The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  Nowadays it could be approached only by a mile-long track, clamorous with sea birds and the constant rustle of the salt-water grasses that fringed the remains of a Roman road. They said a beacon had been built on the point as part of the great chain of communication that kept marauders from this far edge of the Roman Empire, but if so, it too, like many buildings in recent years, had disappeared beneath the waves. Despite its harshness it was a beautiful if remote part of the county.

  When Hildegard saw it she became aware of the elemental power of its desolation. The sky seemed huge, the land small. She could die here, she felt, surrendering to its presiding spirits. She mentally shook herself. This was no way to approach the adventure of voyaging abroad.

  The town itself, grim and vigorous, and rife with the stench of herring, clearly hung between heaven and hell. When the cavalcade drew near, the sea was petrel blue in the waning light. It appeared in stabs of colour between the sagging, dun-coloured rooves of the wattle-and-daub dwellings. Despite the imminence of the curfew, folk bustled in the few narrow streets around the quay, reluctant to miss the grand spectacle of the carts laden with staple passing by. The men-at-arms observed the spectators with a mixture of disdain and wariness. They were massively outnumbered by the denizens of the town but the latter were a weak, half-starved bunch, armed with no more than cudgels and gutting knives. Even so, there was dignity in their stares, blank looks concealing what might be the defiance of their thoughts.

  The dock was fully protected against entry by any but the officers of the customs. Those with documents of passage to Flanders were held at the checkpoint. The toll-master and his bailiffs were slow and methodical. Even though they had already been informed of the embarkation of the contingent, they still took their time, conscious that they had the power to prevent anybody from leaving the country should they so wish and they were not ashamed to display their importance. The first wagons had already gone through, however, nothing at fault with the documents produced by the abbey scribes.

  Then the de Hutton wagons began to pass one by one between the line of guards. Hildegard was sitting beside Ulf with a group of his men, the minstrel, and an abbey clerk, all of them crammed together in the third cart. The Florentines were delayed in the port office to drill home to them the fact that they were foreigners. The five henchmen stood in an impassive group while Ludovico argued their case.

  Pierrekyn began to fret about the stowing of his lute. During the pitching of the wagon over the churned mud on the track, he had had to relinquish his hold on it, agreeing to being parted from it only when Ulf found a niche where, he said, it wouldn’t be rattled into a heap of sawdust and broken strings. Now Pierrekyn began to rummage around for it, making a great fuss, much to the amusement of the serjeant-at-arms who had stopped their wagon with one foot planted on the running board.

  Briefly glancing down the list of passengers, he began to smile when he heard what the commotion was about. Addressing Ulf, whom he knew well, he said, ‘Tell your singing lad, my lord steward, he’s not the first minstrel we’ve had taking ship down here. We’re not barbarians, you know.’ He handed back the dockets with a genial flourish. ‘As long as it’s not made of wool he’s free to take it anywhere he likes. Does he think we’re mad enough to put a tax on music?’

  He and Ulf exchanged glances. ‘These musicians!’ he replied affably. The bailiff removed his foot. They were through.

  ‘We go on board now and leave the men to load the cargo,’ Ulf told Hildegard. ‘I’ll find you a place to sleep on deck under the awning. Your hounds should have been sent on from Swyne by now and will be loaded on in their wicker cage. It’s probably best to let them stay in that if they will, so they don’t get under everybody’s feet – or swept overboard,’ he added with a teasing grin. He paused and asked awkwardly, ‘I hope you don’t mind travelling with my men?’

  ‘Their humour is more ribald than that usually heard around the priory,’ she said, unable to keep a twinkle out of her eyes, ‘but I expect I’ll survive.’

  Smiling, Ulf went away to attend to his duties and Hildegard climbed the ladder onto the deck to find her hounds.

  It was dawn again by the time everything was stowed to the ship-master’s satisfaction. Hildegard had just stepped ashore to stretch her legs when she felt a tug on her sleeve and, looking down, she saw a small boy holding something out to her.

  Recognising him as one of the oblates from Meaux who had come along to fetch and carry, and who would be going back in the wagons with the imported merchandise, she bent down to see what he wanted. He was holding out a small bundle of cloth. As soon as she took it he scampered off into the crowd.

  ‘Wait! What is it?’ she called but he was already lost to sight.

  Cautiously, she opened the bundle. There was nothing in it. All she held in her hand was a piece of cloth. It felt like silk. When she looked closer she saw it was yellowed with age. She held it up. It was a neckerchief like the sort of thing a knight might wear under his mail, or fasten to his lance. It had the softness of long use and was clearly no ordinary piece of fabric. There was a motif in one corner. Looking closer she saw it was an embroidered pattern of leaves dotted with several small blue flowers. Borage, she realised at once.

  What did they say? Borage for courage. It was the emblem knights carried into battle or, in earlier times, wore close to their hearts when they went on crusade. Templars had carried such talismans. Puzzled, she put it safely into her scrip and climbed back on board.

  Everyone was leaning against the rail to get a last look at England.

  Three ships were due to leave but the third was still being loaded and would probably miss the tide. Its passengers, pilgrims and their servants, as well as several delayed members of their own party, were milling around on the quay. One traveller, his hood up against the wind, was standing apart from the commotion, watching their ship as its lines were cast off. His stillness amid all the activity attracted Hildegard’s attention and thinking about the surprise gift of the silk neckerchief, she wondered for a moment whether it was he who had sent it. But she could think of no reason why he should do so.

  Above their heads a cloud of gulls shrieked like drowning sailors. The pennants on the masthead snapped in the wind.

  When she looked back towards the quickly receding shore the hooded man was a still point in all the activity on the quay. He was turned to watch them as the laden cog slipped faster into the stream. The shouts from the shore were folded away.

  Hildegard glanced back.

  The stranger was still watching. Even as the ship slid at last into the rushing flood mid-river he was watching it, and it was only when the sails bellied up, and the ship ran close-hauled past the fort at the river mouth, that he became too small to make out.

  ‘Are you sorry to leave?’ Hildegard glanced along the rail to where the minstrel was staring back at the shore with tight lips.

  He gave a start. ‘Glad to shake the dust of the treacherous place from my boots,’ he muttered, turning as if to go.

  She put out a hand. ‘A moment. I understand you met Master Reynard in Kent when he went down there with Lord Roger’s mission from Yorkshire.’

  ‘What if I did?’

  She ignored his scowl and said, ‘I was wondering what sort of fellow he was.’

  ‘The usual.’ His lower lip jutted.

  She waited to see whether he would add anything but when he appeared to have nothing more to say she was about to leave when he suddenly muttered, ‘He was an artist, I’ll give him that. His saving grace was his skill with pen and ink.’ He threw her a challenging glance. ‘What he couldn’t depict couldn’t be drawn by any man on earth.’

  ‘I understood he was a clerk, assisting the notary in the drawing up of contracts.’

  ‘A man has to eat. You don’t see Lord Roger having any use for an illuminator, do you?’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘If you can’t kill it, eat it or buy it, de Hutton has no use for it. Unless it’s a woman, of cou
rse.

  His disrespectful reference to Roger prompted her to say, ‘If you feel like that I’m surprised you’ve decided to don his livery.’

  ‘As I said, a man has to eat.’

  Man, she thought, with an unexpected feeling of compassion. He could be no more than seventeen. Only his pride and his look of having seen the world ten times over and been unimpressed by it made him seem older.

  ‘I hope your lute came to no harm on that rough journey.’

  ‘It’s well enough.’ As always he had it beside him in its leather bag. He drew it forth and ran his hands over the walnut case. It was a beautiful instrument, worn to a patina with use and age.

  ‘Where did you learn to play?’

  ‘Kent.’

  ‘Canterbury?’

  ‘Did I say so?’ He turned to her. His green eyes were like chips of ice.

  As if irritated by the conversation he plucked at the strings but before he could coax them into a tune she said, ‘That was the lament to Bel Veger you played yesterday in Lady Melisen’s chamber, wasn’t it?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed, Sister. Surely not heard in your cloister?’

  It was her turn to ignore the question.

  He gave her a considering glance. ‘Well, well,’ he said, coming to some conclusion. He began to play then, very fast, with great skill and dexterity, but it was not the lament for the adulterous wife of a duke but a different tune, a jig, something he punctuated with ironic chords that offered a ribald double meaning.

  Soon a group of people formed round him and, half suspecting that this had been his intention so he could put an end to her questions, she edged away. There was something dangerous about Pierrekyn, she felt. Rage or some other powerful emotion seemed to simmer beneath the surface of everything he said.

  There had been little opportunity to talk to Ser Ludovico on the way over, with the pitching of the wagon and the tumult of the horsemen in their armour. Now she made her way along the canted deck in search of him. She found him playing dice with his men in the stern.

  From here they could see the entire length of the deck if they wanted: the merchandise that would not fit in the hold lashed to the stanchions fitted for the purpose, the group of admirers round the minstrel, the wicker cage with her two hounds sleeping in safety, Ulf amidships in conversation with the master, the sailors spidering about in the rigging.

  Ludovico rose to his feet at her approach. ‘After thirty hours of this, Sister, how do you feel?’ His English had become fluent after nearly a year of Philippa’s tuition.

  ‘I feel good,’ she replied. She swayed with the tilt and lift of the deck. ‘I believe my ancestors were seafarers.’

  ‘I’m better on dry land,’ he told her, and indeed his olive skin was already beginning to acquire a greenish tinge.

  ‘I have a concoction in my scrip that’s supposed to help if you need it,’ she told him.

  ‘I’ll brazen it out for the while. Why don’t you join us?’ He set aside the dice and made a space in the nest of ropes where they were sitting. ‘They tell me you’re off on pilgrimage to Rome.’

  ‘That’s so. But I’m also charged with making a few purchases for Lady Melisen on the way. I was wondering whether I could ask your advice.’

  When she explained what she wanted to buy, he was helpful. ‘I can take you to a goldsmith in Bruges who’ll make these brooches she wants and as for the pearl-embroidered sleeves I know just the man. You must let me come with you and make sure you get a good price.’

  She mentioned the silk the nuns produced at Swyne. ‘Do you think there’d be a market for it in Flanders?’ The prioress would be delighted if she could manage to find a way of bringing in more revenue.

  Ludovico smiled. ‘There’s a market for everything in the world if you know where to look but I’m afraid your sisters would find themselves in competition with the silk-spinners of Lucca. Still, as I say, there’s a market for everything. I’ll ask my contacts if you like. It’s English wool everybody wants at present.’

  They talked for a little while in general and when he mentioned Tuscany she said, ‘I don’t think Lord Roger knows the difference between Lombardy and Tuscany.’

  He laughed. ‘He knows full well I’m no Lombard moneylender. I’m attached to the bank of Vitelli in Florence. Philippa’s always taking him to task for calling me a Lombard. She’s so loyal—’ With a sudden soft smile that lit up his usually sombre features he added, ‘As well as beautiful and clever.’

  ‘I’m fond of Philippa. I remember her when she was a ten-year-old with two long, flaxen plaits and a book in her hands.’

  ‘I’m more than fond of her.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘I thought her father had agreed to our betrothal and that our marriage would take place within the year once my capo had given permission. But now,’ he frowned, ‘Lord Roger seems to have other plans. And it’s all my own fault.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Apparently pleased to be able to unburden himself while his henchmen resumed their game of dice, he explained. ‘Lord Roger asked me to tell him about the different contracts we use to raise capital.’

  ‘I expect he was interested in that!’

  Ludovico smiled ruefully. ‘So interested he thinks he’s an expert now.’

  ‘And it’s a problem?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be if it didn’t encourage him to act in a way which—’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m being indiscreet, Sister, forgive me.’

  ‘I’ve known Roger all my life. I’m familiar with his ways. And I receive many confidences, which I guard well. But I gather you were both happy with the agreement you reached over the staple?’ She tilted her head.

  ‘That was no problem. It was a pleasure doing business with him. A most convivial experience, in fact!’ He gave a short laugh that quickly turned into another sigh. The horizon lifted and fell and he seemed hypnotised by it for a moment before saying, ‘I fear he’s about to do something perilous. He brushed my advice aside so what can I do? The problem is this. There are some ventures unaffordable except by kings and princes and these are subject to a commenda contract.’

  Hildegard’s glance sharpened.

  ‘For instance it takes about twenty-four shares to finance a vessel on a long-term voyage, say to the East, to bring back spices and suchlike. This vessel, being so small,’ he gave the cog an assessing glance, ‘is owned outright by just three owners who hire her to men like Lord Roger and the abbot. For bigger trade it’s necessary to buy a large, well-armed ship, a Venetian galley for instance, and to make sure she’s well insured. I sell shares in that sort of enterprise. The capital,’ he said, ‘is at risk for the finite term of a single voyage.’

  Hildegard listened patiently, not sure where this was leading or what it had to do with Roger.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he continued, ‘the more speculative contracts can last up to twenty years. They can be used to finance mines and mills and other big enterprises like that. They can also provide the finance for ongoing loans for whatever the company concerned thinks is a good risk.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hildegard carefully.

  ‘To offset the greater risk they obviously carry a higher rate of interest. A city like Florence sometimes consolidates all its debts into one big debt, what we call the monte.’

  ‘So if the money is loaned for as long as twenty years, it can carry a bigger risk and there’s no guarantee that the lender will get back their capital?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said in a sombre tone.

  ‘And are you saying that Roger intends to put his capital into something like that so he’ll get a high rate of interest?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘He’s a gambler at heart.’

  Hildegard could scarcely disagree. It was one of his failings. Moreover, he had a firm belief in luck, which made his decisions alarming to anyone of a more cautious nature. It was Ulf’s constant worry that his lord would bankrupt himself.

  ‘The dangers of trading in the East
are obvious,’ Ludovico continued. ‘Bad weather, shipwreck, dishonest sea-captains, and the constant attacks of pirates to name a few. But that’s what I do, that’s my task – I set these things up. Sadly for me I pricked Lord Roger’s imagination and now he wants to place Philippa’s dowry in a long-term venture. He’s enticed by the interest rate. The trouble is, the risk is also enticing – if you’re a gambler like Roger. I almost believe that if there was no risk he wouldn’t be so interested. He loves the thrill of it. All he can see is the glory of winning and the massive profit he’ll make if everything turns out right. If it doesn’t, of course, he’ll lose everything—’

  ‘Philippa’s dowry, you mean?’ Hildegard was aghast.

  Ludovico’s usual enigmatic expression was clouded with worry.

  ‘Surely he hasn’t put that at risk?’ she asked.

  ‘I mean no disrespect to Lord Roger but it’s becoming most difficult. Philippa doesn’t yet know the extent of the risk he’s taking.’

  ‘I’m sure Roger is happy to have you as his son-in-law,’ she tried to reassure him, ‘and as for the dowry, surely he doesn’t expect Philippa to wait twenty years for the loan to mature before she marries! There must be some misunderstanding.’

  ‘No, he imagines he’ll get his money back within a year or two.’

  The way he uttered these words showed just how long even that seemed to him.

  ‘But if it’s a long-term loan how can he expect—?’ Hildegard frowned.

  There was something else on Ludovico’s mind. She waited to see whether he would say more but he merely gave another worried shrug.

  ‘I’m sure things will be arranged to everyone’s satisfaction,’ she said gently.

  ‘He’s sending his steward to open the discussions with my manager in Bruges who’ll act as marriage broker. The details will be passed on to my capo in Florence. My father died of the plague when I was a boy,’ he explained. ‘The man who became my guardian is head of both the company and the family. He has the final say in everything I do. He’s my lord and protector.’