The Service of the Dead

17 A Comb, a Pair of Gloves

After the rain, the night was cold and clear, the stars bright. Kate shivered as she leaned out the window of her bedchamber, listening to an owl hunting in the gardens across Castlegate. She welcomed the chill wind stirring her hair, cooling her face. She would prefer to walk out into the darkness. She yearned to take the dogs and walk down to the river, but held herself back – the murders, the fire, Sir Elric’s sudden interest – or, rather, the Earl of Westmoreland’s. But it was Sir Elric’s eyes that haunted her, and the sense of coiled life, ready to spring.

For tonight, Kate had sent Jennet back to her own bed in the little house at the street, not wanting to keep her awake with her inability to settle. But, most of all, she had done it to avoid Jennet’s questions, to which Kate had not, as yet, any answers.

She had indeed found William at home. He had understood the import of Sir Elric’s interest. For now he believed himself safe, convinced that the knight had believed his account of brushing off “Underhill’s” offer, with his explanation that he feared he would be in worse trouble with such a man defending him.

“The key is to keep the lie simple. Liars elaborate,” he told Kate. Moments later, his confidence had crumpled. “But if he finds the grave… Why would he think anything other than that I murdered the earl’s man?”

Kate had assured him that he was free to tell Sir Elric about the night at the guesthouse, that he already knew about her clientele.

“But Isabella. If she should learn. Dear God. Whatever he wants of you, Katherine, I pray you, appease him.”

“I stand in awe of the ease with which you ask the women in your life to give themselves freely to those who might help you, cousin. What a heady feeling it must be, your certainty that God chose you for great things, that we have been placed in your path as your handmaidens.” She had goaded him, enjoying his discomfort.

Better than swimming in her own.

She hated that she kept remembering Sir Elric’s eyes, and his form on the practice field. She had been too long without a man in her bed, that was her problem. What York needed was a brothel of men, for servicing women. Berend’s hand on her arm this evening had burned her. Matt’s smile tormented her. A good round in bed and she might have a clearer head. This is how women fell back into marriage – that yearning, that hunger.

Still leaning out the window in the hope that the chill night air might have some salutary effect, Kate distracted herself by recalling, in as much detail as possible, the conversation in the kitchen hours earlier.

Lille and Ghent had sat at her feet, sensing her need for comfort, butting her hands over and over so that she spent most of the evening rubbing them down as she listened and shared.

Clement’s assessment of the inventory results, related through Berend, was that small quantities of spice were missing from almost every shipment. No ordinary thief would take the trouble to steal a small quantity from each container, yet each weighed less than expected. Or most did. Lionel had missed a few.

To Kate it seemed a petty issue compared with her other worries. But no wonder Lionel had become agitated when she mentioned that Clement and Berend were counting.

The two men had worked late, determined to complete the task, then left one of Lady Margery’s men on guard. This time the arsonist might be Lionel, covering his guilt.

When it came her turn to recount what she had gleaned, Kate began with all she had learned about Sam, particularly his betrayals, and Lionel’s part in encouraging them. “Sam went only so far. It seems he said nothing about the guesthouse. And he mentioned nothing about Bale’s murder. I wonder what stayed him?”

“It matters not,” said Jennet. “He has lost our trust.”

Matt nodded.

Kate agreed. “I will need to think what to do about him if he returns unscathed.”

Berend and Jennet exchanged looks. One thing was certain, Sam could no longer serve in her household. Not unless Kate was able to turn a blind eye to the “accidents” that would befall him.

“And what of his being seen with Hubert Bale?” Jennet asked. “What do you make of that?”

“Sam and Bale.” Berend gazed into his empty cup. “So William Frost is somehow part of this?”

Kate did not believe that. “There is a far more powerful hand in the game now.” She told them about Sir Elric’s offer. And his threat. William’s reaction.

Berend cursed softly.

“So.” She had looked round at her three companions. “What do we know? Are we close to understanding what has been happening? Can we solve this before Sir Elric gets too close?”

“We know that Sam cannot be trusted,” said Jennet. “At some point he was dancing to Hubert Bale’s tune – when he added a sleeping potion to the wine.”

“We know that Lionel Neville is untrustworthy,” said Berend. “And that he has been stealing from you, his own partner. But he has little power in the family. Nor do I think Fitch, for all his sins, is connected to the murders. At worst, Lionel’s failed attempt to spy on you has served as an unfortunate distraction.”

Kate nodded. “Anything else?”

“Clement and Griselde knew of Sam’s nature but said nothing to you,” said Matt.

“Distrust all round,” said Kate. “But about the murderer we still know nothing. Nothing.” She felt the tension round the table, the defeat.

“What would it mean if we partnered with Sir Elric?” Matt had the courage to ask.

“We would become the creatures of the Earl of Westmoreland,” said Berend.

“I need to think it through,” said Kate. “I promise you this, that if I decide to accept his offer, the three of you are free to leave my service.”

“Never,” said Berend, pressing her arm in the emotion of the moment.

Kate had met his eyes as he touched her arm. That was the moment when she thought how wonderful it would be to curl up in his strength, his warmth, to make love to him. Surely her face had flushed.

“Never,” said Jennet.

“If you have need of me, I am yours,” Matt said.

Kate looked round at the three fierce faces. “Bless you.”

“Sir Elric seemed certain that it will come to war,” said Jennet.

A comment met with a silence so charged, Lille and Ghent rose up as if thinking Kate needed protection.

“We all need a good night’s sleep,” she said.

That had been hours ago. Kate drew back into the room, lit a second lamp off the first, and placed Connor’s pack on the bed. Berend said he had added a few things found in the undercroft – a pair of gloves, a woman’s comb, an empty flagon, a broken lock pick. She pulled out the items one by one, beginning with Connor’s tools, carefully rolled up in leather. She untied it, let it roll out on the bed. Stoneworking tools, lovingly cleaned and oiled. Phillip would treasure them. She rolled them up and put them aside. The gloves were clearly not Connor’s – though hardened from the weather, creased and well-worn, they were made of costly leather. The broken lock pick might belong to the intruder, but the pieces of metal held no clues as to who that might be. The flagon was a cheap one. Connor’s shirt had been washed so many times it was remarkably soft, the elbows and wrists and stomach darned many times. His shoes had so much dust embedded in the inner soles they bore the shape of Connor’s feet.

Alice and Connor had come so close to happiness. Kate breathed through the knot in her stomach as she drew out the rest of Connor’s clothes and set them aside.

And then, caught on a loose thread – a woman’s decorative comb, mother-of-pearl on a strip of silver, the comb the whitest ivory. Kate stopped breathing.

It is not possible, Geoff whispered in Kate’s mind. How is this possible?

It had been her most precious possession, a gift from her father for her tenth birthday. To be strong like her brothers, to train with them, accompany them hunting, that was her obsession as a child. She kept secret her love of pretty things, her pride in her dark, thick, wildly curly hair that Roland called raven wings, her delight in whirling about the room in dance and the touch of silk and fine linen on her skin. Her father seemed to guess, always asking her to dance to Roland’s livelier tunes, his face brightening when she appeared in her best gown. And when he tucked the comb in her hair, telling her that the moment he saw it he imagined it just so, a ray of light in her raven hair, her heart had swelled with love and pride. She had taken care to wear it only when she was in her best gown, sure to stay put, not rush out into the fields or climb the hills or muck about with the animals and chance losing it.

So she had never been certain how long it had been missing when she opened the small carved box in which she kept it, wrapped in a piece of velvet. The velvet and the box were there, but not the comb. She wanted to wear it for Roland’s burial, a ray of light in her raven wings. She must wear it. She searched everywhere, accused everyone of stealing it. Her mother had finally confined her to her room for a week to pray for her soul. “All this for a comb, Katherine? You would seed distrust through our household because of a bauble? In this time of mourning?”

She reached for Geoff, to ask him what he remembered, but he was silent.

You know something about this.

Silence.

How did my comb come to be in the undercroft?

Geoff’s silence was deafening. For the first time in all her recent troubles, Kate felt a cold fear gripping her heart. She had not felt this since the darkest days up on the border, when Geoff deserted her.

Forgive me. But I have no idea how it would come to be here in York, he whispered.

You hold something back.

Silence.

I will know in time.

Silence.

She pulled out Hubert Bale’s pack. The letters of introduction, one for Jon Underhill, carrying King Richard’s seal, one for Hubert Bale, carrying the duke’s seal. According to Berend, Hubert Bale was the man’s true name. And he had been here in the service of Westmoreland, who was married to a Lancaster. It fit. Apparently Sir Elric guessed William was the king’s man, hence Bale had presented himself to him with the false name. Interesting, but not helpful. Returning them to the pouch, she slipped off the bed and hid it beneath the floorboards.

Settling back on the bed, she tried to forget the comb. It was no use. Again and again her eyes were drawn to it. She cupped it in her hands, held it to her heart.

A knock on the door. Jennet peered in. “I saw your light as I paced in the garden.” She looked at the bed. “Have you learned anything?”

“I am not sure. Come in, do. I sent you away only so you might sleep.” Now the questions Kate had wished to avoid would be most welcome. She laughed to see that Jennet was fully dressed. “Did you lie down at all?”

“I did. And slept awhile, not long. Then the lists began to march through my head and I thought a walk in the cold would freeze them.” She looked down at the comb. “Pretty. Was that in one of the packs?”

“Berend found it in the undercroft. It is mine, Jennet. Lost when I was – twelve? Thirteen?”

Jennet looked up with a half smile, as if expecting Kate to admit she was teasing. The smile faded. “You are serious. How is it here? Now?”

Kate shook her head.

“Your cousin William?”

“He was not there at the time.”

“This frightens you.”

Alice’s death was so like Maud’s. And Maud’s death killed Kate’s dream of standing beside her brothers as their equal. It made real the danger that she had sensed but denied, believing she needed only be strong enough. From that day forward she had understood that the danger was real. Her fear turned to anger. To be born a woman was to be cheated of that easy confidence she so admired in her brothers. That anger grew as her brothers circled round her, determined to protect her.

“I am imagining things. It is very like a comb I had as a child.”

“Hmpf.” Jennet shrugged as she sat down on the bed, touching the scattered items. She picked up the gloves. “Worn. Fine, though. A man’s gloves. A wide hand with stubby fingers.” She wiggled one of the gloves at Kate.

Kate forced a laugh. Wide palm, short, fat fingers on muscled arms pushing her down. Stubby fingers gripping the axe, eyes burning. You will pay for this. Running, her lungs burning, her torn gown soaked in blood.

Jennet put the gloves aside, picked up the broken lock pick. “I have one very like it.”

“You do. But this is not yours?”

Jennet patted her skirt. “I carry it always. I never know when I’ll need to find a way in, or out.” She frowned. “You are worried. Still the comb?”

Am I mad, Geoff? The gloves and the comb, are they part of a message? Did the Cavertons take my comb? The deaths all hurt me or someone close to me. Even the attempted fire fits. And if it is all traced back to my guesthouse, it could ruin me. Is this the pattern, Geoff? Is it possible?

Do not go out alone, Kate. Be safe. Take no risks.

But why? Why would the Cavertons come all this way? How could I matter so much? Your warning. You believe it’s possible. That the Cavertons might be here.

You are the one with eyes and ears, Kate. I only feel your fear.

“Lovely tools. Will you give them to Phillip?”

Kate made herself pick up the chisel, feel the heft in her hand, slip it back into its loop in the leather case. “Yes. I think I will take them to him first thing this morning. On my way to see Lady Kirkby.”

“You still mean to see her? Do you care what Lionel had to say now that you know Sir Handsome is the one in charge?” Jennet stuck her face close, peered up at Kate with a teasing grin. “I sensed the magic stirring between the two of you, do not think you can hide that from me.”

“It would still be interesting to hear Lady Margery’s impression. As for Sir Elric, his appeal will not sway me.”

Jennet nodded. “I never doubted that.” She rolled up the tools. “Young Phillip will be pleased. But Marie will expect something of equal worth. The comb?”

“No!” It was out before Kate could guard her tongue. “No. The teeth are too far apart for her fine hair. But you are right. I will promise her a new gown. We will choose the fabrics together.”

A nod. A yawn. “Shall we try to sleep a little?”

Kate realized she was cold now. Hiding beneath the covers for a while held some appeal. They set the items carefully on the bench beneath the window and climbed into bed.

“Have you encountered any Scots in the city of late?” Kate asked as Jennet began to settle.

“The Cavertons? Do you think they stole the comb?”

On the night Kate caught Jennet thieving in the hall, she had recognized something in the young woman’s eyes, the anger, the determination. Shortly after Jennet began to serve Kate, they shared bits of their stories. Jennet knew of the Cavertons, of Maud, of her brothers’ deaths. Not everything, but enough.

“Young Andrew had wide palms, short, fat fingers, and spent his coin on fine gloves and boots.”

“The one who got away? The scarred one?”

“Yes.”

“Face pulled together on the right, and missing that ear.” She was quiet a moment. “There is always talk of suspicious Northerners on the streets, and many badly scarred men about, but I have heard of no such newcomer.”

Kate closed her eyes. “But you did not know to ask.”

“No. You think Andrew Caverton has done all this as revenge?”

“It is madness, I know. All because of a comb that stirred memories.”

“And the gloves. Both in the undercroft that was set on fire.”

“So I might never have known they were there. A different culprit? Am I simply imagining the connections?”

It was not long past dawn when the men pounded on the door below, waking Lille and Ghent. And Kate, who was amazed to realize she had slept. She was alone in the bed, Jennet already up. Kate dressed with care, armed and ready to slip away to the deanery as soon as she could, grateful that she could be so clearheaded despite that pounding on the hall door.

Downstairs, a pair in the livery of Westmoreland stood in the doorway, the mud of the road on their clothes. One of them apologized for arriving so early. “But Sir Elric said you would want to know as soon as we found him,” he said.

“My servant Sam? You have found my servant?”

“We believe it is him. From what we can tell, he fits the description. The cart is coming behind us. We were first through Walmgate Bar to wake you, Mistress Clifford.”

From what they can tell? “Is he alive?”

“Only just, Mistress. He is breathing, not much more.”

Matt quietly informed her that Jennet had just gone out to the kitchen, and he had been about to let the dogs out into the yard when the pounding began.

“Take Lille and Ghent out to the yard and poke your head in the kitchen. Tell Berend we will need hot water and rags.” She turned back to the men. “Where did you find him?”

“Not far outside Walmgate Bar. We stayed there the night with him, in a farmhouse.” The man who had so far done all the talking nodded, then stepped back, as if considering his duty finished.

His partner seemed ready to say more. Kate prodded him with a few questions. She had guessed right.

“We were on our way back to the city,” he said. “Thirsty. We had been out there all afternoon, asking everyone we encountered about a white-haired man. So when we saw an alewife’s sign, a bushel on a pole, we stopped. Fine ale, and as we drank, we told the alewife about the man we sought, headed to Beverley in the snow. She told us to take a look at the poor fellow in the lean-to, staying warm with her cow. He looked the part, white haired, slight of build. He had been there for a day. Her husband found him in the ditch by the road, brought him in.”

Jennet and Berend entered the hall carrying water and rags. Matt followed and set about pulling his pallet over by the fire. Kate sent Jennet up to the solar for an old sheet, some blankets. Matt and Berend moved the chairs and table about to afford more room for nursing Sam.

“Are the dogs loose in the yard?” she asked Matt.

“No. I left them in the kitchen. I thought it best.”

She asked the earl’s men why they had not taken Sam to Sir Elric at Sheriff Hutton. The second began to answer, but the first rushed to talk over him. “We were to take him for questioning. But we doubt the man will wake, much less be able to tell us anything. His face… He is of no use to Sir Elric.”

“And you found no sign of Underhill?”

“No. The others are still out searching for him.”

At the sound of a cart creaking down the alleyway, Berend went out, Jennet following with a lantern. Kate heard Berend directing the men and suddenly thought of Lille and Ghent, imagining them at the window, ears pricked, investigating the unaccustomed noise.

She dug some old scissors out of a basket by the door. In case clothes needed to be cut away. Damn them for arriving just now. She had wanted to see that Phillip and Marie were safe at the deanery.

Berend escorted a man through the door carrying Sam in his arms. Kneeling by the pallet, Berend helped ease Sam down onto the old sheet. They were right that he would be of no use to Sir Elric. His breath was a death rattle. Jennet joined Kate at the pallet, whispering a prayer that Sam might be beyond pain. His face was caked with blood and filth, his mouth and jaw so battered he could not possibly speak, his eyes swollen shut, hair matted, clothes tattered and filthy. What cause had anyone to so beat old Sam about the head?

“Your servant, Mistress Clifford?” asked one of the men.

“What is left of him,” she said. “Thank you for bringing him to us.”

The man who had carried Sam in from the cart bobbed his head and departed, but the first two remained. “We are to report whether he lives, and whether he manages to say anything of use.”

She looked up at them in disbelief. “How? How might he speak?”

The two men bowed their heads.

Kate told Matt to fetch his cousin, the healer Bella. Sam seemed beyond healing, but Bella might ease his pain.

Berend and Jennet were already cutting away Sam’s clothes, the shears difficult to use on the fabric, which was stiff with blood and filth – mud, urine, feces, and, as Kate leaned closer, she detected pus, the scent of festering wounds. He had been suffering for days. She studied the horrific injuries to his face. And all the while something about him bothered her. He had been found too quickly, too easily.

Wetting a rag, she began to clean the muck from his forehead, eyes, temples, cheeks, nose. She sat back. Jennet glanced at her. Kate dabbed at the nose. Their eyes met. Sam had a prominent mole on his nose. This man did not.

Too easy, far too easy. A distraction? Though filthy, the clothes seemed to be Sam’s. A deliberate ruse then. Such malevolence.

She crossed herself and said a prayer for the stranger’s soul. Then she rose, telling Berend and Jennet she was going across the road for the priest. She waited until they had both looked up, indicating that they had heard. Taking her cloak, she was about to step out the door as Matt entered with Bella.

“God bless you for coming so quickly. I entrust him to you.” Kate nodded to both of them and hurried out. Checking that no liveried men lingered in the yard, she paused, expecting some sound from Lille and Ghent – their claws scratching the door, or a bark demanding attention. They had been locked in the kitchen so long. But Kate heard nothing. She rushed across to the kitchen, flung open the door, careful to close it behind her. There was no need. Lille and Ghent would not dash out. They were gone.

Sam. Sam walked Lille and Ghent, they knew him and trusted him. And he knew how much they meant to her. But why? How? If it was Andrew Caverton behind all this, how had he enlisted Sam? Sam, of all people?

Because he knew her household so well. And he knew how to handle Lille and Ghent.

Wait for Berend and Jennet, Geoff warned.

No. He will not show himself if they are with me.

Andrew? Or Sam?

Either of them, the bastards. I’ll gut them both.

She opened the kitchen door with care, slipped out, shutting it behind her, melting into the shadows beneath the eaves. The hall door opened. Jennet stepped out, hurried down the alley. It would take her a moment to cross over to St. Mary’s and discover Kate was not there.

Opening the gate into Thomas Holme’s yard, Kate crept along the fence, feeling her way, ducking past the lanterns her neighbor now kept lit through the night, past the Holme house and the small shops fronting the street. She paused there. Where would Sam advise Andrew Caverton to lie in wait? Where could he trust that the dogs would not call attention to them if they barked?

A little hand closed over hers. “Come with me.”