Thankful for her tough new boots from the shoemaker in Beverley, Hildegard trod in the prints left by Sir Talbot. He was striding out, some way ahead of the others, and she had to walk briskly to keep up with him. She carried her little hound, Bermonda, like a baby as her legs were too short to see her easily through the depth of snow, but Duchess, tall and stately, ran along like all lymers with a high even tread, her nose in the air.
The pass would eventually bring them out on the other side of the mountains at a custom post in a town called St Rhémy. The name was like a beacon that drew them on without regard for pain or danger.
They were only about two thirds of the way, however, when, out of the deceptive clarity of a cloudless sky, a blizzard burst over their heads with sudden and unexpected violence. Even the maronniers were taken by surprise.
Almost straight away everybody was separated by driving shards of ice. Hildegard could see Sir Talbot just ahead but he looked like nothing more than a shadow in the white-out. Unable to judge how far back the others were, she made an effort to catch up with him. Her thoughts flew to Pierrekyn.
When she drew level with Talbot she shouted, ‘I hope those canons have found the boy. I don’t give much hope for him, alone in all this.’
They soon found themselves walking in a world of their own. In the whirling flakes it was impossible to tell whether they were heading towards the precipice or keeping to the track. To make matters worse, darkness fell prematurely, decreasing visibility even further. After a few more paces it became clear that it would be folly to continue.
Sir Talbot decided to call to the others. Putting his head back, he let forth a great war cry. From out of the darkness some way behind came an answering shout. It sounded like one of the mercenaries. Talbot said, ‘No doubt they’ll catch up with us if we stop here.’
They waited for some time before realising they must have somehow missed the others. The snow had settled into a steady blizzard. Flakes flew into their mouths whenever they opened them to speak.
Talbot risked another shout but this time there was no response. Everything was muffled by the tumbling flakes. Even Duchess whined. Hildegard was shivering with cold. She cuddled Bermonda to share a little warmth.
Sir Talbot was undaunted. He suggested they camp where they were for the night. ‘We’ll get a better view of where we are in the light of morning.’
Hildegard was horrified at the thought of spending a night on the mountainside. ‘You mean here, in the open? We’ll surely freeze to death!’
He gave a genial chuckle. ‘Trust me, I’ve done this many times. It’s part of a soldier’s training to know how to survive in the wilds.’
Stopping just where they were, he started to burrow into the snow and when Hildegard helped they soon dug out a hole big enough for both of them to shelter in, together with the hounds.
Gallantly Talbot spread his cloak and asked whether she would mind tenting her blue cloak over their heads. He explained, ‘That way we’ll keep within the ice chamber all the warmth our bodies magically give out.’
Seeing the sense in it, she did as he asked. When she began to take off the fur lining she wore underneath the cloak in order to share it between them, he refused adamantly.
‘I insist,’ she said. ‘This is no time for gallantry. It would be most inconvenient if you froze to death!’
Conceding the point he put his arms around her to increase their natural heat and they huddled politely together in the snow house. The hounds added their own body heat, giving off a strong smell of the pennyroyal she rubbed on them to kill fleas. Soon all four drifted into a comfortable and aromatic doze.
It was the sunlight on her face that woke Hildegard. She was amazed when she opened her eyes to find that it was day. The blizzard had abated and the sun was crawling in through the cracks of their makeshift canopy, now sagging under the weight of snow, with the promise of a fair day. Sir Talbot opened his eyes as soon as he felt her disentangle herself from his embrace.
She was already pushing the cloak to one side when he sat up. Bars of gold light fell across his face as he leaned back for a moment with the fur falling away from his shoulders and breathed out a long, contented sigh.
‘I’ve just had the most magnificent dream. It was like something out of a chanson.’ He sighed again in contentment. ‘I was walking through a meadow. It must have been spring because it was filled with the scent of flowers. Ahead of me was a gate and, when I opened it, who was waiting for me in a bower but my Lady Rosamund! She greeted me with the most loving smile. And at that moment I knew I had attained my heart’s desire.’ He closed his eyes as if to savour the feeling of bliss a little longer. When he opened them he asked, ‘Do you think it might be a portent of things to come?’
‘It could well be.’ She smiled. ‘At least she was with you through the night.’
He rose to his feet, carefully shook out her blue cloak so that the snow did not fall on them and then climbed outside.
At once he gave a shout. ‘Sister! Come and look! This is like paradise itself!’ She heard him whoop with joy as his footsteps crunched over the snow.
Poking her head out she saw what he meant. The snow lay in perfect smoothness in every direction. On one side was a low cliff but over on the other side of the valley the peaks and crags glistened under a gleaming mantle.
He dropped back inside the snow chamber with his breath steaming, careful not to tread on the huddled dogs. ‘There’s a sharp little breeze eddying about. May I borrow your cloak for a moment?’
She could see he was shivering despite his efforts. She put it over his shoulders. Despite the soft blue fabric, he still had an endearingly military look.
He climbed outside again. His footsteps made crimping sounds on the ice crust as he strode towards the privacy of some rocks.
It must surely be a good day to attempt the last few miles to St Rhémy, Hildegard thought with satisfaction. If they set off now they should soon catch up with the others. They must have passed in the night, or maybe had decided to camp out and would be visible on a different part of the track. Their guides would be as wise in mountain – craft as Sir Talbot.
Stretching her limbs she fondled her hounds behind the ears. Duchess was already pawing at the snow as if wondering whether to scramble into the open and Hildegard was about to follow when there was an unexpected sound.
She couldn’t place it. It was a whine like a missile being thrown, followed by a thump. Then silence. Talbot must have heard it, too, for his footsteps stopped.
Curious, she peered outside. Something was heaped in the middle of the field of snow. When she looked more closely she saw it was the confused folds of her blue cloak.
She gave a cry. It was Talbot. He was lying on the ground and in the middle of his back was a bolt from a crossbow.
The edges of the cloak lifted in the breeze but Talbot did not stir.
With no thought other than to reach him, she scrambled out and hurled herself across to where he lay. ‘Talbot!’ she cried.
He was face down in the snow. She tried to turn him over but as she did so a stream of blood poured from between his lips. The snow was stained with it.
Cradling him in her arms she whispered over and over, ‘Talbot, oh my dear Talbot, my dear, my poor Talbot.’
His eyes, only moments ago full of life, were already beginning to film over. Scarcely aware of the tears falling onto the backs of her hands, she wiped a few ice crystals from his brow and after a moment pressed his eyelids shut.
Before she could work out what had happened she heard a sound from the direction of the cliff. She glanced up.
Near the summit was a scattering of rock. Purplish shadows crawled between glittering fingers of snow. In the confusion of ice and shadows nothing seemed to move.
It took a moment for her to realise that what she could hear was the rewinding of the crossbow.
She scrambled to her feet. There were only minutes left before it could be rewound. Thi
nking quickly, she loosed Talbot’s scabbard and dragged the heavy sword over to the shelter. She must take it with her as proof of his death. His bag lay where he had dropped it the previous night. Now she pulled the rough brown cloak they had slept on from underneath it and threw it over her shoulders. Abandoning the rest of their equipment, she shouted to her hounds to follow.
Duchess had already pushed through the snow, chest-deep in the drifts, nose pointing at the cliff, but at the sound of her mistress’s command she reluctantly turned and bounded after her. With the heavy sword dragging through the drifts, Hildegard waded over the unmarked snow that stretched to the edge of the ravine. The mountain-wall on one side was her only guide to the descent.
With the remorseless sound of the crossbow being wound to fire another bolt, she hastened away from the scene, leaving behind the body of a most chivalrous knight.
Sir Talbot le Bel.
There was little time to make their escape. Slipping and sliding down the ice slope with her two hounds, Hildegard knew that whoever had fired the bolt would have to hold the bow steady by the foot-stirrup to shoot and a target moving downhill would be difficult to hit. And if the killer followed before fully rewinding it, he could not shoot the bolt.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. There was no sign of a pursuer, which meant that he was intent on firing a second time.
In a panic she battled through the snow as fast as she could. Little Bermonda was struggling to keep up. She kept getting buried in the drifts as she fought a way through the freezing shoals.
It was a choice between Talbot’s sword and the hound.
With great reluctance she slithered to a stop, grasped the sword in her right hand and hurled it as far as she could. She saw it disappear into deep snow, hidden as secretly as at the bottom of a lake. And there we will build a shrine, she vowed.
With hands now free she was able to pull Bermonda from the snow and thrust her firmly inside the knight’s cloak as she set off again.
Before them the precipitous track opened up, inviting them to their doom. But at their backs was a huntsman bent on death.
There was no real route down the mountain, at least, none she could see, so she simply threw herself headlong across snow-filled gullies where the snow heaped in unguessable depths and over ridges where the wind had scoured the rocks to leave only a treacherous film of ice. Dry-mouthed, she trampled the frozen surface of mountain streams, calling to the lymer, but always going down, ever downwards towards the valley with its belt of pines and its scattering of wooden houses.
When she reached a dip she took a chance and looked back up the mountainside, seeing her trail dwindling away into the distance. There was no sign of a pursuer, not any sign of the rest of their party either. And in the silence of the peaks there was no sound of a crossbow being rewound.
Eventually she came to a rope bridge across a ravine. The cords were weighted with ice. There was no way round it. Tucking Bermonda more firmly under one arm, she told Duchess to stay.
With one hand for the rope and one for the kennet, she set foot on the bridge. After no more than a few steps it began to swing like a pendulum. Chunks of ice broke off and fell into the ravine. She paused a moment to let it settle. The further away from the cliff, the more fiercely the wind howled and tore at her clothes. When she happened to glance down she saw, way below the web of rope, a watercourse with rocks pricking the skin of ice that covered them. She felt she would faint with fear.
Praying that the maronniers had kept the bridge in good repair and that her added weight would not sever the ropes, she forced herself across, one slow step following another, until at last, with a gasp of relief, she was able to jump the last cordings and throw herself to safety on the other side. Bermonda slipped from her arms with a yelp.
Now for Duchess, she thought, turning and beckoning to the lymer on the other side of the bridge. ‘Come, my beauty. Slowly now!’
With a look of distaste, Duchess set one paw on the iced cordings and then drew back.
The nails on the lymer’s foot-covers skittered on the ice when she eventually set her paws on the cordings again. Bravely she began to cross. But for the close weave of the ropes on each side she would have pitched over to her death. Carefully, however, with all the strength of character she possessed, she slithered her way across the bridge towards her mistress.
Hildegard dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around Duchess’s neck. She rubbed her face into the animal’s frozen coat. Her tears were not for the hound alone.
‘As heaven is my witness, Talbot,’ she vowed as she stood up, ‘I shall bring your killer to justice!’
She took out her knife. With no sign of the other travellers and with a murderer stalking the mountain on the other side of the bridge, she had only one choice. She must cut the ropes that held it.
With snow beginning to fall again she crouched down to see how it was tied together and when she found the main cord she began to hack through it. As soon as she managed to sever it, the rest was easy. The ropes snaked away and the cordings scattered like cards into the ravine.
In the silence that followed she stood there for a moment with snow settling on her hair where her hood had fallen back. She felt a confusion of emotions. But now, at least, with the bridge gone, she was safe.
Calling the hounds up she turned to face the final stage of the descent.
But then something happened.
From out of the shelter of some rocks lower down a figure appeared. It was a man. He must have been watching as she hacked through the ropes because now he began to take long strides up the slope towards her.
His hood half covered his face but she could see a strip of cloth over his mouth and a horn snow-shield concealing his eyes. His cloak was tied mercenary-style across his chest, allowing the rest of it to billow out behind him as he approached. In his hand was a knife.
Hildegard couldn’t move her feet. She stared, transfixed.
Chapter Twelve
WHEN THE MAN was almost level, he pushed back his hood and lifted his eye-shield. ‘You’ve cut off all help from the other side,’ he said. ‘Was that wise?’
It was Pierrekyn. He looked pinched with cold but other than that he was the same as when she had last seen him at supper back in the hospice. It was a lifetime ago.
Bermonda gave a small growl. Duchess, chest-deep in snow, hackles spiked with ice, observed him in silence.
Hildegard saw that the knife Pierrekyn held was the one with the red leather haft given him by Sir Talbot. Voice steady, she gripped her own knife more firmly under her cloak and asked, ‘You seemed to be heading back to Orsières so what are you doing here?’
He shrugged but didn’t explain. Aware of the hostile reception of the hounds, he was eyeing them with caution. ‘Where’s your valiant knight?’ he countered.
‘What do you mean?’
He looked confused. ‘What’s happened to everybody? Why are you alone?’
‘We were separated in the blizzard last night.’ She stepped away from the edge of the precipice. How had he managed to get ahead?
‘I was lucky to find a cave,’ he told her. ‘When I get away from here I never want to set foot on a mountain again.’
He still held his knife and she saw that he had bandaged his fingers separately to allow freedom of movement. It was what the crossbow men did, the dexterity of their fingers being vital to them.
Watching carefully, she said, ‘Sir Talbot has been shot in the back by a bolt from a crossbow.’
His expression did not change. He merely gazed at her for a long moment, his green eyes veiled. Then he turned abruptly and began to slither away down the side of the cliff, following the slippery indentations of the track.
She followed. It was the only sign of the downward path to safety.
She was aware now that it was just the two of them in all the vast solitude of the Alps.
The perches stood out boldly against the glistening drifts and the tr
ack was well defined lower down the pass. They reached St Rhémy in good time and got through customs without incident. They found an inn a little way outside the town and decided to stay overnight to dry their boots and then hitch a lift in the morning on one of the wagons carrying local produce between the towns.
Hildegard concluded that the maronniers would find Sir Talbot and take his body back to the hospice. The murder had taken place in another jurisdiction and did not need to be reported to the authorities in St Rhémy.
A decision about Pierrekyn was more difficult to make.
She peeled off her buskins in front of the fire as soon as they were settled in. Pierrekyn seemed to assume they were travelling on together as if there had been no break in the arrangement. Now he came up behind her and whistled. ‘Red hosen, Sister? How scandalous!’
She jerked round. ‘I was told by Lady Melisen when she gave them to me that it would be the person who saw them who would be at fault, not I.’
‘Ah, Melisen!’ Despite his derisive tone his eyes kindled. ‘How can she be so enamoured of that old fellow?’
‘Love falls where it will.’
‘That’s true.’ His expression became sombre.
Giving her hounds a wide berth, he came to sit in the inglenook as close to the fire as possible, with a bowl of gruel and some bread in his hands.
He gazed into the flames.
Hildegard watched him.
‘I’ll miss Talbot with all that cleaning and polishing of his stupid mail shirt,’ he muttered eventually. ‘Was it an accident?’ He lifted his head.
‘No. It was deliberate.’
‘Why would anybody want him dead?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
He looked back into the flames and made no comment.
She went on, ‘I’m amazed you left without telling us. What made you leave like that?’
‘A whim,’ he replied, barely audible.
The Red Velvet Turnshoe Page 11
