Thatcher.

“Dismount and approach on foot?” he asked. When she agreed, he called to his squire Harry to help Kate dismount and take her reins.

The fields beyond Clementhorpe Nunnery were more bogs than meadows in all seasons but summer. Now the grass grew so high that Kate lost sight of the hounds once she was on foot. It took but one call and they were suddenly beside her, their fur a mess of seeds and burrs, their ears flicking at the insects buzzing round them. Walking through the high grass was unpleasant, Kate’s skirts already damp, the insects noisy, and she could not imagine how she might use her bow, nor how they would spot the two men they tracked. Glancing back, she saw that she was not alone in regretting the decision to dismount, Elric swatting at the insects, Harry sneezing. Only Berend stoically waited for her to proceed.

A rustle in the grass. Lille and Ghent stood at attention, and Kate fingered the axe hidden in her skirt. But it was Arne, his freckled face seeming to glide over the grass. “Found this.” He raised high a length of wood from which dangled leather straps. Thatcher’s peg leg, or what was left of it. “Found it just ahead, where the grass ends at the edge of the trees. Only one set of footprints moves on, and they are deep. I would say the Welshman carried the cripple to the river.”

“Lead the way,” said Kate, relieved that she would soon break out from the grass. Within a few moments she stepped onto dry soil beneath the trees, shaking out her skirts as Arne pointed to where he’d found the peg leg and the footprints. Berend and Elric moved on to the river, but Kate was in no hurry. Griffin had reached the bank a while ago. Already the footprints were powdered with debris. He would be downriver. Alone. She stayed with Lille and Ghent while they inspected the area, gathering scents. Suddenly they halted, glancing back to her. She praised them for discovering a patch of grass smeared with blood, bloody fingerprints on a fallen limb. Thatcher had not gone willingly. When had he realized he’d been betrayed? she wondered.

“Look! There, in the branches,” Berend called out from somewhere farther on.

Signaling the dogs to follow, Kate moved toward Berend’s voice as he directed the men, the sound of the river growing louder as she walked.