The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  The packers were still cording the fells as the light waned, stacking them in great soft bales, to leave narrow passageways between. The shed was full of shadows by the time they called a temporary halt to have a bite to eat and drink before finishing the job.

  Everybody lingered. The bales and the skins inside the sacks were being marked with the owner’s stamp: ‘de H’ for Roger de Hutton above a small image of a castle on a hill, and the initials ‘Mls’ indicating the abbey of Meaux, over the sign of the cross to show its monastic origin. Mls stood for Melsa, the Latin name by which the abbey was referred to in its charters and legal documents. It meant honey, a place of sweetness and delight, Hildegard remembered, her heart heavy.

  Despite the bustling of the final preparations, she felt sharply aware of time fleeting by. She stood apart from the others, unable to share their excitement at the prospect of the great convoy about to set off into the unknown. Soon, she thought miserably, the sheds would be empty, the labourers gone, and nothing would remain. Even Roger’s liveried servants in their scarlet and gold would be forgotten, the monks and their saintly toil gone as if they had never existed. All things pass like time and glass.

  She avoided the feast Lord Roger laid on later and instead walked slowly back along the lane towards the guest house.

  The decision to leave had been too sudden, she decided as she reached the gate. There had been no chance to say farewell to anyone at Swyne – and who knew whether she would survive the dangers of the journey.

  All day the bell had been calling the monks to the various offices. The prior had conducted one set of prayers at tierce, the sacristan had seen to sext and nones. At vespers the abbot was still nowhere to be seen and the prior had appeared again.

  Now the purplish light of evening increased her sense of the end of things. Soon, she thought, even our names will be unremembered in the fall of days.

  Angry with herself for being unable to join in the general merriment, she lingered on the garth for a final breath of air before turning in and scarcely noticed the steward as he came striding down the lane from the direction of the packing sheds until he planted himself in front of her. At his heels was one of the abbot’s young clerks.

  ‘I’m still looking for Reynard,’ he stated in a harassed tone. ‘You haven’t clapped eyes on him, have you, Sister?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We’ve searched every nook and cranny and nobody’s seen him since he went down to check on the staple yesterday.’

  ‘I thought he was supposed to be travelling with the convoy to Bruges?’

  ‘So he is. That’s what’s so enraging. It’s the worst time to go missing, damn his eyes. Even young Pierrekyn knows nothing.’

  ‘Who’s that? Roger’s new minstrel?’

  ‘That one.’ Ulf gave a sort of grimace. ‘Reynard met him in Kent and got permission for the lad to travel back with him. Roger was overjoyed to have sent a clerk and got a minstrel and a contract in return. Good business, says he. Losing the clerk somewhat spoils the deal!’

  ‘Is this contract you mention the trading agreement Roger was making with Melisen’s father, the Earl of—?’

  ‘You know about that, do you?’

  ‘I suppose somebody must have mentioned it,’ she replied, carefully.

  Ulf was watching her closely. ‘Are you worried about something?’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I feel sick and confused. Maybe it’s something I’ve eaten. I’ll take an infusion of St John’s Wort when I get back to my chamber.’ She felt tears begin to prick her eyes.

  ‘I’ve never seen you like this before.’ He put a hand on her arm and, touching her sleeve, added, ‘And this is thin stuff. I hope you’ve got a good, thick cloak to go over it for when you’re in the Alps?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You won’t be fine with frostbite or the rheum. Come and see Lady Melisen. She’s got more cloaks than she knows what to do with.’

  ‘I’m a Cistercian, not a mendicant—’ she began but he was already escorting her along the lane towards the guest lodge, the young clerk running eagerly behind.

  Melisen was more than happy to offer Hildegard a travelling cloak. First she had her maids bring out a scarlet one lined with squirrel. It was a heavy woollen fabric dyed in a sumptuous, eye-catching shade and was quite unsuitable for someone who wanted to travel unnoticed. Hildegard ran her fingers over it but said it was a colour her prioress would not allow.

  ‘These sumptuary laws,’ scoffed Melisen. ‘Never mind, I’ve got lots more. Bring forth the green one with the cat-fur lining,’ she told her maid. ‘Oh, and there’s that dark one of camlet with purple taffeta inside. And I do believe there’s a blue wool with a sheepskin lining. Now that will suit you, Sister. Try it on. You’re very fair. I would think blue is very much your colour. What do you think?’ She hauled it out herself from the pile being strewn on the bed.

  Feeling a little overwhelmed by Melisen’s generosity and enthusiasm, Hildegard took up the cloak. She remembered liking blue in the past. It had been her husband Hugh’s favourite colour.

  At Melisen’s insistence Hildegard was forced to try on several other cloaks until they decided on the blue one after all.

  ‘That’s just right, isn’t it, Pierrekyn?’ Melisen turned to the minstrel.

  He stepped from out of the shadows. He had been so quiet Hildegard had not realised he was there.

  ‘For a youth he has remarkably good taste,’ said Melisen giving him a dig in the ribs. ‘Go on, tell us your verdict.’

  Tall, and as broad-shouldered as a ploughman, the boy still wore a sulky expression but despite that he was surprisingly good-looking, with full lips, a mop of dark copper-coloured curls and green eyes veiled by thick, dark lashes.

  He eyed Hildegard consideringly and then cast his glance over the pile of cloaks. ‘The blue, definitely,’ he agreed before returning at once to his dark corner with his lute.

  His fingers floated over the strings in a phrase from a chanson Hildegard recognised. It was a lament by a lover for his mistress: ‘So fast the fetters of her love have bound me …’

  She glanced swiftly across at him but he was gazing innocently into space.

  Hildegard was pleased with the cloak and thanked Melisen sincerely. It was a good blue but dark enough to allow her to pass unnoticed and warm enough for the worst the weather could unleash. The prioress would probably have expected her to wear a long white pilgrim’s cloak but there was no time for that if she was to leave straight away. There was no time for anything.

  She thought of the abbot again in a flood of confusion.

  ‘This is so kind of you, my lady,’ she repeated when a few other garments had been thrown onto the pile, a couple of fine wool shifts and a pair of red woollen hosen among them.

  ‘It won’t matter about your hose being red,’ Melisen said, ‘because nobody’s likely to see and if they do then they’re the ones at fault, not you.’

  She also brought out a pair of mittens made of fur and to top it all a rather fine beaver hat.

  ‘Now you hardly look like a nun at all!’ she exclaimed when Hildegard tried on all the outer garments together. ‘You’re very good-looking for a nun. Roger never stops wondering why you didn’t remarry. Anyway, I’m so immensely grateful you’re going to bring me those sleeves. I’ve longed and longed for some ever since I saw the Duchess of Derby wearing a pair at court. They had little pearls sewn all over them. If you can manage to find some I’ll be your friend for ever. And the brooches too,’ she added. ‘You won’t forget those, will you?’

  Hildegard made her way back to her chamber with her parcel of clothes. She wanted to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for their early start. The brooches Melisen had described interested her. They were intended for her personal retinue and were to depict a white hart wearing a gold crown and chain.

  It was the symbol used by King Richard as his own emblem. It had al
so been adopted by the rebels after they had been routed at Smithfield and their leader, Wat Tyler, had been done to death by the Mayor and his men.

  The general view was that the promises made by the fourteen-year-old king were broken only under pressure from his ambitious uncles, the barons. It was Gaunt, above all, who had made the king renege.

  Now men and women wore his symbol to show whose side they were on. Some of them let themselves be known as the Company of the White Hart as if they had formed a guild of rebels. Their enemies claimed they were bent on bloodshed and destruction, while their supporters claimed they would be the saviours of the common people and of the king himself. Gaunt had brought in draconian measures to forbid all kinds of associations and societies, making himself many enemies among the guildsmen in the process.

  It was strange that Melisen should want brooches modelled on such a symbol, thought Hildegard as she got into bed. Maybe it was just a whim, a pretty device that had caught her eye. Her father’s lands were down in Kent, of course, where the insurrection had been fomented. It might be worth remembering that.

  They were due to leave in the pitch dark of early morning, but Ulf came banging on her door with an urgent request as soon as the household started to wake up.

  ‘Reynard’s still missing. It looks as if I’m going to have to leave without him. Before I go will you come along to surprise Pierrekyn from his slumbers? You’re good at getting things out of folk and we might be able to startle the truth from him.’

  ‘Surely.’ Hildegard took her bag with her. There was nothing to come back here for. She took a last bleak look round the cell.

  As they made their way out into the bitter cold she said, ‘What’s this Reynard like? Is he the type to go off without a word to anybody?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s a gregarious fellow. Always spouting off about something or other. Must be around thirty and old enough not to throw it all in for no good reason. He helped the notary draw up this contract I’ve mentioned, then he went down to Kent to get the earl to sign it. Roger was about to give him a handsome reward for his services.’

  ‘And why should the minstrel know anything?’

  Ulf did not answer but he was grim-faced as their feet crunched over the ice-filmed puddles in the garth.

  There was no moon. Across the great court the monks were already filing into prime, cressets set along the passage revealing their hooded shapes as they moved between the stone pillars.

  The steward led her to a part of the abbey she had never visited before – living quarters for the servants and lay brothers built on two storeys, located between the kitchens, the food stores and the packing sheds.

  Puzzled, she asked, ‘Won’t the minstrel be staying in the guest house with the rest of the retinue from Castle Hutton?’

  ‘Reynard keeps a chamber over here as his work often brings him to Meaux.’ Again Ulf said little but merely set his lips in a tight line and Hildegard took it as a sign not to ask him to explain further.

  Making little sound, they hurried up the narrow steps to the first floor. Ulf reached one of the doors and without bothering to knock hurled it open. A candle was burning in a niche and by its light they saw a figure stumble back from a high desk. Something fell to the floor and in the dim light they saw the minstrel back away against the wall, one hand reaching for his dagger.

  ‘Take one step closer and you’re dead!’ he announced in a shaking voice.

  ‘Shut up, you sot-wit. It’s me, Lord Roger’s steward. We’re still looking for Reynard. Where is he?’

  The youth slowly put the dagger back in his belt. ‘Forgive me, my lord steward. You entered like an assassin.’

  Ulf ignored the undercurrent in the youth’s tone. ‘Explain what you’re doing.’

  The abruptness of the command confused him. His glance flew to Hildegard for help. When she said nothing he shrugged and dropped his glance.

  ‘So where is he?’ Ulf demanded again

  The boy’s fear was replaced by anger. ‘How in hell should I know where he is, steward? He’s gone! Vanished! He dragged me all the way up here from Kent, with promises and fine words, and now what? I’m left with no master, nothing.’ He gave a bitter laugh.

  Ulf ignored it. ‘Get your cloak and lute. You’re coming with us to Bruges. Lord Roger’s orders.’

  The minstrel went very still and his anger seemed to vanish as quickly as it had arisen. In the flickering candlelight his eyes glinted but their expression was ambiguous. ‘You mean I’m to be one of de Hutton’s men and not just a follower?’ he whispered.

  ‘That’s what I’m told,’ said Ulf. He clearly had an opinion contrary to his lord’s on the decision.

  ‘Is this another lie?’

  ‘Are you with us or not?’

  Pierrekyn went over to the desk, he picked up one or two things from it and stowed them inside his bag. Then he fell to his knees and groped around on the floor to find what had fallen when they came in. He palmed it into a pouch on his belt and straightened up.

  ‘Ready, my lord – when you are.’

  Ulf gestured for him to go out, then followed closely at his heels as if half expecting him to make his escape.

  ‘Are we really taking young Pierrekyn with us?’ Hildegard whispered when the group assembled for departure. They were standing in the guest hall and wassail was being brought out.

  ‘Why not? Don’t you like music?’

  ‘It depends what sort,’ she replied. It was strange to be setting out with a secular party with all the vanities that would ensue. She touched her beaver hat with her fingertips.

  By no means was she the only one dressed for the cold.

  Lady Philippa, Roger’s seventeen-year-old daughter, was garbed in a fetching set of mixed furs. Although she was not travelling with them, her betrothed was, and she had come down from her chamber to wish Ser Ludovico Godspeed. He had to return to the branch in Bruges to oversee the smooth exchange of goods and the onward passage of the wool purchase to the cloth-makers in Tuscany. He and Philippa held hands with eyes for no one else.

  Next to them stood Lord Roger, a massive bearskin thrown over his nightshirt, one arm round his wife’s girlish shoulders, his eyes quick and observant as he checked everything off on some mental list in his head. He looked pleased, thought Hildegard, like a card-player with a winning hand.

  Lady Melisen too wore furs. They must have been snow marten or something else light and silvery, for the flares carried by the linksmen passing in and out of the hall made them glitter and turned her into a figure of shimmering light.

  Roger and the abbot were sharing the carriers’ costs. The staple from Meaux was placed at the beginning and end of the convoy with the de Hutton staple well protected in the middle.

  ‘Not that he’s afraid of brigands this side of the water,’ said Ulf in an undertone when Hildegard remarked on this. They exchanged smiles. Then he cast a lugubrious glance at the two couples. ‘It’s like living in a chanson, what with Roger so besotted and Philippa and Ludovico acting like a pair of turtle-doves. I’ll be glad to get out on the road with my men.’

  ‘They surely have good cause to feel themselves in love, being so young and foolish,’ replied Hildegard, gazing over at the younger pair. ‘They’ll soon learn that amour and love are two different things.’

  ‘Maybe I’m just jealous.’ Ulf looked into her face. She dropped her glance! ‘Hildegard,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘take care for your safety when I leave you in Bruges. I’m told there’s going to be a knight engaged to escort you after we leave you there.’

  ‘There’s really no need for that. I can—’

  He interrupted. ‘It’s already arranged.’

  ‘By Roger?’ she asked, surprised.

  Ulf shook his head. ‘I don’t know who’s footing the bill.’

  Was it the prioress using her influence? she wondered. Both she and the archbishop had a vested interest in her safety.

  A mass was
said for the convoy by one of the abbot’s priests and soon the wagons began to move off as the restless string of packhorses came to life.

  With scores of cressets flickering against a mottled, pre-dawn sky, the convoy stretched ahead like a winding ribbon of light between the standing pools of the marshes. The entire retinue from Castle Hutton came to see them off. With the abbey brethren and the conversi, it was a large crowd. Hildegard’s glance swept the faces of the well-wishers. There was one absentee: the abbot himself.

  Ahead lay the sea port of Ravenser and the crossing to Flanders. In a little time the abbey at Meaux and all its inhabitants would be no more substantial than a shroud of turrets rising from the marsh.

  Chapter Four

  LORD ROGER HAD chosen Ravenser in preference to any of the other ports on the Humber for the good reason that his brother-in-law, Sir William of Holderness, had been responsible on behalf of the exchequer for collecting import and export taxes there. To have someone in the family in charge sometimes made life easier. Lately banished, however, William would by now be well on the road to Jerusalem as penance for his crimes. Meanwhile, Roger himself had taken over the lucrative role of tax collector. This trade was what kept the folk of Ravenser alive.

  But it was a wild place.

  Continually inundated by the sea on one side and the mighty tides of the Humber estuary on the other, the port lay at the end of a long, narrow spit of shingle that was slowly being squeezed out of existence. Some claimed this was a punishment from God for the many crimes of incest and piracy that prevailed in the small town. Others knew it was the combined forces of tide and storm that were pressing it to the point of annihilation.