Chapter Twenty-five
IT WAS AFTER prime. The custodian of the cloisters went round checking all the doors of the chapter house to make sure they were locked so that no one could enter. He did it with the bored expression of a man who has done the same thing many times and never found a variation to the chore.
Everyone down below on the floor of the chapter house bowed as the abbot passed through their ranks. Then the prior came forward, kissed the abbot’s hand and made a bow of his own. One of the brothers climbed up into the pulpit and read the martyrology for the day, and a priest followed, reading certain psalms and collects in a dull, flat voice. After that he read out the part of the Rule assigned for the day.
Next there was a reading of the tables of names and the duties allotted for the week; after that came a sermon, preached by the abbot in what seemed to Hildegard, from her secret vantage point on the balcony that ran round the building, a subdued manner compared to his rant of recent days.
The whole ritual was carried out in such an orderly and prosaic manner that she began to think the rumours she had heard were nothing more than malicious exaggerations.
Then the novices and conversi processed out. The doors were locked once more and she was suddenly aware of a subtle change of atmosphere. She felt a tingle of fear.
One of the brothers stepped forward to confess some minor faults and ask for forgiveness. One or two others followed. The circator listed the misdemeanours he had observed on his rounds and then the abbot himself stood up.
Making his way to the steps of the altar, he prostrated himself and began to make confession in general formulaic terms, his Latin so rapid and subdued that Hildegard had to strain to catch any of it, and then he pronounced punishment on himself. He rose and shrugged off his habit as far as the waist.
Hildegard stifled a cry of consternation. His back was a mass of bloody welts. As Roger had said, he had been flogged and recently too, for some of his wounds were beginning to bleed again as the flesh opened when his muscles flexed.
Now she watched in mounting horror as the prior and the other senior official produced their scourges. The prior was first. Taking delicate steps to where his abbot knelt, he brought down the leather thong with its metal studs across Hubert’s back. At once a scarlet welt sprang up. Beads of blood appeared from reopened wounds. Hubert did not flinch.
One by one the others stepped forward to bring their scourges down.
She could see Hubert tense before each lash but otherwise he did not move. He was silent. There was no sound in the chapter house at all other than the irregular crack of the scourges. When they stopped she leaned forward in time to catch Hubert’s broken command. ‘More,’ he said.
The prior brought one hand up to his face, shook his head, took a deep breath, and stepped forward again. The others followed. She noticed that when the cellarer turned away he had his eyes shut.
Still Hubert did not get up.
The prior said, ‘The Rule is we do not cease until the abbot bids us do so.’ He looked uncertainly at his fellows but Hubert, overhearing him, croaked, ‘Continue.’
Once again the prior brought down his scourge and again the others followed. After the fourth or fifth succession Hubert’s back was a mass of bloody meat. Gouts of blood dripped onto the tiles and one or two footprints encrimsoned the floor around him.
The cellarer flung down his scourge. ‘Brother Mark, as hospitaller, would you now advise overriding the abbot in this?’
Brother Mark went forward and bending his head said something to Hubert. The abbot shook his head but, turning to face the rest of them, Mark said, ‘Enough. He has duties to perform and we need him alive.’
Slumping back in her hiding place Hildegard felt waves of nausea take over. She closed her eyes and fought to steady her urge to cry out.
What crime could lead to the need for such punishment? Surely only murder could be deemed sufficiently heinous to demand it? She tried to recall every incident that had arisen regarding the death of Reynard. Hubert had given no indication of involvement and yet there was no better way of concealing guilt than by pretending concern.
It occurred to her that he might have already been tried by his brothers in chapter after confessing his guilt, and this was how his penance was being meted out. Only the senior obedientiaries would share in the knowledge. Their deliberations would be kept secret from the rest of the brotherhood.
She leaned forward again to peer through the wooden tracery. Below her Hubert was being helped to his feet, the hospitaller on one side, the cellarer on the other. The prior led the remaining members outside while the abbot struggled back into his habit. It must be agonising to have that rough cloth next to such wounds, she thought.
Waiting until everyone had left, she made her way shakily down the narrow steps from the loft and, after a quick look to make sure she was unobserved, let herself out into the garth.
The bell for the next office would start to toll soon. After that Hubert would have to appear in the chapter house again and there, at the scene of his humiliation, he would be forced to conduct the business of the court as if nothing had happened to him. She shuddered and made her way towards the guest house.
A group of servants Hildegard did not recognise were running about in the kitchens as she passed. The tang of baking bread reminded her of the intruder in her cell and she put her head round the door. Two bakers in the colours worn by Coppinhall were squabbling. The clerk of the kitchen came up to greet her and turned to see what had caught her attention.
‘Never at peace, those two. I’ll be glad when they’ve gone.’
‘Are they here with the Justice?’ she asked.
‘Yes and he’s welcome to them. Is there anything I can get you, Sister?’
‘Just water, if you please,’ she replied. Her mouth was dry at what she had just witnessed.
He sent a boy to fetch a ewer and she had already set off with it when there was a commotion from the cloisters. A moment later servants appeared, running at the double from all corners of the garth. The clerk came out onto the steps. ‘What’s the to-do?’ he called to her.
‘I can’t tell.’ She handed back the ewer, saying, ‘Is it an accident of some sort? I’d better go and see.’
Bunching up the hem of her habit, she set off across the garth. When she arrived there was a lot of shouting going on between Coppinhall and several other men. A few monks and conversi were standing by, saying nothing.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked one of them.
‘It’s the prisoner,’ a monk told her. ‘He’s escaped.’ The monk-bailiff, although roundly abused in the most intemperate language probably ever heard within the precincts of the abbey, was standing silently with a face as expressionless as a piece of York stone.
Soon there was quite a crowd round the door of the prison. When one of the men came stamping out to confirm that the cell was indeed empty, Coppinhall said he was going to raise the hue and cry. His followers went at once to arm themselves. By the time some of them were returning with staves and horses had been brought from the stables, Hildegard had managed to glean a little more.
The monk-bailiff had been in attendance on the prisoner all night but when he came to open the cell just now he had found it empty. No one had seen the prisoner escape.
Coppinhall was in a foaming rage. ‘Did you leave your post, Brother?’ he barked accusingly at the bailiff again.
‘Only once to answer a call of nature,’ replied the monk blandly.
‘So how in God’s name did he get out?’ fumed the Justice. ‘Can he walk through walls? Or,’ he glared around, ‘has the little turd got accomplices?’ He glowered at the brethren as if expecting one of them to come forward and confess.
When no one answered he grated, ‘I expect your abbot to deal with this in the severest possible manner and if he doesn’t there’s going to be trouble.’
The bailiff inclined his head but to Hildegard, standing quite close by, he looked less contrite
than satisfied.
Coppinhall’s attention was taken up with organising the men forced by law to join in the hunt. This included everybody except the monks. The conversi were expected to turn to and they stood about in a milling little mob, looking uncomfortably at their staves. Coppinhall had even had the guests roused out of their lodgings. The arrival of the hounds added to the commotion.
Hildegard hurried over to the kennels to release Duchess and Bermonda, calling to one of the grooms to fetch her a suitable hireling as she did so. Accompanied by her own hounds she returned to the stable just as Sir Ralph was riding out.
‘Are those bitches of yours astute enough to tell the difference between a stag and a man?’ he demanded.
‘I expect so,’ she replied.
‘We’ll soon see!’
He was joined by Lady Sibilla on her silver mare. ‘Sister,’ she called as Ralph kicked his mount forward, ‘a word.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You say you saw Master Escrick alive?’
‘I did, my lady.’
‘Where and when do you think you saw him?’
‘I think I saw him on the quayside at Ravenser and I believe that he travelled on the last ship to leave for Flanders. I very definitely saw him as we left Bruges.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ she demanded, suspiciously.
‘I am. He jumped up beside me on the wagon in which I was travelling.’
‘And you spoke?’
‘He did. He threatened me.’
‘Why on earth would he threaten you?’
‘I believe he was angered by the fact that I had caused him to be accused of murder, with the unfortunate events that followed.’
Sibilla looked askance and had the grace to blush. ‘And you saw him after that?’
‘Yes, in Florence, and we talked again.’
Without another word Sibilla rode from the yard.
By the time Hildegard joined the hue and cry they were already streaming through the abbey gates. Ulf was roaring orders like a man possessed. She watched in astonishment. He began to discuss Pierrekyn’s likely destination with Coppinhall.
‘He’s as likely to go north towards Hutton as anywhere,’ he was saying. ‘It’s the one place he knows in the county and it’s likely he has friends of similar persuasion up there. Failing that, my guess is he’ll try to take ship at Ravenser or Hull and flee the country again.’
Coppinhall seemed impressed by this analysis and ordered his men to get moving, sending one posse northwards to comb the woodland that stretched as far as Hutton and another across the marshes towards the river ports and the coast.
Melisen, astride the frisky little Danish mare, said worriedly, ‘I hope I don’t find him, Roger. I wouldn’t know what to do. I could never turn him over to these ruffians.’
‘What you’d do is tell me of course,’ Roger replied. ‘But don’t worry, my little martlet, you won’t have to make the decision yourself I’m going to be right beside you.’ They both followed at a sedate pace behind those on foot.
Ulf came over to Hildegard as the hunters began to press under the arch and swarm onto the foregate. ‘What about you, Hildegard? Which way are you going?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, somewhat amazed and confused by his current performance.
He spoke quietly. ‘It’s my honest guess he’ll try to make for York. Brother Mark told me in confidence that he might be wearing a habit that just happened to be lying around next to a helping of wastel and a knife.’
She was shocked. ‘You mean—?’
‘Don’t say it out loud. Walls have ears.’ He glanced round. Only Sir William remained behind. He was fondling the hawk on his wrist and appeared indifferent to the excitement.
Ulf strode over to him. ‘Not joining the hunt, Sir William?’
‘I like a manhunt, nothing better. But my horse is lame. I might follow on foot,’ he added. ‘What about you, steward? Aren’t you going out?’
‘I have to let the abbot know what’s happening, then I’ll follow on.’ With a nod to Hildegard, Ulf strode off across the garth. The monks, without permission to leave, stood around in gossiping groups while the bailiff stationed himself at the door of his now empty prison with his arms folded.
Her hounds close beside her, Hildegard led her hireling onto the foregate. There was no one to see her go. The hunters had fanned out over the countryside and were now mere specks of colour in the distance. The road towards Beverley was almost empty, with only one or two followers checking the canal bank in a half-hearted fashion.
The bailiff had claimed that his call of nature was in the early hours, well after lauds, and it was assumed that Pierrekyn must have made his escape after that. If so, he would be well out of the vicinity by now and there was no glory in wasting time looking in places where he would not be.
‘He’ll not linger round here,’ one of the men declared as she passed. She saw them give up and turn back to join the others.
She imagined where Pierrekyn would go to seek safety. He had mentioned Reynard’s friend, his namesake, now a corrodian in York. It was likely that he would look for protection there.
Everyone had heard of Pierrekyn Gyles, the king’s minstrel.
For a clerk, Reynard had had some unexpected associates.
The ride took her through thick woodland once she had left behind the farmed land belonging to the abbey. Leaves of oak, beech, ash and rowan formed a veil of fragile green over the wet bark. Now and then a blaze of blackthorn stood out, past its best, a reminder that spring was almost over and summer was approaching at last.
The track led deep into the wild wood. A magpie flew through the branches, calling for a mate; a robin pecked viciously at a newly fledged sparrow, the tiny bird too far gone for help. Death defeated life on all sides, she thought, even here in the beguiling beauty of the woods.
She called in the hounds. If she was to reach York by nightfall she needed to increase her pace.
By now the sound of the hue and cry had faded and except for the beat of her horse’s hooves and the natural sounds of the countryside she rode on in silence until she came to a division in the path. One lane continued through the woods to join the king’s highway in the direction of York while three others went on to different manors. The fifth was the turning onto the road for Beverley. She reined to an indecisive halt.
If Pierrekyn was on foot he could not reach York before her. Calculating the possible speed of his escape she reckoned that he could not be much further on than Beverley. There was a chance that he might have tried to get into the town when the gates were opened that morning, mingling with the suppliers bringing produce to market. There was one other reason for him to choose this route.
She turned her horse’s head. There was nothing to be lost. If she drew a blank she would ride on to York. Beverley it was. She set off at a gallop.
After only a quarter of a mile her horse stumbled and one of its shoes came flying off. She gave way to a most un-nunlike curse and pulled up. Sliding out of the saddle, she found the shoe in the long grass not far off. With a good two miles to go there was nothing for it but to walk. Calling the hounds in again she set off, leading the hireling by its reins.
There were few other travellers at this time of day. Most would have been up and about at dawn and would now be busy at their destination before returning to their manors before sunset. She was surprised, then, to hear the drumming of hooves in the distance coming from the direction of Meaux.
She led the horse under the cover of some trees and waited to see who would appear. If it was the hue and cry her fears for Pierrekyn might again be justified and she dreaded to see John Coppinhall in his dagged turban riding at the head of his armed retinue.
It was a relief when a figure in the bleached habit of a Cistercian appeared at the far end of the lane. As he came nearer could she see that it was Hubert de Courcy himself and, astonishingly, he rode alone.
Riding fast, when he caught sight of her he tugged his horse
to a rearing halt and called down, ‘So, you haven’t found him.’
He has followed me.
The suspicions planted by the prioress – that he was a spy in the pay of Avignon and a supporter of Gaunt – and Roger’s cryptic remarks all came flooding back. Stifling the fear of finishing up like Reynard, she shook her head. ‘As you see. I’m alone.’
Chapter Twenty-six
ULF MUST HAVE told the abbot where she was going. He would not realise that Hubert despite his promise to delay matters could have a vested interest in silencing the boy after all, just as he might have had the clerk silenced. Now, when Hubert asked her what had made her leave the rest of the pursuers and strike out alone, she could offer only a feeble explanation.
‘Everyone else is covering the marshes and the Hutton woods. I thought I would try elsewhere.’
‘Nothing more?’ It was clear he did not believe her. He gave her a piercing stare. ‘I wondered whether you thought he might seek sanctuary in Beverley as it’s closer than York. He might have heard about the sanctuary stone in the minster, the one they call the frid-stool. He might hope to seek the protection it would afford.’
She went cold. ‘I believe you can read my mind, my lord abbot. Some would accuse you of necromancy.’
‘Let’s ride on then,’ he said, ‘and see if we’re right.’
He was about to urge his mount forward when she said, ‘My horse has thrown a shoe.’
To her surprise he dismounted, somewhat stiffly, and threw the reins over his horse’s back. ‘Then I’ll walk with you.’
There was no reason for him not to go on ahead. Indeed, it would surely suit his purpose to reach the boy before she did. Apprehensively, she fell into step beside him.
Banks of hawthorn rose on either side of the lane. The buds were just beginning to open and the air was filled with a strong, sweet scent like incense. Every step reminded Hildegard of the bloody wounds the abbot bore but he concealed any sign of pain. She stole a surreptitious glance at his expression. It was as severe as ever, closed over the privacy of his thoughts. They walked on for some time in silence.
The Red Velvet Turnshoe Page 25
