The Service of the Dead

Kate sat down beside Griselde, stunned. Here was the crisis that would ruin her. The creditors would hear of a murder in her guesthouse and demand that she sell off everything to cover the debts, for who would stay there now? There was the manor – she might live there, leave Marie and Phillip with Lionel – or William, because this was his mess. What could she do? Had her uncle Richard Clifford, dean of York Minster, enough clout to protect her?

“My cousin William is to blame for this, Griselde. He manipulated you.” Kate patted the woman’s hand. “Now. Have you told anyone?”

“Clement. No one else.”

“Good.”

Kate’s heart was pounding. Calm yourself. This is no time to panic. Perhaps they could see this through. If William took responsibility, all might be well, though she would be looking over her shoulder for trouble at every breath. Damn William to hell. He had shattered what little peace she had attained. Damn him. She would take him down with her – all it would take is a word with his wife, Isabella. William was beholden to his wife for his wealth and his stature in the city, and Kate knew that Isabella would not suffer an unfaithful husband. Then why had her mouth gone dry?

What would Kate’s mother have done? Found another husband and let him protect her. That’s what she’d done when Kate’s father died. A few months of mourning and Eleanor was off to Strasbourg with Ulrich Smit, her new love. Her mother’s example was clearly no help.

Kate rose. “Berend, we may be in danger. I depend on you to protect this household. I’ll take the hounds with me. And Sam will stay at the guesthouse until Lady Kirkby’s retainers arrive.”

Berend folded his muscular arms and nodded. “The children?”

“Jennet will escort them to school and go for Marie midday. You keep her here this afternoon. As for Phillip – you’ve seen his knife. He protected himself on the streets of Calais. He will be safe enough on his own if trouble comes.”

All three of the servants she’d hired – Jennet, Berend, Matt – had lived by their wits and skill with weapons at some point in their lives. She had felt it important. Folk wore more polished masks in York than they did up north, but Kate knew that everyone had a darkness. Everyone. She had seen to it that she felt safe in her own home.

Kate told Sam to go to William Frost. William and his ilk were already comfortable with Sam from his days as Simon’s manservant. “Tell him I need him to come at once to the house on High Petergate. I will be waiting for him. And if he thinks to excuse himself, tell him – quietly, for his ears only – what Goodwife Griselde has just told us. Then come to the guesthouse.”

Griselde had drained her cup and was now silently weeping.

“Jennet, see to Goodwife Griselde while I dress. And not a word while the children are in the kitchen.”

Berend placed a large, comfortingly strong and warm hand on Kate’s back as she moved past him toward the door. “I could go to the guesthouse right now, take care of what is there.”

She thanked him, but declined the offer. “I must see it, and then see that my cousin removes it. Quietly. I leave my household in your care.”

As Kate crossed the yard the hall door burst open, Phillip rushing out, calling back over his shoulder to Marie, “You will go to school hungry.” He mimicked Kate’s manner of speech – the pitch was wrong, but the Northern shaping of the words perfect. A talent she had not guessed. And then he tripped and fell.

Kate rushed to help him up, brushing him off.

His face was red and rigid with resentment. “I did not need your help.”

Too late she realized the insult, showing off how much stronger she was than he. Of course she was. He was but twelve years old and had never trained in archery, wielded axe or sword, or even learned to ride a horse. The alleys of Calais had been his domain. But she had injured his pride.

Marie laughed as she ran past. “Stupid boy!”

Kate let them go, hurrying through the hall and up to dress, her stomach in knots once more.