He shook his head. ‘If they have, they’re keeping quiet.’
‘Surely Roger can’t allow Pierrekyn to stand trial?’
‘He says his hands are tied.’
Hildegard remembered her conversation with Ser Vitelli when he explained the details of the contract Roger had made with the earl and again she thought how useful it would be for Roger if the man who drew it up was out of the way. It was not a suspicion she could share with Ulf.
‘Pierrekyn must be beside himself with fear,’ she said.
‘He’s being held on the basis of hearsay. People are letting their imaginations run riot. I said as much to Roger and got bawled out for it.’
‘But what if I have evidence that proves it could not have been Pierrekyn?’
‘Then you must attend as witness for the defence.’ He gave her a close look. ‘Have you such evidence?’
‘I may have. I need to check something first.’
‘You hinted at something in your letter—’
‘I can’t say anything just yet. I don’t want to raise false hopes. I’m astonished no word has filtered through to identify the real culprit.’
‘So am I,’ he said with feeling. ‘I believe it was an act committed by a professional.’ He frowned. ‘But enough of that for the moment.’ His voice took on a more personal tone. ‘It is good to see you back safe and sound, you know. We heard about Sir Talbot from Vitelli’s courier. It must have been even harder after that.’
‘Talbot was without fault. It’s an outrage that he should have been killed and in such a cowardly way too.’
‘They’re going to miss him in France this summer. He was a hero of the tournaments.’
‘On the way back I spoke to the prior of the hospice where the body was taken by the maronniers. They’d already built a small shrine where he was killed and they’re going to keep it stocked with provisions for anyone caught on the mountains in a storm. I told them I’d had to leave his sword in the snow but that his lady would probably like to have it. They told me it would come to light in the spring melt and they would send it to her.’
She told him about Escrick, and Ulf reminded her that he would escape punishment so long as he remained overseas. She told him as much about the rest of her journey as she could without mentioning the cross of Constantine. It would soon be in the hands of the archbishop and it would be for him to decide how he unveiled it to the world at large. For the time being it was safely in the keeping of the prioress.
‘Let Pierrekyn know I’m back and not to give up hope,’ she said as they parted.
Ulf raised a hand in acknowledgement but then hesitated. ‘Hildegard … they’ve told you about Hubert de Courcy, have they?’
‘He’s the lord abbot, Ulf. It’s his duty to purify the Rule!’ Smiling, she went on her way.
In her cell Hildegard unpacked her bags and tried to bring some order to the resulting disarray as if it might also help order her thoughts.
Opening out the embroidered kerchief, she took out the piece of blue cloth and the ring. The cloth she had accounted for. Soon everyone would know what it meant. The ring was another matter.
It was in the shape of a silver wyvern with something black like Whitby jet in its mouth. She turned it over. After a while she placed it back inside the kerchief, which itself was a mystery, and turned to the parcel she had picked up on her way through Flanders.
Melisen’s pearl sleeves were heavy with the tiny pearls and other jewels sewn on laboriously over many hours of painstaking work and she held them up to admire them. Rewrapping them, she turned to the twelve brooches, white harts fashioned in gold and white enamel with pearls in the harts’ antlers and, as the goldsmith had observed, forming a most pretty design.
They too were another small mystery and perhaps it was merely Melisen’s frivolity that had led her to choose such a potent symbol. She put them with the rest of the things to be taken to Meaux.
Finally she opened her missal. The document was safe inside where she had hidden it. More copies would have to be made and disseminated if its purpose was to be fulfilled. The idea was a dangerous one. She considered the perils of engaging with the Rising. Civil war was to be abhorred and yet the truth must be told.
Chapter Twenty-one
AFTER NONES NEXT day Hildegard set out for the abbey. She went on foot across the marsh, picking her way by means of a narrow path linking the priory at Swyne with Meaux. The water bubbling along the brimming ditches was the only sound to break the silence.
Soon she noticed a figure in the flat landscape. It was a monk, wearing a habit that had once been white but was now covered in mud. He seemed to be trying to rescue a ewe from where it lay in the marsh. Up to his knees in muddy water, his habit flapping round his knees, he was intent on his task as she approached.
‘Hail, Brother!’ She began to wade over to give him a hand but when he looked up she gasped in alarm. ‘Thomas! Is it you?’
Instead of the jaunty, bright-eyed novitiate she remembered from last November, a pale, hollowed-eyed man looked back.
‘Sister Hildegard! What a pleasure to see you. So you’re back from pilgrimage?’
‘Indeed. But first let me give you a hand. What ails the ewe?’
He sighed. ‘Best keep away. We brought a flock over from the North Riding. They didn’t seem to like the different herbage and many of them have died but now I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t the murrain that afflicts them. God defend us if it is.’
He succeeded in rolling the sheep over but it was too feeble to rise unaided.
‘We’ve lost so many of our flock last winter. First in the snows, then in the floods, and now this. It seems it’ll never end.’
‘My poor dear brother, is there no one here to help you?’
‘This is my penance, according to the lord abbot. It’s my duty to work alone in this,’ he stretched out his arms to encompass the bleak circle of the horizon, ‘and only then shall I know the true meaning of humility.’ He gave a wry smile.
Hildegard noticed that his hands were shaking. ‘Have you eaten today?’ she asked.
‘I have had my allotted rations, yes, thank you.’
‘But were they enough?’
‘Enough?’ His laugh was hollow. ‘I stand. I speak. Were they not enough?’
She stepped closer. ‘Thomas, you know me well. Tell me, what ails you?’
‘In truth, Sister, I know not. I suffer an affliction of the soul. Nothing we brothers do is good enough for the lord abbot. His new regimen is harsh beyond measure. But no doubt we think so because we’ve become soft with corruption and know nothing of true piety.’ His glance was pained. ‘I can do nothing right in his eyes. I am truly a most miserable sinner. I have no hope of redemption.’
‘That cannot be true. I know you as a forthright and vigorous upholder of right action. What brings you to such straits?’
‘I’m at fault even for speaking to you, a woman, even though a sister of the Order.’ He bit his lip. ‘I fear I shall not survive long enough to achieve my desire to become a monk. I am at my end. My will is weak. I am unworthy.’ He turned away. His spoke in such defeated tones she put out a hand.
‘Wait, Thomas, let me help you lift this poor creature onto the bank. I’m sure the lord abbot would not despise my help.’
The young brother’s hands were blue with cold, the knuckles shining with chilblains. Their usual inkstains had been replaced by the cuts and weals of physical labour. His hair, which usually stuck up where he had raked his fingers through it as he worked on his parchments in the scriptorium, was cut brutally short and lay flat and lifeless against his skull.
As they hauled the heavy body of the sheep onto drier ground, Thomas’s words aroused a feeling of foreboding. Ever since she had arrived back at Swyne people had mentioned Hubert’s changed manner, his adoption of a harsher regimen. Now she was seeing its effect. Thomas was the best of men. Yet he had been brought to depths of despair she could not have
imagined.
They dragged the sheep out of the water. Its yellow eyes were half closed, its wool thick, at its winter weight. The thin legs stuck out touchingly like spindles as it lay on its side, panting for breath.
‘Murrain,’ she confirmed. ‘Have others suffered in the same way?’
‘This is the first I’ve found. Let’s hope the watercourses that separate the flocks will protect the rest of them.’
They watched in silence until the ewe gave one last grunt and then lay still. Thomas put a hand to his forehead to hide his face. Hildegard noticed that he was almost barefoot, his rope sandals offering no protection at all from the bitterly cold water in which he stood. Mud caked his legs up to the knees and the hem of his robe was heavy with yellowish loam.
‘Come back to Meaux and warm yourself,’ she suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I cannot. I have to stay here until the light goes. I cannot shirk my duty.’
‘Does the lord abbot also suffer from this new regimen?’ she asked.
‘He suffers worse than any of us,’ said Thomas.
Hildegard wanted to probe further but the light was waning. She would discover the truth soon enough when she reached the abbey itself. ‘I didn’t leave Swyne until after nones,’ she explained. ‘I must go on. But promise me you’ll come on soon? Don’t leave it so late you have to make your way across the marsh in darkness.’
‘I shall come on soon, Sister. Thank you for your concern. I am quite unworthy of it.’
‘Nonsense, Thomas. You are as worthy as any man alive.’
There was no breath of wind to ripple the pools surrounding the abbey. It seemed to rest on the surface of the water as on a reflecting glass. Everything was doubled. Two abbeys, she thought, the one I left, full of the joy of good work, and the one to which I return, a crucible of punishing reform.
She went into the guest-master’s office.
‘Cell vacant on the first floor,’ he told her abruptly, avoiding her glance. ‘Second one along.’ Surprised by his unfriendly manner, she set off to find it.
The whole place was full. Servants wearing Lord Roger’s red and gold livery were hurrying about with long faces instead of their usual good humour. Other retinues were represented by the blue marsh dragon of Sir William and the green and silver lozenge of Lady Sibilla and Sir Richard – but there was one livery she had not expected to see, the silver and azure bands worn by Gaunt’s men.
Our great lord of the North, as the prioress ironically referred to him. She shivered with what it might portend.
The new bell, recently cast, was calling everyone to the next office. Files of monks shuffled along the cloisters towards the church. Servants and conversi followed. Hildegard hurried up to the cell the guest-master had allotted her, dropped her bag on the bed, threw her cloak over it, and hurried out again.
Hubert de Courcy would have to be faced. It would be better to meet him now in the harmony of the penultimate office of the day rather than later when he would be taken up with his duties as host to the visitors.
She recalled his coldness the last time they had met and the sorrow with which she had left Meaux for Tuscany. As she crossed the garth towards the church she felt a rising dread at the prospect of meeting him again.
The church doors were already closed. The thin sound of a small choir came from inside. Hildegard turned the heavy iron door-pull as carefully as she could and opened the door a crack. The place was full to the walls. Dipping her head, she slid inside, pressed the door shut, and glanced swiftly around.
The choir were singing a very plain unadorned ave, not at all in their usual ornate style, and there were so few of them she wondered whether Hubert had sent the choristers out into the fields as well.
In the stalls where the choir usually stood were the guests, those from Castle Hutton, Scarborough and Holderness, and one or two she did not recognise. The prior was holding forth in his mellifluous tones, directing his words entirely to them as if the rest of the church was empty. With a mass of servants from the different households crowding at the back, Hildegard had to edge to one side to get a better view between their heads.
Melisen stood out as usual. She wore a fur-trimmed gown of crimson velvet and a jewelled fillet, her hair caught up in a crispinette of filigree silver. One of Gaunt’s men stood beside her. Lord Roger was nowhere to be seen.
Giving Melisen black looks was Lady Sibilla, her hair pulled elegantly back under a beaded headband, with her husband, Sir Ralph, by her side in a hat with a tall crown and a feather held by a large enamel brooch. Hildegard was surprised to see them here. It would be difficult for Roger to forgive their treachery – Sir Ralph had claimed to be heir to the de Hutton estates on behalf of a baby who turned out to be neither their child nor, in fact, a boy – and Lord Roger was not a forgiving man.
Hildegard was further astonished to see Roger’s brother-in-law, William of Holderness, master of the port at Ravenser by virtue of his marriage to Roger’s sister Avice, and of many other lands besides. But, surprisingly, his wife was not with him although she rarely let William out of her sight. After the debacle last November when William had tried to take Castle Hutton, he and Avice had been banished. Yet here was William, as large as life. No wonder Roger had kept away.
There was another familiar face among those at the front. Ulf was sitting somewhat aloof from the rest of the de Hutton party and appeared to be lost in thought. When everybody stood for the entrance of the abbot he had to be prodded in the back by one of his servants to jerk him to his feet.
Hildegard felt a shiver run through her as the lord abbot, wearing the traditional white habit of a Cistercian, proceeded down the aisle towards the altar. Instead of his usual splendid silk cope, Hubert wore a plain one of rather threadbare staymyn. He moved differently, too, as if recovering from a long illness, and when he reached the steps of the altar he seemed to stagger slightly. The prior put out a hand.
She watched closely to see whether she could discern from this distance what ailed the abbot. Lifting the chalice in shaking hands, he intoned the Latin in a resolute voice but his face, when he turned to face the congregation, was as pale as parchment. His cheekbones stood out as if the flesh had been dissolved although his eyes flashed as brilliantly as ever as he began to speak.
It was more like a rant than a sermon. Hubert railed against the sin of vanity, enough to make Melisen blush and Gaunt’s man fan himself with the edge of one dagged sleeve, although the servants at the back stood stoically enough. Next he railed against venery. There were sidelong looks. Ulf was staring at the floor. Only when Hubert started to declaim against lechery as the greatest of all sins did the servants begin to shuffle and nudge each other. Ulf lifted his head and stared at the abbot with a hard expression as if his thoughts were entirely elsewhere, the seated nobles shifted somewhat shamefaced; and Lady Sibilla and Sir Ralph exchanged secret smiles. Sir William stretched out his legs in their knee-high boots, frowned darkly and looked more like Satan than ever.
Interesting, thought Hildegard. She would have been amused at the different reactions of those she knew if Hubert’s rage had not been so alarming. His voice echoed around the pillars like thunder while among the servants there were by now many shifty glances and embarrassed grins as his condemnation rolled on.
No wonder poor Brother Thomas feels unworthy, she thought. Hubert’s making me feel guilty too and I know I’m innocent. Then, as if he had read her thoughts, Hubert’s voice dropped and in the silence it sounded like a snake’s hiss.
‘Salaciousness is a sin as much in the mind as in the body,’ he said, ‘in the thoughts as much as in the act itself, in the soul which it poisons as much as on the lips of the beloved. Man loves and loves what vanishes. Like a sot-witted fool he turns away from the true faith and prefers to wallow in the sink of corruption, calling it love, and we risk our immortal souls in the desire for one night with the sorceress who has bewitched us with her earthly wiles.’
It wen
t on in this vein for some time. When the congregation was finally released Hildegard was carried along by the crowd into the fresh air of the garth.
Night had fallen while they had been targets of the abbot’s accusations. Now they stood under a crisp canopy of stars with subdued looks and instead of passing the time in friendly banter began to separate at once to take up their duties again.
Hildegard felt as shaken as if she had been standing beneath a raging storm. There are changes at Meaux you will not believe. The prioress was right. But what on earth had caused such wildness of speech and such wholesale condemnation of guests and brethren alike?
She lingered in the courtyard until Ulf emerged. He had his head bent and did not see her at first.
‘Ulf!’ She pulled at his sleeve. His eyes lit up at once.
‘A flame of sanity in a mad world. Sister, thank heavens you’ve arrived. Are you coming over to the guest house? We can talk there.’
When they were comfortably ensconced in the small private sanctum reserved for the steward on his frequent visits to Meaux, Ulf poured them both a beaker of wine. Before speaking he took a long drink then refilled his own and topped up the one Hildegard was toying with. He went to sit on the bench opposite, rolling the clay bowl thoughtfully between his palms.
‘You first,’ he invited.
‘How long has he been like this?’ she asked without preamble.
‘Almost since you left. It started like a whirlwind from nowhere as far as anybody can make out. Maybe he had a vision. The brothers won’t say much. Won’t or can’t. He began by throwing out a couple of corrodians he thought were taking his hospitality for granted and spreading corruption. Then he made the novices start getting up an hour earlier for their lessons.’
‘The prioress told me there’d been changes. But why, Ulf? Is it a directive from the mother house in France?’
The Red Velvet Turnshoe Page 20
