A Murdered Peace Page 2

  Kate promised she would return as soon as she had completed some business in Stonegate. Roland Pendleton, the silversmith, expected her.

  “Ah, the last payment on the debt.” Griselde patted Kate’s hand. “That will take your mind off your troublesome guest for a while. Go now. I can wait.”

  Pendleton opened the door himself, greeting Kate with a smile. “Today is the day!” The silversmith had been most patient since Simon’s death, assuring her month after month that he knew he would eventually see his money. Escorting her into the office behind the shop, he called to his servant for a flagon of fine claret he had set out the night before, and two cups.

  “I know it is early, but this calls for a toast,” he declared, motioning Kate to a seat by the table on which were strewn tally sticks and pieces of jewelry, some whole, some broken. He reached up and pulled down an old ledger in which to record her payment—Simon’s debt had been first recorded years earlier.

  Kate’s eyes were drawn to a shiny object that had been tucked behind the old account book. It was a woman’s girdle, the type called a dymysent, the front of the belt an elaborate ornamental silver clasp with silver wings radiating out from it, the back a simple gray silk. An exquisite piece, and one she recognized with puzzlement. It belonged to Lady Margery, a piece she recalled her wearing on several occasions the previous winter. Was it possible that Margery had taken it to the silversmith for repair on that earlier visit, then forgotten it? She had traveled with trunk loads of elegant clothing, so one item, no matter how valuable, might easily be missed. It would explain how it came to be shuffled to the back of the shelf, though she was surprised that Pendleton would be so careless with an object of such obvious value. Or had someone sold it to him? Recently, perhaps? Carl?

  She was debating whether or not to comment on the fine workmanship when the servant returned with the wine. By the time she and Pendleton had toasted the settlement of the debt, Kate had decided that until she knew Lady Margery’s reason for arriving on her doorstep in disguise it was best not to call attention to anything regarding her. As soon as the silversmith finished his cup of wine, Kate took her leave, anxious to ask her friend about the girdle.

  By the time Kate returned to the guesthouse, Lady Margery had risen and now sat at the worktable in the kitchen staring at the opposite wall, ignoring the bread, cheese, and ale set before her. Her pale, freckled skin, so lovely with her natural red hair, looked ashen against the harsh black dye, and her pretty eyes were sunken in shadows.

  “Margery?” Kate slipped onto the bench beside her and took one of her hands, noticing not only how cold it was, despite the warmth of the kitchen, but also how rough. The journey had certainly taken its toll.

  But her eyes burned with anger as she turned to Kate.

  “What is it?” Kate asked. “Has someone in the household upset you?”

  The lady blinked and her gaze softened. “Katherine! No, everyone has been so kind. Bless them. Bless you. Have you news of Carl? I fear for him. We were followed, I am sure of it. But I thought, once I bought the clothes from the lad . . .” She stopped, staring down at the food.

  “Who followed you?”

  Margery shook her head.

  “I must know how to protect you,” said Kate, “and from whom. Why are you being followed? Where is Sir Thomas? Why are you not with him?”

  “Thomas?” Margery crossed herself. “He has passed through fire into eternal grace.”

  “Dead?” Kate pressed her friend’s hand. “Margery, what happened to him?”

  “What happened to my beloved . . .” Margery shook her head. “One would not think such a thing could happen in a Christian realm. Thomas was a good man, the best of men. He was slain by a mob at Cirencester. They butchered him at Henry of Lancaster’s pleasure.” She spoke with a cold precision Kate had never heard from Margery.

  Pleasure? Surely not, Geoff whispered in her mind. Her twin, dead now seven years, lived on in Kate, protecting her. Womb companions, nothing, not even death, could separate them.

  “I will not rest until I have restored my husband’s good name,” said Margery. “Henry Bolingbroke will not ruin the Kirkby family.” She withdrew her hands from Kate’s grasp.

  Henry of Lancaster is no king to her, Geoff whispered.

  “Forgive me, but I must know what happened,” said Kate, softly. “Tell me.”

  Now Margery lifted the bowl of ale and drank a little. “It is an ugly tale,” she said.

  “I must hear it,” said Kate.

  “Of course.” Margery crossed herself and bowed her head in silent prayer. Then, in a voice devoid of all emotion, she began, chronicling Thomas’s return from France, where he had attempted to convince Henry of Lancaster to invite his cousin Richard, then King of England, to a meeting at which they might discuss their differences. If not a meeting of the two cousins, then their representatives. He had been granted a hearing, but the day before it was to take place Thomas learned that Henry had sailed for England. Her husband returned to England defeated, obsessively recounting to Margery each failed attempt to reason with Henry, agonizing over what he might have done instead. He could turn his mind to nothing else. It was madness. And then a guest mentioned that Henry had fallen ill during Christmas festivities at Windsor, and Thomas saw an opportunity. “I might go to him, offer him the leech my excellent physician recommends. Then, when he is on the mend, I might broach the subject of his cousin, how he deserved better treatment, some of his family with him, visits from friends.”

  He presumed much, Geoff noted.

  From the first Margery feared the plan, but Thomas would not be dissuaded. First, he went to Pontefract, gathering information about Richard’s circumstances, whether the rumors were correct that he was cut off from all friendly companionship, solitary, in a steward’s chamber, hardly appropriate for a former king, with poor rations and no physician to see to his health. Richard saw only his prison guards, men of noble family who had every cause to hate him.

  “Thomas was incensed. Richard might have lacked much as king, but he had been anointed with holy oil. He was the son of a prince and the grandson of a king and this was no way to treat him,” said Margery. “The letter I received at this point chilled my heart. Thomas spoke out to Richard’s jailers, chiding them on their treatment of an anointed king, and asked to visit him and reassure him, permit his leech to examine him and ensure that he was receiving at least his basic needs.”

  Kate could see why the king might think him Richard’s man.

  “He himself planted the seed of King Henry’s distrust,” said Margery, still in the flat tone. “I already feared for him, but this—for a grown man to act out of such innocence. It is not credited. Of course his behavior would be suspect. He would be seen as cunning, manipulating his adversaries. And what could I do? Even had I been able to reach him before he approached the king, he would not have heeded my warning. He did not believe that we are born already marked by sin, you see. He was certain that to be made in God’s image meant that we are all good, that we err because of circumstances, but that such error is not inevitable. He believed that King Henry, to have gained the throne, must live in God’s grace.”

  So would say many churchmen. Kate’s own uncle took part in Henry’s crowning. But she wondered at the naïveté of Thomas Kirkby. To succeed he would have needed to match cunning with cunning. How had Margery not seen that? It was not like her to be so blind to others’ follies.

  Her love was so strong she did what he asked, simply for love of him? Geoff proposed.

  Kate had not thought Margery a woman to act simply on ideals. Was such a love possible? If so, how immense her loss.

  She poured more ale and offered the bowl to Margery, who took it with thanks, but let it rest in her hands.

  “Thomas reached Windsor before the king had word of his visit to Pontefract. He was warmly received, and the following day his leech received permission to examine Henry. While the leech was consulting with the k
ing’s physician, Thomas enjoyed the pleasures of the season with the king’s family and friends.”

  The leech diagnosed the king with humors too heated and dry, a common result of the spicy foods and abundant wine served during Christmas festivities. With the blessing of the king’s physician, the leech prepared a tonic for Henry that would ease the cramping and cool his system. Though still the king did not sleep well, the physician assured Thomas that was a chronic problem having nothing to do with the stomach ailment.

  But Lord Kirkby had by then realized the state of King Henry’s mind, how he saw enmity in the mildest disagreement, a threat to his hold on the crown in every raised brow. As soon as Thomas understood that his leech’s remedy could do little more than calm the king’s indigestion, he took his leave, fearing that his attempts at reconciliation would be seen as threats.

  Too late, Geoff whispered.

  Sometime after Thomas departed, one of the royal retainers arrived at the castle to warn the king of the plot against him and his sons. He implied that Thomas’s visit to Pontefract was a key part of the plan.

  “If I ever learn who condemned my husband, accusing him of an act so vile—Another man, a better man than Henry, would have dismissed the accusation. But he is so poisoned by his own ambition he cannot trust that anyone would approach him without guile. He sees not the good in men. He has poisoned the land.” Her lips pressed together, Margery mirrored the outrage she expressed, her color high, her eyes snapping.

  “Perhaps you should rest,” said Kate. “I will return later.”

  “No. I will finish.” Margery folded and refolded her hands in her lap, as if the activity calmed her. “When the king heard of Thomas’s visit to Pontefract and his accusations about Richard’s mistreatment, he flew into a rage and called Thomas a traitor, declared that he had meant to poison him.” A little sob. “Thomas, Thomas,” she whispered, “too late you saw your folly.”

  Folly indeed.

  Hush, Geoff. “He arrived home safely?” Kate asked.

  “He came to me in Cirencester, where I had gone to be with my sister, who has not been well. Dear God, I fear for them, Katherine, all my kin. This king—he will murder us all before he is finished.” Margery’s voice shook.

  “Cirencester,” Kate whispered. “Kent and Salisbury fled to Cirencester.” And they had been beaten to death by a mob. Thomas Kirkby as well?

  God help you, Kate, you are harboring a traitor, Geoff hissed in her head.

  The shadows beneath Margery’s eyes seemed to deepen. “Yes, they did. But Thomas was not in their company. You must believe that.”

  What did it matter what Kate thought if the king believed otherwise? But Margery searched Kate’s face for reassurance. “Believe your husband part of the uprising against the king? No, I cannot believe it of Thomas,” said Kate. “But you have said yourself that King Henry turned on Thomas. You say you were followed to York. If his men find you, how will you prove his innocence? Your innocence?”

  “I should not need to!”

  Kate took a deep breath. “So Thomas came to Cirencester and they came soon after?”

  “A few days later.”

  Geoff groaned.

  “Do you know anything about how Kent and Salisbury came to be in Cirencester? Did they have kin in the town? One of the priests? An abbot who might give them sanctuary?”

  Margery took a sip of the ale, then set the bowl down and composed herself. “Clearly they were fleeing west,” she said. “Perhaps to Wales? Followed the Thames to the River Churn and turned north?” She frowned down at the bowl of ale. “The abbot did ride forth attempting to quiet the crowd during the attack. My sister told me that afterward. She said that Abbot John wept for the souls not only of the victims, but of the townspeople. To butcher Christians, their countrymen, men of noble blood.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “I did not leave at once. My sister risked hiding me that night. She told me then.”

  Risked indeed. “So Thomas was caught up in the attack?”

  “Yes!” More a cry of pain than a word, and Margery bowed her head with a sob.

  Kate rose and went round behind Margery, rubbing her back as she did the girls when they were frightened. When Margery seemed calmed, Kate asked, “How did he come to be out in the crowd?”

  “He was leaving us, seeking safety. He would not tell us where, only that it was best that he withdraw from the world for a while. An abbey somewhere. I am not sure. Time and again God has abandoned him. That he should be riding through the square just as a harrier saw John Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, ride forth from the inn yard and shouted that it was his man who had set the fire. The groom from my sister’s household—he and I had run after Thomas to give him a cordial that my sister had prepared for him. Was it me calling out to him? Is that how he was noticed? Oh God.” Margery sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

  “You are not to blame,” Kate said. “Rest now, my friend.”

  Margery jerked up. “No. No, the time to mourn will come. He was betrayed, Katherine. By the boy, I believe—” Looking down, Margery seemed to notice her fisted hands and spread her fingers, flexed, stretched. “He told someone that Thomas would be riding through the town and was part of Salisbury’s company. I am almost certain. Though my calling out his name might have drawn them down on us, I believe Thomas was already expected. And then the little brute stole his head as a trophy! Ran away with it.”

  “His head?” Kate whispered.

  “I ran him to ground and wrested it from his bloody hands. He lunged for it. Knocked me down in the hay on the barn floor. He was kicking me. I don’t know how I summoned the strength, but I hit him so hard I knocked out a tooth. I saw the blood flowing. He stopped, holding a hand to his bloody mouth, just long enough so that I might crawl out from under him. But then he came after me. I took out my dagger, and I stabbed him. Killed him.”

  “Merciful Mother,” Kate whispered.

  “My sister promised to do what she could to retrieve Thomas’s body and bury it with his head. Then we ran.”

  “You and Carl.”

  A nod.

  “To York.”

  A hesitation, then Margery looked away as she said, “I did not know where else to go.”

  Cirencester to York in midwinter. A difficult, dangerous journey. And though she counted her a friend, Kate knew Margery had far older friends, ones with large homes in which she might have been hidden in comfort.

  You doubt her, Geoff whispered.

  I don’t want to. But something is missing. I don’t like it.

  What will you do?

  What can I do? She is here now, and I have promised to protect her.

  “Did you entrust Carl with anything valuable?” Kate asked.

  “Valuable?” Margery frowned. “Some clothing, a comb for my hair, little else. Why?”

  Kate described the girdle she had seen at the silversmith’s. “Considering his disappearance, I wondered whether he thought to sell it so that he might pay for passage somewhere?”

  “No. He is loyal. But that girdle—” Margery gave a little laugh and picked at the food before her. “I wondered what had become of it. I’d forgotten that I’d left it with a silversmith in Stonegate. Last winter. The buckle had come loose.”

  “Shall I ask whether it is repaired?” Kate asked.

  “No!” Margery cried with alarm, then seemed to remember herself. “Of course not,” she said in a quiet voice. “No one must know I am here. I am surprised you would ask, Katherine.”

  Kate merely nodded, more than a little dissatisfied with Margery’s tale. But she had what she needed to gauge the danger. “And now, Mary—I must become accustomed to calling you that—you must eat something so that you might assist Griselde with the preparations for this evening’s guests. You are a servant here.” She smiled to soften her words, but she held Margery’s gaze as she warned her that she must listen to Griselde and Seth, do everything they told her to do. “T
hey can protect you only so far. Much is up to you.”

  Meanwhile, Kate must find Carl.

  3

  A CELEBRATION

  The storm had come on suddenly just before sunset. Outside the guesthouse hall snow swirled in a dizzying dance. The wind was picking up. Water pooled beneath the fur-lined cloak Kate had hung on a peg beside the open door, and she stood near the fire circle drying the hem of her skirt. Would Sir Elric brave the storm for this supper? She had no doubt that his men would come, they were eager to celebrate their fellow’s return to duty, and they need just step round the corner to the guesthouse. But their captain would be coming from Sheriff Hutton Castle, which meant riding through the Forest of Galtres in such a wind, and after sunset. An imprudent journey in such weather, and Sir Elric was a man whose every move, every word was measured. The celebration of Kevin’s recovery, however welcome, was hardly enough to bring his captain out on such a night. Still, if Elric had set out early, he might have reached the city before the storm. Kate hoped so, for Kevin’s sake. And for hers.

  That she was concerned for Sir Elric’s welfare and looked forward to his presence spoke to the degree to which their partnership was evolving into mutual respect, perhaps even friendship. During Kevin’s sojourn in Kate’s home his accounts of his life in the Earl of Westmoreland’s household had provided much insight into both the earl’s and his captain’s character. She had learned that the earl, a Neville, cousin to her late husband, was as much an opportunist as she had guessed, but that the knight was a man of conscience and strong loyalties. She liked that in a man. Whether or not she agreed with his policies, she could at least eventually know Elric, predict how he might react to a given circumstance. But she was wary—Kevin worshipped the ground on which Sir Elric walked, which surely colored his impressions.

  Still, she could not deny that Elric had kept his end of the bargain she had made with him, keeping a protective eye on her mother and the sisters in her Martha House, and ensuring that her brother-in-law Lionel kept his distance. It had been some time since Lionel Neville attempted to interfere in Kate’s concerns. In return, Kate had fulfilled her promise to keep Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, informed of the temper in York regarding Richard’s abdication and the ascension to the throne of Henry of Lancaster, and had returned certain incriminating letters—though not before having a friar copy them, including their seals, in case she needed to defend herself against the powerful earl, now beloved of the new king.