The Service of the Dead: A Novel

the

SERVICE

of the

DEAD

A Kate Clifford Mystery

CANDACE ROBB

For my dear friend Richard Shephard

for rekindling my fascination with York Minster.

Contents

GLOSSARY

AUTHOR’S NOTE

1 A RUNAWAY WAGON, A BOX OF CINNAMON

2 BRAIDED SILK

3 CAGED

4 THE DEVIL’S FACE

5 A TRAVELER’S PACK

6 TRUANT

7 SLY SYMPATHIES

8 IN THE REEDS

9 ABOVE THE CHAPTER HOUSE

10 PHILLIP’S TALE

11 WHO CAN BE TRUSTED?

12 RAISING THE DEAD

13 VOWS AND SECRETS

14 A REQUIEM

15 THE LION

16 THE KNIGHT

17 A COMB, A PAIR OF GLOVES

18 UNFINISHED BUSINESS

19 SOVEREIGN SEALS

20 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, OIL AND WATER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

GLOSSARY

affinity: the collective term for a lord’s retainers, who offer military, political, legal, or domestic service in return for money, office, or influence

ashlar: paint on stone or plaster to create the appearance of square-cut stone

the bars of york: the four main gatehouses in the walls of York (Bootham, Monk, Walmgate, and Micklegate)

the bedern: the area of York, part of the minster liberty, housing the vicars choral

butt: a target for archery practice

coroner: the official in charge of recording deaths and inquiring into the cause of deaths, among other duties regarding the crown’s property

minster liberty: the area of the city under the jurisdiction of the dean and chapter of York

maison dieu: house of God; an almshouse, a refuge for the poor

messuage: the area of land taken up by a house and its outbuildings

staithe: a landing stage, or wharf

vicar choral: as a modern vicar is the deputy of the rector, so a vicar choral was a cleric in holy orders acting as the deputy of a canon attached to the cathedral; for a modest annual salary the vicar choral performed his canon’s duties, attending the various services of the church and singing the liturgy

the

SERVICE

of the

DEAD

1

A RUNAWAY WAGON, A BOX OF CINNAMON

York, early February 1399

One moment Kate was laughing as Griselde called Matt back for yet another final instruction, and the next she was watching in horror as the young man stepped into the street, cried out, and fell beneath a runaway wagon. She rushed into High Petergate calling out for someone to help her lift the wagon and was quickly surrounded by a cluster of men, one of whom barked orders.

The housekeeper tried to draw Kate aside. Come, come, Mistress Clifford. Best not to look, Griselde murmured.

Kate shrugged her off. Bloody, mangled bodies were nothing new to her. Carts and wagons and the animals pulling them were dangerous in York’s crowded, narrow streets. Kate had seen a man decapitated when a cart pinned him against a stone wall, a boy’s arm severed by a wheel, an infant crushed by a frightened horse. I will see to him, she said to the housekeeper. Griselde withdrew.

The men had moved the wagon to one side. Matt lay on the cobbles—limp, unconscious, but whole.

Bleeding from the back of his head, one of the men said. Should we lift him?

Griselde had disappeared back into Kate’s guesthouse and now returned, holding out a blanket. Roll him onto this, bring him inside. She crossed herself as they carried him past. God walks with that young man.

Kate said nothing. She did not believe in miracles. Matt’s reflexes had saved him. He had managed to roll between the wheels. She collared a passing boy and offered him a penny to fetch Matt’s father from the Shambles. When she turned back to the house she was shaking so badly she paused for a few breaths to steady herself and find her legs. A crowd had formed round the wagon, discussing it, arguing about who owned it, who was responsible, who was to blame.

By midmorning, Matt had been removed to his father’s house under the watchful eyes of his cousin, a healer. She’d listed his injuries as a bruised head, a deep cut on his ear, scraped hands, and a badly sprained leg—nothing life-threatening. Kate was not so certain. She had seen how hard he’d fallen. His head had hit the cobbles. Time would tell.

She sat in the guesthouse kitchen cupping a bowl of ale in her hands, trying to think what to do. The fact was, Kate needed Matt, and she needed him now. With his strength and agility, his smiling, easy nature, and his remarkable patience, he was the perfect manservant for the couple who ran her guesthouse. Heaven knew the elderly couple needed all the assistance Kate could provide them in the coming weeks. Lady Kirkby, a prominent noblewoman, was coming to stay, and she would be accompanied by a household of servants and retainers. She would arrive the day after tomorrow, and she planned to entertain prominent citizens at dinners in the guesthouse hall. Kate must find someone to replace Matt for the time being. A selfish consideration, but business was business.

I could spare old Sam today, Kate offered Griselde, who had just settled down with her own cup of ale. Could you use him?

Do not trouble yourself. I am ready for this evening’s guests. But I would welcome help tomorrow. Perhaps someone with a bit more strength than Sam? The housekeeper shook her head. Whose wagon, that is what I would like to know. No one had claimed it yet. The men had moved it beneath the eaves, tucking it up against the front of the guesthouse. Filled with stones, did you notice? Griselde stared down into her cup. I’d wager it was a servant, and he’s run off to avoid punishment.

The owner will turn up then. When Master Frost comes this evening, you might have a word with him. He has the mayor’s ear. Someone must take responsibility for this.

Griselde promised to mention it if she had a chance.

Kate glanced round the room. Is Clement abed? The housekeeper’s husband was infirm with age.

He is. Gathering his strength for tomorrow. Griselde leaned forward. But he can barely wait to learn how Master Lionel explained the discrepancy on the accounts.

I will tell him myself on the morrow, after I’ve spoken to my brother-in-law. We meet this evening. Kate rose. Young Seth Fletcher might do to help you. His father’s asked whether I had work for him. In any case, I will arrange for someone to come to you tomorrow.

Out on the street the wind had picked up, twisting Kate’s skirts about her. She moved back under the eaves and regarded the wagon with its load of stones. She noticed that some were caked with mud as if recently dug up. Someone building a wall? Kate drew a shaky breath, then pressed her hand to her stomach at the vivid image that rose in her mind of Matt crushed beneath the weight of the load. It might have been so much worse.

Passersby paused to ask after Matt. Kate kept her answer simple and consistent, that he should recover in time. Until she had more information to share, she would say as little as possible. What if Matt lost the leg? Or his head did not clear? The accident bothered her. Was it possible someone wished Matt harm? Why? He was young, inexperienced, of no standing in the city. Had he not been the intended victim? The street had been fairly crowded. Had his appearance at just that moment foiled someone’s plan? Suspicion was a habit she had developed in her youth on the northern border with Scotland, and she had been in York long enough to know that the absence of Scots did not guarantee peace. Merchants squabbled among themselves, and the nobles likewise. Faith, even the king was quarreling with his cousin and heir, an enmity that many feared could lead to civil war. Neither had the temperament simply to agree to disagree; one of them must die.

It put her own problems in a less threatening light. Small comfort.

She suggested to a few of the curious that they send for one of the sheriffs to take charge of the wagon and remove it, clearing the street. At last she found someone eager to do just that. He hurried off with an air of gleeful conspiracy.

She put up the hood of her cloak and set off down Petergate into Stonegate, avoiding the frozen mounds of refuse uncovered by the partial thaw. Snow was glorious in the countryside, a nightmare in the city. As she crossed St. Helen’s Square and turned down Coney Street, she jumped aside to avoid a tinker and his cart. She’d overreacted, skittish because of Matt. The tinker had seen her and veered to one side. This time. In truth it was a wonder there were not more disasters in the city. It was not natural to live so close, so packed together. She told herself that the earlier incident might well have been nothing more than an all-too-common accident.

She eased her vigilance as she turned onto Castlegate and the prospect opened up, gardens bordering the street, a wide swathe on both sides bare of buildings—Thomas Holme’s manor within the city walls. The wealthy merchant, her late husband’s partner in trade, owned most of the land on either side of Castlegate between Coppergate and the grounds of York Castle, and he had clustered the buildings in a way that allowed for beautiful gardens to surround his house. They spilled across Castlegate, round the back of St. Mary’s Church with its small maison dieu, and down to the River Foss. Kate’s own house was on a small messuage just beyond Holme’s house. Here she could breathe more easily than in the cramped streets closer to the minster. A low building fronting the street afforded small but private chambers for two of her servants and room for a tenant with a shop. That was currently empty. Another item on Kate’s ever-lengthening list of chores. She crossed beneath the archway into the yard of her house and felt her tension ease a bit more as her wolfhounds came bounding out to greet her. And as she knelt to pet them, she realized her eyes were brimming with tears.

As the bells rang for vespers, Lionel Neville knocked on the hall door. Promptness was his one virtue, though the man’s vile temper if kept waiting for the space of but a breath transformed it into an act of aggression. Kate let him enjoy a few moments out in the falling snow before opening the door to his curses.

Smiling, she welcomed him in. He swept past her without missing a beat in his complaint about the never-ending winter and lazy servants, pausing only to hand her his wet cloak. She indicated a hook by the door.

You might offer me the courtesy of drying it by the fire.

Of course. You are welcome to drape it on the back of your chair. I’ve set the table by the fire so we might be comfortable, and I’ve set the children and my servants to other tasks so we would not be disturbed.

Lionel grunted, but he crossed the room and did as she suggested, making a show of shaking out his wet cloak before draping it on the chair. I heard about your manservant’s accident, he said as he took his seat, then glanced round the hall. I half-expected to find you attending him here.

It did not surprise Kate that in her brother-in-law’s opinion no self-respecting mistress of a household would care for an injured servant. Her late husband often entertained her with a litany of his brother’s prejudices. How good of you to express concern about Matt’s injuries. He is in capable hands, I assure you.

I am much relieved, Lionel sneered. I pray you, come to the point of this summons, Katherine.

What a relief it would be to shut the door behind him. Taking her seat beside Lionel, Kate opened the ledger that Griselde’s husband Clement kept for her. I found a discrepancy in the records of our recent shipment. A small but valuable box of cinnamon had gone missing on their ship that had just returned from Calais. Lionel had been in charge, serving as factor. She’d long suspected him of pinching a little here, a little there, just enough to pad his purse and add to her debt.

Lionel snorted. Thieving curs. I knew they’d removed something.

Who?

The king’s men. They boarded and searched the ship in Hull. Always had an answer, this one. You can be certain they are using the king’s order to their advantage, stealing whatever they can get away with, small things we won’t detect beneath their cloaks. The spice was the perfect spoil.

It was, she agreed. But it was your responsibility. You or someone you trust should have accompanied the king’s men round the ship.

They told us not to follow.

On your ship you insist. Are they searching all vessels, or just ours?

Most of the ships coming from Calais, Ghent, Antwerp. Wherever there have been rumors of the exiled Duke of Lancaster. These are treacherous times, Katherine. You have heard that the king means to split up the Lancastrian lands, deprive Duke Henry of his inheritance.

Yes, I have heard the rumor. And she accepted Lionel’s excuse, but warned him again that it was his responsibility to escort the searchers and keep them honest.

What you ask is dangerous.

Oh yes, it was. And with any luck . . . Best not follow that thought.

The people depended on the king for the health of the realm. But, much to their misfortune, King Richard believed he did not need his nobles, that he was an island unto himself. He did not understand that his strength was in appreciating and making use of the talents of his nobles and other powerful men who would in turn use them for the good of all his subjects. A dozen years ago they rose up—a warning. His cousin Henry Bolingbroke, son of the Duke of Lancaster, had joined the rebellion, but then returned to Richard’s side for the sake of the realm, hoping to reason with him, cousin to cousin.

The nobles remembered Henry’s doings, and wondered at Richard’s subsequent treatment of his cousin. Henry had come to the king with proof that Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, was speaking treason. Richard agreed to let Henry challenge Thomas before the court of chivalry. But at the last minute he changed his mind and exiled both of them. Where was the justice in that? And then to suggest on the death of Henry’s father, the king’s loyal uncle Lancaster, that Henry had forfeited his inheritance? How so? The nobles saw King Richard’s recent acts as proof that no one was safe from his arbitrary punishments. Who could trust such a king? They would all suffer from his blindness.

The truth was, if the king decided the Nevilles were a threat to his reign, Kate might be ruined with them. Though she had never taken the name, she had married a Neville, and one branch of that family, led by Sir Ralph Neville, now Earl of Westmoreland, had risen quickly by dancing attendance on both King Richard and his uncle Lancaster. Not that the Clifford name was any safer. Her own uncle, Richard Clifford, had coerced her into hosting Lady Margery Kirkby, the wife of a man who had withdrawn from the public eye shortly after Duke Henry’s exile. But her uncle was the dean and chapter of York Minster, and Lady Kirkby’s fortnight’s visit with a full entourage would bring in much-needed cash to High Petergate. Life was complicated.

Which was why she still wondered about Matt’s accident.

Is your man Sam about? Lionel asked as he rose.

Not at the moment. I sent him to the Fletchers to see about young Seth taking Matt’s duties for a while. Why do you ask? Her brother-in-law’s long face was in shadow, but she realized that he’d been gazing around ever since he arrived, as if expecting something—what? who?—to suddenly appear. Have you business with Sam?

It is nothing. I had a question, that is all. About my late brother. It can wait.

Sam had been Simon’s manservant, the only one she had kept on after her husband’s death.

Lionel rose, once again shaking out his cloak. An edge caught in a hook on the side of Kate’s vertical loom. Peasant furnishings, he sniped.

Your brother had this built for me, she reminded him. Godspeed, Lionel. Hasten home before your good wife worries about you out in the snow. She let herself imagine it—frozen to death, his corpse discovered in the spring thaw. Kate doubted anyone would miss the unpleasant man.

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.