A Twisted Vengeance

The guard at the gate of Bishopthorpe Palace bowed to Sir Elric and sent his fellow running to inform the archbishop of their presence. The power of the Earl of Westmoreland. Or the Neville name. Elric had taken care to introduce Kate as well, lingering on the surname.

“Are you part of the Clifford party visiting His Grace?” the guard asked her as they waited.

“The Dean of York Minster is my uncle,” said Kate. “We have cause to believe a murderer will seek refuge here with his party. We found his victim upriver. I have come to warn Dean Richard and His Grace.”

“Two of my men are following with the body. The murderer will come by boat and is unlikely to tell them of his crime,” said Elric. “Do you guard the river approach to the palace as well as the road?”

“We do.”

“Is it possible to land elsewhere on the property?” asked Elric.

“A small boat? Yes. Lawns down to the river, and a woodland farther downriver. In times of threat we have sentries throughout the grounds.”

“But not now?”

“We were not aware of a need.” He glanced behind them, on the road. “Are those your men with the body?”

Elric glanced back. “Yes. If they might stand watch over it someplace private in the grounds?”

The guard nodded as the second retainer came hurrying from the palace, gesturing for his comrade to open the gate. He was followed by a tall, elegant, elderly man in clerical robes, who bowed to Kate’s company and introduced himself as Don Vincent, His Grace’s secretary, welcoming them and inviting them to follow him to the palace. He ordered the second guard to assist Elric’s men with the horses.

“They will be well stabled, I assure you.” Don Vincent stood a moment, considering Lille and Ghent. “It is customary to take hounds to the stables as well.”

“My uncle, Dean Richard Clifford, can vouch for them. They are well trained and will stay with me,” said Kate.

“I pray that is so.” He looked past them. “And the body?”

Elric repeated his request.

“Of course. I will have someone come out to assist your men.” Don Vincent swept round and led them through the gate and on to the palace.

His Grace the archbishop stood just within the grand entrance, Richard Clifford beside him.

“You are most welcome, Dame Katherine, Sir Elric, Berend, I believe?” said Archbishop Scrope. “But I am at a loss as to your mission.”

Kate and Elric repeated what they had told the guard. While they were talking, Sir Alan Bennet appeared in the doorway of a small room off to the side of the hall entrance. As soon as he saw Kate, he began to retreat, but His Grace addressed him, repeating what Kate and Elric had just told him. Sir Alan frowned, shaking his head as if to counter their claim. And, indeed, he proceeded to sputter as soon as the archbishop was finished.

His Grace raised his hand for silence. “There can be no argument against fact. Sir Elric, you are welcome to set your men to searching the grounds. Anyone who takes it upon himself to interfere with their task will answer to me.”

Richard Scrope rose several choirs of angels higher in Kate’s esteem. Clearly His Grace’s acceptance of Kate’s earlier request for help had been in character. Sir Elric bowed and went out to the stables to instruct his men.

Sir Alan made to follow, but Scrope called him to heel.

Alan was not the only person looking glum. Her uncle watched her with an unease she had only before glimpsed in their most recent conversation.

“If I might have a quiet word with my uncle?” she said.

Scrope nodded to his secretary, who showed her into the room from which Sir Alan had emerged. High-ceilinged, with several high-backed chairs surrounding a long table piled with documents, a tiled floor, and a window opening onto the garden, it was an inviting chamber. Looking back, Kate signaled to Lille and Ghent to wait just outside the door.

“Katherine,” the dean bowed to her as he entered the room.

“You left betimes, Uncle. We expected you to dine with us today.”

“I had said perhaps, that I would send word.”

She inclined her head. “So you did. And, in the event Griffin finished his task earlier than expected?”

“Griffin? Task?” His expression was almost convincing. Almost.

“The murders of Ulrich Smit’s servants. Dame Eleanor and the beguines are preparing Werner’s body for burial. And he added another victim, Thatcher, a man of York who had assisted him and was of no more use. We found him drowned in the Ouse, with a great wound to his forehead – Griffin made sure that he would not survive despite the sluggish summer current.”

Her uncle blanched and turned away from her, clearly struggling with how to respond. He was saved by a sharp knock on the door and the entrance of His Grace.

“The gardener’s boy observed a red-haired man pulling a coracle into the woodland downriver. Sir Elric’s men are spreading out in search. I thought you would wish to know, Dame Katherine. I would think this a task well suited to your wolfhounds. The boy awaits you by the door.”

She thanked him and hurried out, calling to Lille and Ghent. Berend followed.

The lad grinned at the sight of the hounds, bobbing his head at Kate and Berend. “This way, mistress,” he said, turning about and leading them off into the gardens. Lush and peaceful, the landscape seemed an unlikely place for a murderer to hide. But as they moved beyond the graveled paths into the trees, the grounds grew wilder. She saw Elric’s men ahead, signaling to each other to spread out as they moved with practiced stealth into an area with underbrush. One glanced back toward them – Elric’s squire, Harry. She motioned to him to push Griffin toward the river. He nodded and disappeared.

If Griffin had thought to hide in the gardens, the men would flush him out. Realizing he was hunted, he would know the palace was not safe. “Take us first to where he landed,” she told the boy.

A wind came off the river, damp, heavy. No more rain today. The heat was settling in again. As the coracle came into view, Lille and Ghent began to slow, sniffing the ground, looking up, listening. Nan said she had bitten Griffin. How deeply? Might the scent of his blood be on the coracle? Kate led the dogs to the boat. It interested them, and they circled round it, taking in the scents, then took off in a direction farther downriver.

“Did he go this way?” she asked the lad, who had been watching the hounds with fascination.

He nodded. “I saw him head into that brush, and then I hurried back to tell my da. This is Church land, not for poachers.”

Kate thanked him and told him to return to his father. She would not want him injured if Griffin were cornered. Disappointed, the lad turned with reluctance, glancing back several times as he retraced his steps. Kate removed her short cloak, dropped it into the coracle, unhooked her bow, and checked the string. Dry. Good. Pulling an arrow from her quiver, she looked to Berend. “Ready?”