The Service of the Dead

2 Braided Silk

Griselde tied back the heavy bed curtains with a length of braided silk, a thick rope in the colors of the brocade curtains and counterpane – azure, deep crimson, green, gold. Such vibrant hues. She ran her gnarled hand along the counterpane, skimming the surface so as not to snag the silk with her rough hands, taking pleasure in the smoothness of the costly fabric. Her husband muttered in his sleep as he turned from the light, and Griselde winced to hear the bristles on Clement’s unshaved cheek rasp against the fabric. The curtains and counterpane were of the same quality as those in the guest chambers in the solar above, and a gift from Mistress Clifford for loyal service.

In truth, Griselde’s position as housekeeper in this guesthouse was a gift to Clement for his years of service as factor to Mistress Clifford’s late husband. A substantial two-story tenement on the fashionable High Petergate, near York Minster, it had been fitted for them on the ground floor with a bedchamber in the back of the hall. The kitchen was a few steps from the rear door. It was the perfect arrangement for her ailing husband, who could no longer climb steps, but could help out in the kitchen, the hall, and the garden on his good days.

The two airy guest chambers up in the solar were reached by a partially covered outer stairway that wrapped round the back, with a landing that provided privacy to Mistress Clifford’s customers, guests of the dean and chapter of York Minster. And, when no long-term guests were in residence, it afforded privacy to the worthies of York and their mistresses.

Seeing Clement’s eyelids flutter, Griselde plumped the pillows behind him, turned down the bedclothes, and reached out to assist him in sitting up.

He waved her away. “I pray you’ve no cause to regret your softness, wife.” Clement grunted as he worked his way upright and leaned back against the pillows to catch his breath. “This very morning you must hie to Mistress Clifford’s home and confess to her that this night past we hosted not her cousin William Frost and the widow Seaton, as she’d expected, but a stranger accompanying Alice Hatten, a common whore. She will not be pleased.”

“Chiding is your morning greeting? No smile? No kiss?” What a choleric old man he had become. “I know what I must do. You need not nag. Chiding.” She muttered the last word as she poured him a cup of ale. But, glad that he sounded more himself this morning, she kissed his stubbly cheek before she placed the cup in his hands.

“Bless you, wife. I just pray you have not lost us our comfortable living.”

“Husband, Master Frost vouched for the man and assured me the guests knew they must depart before dawn. I’ll just step up and knock on the chamber door to make certain they’re awake. But first I must stoke the fire out in the hall. It’s a cold morning.” Griselde made a show of confidence striding out of the room, but once out of sight of her husband she crossed herself and whispered a prayer, continuing with Hail Marys while she knelt to stir the glowing embers in the fire circle. She had not told him all the story, how when she had noticed in the early evening that it had begun to snow, she had gone to see whether it blew enough to collect on the outer stairway. The steps were tucked beneath wide eaves so that the wooden treads were passable in all but the worst storms. So far they looked clear at the bottom, but the lantern halfway up had gone out. Muttering about the poor quality of the wicks in the market she’d climbed up to fetch the lantern and change the wick, but found she had no need. It had not gone out; someone had closed the shutters. Wondering whether it meant the couple had already departed, she continued the climb up to the landing that wrapped round to the rear of the house, and the doors to the guest chambers. Hearing voices, she began to turn away, but paused, puzzled, for she could swear she heard not a man and woman conversing, but two men. She blushed with the thought that the stranger had invited another to join him in partaking of Alice’s favors. This was not at all Mistress Clifford’s intended clientele, two strangers and a common whore. But Griselde could hardly barge in and demand that they leave. It was not her place. All she could do was check again that the lamp was lit and wait until morning to report to Mistress Clifford.

Then, after seeing to her husband’s needs – it had been one of the nights he could not move his legs, so she must do everything for him – Griselde had settled down with a second cup of wine and fallen into a deep sleep. Too deep, too early. She had no idea whether or not both men had stayed. Bad luck that this had happened when her manservant Matt had suffered a bad fall and his replacement could not come until the morrow. It was too much for a woman of her age to care for both her crippled husband and the guests by herself. She should have accepted Mistress Clifford’s offer of more help, she thought. Sam had stopped in during the afternoon to deliver the cask of wine, but left quickly on another errand. Such strong wine. Both she and Clement had slept like the dead after sampling it. She prayed the guests had not drunk so much they were still abed.

Now she lingered over the fire, warming her hands, dreading the climb up to the guest chambers, and assuring herself that she had done nothing wrong in trusting Master Frost. After all, he had been the mayor of York, was a respected man in the city, and was not only Mistress Clifford’s cousin but also one of her late husband’s partners in trade. Surely it had been right to trust him. But had Clement not been so impaired, or had she a servant to send across the city to Mistress Clifford’s home on Castlegate, Griselde would have reported the change in plans immediately. How unfortunate that Master Frost had informed her of the substitution after she had sent Mistress Clifford and the Fletchers on their separate ways.

Now easing herself up, her old knees popping, the housekeeper wrapped her cloak round herself and walked out into the pale dawn, the yard made beautiful by a blanket of snow. Looking up the stairway she saw that white triangles had collected in the inner corners of the steps, leaving the treads dry. But down at the foot of the steps the snow was well trampled. She hoped it meant the guests had departed, and rather than have the unpleasant task of waking them and insisting they leave within the hour, she might strip the bed for the laundress and air the chamber. It would be good to have an early start; she and the new servant would have much to do in order to prepare for tonight’s guests in the smaller of the two guest chambers, as well as for the houseful that would arrive on the morrow. Lifting her heavy skirts, she began the climb up to the solar.

Halfway she paused to check the lantern. Someone had shuttered it again. If the guests had already departed, they had done so in darkness. Honest folk would prefer a lantern to light the way down the steps, particularly on such an icy morning. And if they had not departed, who, then, had shuttered the lantern? The light hung round the corner from the one window in the chamber, and down eleven steps. Surely the light could not have bothered their rest.

If only Matt had not been injured. He had the ease of a man comfortable with his strength and quick to move to protect himself – as her Clement had before the illness that was wasting him. Crossing herself and praying for strength, she continued up to the landing, forcing herself to keep up the momentum all the way to the door of the larger chamber. She knocked. Firmly. But not so firmly that the door should swing open as it did.

Inconsiderate guests! Had a good gust come round the corner the room might have been exposed to the weather. Men never considered such matters, but Alice Hatten, that slattern, she should have known better than to leave the door ajar. Grumbling, Griselde stepped into the room calling out, “Is anyone there?” Silence. So they had left. But Mother in heaven, what was that horrible smell? Had they left a full chamber pot to ripen? She was crossing the room to open the shutters for more light when she noticed something large lying beside an upturned chair. Had one of them been so drunk they had spent the night on the floor, and fouled themselves? Furious now, she fumbled with the latches of the shutters in the dim light, flinging them open to let in the fresh air. Still grumbling, she turned round.

Merciful Mother. She crept closer, holding her breath. The man lay with one arm flung wide, one holding something on his chest. Another step, and she leaned close. Oh, heaven help her, it was the devil himself, eyes bulging out of his blackened face, tongue poking through purple lips… He was holding the end of one of the braided silk ropes. Oh no, no, someone had wound it tightly round his neck. Her hands fluttered toward it, wanting to relieve him, and she fumbled with it a moment, wrinkling her nose at the stench. He had fouled himself, and now he lay in it. A sob escaped Griselde as her cold fingers slipped on the silk. She could not gain a purchase, his flesh had swollen so around it. Thinking to move him closer to the light, she tugged on his feet. Too heavy. She managed to move him only a few inches, and the motion stirred up the foul odor. Blinking back tears of frustration, she fell back, clutching the side of the table to steady herself. A breath. Her mind cleared.

Oh, foolish woman, he is dead. You waste precious time. You cannot bring him back. He is dead. You must fetch Mistress Clifford. You must tell her what has happened. She will know what to do. God help her. God help us all. God help that poor man. Griselde used the table to pull herself up, then backed from the room, whispering to herself to keep herself focused. He is dead. The stranger is dead. I must not scream, I must not wake all of Petergate. Mistress Clifford would not want the neighbors involved. Mistress Clifford will know what to do.

She shut the door firmly, vaguely noting that church bells were ringing. Surely not for the dead man. Surely no one knew. Her head spun and she clung to the railing as she worked her way across the landing and down the steps, her legs shaking with the enormity of the trouble she had brought on her kind, generous employer by receiving the stranger and Alice. Alice Hatten. Where was she? Had she – no, certainly not. How could she overpower such a large man? But where was she? No matter. Mistress Clifford would see to all the questions.

She found Clement bending over the fire. “Oh, my dear man, you were so right. I should not have agreed to Master Frost’s change in plans.”

He looked up, alarmed. “What has happened?”

She shook her head, not yet ready to say the words. “God be thanked that you are able to move about this morning. I must fetch Mistress Clifford. I am setting a bench here by the door. Stay right here and guard the steps until I return with her. No one is to pass. No one but Mistress Clifford.”

He rose stiffly and came hobbling across the rushes, reaching out to touch her cheek. “You are crying?”

Her lower lip now trembled so badly she bit it down and stomped her foot. Not now. A deep breath. “The stranger is dead. Strangled with one of the silk ropes.” Tears welled up and she dashed them away with the back of her hand.

Clement groaned as he sank down onto the bench. “God help us. I told you. And with Lady Kirkby arriving tomorrow for a fortnight’s stay…”

She waved him quiet. “If we are to have any hope of making this right, you must guard those steps.”

“With my life, Griselde. With my life.”

“Not even Master Frost.”

“Not even he.”

She hurried out into High Petergate.