A Twisted Vengeance

4 Rumors

Frustrated by how little he had learned from the knights, Berend was about to take his leave when Sir Alan’s squire entered from the alleyway and sidled over to the knight, speaking softly, but not softly enough. People took Berend’s lost ear as a sign he was deaf. But he plainly heard the squire say, “Westmoreland’s man, Sir Elric, has just passed, headed toward Bootham Bar.” The knight nodded, dismissing his man.

“You take an interest in Westmoreland’s men?” asked Berend. He smiled at Sir Alan’s surprise.

The knight flashed an angry look at his squire, then composed himself. “I am curious why he is still here and not on the coast – or Knaresborough, if the current rumor is to be believed – with the earl, welcoming Henry of Lancaster.”

“You are so certain Ralph Neville will choose that side?”

“The Earl of Westmoreland married a Lancaster, did he not? For what other purpose than to cast his lot with that powerful house?”

What indeed. Berend noticed the knight peering at him, as if reconsidering.

“I forgot for a moment that your mistress is a Neville by marriage,” said Sir Alan. “Perhaps Dame Katherine has heard otherwise?”

Berend did not believe for a moment that the knight had forgotten the connection. “Not to my knowledge,” he said as he rose. “It grows late and I would not wish to outstay my welcome. We will talk again.” He bowed and departed.

Out on the street Berend hastened toward Bootham Bar, reaching it in time to catch a glimpse of Sir Elric just passing through the gate. He noticed how Elric tilted his hat over his face as he passed a party of knights and foot soldiers arriving on the other end. Cautious about being seen here? But of course he would be aware that those loyal to the king would wonder about the Earl of Westmoreland for the reason Sir Alan stated – married to a Lancaster … Berend followed, surprised when Elric turned down toward the gates of the Benedictine abbey of St. Mary’s. Now what might he want there?

A group of clerics and two peddlers with a wagon provided the cover Berend needed to draw close to the knight as he reached the abbey gate, close enough to hear his request for directions to the abbot’s house and the infirmary.

Seeking permission to visit a wounded colleague? Berend nodded to himself, rubbing his scarred ear.

The guesthouse hall benefited in such weather from several windows on each alley, allowing for a refreshing breeze. Kate sat with her back to one of the windows and closed her eyes for a moment while Goodwife Griselde led Lille and Ghent out to the kitchen for water. The heat and the events of the morning had already wearied Kate, and it was not yet midday. She meant to quiet her mind, but it kept jumping to Elric, that moment of warmth, and warning.

“I’ve cold meats, bread, cheese, and ale,” Griselde announced as she returned to the hall. Kate nodded, eyes still closed, listening as the housekeeper’s husband, Clement, entered from the kitchen, his limp giving him away. She smiled to hear yet a third member of the procession. Berend – she would know his tread anywhere. Solid, sure. When they were assembled round the small table, Kate opened her eyes and sat up, brushing a stray curl back behind her ear.

Griselde rose to help, tucking the curl into the crispinette. “When you arrived you looked as if your morning had been full and troubling, Mistress Clifford. I thought to give you a few moments to rest. I am glad to see you already more at ease.”

Would that she were. Kate patted the woman’s hand in thanks. “Our day began far too early.” She nodded to Berend. “So much to tell. I don’t quite know where to begin.”

“As ever, at the beginning. The hounds sounding the alarm,” said Berend.

“That is how it began,” said Kate.

“I am eager to hear of what happened,” said Griselde as she settled across the table. “Jennet asked me to tell you what she learned about Nan’s mother. I invited her to wait for you, but she was in such haste.” A shake of her head. “On the subject of Nan I’ve plenty to say. And about her mistress, Agnes Dell.”

Kate remembered Griselde’s dismay at the news that Eleanor had chosen Agnes Dell’s house as her Martha House, how she’d sniffed at the news that Agnes meant to bide with them as a sister. She had predicted it would be but a brief partnership. Kate had refrained from comment, asked for no explanation, in truth told Griselde she wanted to hear no more. Her mother had judged it a mutually beneficial arrangement. She might make of that what she would. She did not need to share her suspicion that her mother’s pretense at piety served a temporary need to conceal her true reason for fleeing to York.

“Perhaps you might start with your news,” Kate said, now regretting how she had silenced the woman, wondering what she might have prevented had she known more.

Griselde settled back with her bowl of ale in hand. “Jennet said to say that Nan’s mother, Hawise, has long been ill. She sleeps through most of her days, attended by the four children who have not yet left to go into service. All too young for such responsibility, if you ask me,” Griselde huffed. “That was me, not Jennet. It is true that Nan comes at night, but the children seemed to be keeping some secret about that – frightened eyes, pokes in the ribs. Nan has a reputation on the street for being easy, loving the men, that is what Jennet heard. So she intends to explore some of the rumors further, see whether Nan visits her mother alone. As for Agnes Dell, I’ve told you that Dame Eleanor did her beguines no favors in moving in with that lot. I should know, Agnes had been here often enough with her husband’s employer, your neighbor John Paris, both before and after she was widowed.”

“John Paris’s Agnes? That I did not know.”

“I tried to tell you, Mistress Clifford. But you did not wish to hear what I knew of Agnes Dell.”

“I remember. My anger clouded my judgment.”

Griselde pressed Kate’s hand. “Dame Eleanor has caused you trouble and great sorrow, I know, Mistress Clifford. You will be glad to hear that since Agnes took up with your mother’s beguines she has not been here.”

“At least that.”

“Do not blame yourself,” said Berend. “We know now, when we most need to know, eh?” His expression was caring, without judgment.

Kate relaxed a little. “What else do you know about Agnes, Griselde?”

“She was no better than her servant Nan, so they say. There was much gossip about Agnes and her boarders.”

“Her boarders? Did Jennet say that?”

“Jennet said nothing about Agnes.”

“So Agnes came here with John Paris while she was taking in boarders – boarders who also may have been lovers?” Berend asked.

“So they say.” Griselde seemed hesitant now. “Though it is only gossip. I have no personal knowledge of the woman, except as a guest here.”

“Might John Paris have arranged the boarders? Might Paris have threatened Agnes – and possibly her husband – if she did not oblige?” Kate looked around the table. “What do we know of her husband’s death?”

Clement and Griselde shook their heads.

“He died at sea, or while away,” said Berend. “There might be something there.”

“So what have Agnes and Nan done that you are asking about them?” asked Griselde.

What had they done? What had Kate done in neglecting to look into the household before her mother moved in? Not that she could have deterred Eleanor.

Fortified by an occasional pause for ale, Kate proceeded to sketch out the events since the dogs woke her in the night. It was important that Griselde and Clement knew the situation. They were her representatives here in the guesthouse, and oversaw what they could in Kate’s other property next door, the house leased by Sir Alan Bennet and his gathering of knights. “What did you learn?” Kate asked, turning to Berend.

“The knights gave no sign that they’d heard of the morning’s event. In that, as in everything, they were too closemouthed for my taste. They did express surprise about the response to the defense of York. Weaker than they had expected, according to Sir Alan.”

“York is splitting at the seams with armed men,” Griselde said. “How many more did they expect? And where, I ask, did they think to stuff them?”

Kate told them of her suspicion regarding the current and former aldermen, and the rumor about Knaresborough, especially the comment that Duke Henry was making promises only a king might carry out.

Clement nodded. “He is promising taxation only in times of emergency, that is what I heard in the tavern.”

“Sir Alan’s men also mentioned Knaresborough,” said Berend.

They were all silent for a moment, pondering the significance of all that had been spoken. How much blood would be shed, would Lancaster punish all those who supported their anointed king, what fate did he intend for King Richard, if deposed? Kate shivered.

“I do not know for whom to pray,” said Clement, “King Richard or Duke Henry?”

“Pray for us, husband,” said Griselde.

Berend nodded. “It is the small folk who suffer, it is always so. The farmers whose crops are trampled and burned, the foot soldiers who fall beneath the knights’ destriers, the merchants who cannot use the roads while the armies roam freely …”

“As Mistress Clifford said, the guild knows there is trouble ahead,” said Griselde. “Look at us. Already the presence of too-curious knights next door has frightened off some of our best customers.”

“Is that true?” asked Kate. It was the first she had heard of it.

“It is indeed,” said Griselde. “Your cousin William Frost and the widow Seaton are choosing discretion while Sir Alan holds court next door. And Dame Catherine and her Stefan.”

Thomas Holme’s wife. “But not Thomas?”

“No. He and his Mary are not so easily frightened.”

“God give me patience.” Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Less income to apply to Simon’s debts and memorial masses. People would notice if she neglected the latter. “Drusilla Seaton said nothing about this when we met on the street just now.” She hoped it was simply because of Sir Elric’s presence, nothing more, not distrust.

“I still believe you were right in accepting Sir Alan’s offer,” said Berend. “It might have been far worse had you been ordered by the mayor and aldermen to open your house to the armed men. At least Sir Alan is paying you generously and keeping the house in knightly hands.”

Kate knew he was right, but the loss of income was a setback she had hoped to avoid. Sir Alan’s rent was temporary. If the hiatus inspired Drusilla and William to separate for good … God forgive my selfishness, she silently prayed. Aloud she asked Berend what else he had learned from Sir Alan and his guests.

“We will want to watch them. They were far too ill at ease about my visit, though they seemed not to have heard about last night’s events.”

“Before we stray too far afield, we should consider just what happened last night,” said Kate. “Nan went out, leaving the kitchen unlocked. According to her, she has done so for a while. Someone entered by that door and found Dina in her bedroom. Did someone know about the unlocked door? Had Nan done this before it was a Martha House, when there were boarders? Who were the boarders?”

“John Paris once mentioned in passing that Leonard Dell – that would be Agnes’s late husband – had far more pleasure of his maidservant Nan than he did of his wife. He grinned at that – of course he would, being the one who did have pleasure of the man’s wife, the bloody …” Clement shifted uncomfortably as a tremor ran through his body.

Griselde pressed his hand and poured him more ale. He lifted the bowl with both hands, the contents splashing round but never spilling. Griselde knew just how much to fill it. Clement’s tremors were more frequent of late. Kate had noticed several while they reviewed the accounts earlier in the week. She knew better than to ask whether they were tiring him.

“It seems I need to get to know John Paris better,” she said. “Do you know him well, Clement?”

He shook his head. “I doubt I know any more than you, Mistress Clifford.” The words came out slightly slurred and Clement reddened. Kate’s heart ached for him.

“So the knights next door were of no help?” Griselde asked, drawing attention away from her husband’s discomfort.

“They did ask whether I knew any of the monks of St. Mary’s Abbey. At first I thought they were confused, as I’d said I live in the parish of St. Mary’s Castlegate. But they asked about monks, no mistaking. Odd on the same morning that Sir Elric makes a visit to the abbey.”

Kate sat up. “When?”

“I’ve just come from following him to the gate. He asked the gatekeeper for directions to the abbot’s house and the infirmary.”

So that was where he had been headed. The abbey infirmary. Had one of his men been injured? Had he lied about not having spoken to his men? When Berend poured himself more ale and seemed to slip into his own thoughts, Kate asked, with some urgency, “You did say the infirmary?” Berend nodded. “And do you know any of the monks?”

“When I first came to York I had a swelling in my scarred ear. Or what was once an ear. I was told that Brother Henry, the infirmarian, might be able to help. I had not expected such an elder. He was in ill health at the time but assured me that the sub-infirmarian, Brother Martin, was in fact far more skilled in such wounds than he was. So, yes, I know the monks in the infirmary.”

“I should think those in the infirmary know all that happens in an abbey,” said Kate, excited. “Do you think Brother Martin will talk to us?”

“It has been years since I spoke with him. But we parted friends. I returned a few times for the unguent, but once he was confident my ear was healing he sent me to the apothecary in St. Helen’s Square, assuring me that she would know exactly what I needed. So I’ve had no cause to return.”

“Until now,” said Kate. “Bless you, Berend. He might have some answers for us. Go to him. See if he will talk.”

Sister Clara returned to the hall empty-handed, the dagger still missing. “I saw Master Lionel depart,” she said as she sank onto a bench with a sigh. “Might I ask what you told him?”

Eleanor crossed herself. “I lied to him. It seemed my only recourse. I could think of nothing else.”

Clara nodded. “I might well have done the same. I propose that Sister Brigida and I ask to join Sister Dina in the maison dieu, vowing to obey the rules of the house while we reside there, and that you return to William Frost’s residence until this is resolved. By taking such actions we will prove to Dame Katherine our sincere regret for our error in trusting Agnes Dell.”

“The error was mine, Sister Clara. You should not suffer for it. Their rules would deprive you of your work outside the sister house, your means of support.” Not to mention that the thought of returning to bide under Isabella Gisburne Frost’s roof nauseated Eleanor. She despised the woman – a mutual dislike. Though if it would appease Katherine, it bore consideration. Despite what Katherine thought, Eleanor still hoped to find a way to make peace with her daughter. She was all she had left. “What of Sister Agnes? Do we simply abandon her? What if she is sincere in wishing to embrace the life of a beguine?”

Bowing her head, Clara seemed absorbed in folding her hands one way, then the other on her lap. Just as Eleanor began to wonder whether a response was forthcoming, Clara sighed. “In truth, I cannot find it in my heart to trust Agnes now – or consider her a sister. If she does sincerely wish to embrace the life of poverty, chastity, and obedience, she has many small houses from which to choose in York. It need not be ours.”

Though Eleanor felt much the same, she found it jarring from a woman devoted to spreading word of God’s all-abiding love. “And where am I to find another house for us?” Eleanor wondered, startled to hear her own voice. “Forgive me, I did not mean to burden you with my concerns. This is not your difficulty to resolve.”

“We work together, Dame Eleanor. It is our problem.” Clara looked round the hall, her eyes resting on the Lady altar they had furnished so lovingly. “Our Blessed Mother shall show us the way.”

A dangerously foolish philosophy, Eleanor thought, but kept her counsel. “Before we say anything to Agnes, I propose that you and I consult with my daughter and my man Griffin. I would have their thoughts on abandoning Agnes.”

A simple bow. “I am happy to take that precaution. Is that the correct word?”

“Your grasp of the language is nothing short of remarkable, Sister Clara.”

Meanwhile, Eleanor thought she might do well to have a word with God. She feared that this hindrance was a sign that he rejected her avenue of atonement for betraying her husband David, the father of her children, with Ulrich. But why had God not stopped her earlier? In Strasbourg? On the journey to York?

She excused herself and knelt on a cushion before the altar. After a few Hail Marys, she silently asked, If you did not wish me to do this, my Lord, why did you not give me a sign before I plucked these good women from their home in Strasbourg? Punish me, not them, I pray you. She bowed her head and waited. A sharp pain in her right knee jolted her upright. As she shifted on her cushion she felt a flush of warmth and her mind cleared. This was merely a test, a trial, all part of the path. I hear you, my Lord. I will go softly, with care.

As she rose, crossing herself, she was surprised to find Sister Clara still perched on the edge of her chair.

A gentle smile. “You are reassured, Dame Eleanor?”

“I am, Sister Clara. I will send for Katherine and Griffin.”

“He is already here, in the kitchen. You sent for him earlier?”

“Ah. So I did.” Eleanor shook out her skirts. “So. Time to face my daughter.”

Kate and Griselde were up on the landing outside the guest bedchambers shaking out the cushions when they heard Lille and Ghent barking a welcome down in the yard. Jennet stood by them, looking up, shading her eyes.

Kate called down to her. “Have you news?”

“Not from me. I believe Dame Eleanor has something to tell you. She says she needs to speak with you. A matter of some urgency, she said.”

“That does not bode well,” Griselde muttered.

“No. No, it does not.” Kate turned away, thinking. “I did want to stay until Berend returned from the abbey. And to help you with this.”

“Oh, do not stay on my account, mistress. I do not have so much work at present that I cannot shake out the cushions in good time. We’ve only one room occupied tonight. No one is here tomorrow night. I can manage. I will send Berend straight to you when he returns.”

Kate nodded. “I would rather stay, but if I linger I will begin to spin a web of horrific possibilities regarding Mother’s ‘matter of some urgency.’ I did hope to find something that might keep me busy in the alley so that I might chance to overhear what my knightly tenants discuss next door.”

“I could give Seth such a task,” Griselde suggested. Young Seth Fletcher assisted Griselde and Clement with the more strenuous tasks.

“I’d not thought of Seth. Where is he today?”

“Have you not heard the hammering? He is repairing the garden shed. He loves to keep busy, that young man. A blessing he is.”

“Good. Try to find him some quiet task in the alleyway so that he might hear conversations.”

Griselde plucked the cushion from Kate’s hands. “I will, mistress. And you will send word with anything we should know?”

“I’ll send Matt to you this evening. You will hear all. For now, I’ll have Jennet give Seth some training in discreet spying.”

Discovering the postern gate of St. Mary’s Abbey locked, Berend cursed at the need to go the long way once more, out Bootham Bar and round to the main gate of the abbey. The Bootham gatekeepers were busy with merchants and more of the armed men coming to the defense of the city. It seemed that today’s fresh influx traveled in smaller groups than they had at the beginning, and he eyed them with unease, certain that some were mercenaries and killers for hire, as he had been at one time. He was not concerned with the ones in livery – they were easily brought to heel by their lords if they caused trouble. It was the ones with no obvious badge of belonging that caused a tingling in his scarred ear. These might as easily be spies for Lancaster disguised as men ready to defend the city for the king; or, perhaps worse, solely interested in plunder and blood sport.

As he passed through the stone enclosure and felt the sun on his head, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. In a moment, four men had drawn daggers and were dancing round each other. No livery. No way to know who had started the altercation, or why. But it was just the sort of fight that could grow into a bloody tragedy – one that a spy might use to undermine confidence in the city’s defenses.

By the time the gatekeeper shouted for help, Berend was in the middle of the fray, tossing one of the dagger-wielding bullies out of the tight circle. Already three more had joined the tussle.

“At your side. You go right, I’ll go left,” said a man in livery, sword drawn, and Berend nodded, drawing his dagger and moving as suggested. Two more joined them, and soon the fighters were sitting on the side of the road guarded by four swordsmen in the livery of Edmund, Duke of York. A fifth, the one who had spoken to Berend, slapped him on the back, thanking him.

“We could use you.”

“So you could. But I’ve left that life behind.”

“You were quick to act just now.”

“I don’t like trouble in my city.”

The man squinted in the sunlight. “I’ve seen you before. With the lady of the wolfhounds.”

Berend did not like the knowing tone in the man’s voice. “So you have. She, too, dislikes trouble in our city.”

“Your wife?”

“My employer.”

“Ah. I can see why you choose to stay.” A leer. “Those are war dogs.”

“They are. And trained from birth to attack anyone they sense a threat to her or anyone in her household.” Not trusting himself to control his rising irritation, Berend nodded to the man and headed down toward the abbey gate.

The man was right about Lille and Ghent. Irish wolfhounds were excellent war dogs – he’d fought alongside some. But he’d never encountered any so well trained as they were. In truth, he had never encountered anyone like Katherine Clifford. He had been in York but a few days when he noticed her moving through the city with her gray sentinels. Intrigued, he’d asked about her. A Clifford, people told him, married to a Neville, connected to the Frosts and Gisburnes – no one to toy with.

So he had been surprised in the best way when she had approached him at the market, sauntering over to him as folk gave way for the imposing dogs. “You are rumored to be a good cook. Is it true? Are you looking for work?”

“I am,” he’d said. His parents had owned a tavern. He’d worked in the kitchen until running away to be a soldier.

“I need a cook. Are you interested?”

He would have laughed at her proposal but that he’d heard on the street how she had caught Jennet in the act of stealing the pewter plates in her hall as the family slept, and had hired her that very night, as her maidservant. An assassin turned cook, he would feel quite at home.

“I can think of no household in which I’d rather serve.”

She’d smiled then, a genuine smile, her eyes warm. “So Jennet was right. She wagered you would agree. Come, Berend, help me shop for dinner. My husband likes spicy food.”

God’s grace was with him that day. He would do anything for her. Anything. Even break the vow he’d made when he walked away from his previous profession. If she ever needed an assassin … But she would never ask that of him. She would do what needed to be done herself.

He was keenly aware of how Dame Katherine would fascinate the warriors arriving in York. Though few were as battle-scarred as Berend, he saw himself in them, himself and all with whom he’d fought. He noticed them watching the three of them, the tall, enigmatic woman with the gray giants flanking her. They imagined in her a woman who would understand their hunger for strength and beauty in a violent world, a woman who could admire their feats in arms, comprehend their stories, what the victories and defeats meant to them. And Dame Katherine would. She did. Berend was grateful for that. He was not worried about her ability to defend herself; he had all confidence in her. But the other women – weak, unarmed, frightened women such as Sister Dina – these were the women for whom he feared. As did Dame Katherine.

As he stepped through the abbey gate, Berend felt a surge of relief. For a moment he forgot his mission and said a prayer of gratitude that there was such a place so near the city, a haven of peace, a sanctuary in which he might lay down his burden of worry. Brothers and servants moved about their chores in silence, their pace much slower than out in the city, as if they had all the time in the world. Berend slowed his own steps, and as he made his way to the infirmary he allowed his gaze to rest gently on the elegant buildings and the lovingly tended gardens. One could forget for a moment the gathering of armed men to defend the city, the sense of imminent danger. He had missed his visits to Brother Martin. The apothecary had indeed provided the same unguent, but her shop was no refuge from his cares.

He rapped gently on the door of the infirmary, drawing his mind back to his purpose. Today the abbey was more than a retreat from the world; it was a source of information. Here he hoped he might discover whose blood stained Sister Dina’s gown.

A dark-eyed, chubby novice opened the infirmary door.

“I have come to speak with Brother Martin.”

The novice gazed up at Berend in startled silence for a moment, then seemed to hear his request. “Oh. I pray you forgive me. It is not every day I discover a stranger at the door.”

And today, at least two? Berend wondered.

“Brother Martin is in the herb garden. Is he expecting you?”

“No. But he will remember me.” Berend slipped off his simple felt hat and tilted his head to display the scar where once was an ear. “That it has healed so well is thanks to his skill.”

A slight frown and a subtle drawing back suggested the novice was not sure he would consider it healed. But he quickly recovered, and, bowing, said, “I will escort you, Master …?”

“Berend.”

Another bow, and the novice stepped out the door, shutting it behind him, and led Berend round the building.

He smelled the herbs before he saw the garden – spicy, sweet, aromatic. And now he beheld the serene order of the beds, heard the murmur of bees and other winged gardeners. Eden. Paradise.

A black-robed form bent over a hedge of lavender.

“Brother Martin?”

The figure straightened, pushing back a wide-brimmed hat that had half fallen over his eyes. “Yes, Andrew, what – Oh, Master Berend.” He came forward, brushing off his gloves, then removing one to take Berend’s hand. “What a pleasure to see you. It has been so long. How is the ear?” His cheer seemed forced.

“Healed, as far as is possible, thanks to your care, Brother Martin.”

“I hear that you are now a cook. Are you here to beg some unusual herbs?”

“I would not say nay to anything you might offer. What dishes I might concoct with such variety! But I’ve come on less sanguine business.”

“An illness in the household?”

“No, God be thanked. Might we sit somewhere quiet? Here in the garden, if you please.” Berend gestured toward a bench shaded by an old linden.

A little shrug, a nod to young Andrew and a gesture releasing him to return to the infirmary. “A moment in the shade would be welcome, Master Berend.”

“Just Berend. I am no man’s master.”

A surprised laugh. “You sounded like my father just then.” As the monk settled on the bench he removed his hat and pushed back imaginary hair – he had so little hair he’d scant need for a tonsure. An old habit then, from before he’d taken vows. Berend tried to imagine what he might have looked like in youth. Thin, long-limbed, and, judging by his brows and lashes, fair-haired. He would have been a comely lad, even-featured, with large, expressive eyes. Eyes that now returned his gaze with a wariness they’d not held when they last met.

“I will not trifle with you by circling round my purpose, Brother. One of the Earl of Westmoreland’s knights, Sir Elric, came to the abbey this morning asking to be directed to the abbot’s lodgings and the infirmary.”

A shrug. “Many come to the gate, for blessings, in hope of healing.” The monk coolly met his gaze. “Abbot Thomas rarely sends them on to me. You touched him. That is why he welcomed you when you first came to York, your quest for absolution, redemption. Have you found it in service to Dean Richard’s niece?”

Clever how he diverted the questions to Berend himself. And well informed. “I am on the path, as is my purpose in coming to you. A young woman was accosted by an intruder in Dame Eleanor Clifford’s house of poor sisters last night. I have cause to think the young woman, Sister Dina, might have injured her attacker. I wondered whether he had found his way here.”

“A poor sister was accosted?”

Choosing his words with a care to accuracy yet a sense of the horror of Sister Dina’s ordeal and her frightened silence, Berend took the monk through the events of the night and early morning. “My employer, Katherine Clifford, is determined to find out what happened. I ask in the hope that Sir Elric possibly heard something of the incident from one of his men in the city?”

“May God watch over Sister Dina,” Brother Martin whispered, crossing himself. “And all in her household.” The monk sat for a moment, folding his hands in his lap – work-roughened hands, despite the gloves he had tucked in his rope girdle.

Berend tried to quiet his own mind, allow anything to arise that pointed to something he might have missed in the telling. “I understand that I am casting a wide net,” he added quietly.

A little smile as Brother Martin shifted on the bench, facing Berend. “I am not a stranger to the investigation of a crime. My father – foster father–”

“He who was master to no man?”

A nod. “I sometimes assisted him in solving crimes in the city. So my mind has gone straight down that disused path, calling up questions so that I might sort them. It seems you have many unanswered questions. Why choose to come to me? The city is filled with armed men at present. Strangers.”

“With such a background you will understand why I must consider all avenues that might help resolve this as soon as possible. Before someone else is threatened. Did Sir Elric come to you? Is an injured man lying in your infirmary? One of his men?”

“Perhaps if you spoke to my abbot, you–” The monk paused as the novice Andrew came round the corner of the infirmary in some haste.

“Brother Henry says you must come at once, Brother Martin.” Andrew glanced at Berend, bit his lip, looked down, bowed, and made a hurried retreat.

Brother Martin crossed himself and rose with a deep sigh.

“I can return,” Berend said.

“Go with God,” Brother Martin murmured as he tucked his hands up his sleeves and hurried after the novice.