The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘War is detrimental to good business,’ he observed, ‘and to be abhorred by all except those who supply arms.’

  He left that topic abruptly and went on to tell her of his contrition at allowing a villain like Escrick to assault her. ‘A guest in my own house. There is no way of making amends for such a failing, no act of reparation that could assuage my feeling of shame.’

  Then he again mentioned his lack of a wife. Hildegard replied by praising the beauty of the local women and adding that she could quite understand why so many English mercenaries decided to make Tuscany their home.

  Vitelli laughed and nodded his agreement but his eyes still held a gleam of some other thought that he had decided to keep to himself.

  It was a bright morning, the sunlight warm and scented, a day heralding summer and lifting the heart at the prospect of an end to a long and unpleasant winter. Hildegard was ready to depart and head north again, yet she felt a twinge of anxiety as the wagons prepared to leave. News from England was not good. The Bishop of Norwich, Despenser, was preparing to attack France, pre-empting rumours of a French invasion. Her son was part of his army and she dreaded the thought of battle.

  Ser Vitelli had arranged for her to travel to Bruges in the company of a group of cloth merchants he knew who were going up to do business there. She told him she had to go through the St Bernard pass as there were things to be dealt with concerning the death of Sir Talbot.

  ‘No matter,’ he told her, ‘they are going through the same pass themselves as it is quicker than the others and they are always in a hurry to get to their profit before anybody else.’ She was to travel in the comfort of a well-padded and opulent char with the Vitelli company coat of arms on its banner.

  Standing around, impatient to be off, were her travelling companions, four merchants, all very well dressed, with their own bodyguards, and several hired men to guard their baggage. The three fattori, together with most of the household, came to see the convoy depart. There was no sign of Ser Vitelli.

  Hildegard was leaving with four objects in her possession: one, a ring from a severed finger; two, a piece of blue cloth; three, the cross of Constantine; and four, a copy of a seditious document hurriedly written out in her own hand.

  There was also the embroidered kerchief the child had given her on the quayside at Ravenser.

  When she packed she had wrapped the ring in the fragment of cloth, and placed the cloth and the ring in the kerchief. Then she had placed the entire parcel inside her scrip. The document she had pressed between the pages of her breviary where it joined the rest of the things in her hand luggage. The cross was concealed in much the same way as the sacristan himself had done, on open display, sticking out of her bag wrapped in a cloth, a souvenir of her travels.

  She strolled over to the char to make sure everything was being stowed properly. The servants, who had dealt with Escrick yesterday and had stripped him of his arms, had not hesitated to hand the rest of his belongings to the porter as instructed. Hildegard had asked not only for his cloak but also for the pouch he had worn on his belt, one she recognised as Sir Talbot’s.

  Just as she began to climb on board Ser Vitelli came out into the courtyard. He carried a small package in one hand. With an abrupt, self-conscious bow, he held it out. When she took it he did not attempt to detain her but stepped back at once. Then, with much shouting and cracking of whips and with the good wishes of the fattori and their colleagues ringing in her ears, they began to move out into the street.

  Curious to find out what was inside the package, Hildegard opened it as soon as the char was on its way. The contents fell into her lap like a scarlet mist. She blushed. It was a pair of red hosen. They were of the very finest silk from Lucca. Hastily rewrapping them she found a note:

  Forgive me, I could not help but notice. I am eternally at fault. Forever your servant, F.V.

  It was Melisen who had said that whoever saw her red hose would be to blame. Ser Falduccio Vitelli seemed to agree.

  They were crossing the plain some hours later when there were anxious cries from a man on lookout. Everyone turned to see where he was pointing. On the horizon, approaching at a fast gallop, was a band of horsemen. Their arms glinted harshly in the sunlight and as they streamed closer the banners of Sir John Hawkwood’s White Company could be seen on top of their lances.

  One of the guards cursed and drew his sword. The men scrambled to face the marauders and the merchants drew their weapons with varying degrees of dexterity, their faces pale. Hildegard rested her hands on the heads of her two hounds to steady them.

  The leader of the troop drew to a skidding halt. He waved his sword. ‘Put down your arms, friends. We’re here to escort you through an army of Pisans camped on the plain ahead.’

  He rode alongside the char.

  ‘Is that you in there, Sister?’ It was Jack Black.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ she greeted him, warily tightening her grip on her hounds as she recalled the last time she had seen him.

  ‘Hawkwood owes Vitelli a favour. There was some dispute about the pay the council promised him. Only Vitelli’s eloquence on the virtues of settling one’s debts in full allowed Hawkwood to get his payment for services rendered.’

  ‘So you’re working for Hawkwood now, are you?’

  ‘We always were. That’s why we came south, remember?’

  ‘I remember you saying that but what was your discussion at the palazzo of La Gran Contessa about, then? Fine amour you said. It didn’t sound very fine to me.’

  He chuckled. ‘I hope it didn’t alarm you. No more than a mummer’s play. The lads were convincing, I thought. Even the Florentines joined in – not that they wouldn’t always rather talk than fight. Even so, they were good. One of them was a sacked cardinal and knew all the ins and outs of rhetoric. Kept us busy almost until we blew the place up.’

  ‘I hope they got out alive in that case.’

  ‘Most of ‘em did.’

  ‘So none of them planned on harming me?’ She shivered to think of some of their suggestions.

  Jack Black looked surprised. ‘Just because they like to talk doesn’t mean they’re lily-livered. They do as they’re paid to do. Lucky we got you out in time.’

  She noticed Donal and the sapper in his contingent, grinning at her from beneath their helmets.

  ‘My gratitude, masters,’ she replied with a dry smile. ‘And also for the piece of cloth. It was from the blue cloak Sir Talbot was wearing when he was shot.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. It was yours, wasn’t it? Escrick Fitzjohn was wearing something similar later on.’

  ‘Can you vouch for that?’

  ‘Anywhere but in a court of law.’

  ‘Sir Talbot borrowed it after the ice storm,’ she explained. ‘Something less bright might have spoiled Escrick’s aim.’

  ‘Not him. He’s a dead shot. Famous for it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, by God’s grace, not dead yet. He came to my lodging at Vitelli’s headquarters yesterday.’

  ‘He survived the fire? The devil looks after his own!’

  They travelled on across the plain with their escorts for some leagues. Hawkwood’s men enjoyed a brief skirmish with outlying troops from Pisa and afterwards accompanied the convoy through the forest as far as the foothills to the north. Once they had got them safely out of reach of immediate danger they rode alongside the wagons to say goodbye.

  Jack Black, teeth flashing in the thicket of his wild black beard, yelled and lifted his big, mailed fist. His men followed his example, raising their own fists in a valedictory salute, before kicking their horses into a gallop and streaming off after their captain.

  Soon they were no more than a cloud of dust on the horizon. Hildegard watched until it faded. They were riding off to their deaths without a care. Maybe fortune would smile on them, she thought, and they would survive long enough to enjoy the spoils of war.

  III

  The land lay under a pall of fog as
the ship breasted the overfalls at the mouth of the Humber. It looked like a brushstroke, with only a strip of pale sand visible through the mist as they approached. It was Hildegard’s first sight of England for three months. On the muddy dockside at Ravenser, armed men were waiting for the ship to make fast. Not Hutton men, they wore the blue marsh dragon of Roger’s banished brother-in-law, Sir William of Holderness.

  The captain was the first to be allowed ashore. He was summoned before the serjeant to give a full inventory of his cargo.

  ‘Nothing but tinplate, trays, dinanderie. Look for yourselves.’ He was brusque, adding that he wanted nothing more than to get home to his brats, his wife and her cooking. Nevertheless, the ship was inspected from bow to stern, the import duty unhurriedly assessed.

  Then the foot passengers, Hildegard and her hounds, a merchant – in truth no more than a pedlar – and a pair of pilgrims were allowed to follow the captain ashore. One of the pilgrims fell to his knees as soon as his feet touched the ground, uttering rhapsodic thanks for his safe return. The rest of them passed quickly through the ranks of militia clutching their personal baggage and drawing no attention to themselves. An escort waited for Hildegard with hired horses. They set out for the priory of Swyne.

  Chapter Twenty

  HILDEGARD WENT STRAIGHT to an audience with the prioress as soon as she arrived. She found her in her private chapel. Its plain clean lines were pleasing after the opulence of Florence.

  The prioress stepped forward as soon as she appeared. ‘Welcome home, child. You’ve done well. Is that it in your bag?’

  Hildegard reached into the leather bag that had scarcely left her side on the long journey from Florence. She withdrew the cross. ‘The inscription on the back proves its authenticity,’ she said.

  The prioress unwrapped it and held it in both hands. Her eyes glittered. ‘The price?’

  Silently Hildegard took out the bill of exchange from inside her belt and handed it over.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The custodian would accept no payment. He claimed it would sully the meaning of the cross to use it in a commercial transaction.’

  ‘You mean he gave it to us?’

  ‘Not exactly. Before I left the canons agreed that we are to be its guardians for a fixed period and when it expires we must return it. It was the sacristan’s idea.’

  ‘This is most generous. A rare thing these days. I must send my deepest thanks to this monk and—’

  ‘It will not be possible, Mother.’

  Hildegard’s eyes filled with tears. And then she told her prioress the whole story of her journey, leaving nothing out.

  ‘The sacristan was an old man,’ she told her in conclusion. ‘He had a pure unwavering vision of good. He believed his life was not worth much now as it was nearly over – he had spent it, he said – but spiritual capital accrues from the value of our deeds and cannot be bought and sold. He believed that whoever held guardianship of the cross must understand this and use its power for the benefit of everyone.’

  Deep in thought, the prioress placed the cross next to her own small, hand-hewn one on the altar and looked at it in silence.

  Outside the window the branch of a tree tapped now and again against the new glass as if to remind them of the passage of time.

  ‘I confess I am truly sick at heart, Mother,’ Hildegard was forced to admit. ‘The cross has cost so much bloodshed. If it should not bring peace then it will have been in vain.’

  ‘We are players in a game of chance,’ reproved the prioress, coming out of her reverie. ‘We must all submit to the game or weary ourselves like birds dashing themselves against the bars of a cage. We can only do what we must, in ignorance of the greater plan.’

  ‘That may be true but it does little to assuage my sorrow at the death of Sir Talbot. Unlike the monk, he had all his life before him.’

  The prioress bowed her head. ‘I feel his death more than you can know. But,’ she said, ‘what’s done is done.’ Her tone became deliberately matter-of-fact. ‘There were great changes while you were away. For one thing – you must have noticed this at Ravenser – Sir William has been reinstated.’

  ‘By Lord Roger?’ Hildegard asked. There was no understanding Roger’s caprices.

  ‘No. He was brought back by Gaunt. Roger was overruled by our great lord of Lancaster. Can you imagine it? Roger hasn’t stopped ranting since.’

  ‘But why should Gaunt interfere?’

  ‘Because he’s frightened. He doesn’t know whom to trust. Many who escaped retribution in Kent and Essex fled north. The people of York and Beverley are in a violent mood. The archbishop made things worse by imposing petty restrictions on the canons at St John’s and has had to flee to Scarborough Castle for safety.’

  ‘To Scarborough?” she exclaimed. ‘But that’s where Sir Ralph Standish has been made steward.’

  ‘Yes – as a reward for killing Tyler. Everyone’s in a foment over it.’

  ‘So the archbishop and Standish are allies?’

  ‘Who said anything about allies?’ The prioress looked amused. ‘And do you really imagine the canons can frighten Archbishop Neville? There’s more behind it than we know.’

  Leaving the cross on the altar the prioress walked towards the door, the audience over. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there have been changes at Meaux as well, all of them sanctioned by the lord abbot.’ She fixed a careful glance on Hildegard to observe her response.

  ‘Changes for the better, then?’ she suggested.

  ‘Some might say so, although I understand that most of the brothers have a different view.’

  ‘Why, what’s been happening?’

  ‘They’re being sent out to the fields to do the work usually done by the conversi, for one thing. Even the prior is not exempt!’

  Hildegard tried to imagine the delicate-looking prior and his fastidious regard for cleanliness with mud under his nails.

  ‘And they’re allowed only one habit and one cloak,’ the prioress continued, ‘no undergarments of course, unless it’s a hair shirt, and only one meal a day, and then only two courses. No meat, naturally, and ale, not wine.’

  ‘The lord abbot does have an austere side,’ Hildegard remarked. ‘In the snow last winter he wore sandals all the time. The brothers followed suit, though out of reverence, I believe, and not at his insistence.’

  ‘You think there’s nothing wrong in bringing simplicity into daily life. I agree with you but Hubert de Courcy goes further than that. In fact, many are saying he goes further than the devil himself.’ The prioress looked grim for a moment. ‘Of course, he may be forced to it against his will at the behest of Avignon. The change in him seems to have taken place soon after that visit of the papal envoy last November. But, from what I hear, the pope doesn’t go without luxuries so why should he expect his monastics to do so?’

  ‘I thought the abbot seemed much the same after the envoy’s visit,’ Hildegard ventured.

  ‘I thought so at first but I can’t think of any other reason why he should go to—’ She frowned. ‘To such extremes of self-punishment.’

  ‘Self-punishment?’

  ‘Beyond the norm.’

  As the prioress opened the door she said, ‘I expect you’ll want to get over to the guest house and have a word with Lord Roger’s steward about the minstrel you told me about.’

  Hildegard turned. ‘Is Ulf here?’

  ‘He is indeed.’

  Hildegard hurried over to the guest quarters. They were small, no more than a couple of bedchambers, a hall and a kitchen, as there were few visitors in this backwater of the Riding and those who did brave the marshes tended to stay in the more lavish house at Meaux.

  Ulf was leaning over a stable door when she found him, admiring a fine-looking mare in the stall.

  ‘Hildegard!’ He turned with a smile of delight when he saw her and without thinking swept her up into his arms. She disengaged herself and said, ‘I’m pleased to see you, Ulf. I’m gl
ad you got back safely.’

  He stepped away, aware of his impropriety. ‘Likewise,’ he mumbled. ‘I was just looking at this mare here. It’s a present for Lady Melisen from Lord Roger.’

  ‘I’ve got her pearl sleeves and some trinkets she ordered,’ she told him. ‘Maybe you’ll take them back to Hutton for me?’

  ‘No need. She and Roger are already on their way over to Meaux. They’re to stay at the abbey so they can be on hand to attend the court when it sits.’

  ‘The court?’

  ‘The hearing for Reynard’s murderer. The authorities are determined to punish somebody for it and—’

  ‘And Pierrekyn?’

  ‘I got your letter.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Things didn’t go well in Flanders. They had to render the body down before they’d allow us to bring the remains back home.’ He looked wretchedly into her face. ‘I swear, Hildegard, I examined the body with a fine-tooth comb, together with a leech who was well thought of in Bruges. We found nothing. One stab wound. Lots of blood. Nothing to show who wielded the knife. Embalming the body and trying to get it back through customs was not an option. It would have told us nothing more to have him lying in the mortuary at Meaux. We did everything we could.’

  ‘So what about Pierrekyn? Why is he being held?’

  ‘He’s the only suspect. Lord Roger’s bound by the monastic court because the body was found on abbey land. The abbot has to preside at the first hearing and if they think they’ve got enough evidence it’ll go on to the secular court.’ He paused. ‘Unluckily for Pierrekyn, the coroner only cares about getting a result. It’s out of my hands.’

  ‘But surely somebody knows who really murdered Reynard. There were a lot of people in and out of the wool-sheds that day. Somebody must have seen something.’