A Murdered Peace Read online

  for the flock of my heart, you wise & courageous women

  GLOSSARY

  BARS OF YORK: The four main gatehouses in the walls of York (Bootham, Monk, Micklegate, and Walmgate).

  BEGUINES: A community of women leading lives of religious devotion who, unlike those who entered convents, were not bound by permanent vows; they dedicated themselves to chastity and charity and worked largely among the poor and the sick, usually in urban settings.

  CANDLEMAS: February 2, the feast of the Purification.

  DYMYSENT: A woman’s girdle with ornamental work on the front half, often in gold or silver, and a silk back.

  MARTINMAS: November 11, the feast of St. Martin.

  MICHAELMAS: September 29, the feast of St. Michael.

  STAITHE: A landing-stage, or wharf.

  1

  A PLEA AT TWILIGHT

  York, late January 1400

  It was deep winter in York, the ground frozen, the short days dimmed with the smoke from countless fires, the sun, when it shone, low in the sky. If it reached beneath the jettied second stories to the streets and alleys below, it created but a momentary brightening that made the ensuing shade seem all the darker. King Henry sat uneasy on the throne he had pulled out from under his cousin Richard. Emboldened in summer when a mighty army gathered round him as he rode west across the land to confront his cousin, Henry had wrested the crown from Richard. But not all the powerful nobles were comfortable with Henry’s unseating a divinely anointed king and locking him away in Pontefract Castle, where he denied Richard the comforts traditionally offered royal captives, even those from foreign realms. It was said that the earls of Kent, Huntington, and Salisbury had plotted to right this wrong by ridding the realm of Henry and his sons, mere boys, and returning Richard to the throne. Forewarned, Henry and his family had escaped the danger. But now the usurper knew he could never rest easy until the former king was dead. And so, it was rumored, he had sent one of his most trusted retainers to Pontefract to see that the royal cousin would never inspire such an act of rebellion again.

  In York, the soldiers who had crowded the walled city in summer were long gone, and the merchants prayed that King Henry would remember the financial aid they had rendered him in July. And just in case, they heeded the king’s recommendation and elected William Frost mayor for the next year. They looked forward with happy anticipation to the day after Candlemas, when Frost would hold a great feast for the aldermen and freemen of York, an obligation every mayor-elect must fulfill in order to be officially recognized as mayor. They counted on William’s wife, Isabella, to plan a feast even grander than those of her late father, John Gisburne, a legendary mayor of York.

  At the moment, Kate Clifford was indifferent to her cousin William’s new status. She had more important things on her mind. She had moved her household to the house on Low Petergate that her uncle had deeded her before leaving York, a change intended to improve life for her wards as well as herself. When she had considered swapping houses, she had thought of the financial benefit—the house on Castlegate, her former residence, was part of her widow’s dower, so the money she would receive by renting it would benefit her little family. Her mother, who had arrived in York the previous spring to form a household of beguines, was quite able to pay the substantial rent. So it seemed a happy solution. Kate would have the added pleasure of being close to her ward Phillip as he began his apprenticeship in the nearby minster stoneyard, as well as the ease of being closer to her other two properties on Petergate, the guesthouse and the house next to it. But she was soon disabused of her rosy expectations. The children missed the gardens that ran down to the river. The city noises frightened Petra, giving her nightmares. Phillip still only joined them for dinner on Sundays, and Kate was so busy she found little time to run the dogs in the fields outside the gates—it had been so much easier to take a short time in the morning to cross the street to the gardens. The list went on and on, each individual item minor in itself but adding up to discontent where she had anticipated delight.

  It did not help that rumors abounded of violence following the failed rebels as they scattered across the realm. Mobs set upon them, bludgeoning them to death. Indeed, it was said that King Henry had commanded the city’s aldermen to elect her cousin William Frost as mayor because he expected him to take a firm hand in keeping the peace in York.

  The King’s Peace. What precisely did that mean? What was peace to Henry, who had usurped the throne of his divinely anointed cousin and now held him a prisoner in Pontefract Castle—and anxiously awaited news of Richard’s death?

  As Kate stepped out of the lamplit hall of her guesthouse into the colorless gray of twilight, the pair of wolfhounds flanking her growled a warning. She placed her hand on the small axe hidden in her skirts as she stepped to one side, allowing the light from the hall to illuminate the alleyway. A cloaked figure huddled beneath the eaves opposite.

  “Who are you?”

  “It is Carl, Mistress Clifford.” The man stepped toward her, dropping his hood to his shoulders so that she could see the paleness of his bald pate. “Manservant to Lady Kirkby.”

  She remembered him. He had accompanied Lady Margery Kirkby the previous winter for a fortnight’s stay in the guesthouse.

  “You are in trouble?” she asked.

  Carl eyed the hounds, clearly anxious not to alarm them. Kate signaled Lille and Ghent to stand down.

  “It is my lady who is in mortal danger, Mistress Clifford. She needs a place for the night. Can you help?”

  Mortal danger. “Deus juva me. Is she with you?”

  “Just outside the gates. I am to fetch her if you agree.”

  “Have her come here, to the guesthouse.” Not her home. Kate would not bring danger to her wards. “Be quick about it, the gate will close at nightfall.” No time to ask what trouble Margery was in. “Will she be recognized?”

  “Pray God she will not. My lady has blackened her hair and taken on the guise of a lad.”

  For Margery to go to such lengths she must indeed be in fear for her life. Her husband’s failed peace mission?

  “Go. Fetch her here!”

  Back in the hall, Griselde, who ran the guesthouse for Kate, was already ordering young Seth to put a fresh lamp in the second bedchamber.

  Kate countermanded the order. “Prepare beds for Lady Margery and her manservant in the kitchen. You must not call attention to her by treating her as a guest.”

  “Is she to stay beyond tonight?” Griselde’s broad brow creased with worry. “I have much yet to do for the celebration tomorrow evening.”

  “Until I speak with Lady Margery I cannot say how long she might be here. I am sorry to burden you with this, Griselde, I know you’ve much to do to prepare for Sir Elric and his men, and we must proceed as planned.”

  “I suppose we must confine the two of them to the kitchen.”

  “Yes. Both Lady Margery and Carl must be treated as servants. You are not to wait on her. She must see to herself, and assist you where she is able. A woman of her rank might have never seen to kitchen chores, but she can be taught simple tasks, eh?”

  The thought brought a momentary smile, but worry won out. “And if she is seen?”

  “I trust you and Seth to keep her hidden.”

  The nature of the establishment required that their guests be confident their patronage was kept secret. When not occupied by guests of the dean and chapter of York Minster, or noble visitors such as Lady Kirkby, the two bedchambers above the hall were rented to the wealthy of the city for entertaining their mistresses or lovers in discreet luxury. Griselde had perfected the art of discretion, which included preventing guests from encountering one another.

  At the moment, the elderly woman was shak
ing her head, but she did not waste her breath arguing. She called to Seth to assist her in preparing the pallets in the kitchen.

  While they saw to that, Kate woke Griselde’s husband, Clement, who had fallen asleep by the fire, and explained what was happening.

  “You are a staunch ally to all in need,” he said as Kate helped him rise and limp to the couple’s bedchamber off the hall.

  Kate had just turned away when the hounds alerted her to someone at the door. Outside, a lad stood hugging himself against the cold. Inviting him inside, Kate pointed to the fire.

  “God in heaven, how do the poor bear it?” Lady Margery groaned, holding her delicate hands close to the heat.

  Griselde bustled in with a blanket and a bowl of hot spiced wine. “My lady,” she whispered.

  “Griselde!” Kate said sharply. “Call her anything but that.”

  The woman crossed herself.

  “I shall be Mary,” their guest announced. “It is close enough to my name that I will answer to it. Call me Mary.” It was only after she had draped herself in the blanket and taken several sips of the warm drink that she looked round in confusion. “Where is Carl?”

  “Coming with your things?” said Kate.

  “He should have preceded me. I sent him ahead to let you know I was on my way.”

  “Yes, we spoke. That is how I knew to expect you.”

  “No, the second time. A lad dressed as I am does not travel with a serving man. I sent him ahead with my pack.”

  “You saw him enter the city gate ahead of you?”

  “I did. He should be here.” Margery’s voice broke.

  Already the troubles multiplied. “I will leave you in Griselde’s competent hands,” said Kate. “You are safe here. Now I must see to finding Carl.” She glanced at Seth as he set a bowl of stew on the table beside Lady Margery. “If someone comes to the door, you answer, Seth. Only you. Armed. If it is anyone but Carl, send them away. I will return in the morning.”

  He nodded.

  Calling to the hounds, Kate hurried out.

  2

  EVERYTHING IS WRONG

  At the top of the outer stairway Kate gazed up at the patch of sky between the houses where the stars still glimmered in the wakening dawn, obscured now and then by the smoke from her neighbors’ morning fires and that from her own chimney. She’d paused to say a prayer for Carl’s safe delivery. Last night she and the hounds had searched, but found no sign of him. Worry weighed her down.

  Lady Margery had last come to York to raise money for her husband’s efforts to bring the royal cousins Richard and Henry together so that they might discuss their differences and come to a peaceful resolution. At that time Margery’s husband, Sir Thomas Kirkby, was in France trying to meet with Henry of Lancaster, now King Henry. Kate had thought it a fool’s errand, however noble in spirit, and time had proved her right. A king come to rule in such a way would never be at peace. She guessed Sir Thomas had become a casualty of Henry’s ambition. If this was so, danger must surely ride the wind at Margery’s back. Pray God Carl was not the first casualty.

  She had expected to feel a happy satisfaction this morning, for this was the day she would pay off the last of her late husband’s accounts and be free of that burden. It felt as if she’d spent every waking hour since Simon’s death almost four years earlier raising the money to pay off the enormous debt he’d managed to hide from his guild and his partners—and her. She’d hoped the sense of victory would buoy her spirits through tonight’s celebration at the guesthouse, which would mark the departure of Kevin, the Earl of Westmoreland’s retainer who had been convalescing in her home. He had become dear to all the household, his loss all the more difficult on the heels of another deeply felt absence among them. And now Lady Margery and her missing servant added to Kate’s worries.

  She and the hounds were not the only ones who had searched for Carl in the night. Her servant Jennet had rallied the street children she called her eyes and ears, but she’d had no news for Kate when she woke her.

  Damn the royal cousins. Kate laid all blame at their feet.

  Wrinkling her nose at all the smoke, she tucked one end of her mantle over her shoulder and descended the frost-slicked stairs with care, then hurried along beneath the eaves of the house to the kitchen behind it, the refrozen snow crunching underfoot. As she pushed open the door she reveled in the warmth . . . until Petra, her seven-year-old niece, yanked a bowl out of the hand of Kate’s ward Marie and dashed the contents into the hearth fire as she shouted, “You slurp so loudly you make me sick to my stomach.”

  Older than her attacker by a few years, but smaller, more delicate, Marie shrank back, white-faced, tears brimming. “Why are you so mean to me?”

  This was not the Petra that Kate and all the household had come to love; yet, of late, this darker aspect of the child surfaced more and more often. Marie and her brother Phillip had taken to avoiding the girl as much as possible. It was particularly difficult for Marie, who had grown so fond of Petra that the two girls did everything together. No longer.

  Petra turned to rush from the room.

  “Not so fast.” Kate caught her up, pinning her arms and ignoring her kicks while quietly commanding Marie to leave, and to close the kitchen door behind her. “Wait for me in the hall.”

  The girl obeyed without argument.

  “I hate you,” Petra hissed as Kate maneuvered the child onto a chair and called to her wolfhounds Lille and Ghent. Already sitting up, alert, watchful, they trotted over and settled to either side of the struggling child.

  “I do not believe that,” Kate said.

  “I will hurt them,” Petra warned.

  Resisting the urge to smile at the child’s threat that she might injure the giants who each weighed more than she would until fully grown, if ever, Kate motioned to Ghent to lay his head in the child’s lap. The struggling stopped. A sniff. Kate smoothed the child’s hair, so wild, just like her own. They were much alike, often taken for mother and daughter.

  “What troubles you, my love?” Kate asked as she knelt between the two great hounds.

  Petra sat on her hands and stared down at Ghent.

  “Is it the dreams?” Kate asked.

  Silence.

  “Did you dream of Berend again?” A few days before Christmas the child had dreamed that Kate’s cook Berend had gone away, having said he was duty-bound to answer a summons, but refusing to tell them more, or whether he would return. Petra had been inconsolable, even after Marie had flopped down on the bed with the announcement that Berend was in the kitchen, going about his usual preparations for the day’s meals. When Kate had told him of Petra’s dream Berend had assured her that he was going nowhere. But he had not met her eyes. Less than a week later he was gone. Damn him. He knew how much her wards loved him. “Is it Berend?” she asked again. “Or is it the other nightmares?” A leper king haunted the child’s dreams, his skin torn and hanging from his body, his hair a mass of squirming lice.

  “I want to go back to Castlegate. I want to live with the sisters.”

  Her mother’s poor sisters, or beguines, now living in Kate’s former home. One of them, Sister Brigida, tutored the girls in French, and had become their confidante.

  “Is that truly what you want, Petra?”

  A tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. “I want things to be how they were.”

  “Oh, my love.” Kate leaned close to kiss her niece on the forehead and gently wiped the tear from her cheek. “I miss him too.”

  “Everything is wrong.”

  “Sometimes it feels that way.”

  “And now Kevin is leaving.”

  “I know,” Kate whispered. “But I am here.”

  More tears. Suddenly Petra freed her hands, wrapping her arms round Kate’s neck and sobbing. Ghent sighed and moved aside so that Petra could slip onto Kate’s lap. For a long while they sat there, until Petra’s grief was exhausted. By the time the child quieted and rose to go out to apologize to
Marie, Kate’s legs had gone numb on the cold stones of the kitchen floor, and her heart was heavy. Everything is wrong. Life was change, and it was not always comfortable. Her niece had perhaps believed that in Kate’s welcoming household that would not be so.

  Kate called out to Petra as she reached the door, “Kevin will be just round the corner in Stonegate with his comrades, watching over us. You will see him often, I’m sure of it.”

  A fleeting smile, a shrug, and the girl was gone.

  Kate pulled herself up from the floor, shook out her legs, and took a few turns round the room to warm herself. Her hand brushed against the bowl Berend used every night for the next morning’s bread, letting it rise in the warmth of the kitchen. She wanted to come out here in the evening to talk over the events of the day with Berend as he kneaded the bread, his sleeves rolled up, arms white with flour, his calm radiating through the room, more comforting to her than the warmth of the hearth fire. And, in the morning, as she and the children stumbled into the kitchen, she wanted him there, always up before them, tending the fire, humming as he stepped out to check the bread. Bald, one-eared Berend with his three-fingered hand and eyes that pierced to her soul, muscles straining the sleeves of his linen shirts—old shirts worn soft with many washings. He was her anchor, her confidant, her best friend, a man she trusted with her life, and those of Petra, Marie, and Phillip.

  Honor-bound. He was honor-bound to stay. He had promised to be here for her always. He had promised. And now he was gone. Damn him.

  At the guesthouse, Griselde shook her head when Kate asked whether Carl had appeared. She had known it unlikely. If he was in the city, and in distress, or lost, Jennet would have heard. But she had held out a slim hope that he might have been trapped outside the gates, and would have appeared first thing.

  “I must be off to the market. A few last things for the celebration this evening,” Griselde said. “And Lady Margery is yet abed. I do not like to leave her.”