The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  The hand that reached out to Hildegard was covered in rings, large gold bosses, rubies like drops of blood, and a diamond that caught Hildegard with sudden viciousness across the cheek. The flame of it forced a cry from her before she could stop herself.

  Strangely, when the contessa smiled, as she did now, her beauty was dazzling, but it was illuminated by such hatred no surface brilliance could conceal it. Hildegard watched the woman’s small, neat teeth bite down on her lower lip as she considered something. It appeared to amuse her.

  ‘Sir Fitzjohn, to whom do you owe your allegiance?’ She fixed her brilliant eyes on him.

  ‘To you, madam.’ He bent his knee.

  ‘And it is your duty, is it not, to fulfil my desires to my entire satisfaction?’

  There were guffaws of amusement from the rest of the men and Fitzjohn, not knowing what was coming next, agreed.

  ‘And I asked you, did I not, to bring me the cross this nun has been sent from England to buy?’

  ‘You did, my lady, and—’

  Two thin lines of annoyance forked down her forehead and her red lips tightened. ‘You did not bring me the cross, sir. You’ve brought me this gaudy coffin with nothing in it.’

  One of Escrick’s henchmen still held the reliquary just as he had brought it through the streets under his cloak. Escrick didn’t move a muscle. There was no smile on his face now.

  ‘If I had wanted a gold reliquary flashing with jewels I would have asked for one. Instead I asked for an ancient wooden cross said to bestow unlimited power on whomsoever possesses it. Why do you imagine its whereabouts have been kept secret for over six hundred years? Because, dolt, it’s worth more than a king’s ransom! I asked you to procure it for me. You said you could do so. But you failed, Sir Fitzjohn, you failed miserably!’

  The contessa said something in Florentine to two of her bodyguards and they swooped on Escrick before he could move. There was a gilded table near by bearing dishes of nuts, fruit and other delicacies. The contessa dashed one of the bowls to the floor where it shattered, oranges flying out of it, to roll one by one between the boots of the men-at-arms standing next to it.

  ‘Put his hand on the table!’ she snarled.

  Escrick had no choice. Looking bewildered, he was forced to let them spread his right hand on the table. He wore a ring on his little finger. Hildegard stared at it in surprise.

  The contessa pointed as if choosing a morsel from the board. ‘That one,’ she said.

  One of the guards took out his knife and in one swift movement sliced off Escrick’s little finger together with the ring. He must have been in agony but apart from the colour leaching from his face, he betrayed no flicker of emotion.

  ‘Who wants a talisman?’ his tormentor shouted. She picked up the bloodied finger and threw it, the way a bride might throw a bouquet among her wedding guests, and there was a brief scuffle as the men fought for it. The ring fell onto the floor but in the mêlée over the trophy of the finger no one noticed it. Hildegard picked it up.

  ‘Hold your hand in the air, Sir Fitzjohn.’ He did so. ‘That’s to show everyone to whom you belong.’ The contessa’s voice rose. ‘Maybe now they’ll show you more respect than you’ve managed to inspire in this nun here. When I ask you to get something for me I won’t have you bringing me a worthless box with nothing in it!’ she screamed. ‘I want its contents. Maybe now you know I’m serious?’

  ‘I swear,’ said Escrick, dropping to his knees, ‘I searched every nook and cranny of that church, everywhere, and there is no cross apart from the one above the sacristan’s bed and the brass one on the altar.’

  ‘The cross of Constantine is wood!’ she shouted. ‘Are you stupid? Do you know what wood is? The cross is made of English oak! The sacristan brought it back from Rome on instructions from the highest source. My informants tell me everything except this one thing – where is it now?”

  ‘Madam, my lady—’ He gazed up at her with a look she might have read as devotion, for her mood changed and she moved forward in her rustling skirts and reached out to stroke his head.

  ‘Stand up, sir. You will have your reward as soon as this nun reveals the whereabouts of the cross. Until she does, you’ll have to wait for your pleasure. You have several fingers left at present. That should encourage you to show us how quickly you can get her to talk.’

  Hildegard turned a scornful glance on Escrick and stepped forward. ‘I shall have to put your other fingers in jeopardy, Sir Fitzjohn,’ she said. ‘I know nothing of the contents of the reliquary. I have seen no cross.’

  The contessa’s laugh was harsh. ‘Do better. You do not amuse me.’ She turned to gaze at her army of men with a fond smile and asked, ‘How shall we help Sir Fitzjohn persuade this nun to speak to us?’

  One or two ideas were thrown in from different parts of the hall. Hildegard felt sick.

  Then someone stepped forward. ‘We’re mercenaries, paid to fight.’ One or two murmurs of agreement followed. ‘Even now Sir John Hawkwood is feasting in the Signoria, unarmed no doubt, his men drunk and less watchful. We’re wasting time here with this matter of the cross. It’s only a story. It’s the power of steel that can deliver booty, not wooden crosses.’

  Someone growled in agreement but there was an immediate objection. ‘It might be only a story to you, brother, but if folk believe it, it might as well be true.’

  The mercenaries being an international crowd, began talking in a mixture of Florentine, English and a few other languages besides, but a good number of the men were English and now there were further objections to this on grounds of logic.

  Another man stepped forward. ‘Be that as it may, let’s have a bit of fun first. These nuns can take a deal of pain. Let’s see how far she’ll go before she squeals.’

  Then Hildegard had a shock. This advocate for torture had pushed his way to the front and stood right in front of her but now, even from behind, she recognised him. It was Jack Black.

  ‘It’s a dispute as subtle as that concerning fine amour,’ he was saying. ‘Too much pain and they die before you can extract what you want from them, too little and they laugh in your face.’

  One of the Florentines strode forward to stab his stiletto into the table still bloodied by Escrick’s wound. ‘I disagree with my esteemed English brother,’ he declared, turning to Jack Black. Hildegard braced herself for the worst as the men began to elaborate their arguments for and against the different forms of torture that could be inflicted, until she felt someone tugging at her sleeve. When she glanced down she was surprised to see Jack Black’s mines expert, Harry, grinning up at her.

  A shadow fell across them as the Scot, Donal, positioned himself in front of them, blocking them from view. He launched into an excited tirade while Harry whispered, ‘I hope you’re fleet of foot, Sister?’ Then he pushed her between two men-at-arms who obligingly parted to let them through, then stood like a wall while they made their escape through a door behind them.

  In a moment Harry had hustled her outside into a courtyard. The air was cool and fresh after the fetid heat of the contessa’s palazzo. Gripping her tightly by the elbow, he marched her past the gate-house guards as if she were under escort and hurried her onto a busy thoroughfare.

  Buildings on both sides of the narrow street forced the traffic into a tumult of carts, mules, celebrants, knights, friars, beggars and street vendors, and in moments Hildegard and her rescuer looked just like any other hooded citizens seeking amusement as they wove their way through the crowds.

  Harry kept glancing back over his shoulder as he hurried her along and when they reached the bridge leading back over the river he said, ‘I’m going to leave you here. Business afoot.’ He chuckled with secret relish. ‘But take this with you.’ He fumbled around in his belt. ‘Jack said you might find it helpful.’

  He pushed something into her hand and was instantly swallowed up by the crowd. She glanced down. By the light of the street flares she saw he had given her a piece of cl
oth.

  It had been torn from the hem of a cloak.

  Chapter Eighteen

  HILDEGARD’S IMPULSE WAS to retreat to the safety of Vitelli’s palazzo at once but there was something she had to do first.

  Checking her direction, she set off through the crowds of revellers, back over the old bridge towards the church of the Apostles. The alley leading into it was unlit and she had to grit her teeth before setting foot in it again.

  With the sounds of the carnival fading in the distance, she felt her way along the wall until she came to the church door. It was still open just as it had been left. It was a well of darkness. She steeled herself to step through and make her way between the pillars towards the pale glint of the altar.

  She needed light for what she had to do.

  The flint the painter had shown her, used to ignite the taper sending the peace dove on its Easter flight, was kept behind the altar screen. Alert for the slightest sound, her fingers fumbled along the shelf in the darkness until she found the box of flints.

  She ran the steel down the side until a spark flared, then she buried it in the tinder, coaxing a flame that she held quickly to the wick of one of the altar candles. It flared as brightly as a cresset. Shadows leaped along the walls. The arcades seemed suddenly crowded with living beings, the undraped effigies of the martyrs displaying their bloodied wounds, their painted eyes glittering from out of the darkness.

  Having to remind herself that Escrick could not be lying in wait this time, she edged past the yawning recesses of the side chapels and approached the sacristy.

  The horror of the poor sacristan lying out in the yard in a pool of his own blood made her falter but she forced herself as far as his cell.

  The cross had to be here. He had promised to bring it out of its hiding place. He had been ready to hand it over.

  She tried to imagine where he would keep such a valuable talisman. Escrick claimed to have searched the entire building and she did not doubt he had been thorough. It would be hidden in a place where nobody would think of looking.

  At a loss she lifted her candle higher to shed a better light. The curtain between the cell and the kitchen was half open. When she tried to drag it back along its runner in order to see more clearly, it snagged on something and at the same time the light from the candle made the shadows swoop. Her knees began to buckle with fear. She steadied herself against the wall. They were empty shadows, that was all. About to nerve herself to go inside, she happened to glance upwards.

  The ceiling was alive, first with a shape like a devil, then with a crook-backed monster. It’s nothing but the shadow of the crossbeam holding the curtain, she told herself. But then something made her stare.

  It was impossible.

  Reaching up, she ran her fingers over the beam and found a second piece of wood on top. No more than three inches thick, it was enough to cast a distorted shadow.

  Standing on tiptoe, she managed to get her fingernails underneath it until she could lift it down. She found she was holding a single piece of wood, three handspans in length with a crosspiece no more than six inches wide at the top. A feeling of awe swept over her. She had no doubt what it was.

  For a moment the world, with all its cruelty, betrayals and ambition, fell away. It was the cross and what it represented that were real.

  She trailed her fingers over it, seeking the indentations that would suggest an inscription, until eventually she found some markings that could be words incised into the ancient wood. Holding the candle closer, she was able to make something out. It was Latin. In this I conquer, she translated. It was the inscription that had inspired Constantine to victory at the Milvian Bridge.

  Now, suddenly terrified that Escrick or someone else in the contessa’s pay might appear to continue the search, she doused the candle and, with the cross held tightly inside her cloak, hurried back into the church. She made no sound as she plunged through pools of darkness between the pillars but by the time she reached the main door she was breathless with fear. She peered outside.

  The sky glimmered above the rooves, leaving the square in front of the church in darkness. Trusting that no one was lying in wait, she guided herself along the wall towards the light at the top of the passage. Then with her hood pulled well down over her face, she stepped into the street to join the revellers.

  A cloud of smoke drifted from across the river. People were pointing and pushing in excitement towards the bridge. Now and then spurts of flame lit up the towers on the opposite bank. Domes and steeples sprang luridly into being.

  Now, she thought, they’re even lighting fires in honour of Hawkwood.

  Preparations for the journey back to England were almost complete. There was only one more thing she had to do before she left. It was something she dreaded but she had given her word.

  Early next morning, she put on a fresh habit, and with her belt girded tightly round her waist, and her knife and her two hounds with her, she set off for the palazzo of the gonfaloniere where Sir John Hawkwood was still making the most of his current good fortune.

  Smoke still hung in a pall over the houses on the other side of the Arno. What she had seen the previous night as celebratory fires had, in fact, been a building aflame. Knots of interested spectators were standing around discussing the matter with a certain glee.

  When Hildegard approached they were quick to tell her that the palazzo of La Gran Contessa had spontaneously burst into flames in the middle of the night. Unfortunately the contessa herself had escaped but there had been many deaths among her followers.

  Someone shook their head, saying, ‘She has the luck of the devil, that one.’

  Even now, they told her, men were sifting through the charred bodies and trying to understand how it had happened.

  ‘They say it was an explosion beneath the building but there are no cellars over that side,’ her informant told her. ‘It’s set on marshland, though the contessa’s palazzo is on a little dry knoll of its own.’

  ‘It’ll be dry now all right,’ came the rejoinder.

  Hildegard moved on and eventually reached the residence where Hawkwood was staying. Some of his guards were on duty with several men of the Florentine militia. One or two glances were exchanged when she said she had something to say to Hawkwood but at the mention of Ser Vitelli a guard was reluctantly dispatched to put her request to the man himself

  She was called in after a few minutes’ wait. The guard tried to make her leave her hounds outside but she told him they would be more trouble than they were worth. At the sight of their teeth, he allowed them to pass. He led her down a corridor of echoing marble into a splendid chamber blazing with gilt and mirrors.

  Hawkwood himself was standing at the far end in front of a window looking on to a garden. She could see the tops of the trees swaying back and forth behind his head. His bodyguards stared suspiciously when she walked in with her hounds but when she stood mildly by the door they relaxed.

  Hawkwood had the air of someone coiled to pounce. Staying where he was, he beckoned her to approach with a peremptory flicking of his wrist.

  She took one step and then halted. It was near enough.

  He was a subtle reader of such things and a weary smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘So, nun,’ he began. ‘I’m in the mood for sport. I expect you want gold on behalf of the bastards my men have begotten on those sisters of yours who survived the unpleasantness after Cesena?’

  Stifling her revulsion, Hildegard said, ‘I’m here on a different matter.’ She paused. ‘This is to do with injustice in your homeland.’

  ‘Homeland?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘What have I to do with that godforsaken hell-hole?’

  ‘You are still an Englishman. I believe you came here because of the injustice of being abandoned by the old king after the French wars. Now many of your countrymen are suffering injustice but are unable to run. They can only stay and fight.’

  It was more than she had intend
ed to say. His glance narrowed and she quickly held out the turnshoe. ‘Here is something that may persuade you of the gravity of the cause.’

  He trod towards her, spurs jangling with importance, his scabbard swinging from his belt, glittering with jewels. He came to a stop in front of her. His eyes were grey, she noticed, bright, long-sighted. A fold of flesh under his chin and the grooved lines on his face were all that told his age.

  ‘Do you know what they’re calling me, Sister? ’

  ‘I have heard. Who hasn’t?’ She didn’t flinch.

  ‘Solomon!’ He gave a thin smile. ‘And you are not afraid?’

  They eyed each other. He was an inch or so smaller than she was but made up for it in the force of his presence. A virile man, he was at his peak in many ways, and very conscious of it.

  ‘They call me Solomon because of a judgment I’m supposed to have made on the field of battle. Do you believe the story?’

  ‘I find life itself a test of my belief.’

  The story he referred to was one of hideous cruelty. After the final battle at Cesena when his men had been sharing the spoils, two of them came to blows over a nun. To settle the matter Hawkwood was said to have split the nun in two with one sweep of his sword. ‘Now take your share,’ he had told them.

  He was inspecting the turnshoe with some interest now but, as if he suspected it might be poisoned, he did not touch it.

  ‘Inside the shoe is a document I would like you to read. It tells the true story of Wat Tyler’s murder at Smithfield,’ she told him. ‘After he was cut down his followers were outmanoeuvred by men who are more politically astute. Now they need a leader.’

  He raised his brows.

  She added, ‘A leader like you could have saved them from defeat.’

  ‘And am I supposed to feel guilty because I wasn’t there?’

  ‘I don’t intend to make you feel anything. Right actions should not be coerced by feelings of guilt. They should spring from the free choice to do right for its own sake.’