The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  All around them birdsong rose from the hawthorn thickets as they passed. The scent of grass was released in a dizzying haze.

  Her suspicion that he had followed her to thwart her protection of Pierrekyn did not abate but an air of peace descended. She felt she could walk beside him for ever.

  One mile from the town they reached a place called Molescroft, the site of the first of the four sanctuary crosses that marked the graduated boundaries on the way to the safety of the frid-stool. They did not pause but walked on.

  ‘If they got as far as this and his pursuers decided to stop him, as is their right, they would risk a fine if he were later proved innocent,’ observed Hubert, breaking the silence. ‘His arrest, however, might be deemed cheap at the price.’

  ‘Cheap for some,’ she replied.

  His dark eyes flashed as if her remark had stung his conscience. ‘I was thinking of Coppinhall,’ he retorted. ‘A fine of four marks for stopping a sanctuary-seeker would be nothing to him. He takes enough in fines and taxes to make him a rich man.’

  She had no reply. He was right. As if she had continued her criticism, however, he said, ‘I know the abbeys are blamed for their wealth, and justly so. It seems we can’t help making money. But in return we use it to improve the lives of the poor. We help the sick. We do what good we can.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer but went on, ‘I intend to restore the purity of the Rule. The novices in particular are up in arms about the new discipline and see any restrictions on their wildness as unfair but if they’re to be worthy of the Order they need to submit to the Rule from the beginning. If they don’t like it they can leave. As for my brothers, they should welcome the chance to correct their former laxness: gluttony, sloth, backbiting, lack of charity, self-indulgence. Some of them seem to forget why they ever joined the Order. When my eyes were opened to what was happening I was shamed to think I had allowed conduct to decline so far. I will not have monks in my abbey living off the fat of the land, giving nothing in return—’ He broke off to give Hildegard a sidelong glance. ‘Apologies, Sister, these are problems for me alone to correct. Sermon over.’

  They walked on without saying anything more until they came to the line of booths set up outside the town walls. There were people everywhere. Traders shouted their wares. Customers bargained. Banter flew back and forth. The red-brick arch straddling the road was wide enough to allow passage of the wagons bringing produce to market. It was a toll-gate and the site of a further sanctuary stone.

  ‘So he slips through and his worth increases. Now his pursuer would have to pay sixteen marks to stop him,’ Hubert observed. ‘Still within Coppinhall’s pocket.’

  He searched the crowds going in and out. Hildegard wondered how many of them were maintained by Coppinhall and whether Hubert recognised anyone.

  ‘These fellows at the toll-booth might remember admitting Pierrekyn,’ she suggested as they approached.

  They were allowed to go through after a brief inspection of Bermonda’s claws, then Hubert addressed the constable on duty. ‘Anyone trying to seek sanctuary in the minster?’

  The man came forward with an interested expression and several of his companions joined him. ‘If you mean a young lad wearing a Cistercian habit several sizes too big for him, the answer’s yes,’ he told him.

  The others joined in describing in detail precisely what time Pierrekyn had appeared out of the mist that morning when the gates were unbarred.

  ‘Right panicked, he was,’ the constable continued. ‘Spent the night in a ditch by the look of him.’

  ‘What’s he accused of?’ asked another, pushing his way forward.

  ‘Some petty felony,’ replied Hubert vaguely. ‘Has he gone on without trouble then?’

  They exchanged glances. ‘You’ll no doubt find him in St John’s by the time you’ve fought your way through the crowd yourselves. It’s market day.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Hubert to Hildegard.

  They went on into the multitude flocking the streets.

  ‘We’ll get rid of our horses,’ Hubert decided after a few minutes of trying to force their way through. The stables were around the next corner past the parish church. After leaving them they took a short cut into the market place. The minster, St John’s, lay down a lane on the far side. The throng seemed more impenetrable than ever and Hildegard said, ‘The mummers must be here as well.’

  Hubert, taller than most, stared intently over the heads of the bystanders. He tapped her on the shoulder. ‘It’s not the mummers. Follow me.’

  Annoyed at his peremptory manner she tightened her grip on the leash restraining her hounds and followed, emerging in an open space that had formed in the middle of the crowd.

  On one side were four or five men-at-arms wearing a device Hildegard had never seen before. Opposite stood a rough-looking bunch of townsfolk, market traders, a butcher with a cleaver, a carpenter clutching a hammer, and several others wielding weapons of one kind or another. Behind this line, with a face like parchment, was Pierrekyn.

  For a moment nobody spoke.

  In the silence Hubert walked up to the men-at-arms and planted himself squarely in front of them. ‘This boy is seeking sanctuary as is his right. If you stop him now you’ll pay a hefty fine. Be aware of that.’

  ‘He might have a right to seek sanctuary but we have a right to stop him – by beheading if necessary.’ The leader of the group tapped the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Is that what you would do without knowing the details of the accused’s crime?’ asked Hubert mildly.

  The mob murmured and the man glanced furtively at his three companions.

  ‘Let him go, you bully-boys!’ shouted a woman in the crowd. Her neighbours chimed in and took up the chant in an increasing roar of dislike. The tradesmen facing the armed men flexed their muscles. It was clear they were itching for a fight.

  Unnoticed, Hildegard hurried to Pierrekyn’s side. ‘Do you know where the minster is?’ she asked.

  He shook his head as if too frightened to open his mouth.

  ‘Come with me then. Quick! The abbot will stop them.’

  Grasping Pierrekyn by the arm, she pulled him through the crush, bystanders parting to let them through, and she thought they had made good their escape until a mailed fist gripped her by the shoulder and dragged her to a halt. She looked up into the face of one of the armed men.

  ‘Go on, Pierrekyn!’ she shouted.

  He hesitated. The man released Hildegard as if to pursue the boy but just then Duchess launched herself silently through the air and landed squarely on the man’s back, bringing him to the ground in a clash of steel. He wore a breastplate under his tunic and a casque on his head, and the latter rang as it hit the cobblestones. He gasped as he found the muzzle of the lymer hovering inches from his face. The hound opened her jaw and brought it down in a grip that held him by the throat, revealed in all its vulnerability above the neck of his mail shirt.

  Bermonda yipped excitedly and threw herself on the fallen man, worrying at his armour until she found a gap of unprotected flesh.

  ‘No!’ ordered Hildegard, seeing what she was about to do. The little kennet looked up sadly and uttered a hungry growl. Hildegard went over. ‘Hold him, beauties, hold!’

  Pierrekyn was standing in a trance. Gripping him tightly by the arm, she pushed him ahead until they could run freely down one of the side streets towards the minster and the sanctuary of the frid-stool.

  Behind her she could hear shouting and the thump of wood on steel but without stopping she dragged Pierrekyn towards the church boundary.

  ‘Forty-eight marks!’ she exulted, to give him courage as they reached it, and then, when they were at the great studded door of the minster itself, she placed his hand flat on it in triumph. ‘Ninety-six marks if they stop you now! Those men-at-arms won’t want to risk a fine like that!’

  He was panting with fear. ‘I thought I was safe once I was inside the town walls.’

  ‘G
et in. Go on. You’ll be safe then.’ She put her shoulder to the doors to heave them open, then pushed him inside. Following, she leaned back to shut them with a grimace of relief.

  Two canons looked up from their reading. ‘Sanctuary?’ asked the quicker of the two, sizing up the situation.

  There was uproar outside. The second canon hurried over to the doors and hefted a great beam of wood into place.

  ‘Allow the abbot of Meaux entry,’ she suggested.

  The man nodded. He dragged a bench to a window near by so he could look out. ‘A rabble of townsfolk are coming into the yard. Are they the pursuers?’

  Hildegard shook her head. ‘Men-at-arms. Whose I know not.’

  ‘I see them. Two of them,’ he said. ‘And about forty or fifty market traders. They’re turning back, the armed ones,’ he said. ‘Or being turned back.’ He chuckled. ‘But I see your abbot in his white habit striding through the crowd. He’s here now.’

  The canon got down off his bench and hurried to lift the beam to allow Hubert to enter.

  ‘Are they safe?’ she heard him ask as she hurried Pierrekyn down the long nave.

  The sanctuary stool, known locally as the frith- or frid-stool, was made of an uneven lump of strange, dark stone with a curve in it like a seat. It stood next to the altar. When Pierrekyn caught sight of it he threw himself towards it with a cry and as soon as he sat down he burst into sobs, holding his head in his hands like a child.

  The first canon clucked around him helplessly. ‘Poor young fellow,’ he kept saying. ‘What can I do for him?’ After a moment he disappeared and returned with a brass cup containing water. ‘Here, young master, drink this.’

  The noise outside increased. It became a triumphant chant broken up by random cheers and Hildegard felt no surprise to hear a hurdy-gurdy start up, followed by some hearty singing.

  Hubert reached her side. ‘Who were those armed brutes?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve never seen their colours before.’

  His eyes narrowed and he moved away looking thoughtful.

  By now several officials of the minster had been summoned and they formed an excited group round Pierrekyn.

  ‘You’re outside the king’s writ here, boy,’ said the dean, a short, chubby fellow with the sharp glance of a schoolmaster. ‘But I must ask you some questions before we can accept you,’ he began. ‘First, have you already been convicted of any felony?’

  ‘Not yet,’ muttered Pierrekyn.

  ‘And are you armed?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just this knife for eating.’ He held out the red-handled knife Sir Talbot had given him. One of the dean’s clerks took it and made a record of it in a book open on the desk.

  Looking at Pierrekyn’s dishevelled appearance and the expression on his face, the dean turned to Hildegard. ‘You brought him here, Sister. What’s his reason for seeking sanctuary?’

  ‘He was arraigned at Meaux after an appeal but the charge was altered and Coppinhall, the Justice, wants him to be indicted by the presenting jury to await a commission of oyer and terminer. The boy doubts he’ll get a fair trial. As do I and several others,’ she added.

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ the dean said. ‘Do you know of any reason why he shouldn’t seek sanctuary?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Come then, young master, there are still a few more formalities. First, you need to make confession and swear to keep the peace.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Pierrekyn. With his dark russet curls awry and his guileless green eyes, the dean had no difficulty in believing him.

  ‘Then you’ll have to be enregistered.’

  He quickly went through the details. Hildegard paid the fee to the bailiff and Pierrekyn made the required promise to be faithful and true to the Archbishop of York and promised to carry out a few chores while he was in sanctuary.

  ‘In return we’ll lodge, feed and water you for forty days and forty nights. There’ll be a watch kept and we’ll send a messenger to inform the coroner of your presence as is the law.’

  ‘Is this the coroner from York?’ asked Hildegard.

  ‘It is.’ The dean threw her a subtle glance and she guessed why. She had already met up with the man on a previous occasion and was reluctant to repeat the experience.

  ‘He’s unlikely to show his face unless he’s told to do so by somebody higher up,’ remarked the dean. ‘Likely he’ll send that assistant of his.’

  Pierrekyn began to imagine the men-at-arms forcing their way in. ‘There’s nothing to stop them. Just a handful of unarmed churchmen!’

  The dean tried to calm him.

  ‘But look what happened at Westminster,’ he panicked. ‘Two men slain during high mass in front of the prior’s stall.’ He hung onto the sides of the frid-stool as if he would never let go and it was only when a couple of the vicars-choral came out from their chambers that he was moderately reassured.

  A group of them accompanied Pierrekyn into the dean’s office to finish his enregistration and while they were doing this Hubert took Hildegard to one side.

  ‘Now he’s safe we can leave. Will you have the horse you borrowed reshod and come on later?’

  ‘I would rather not leave Pierrekyn at this point. May I have permission to stay with him?’

  Without replying he went off towards the lady chapel. She watched him go inside and kneel before the altar.

  Pierrekyn had already gone through the formalities and returned to his place on the frid-stool when Hubert eventually emerged.

  He came over to Hildegard. ‘Stay. I’ll stay as well.’ He turned to one of the canons. ‘Can you take a message to Meaux? Tell the cellarer he’s in charge until I return.’

  The canon nodded and sped off.

  ‘Those were not Coppinhall’s men in the market place,’ he told her, ‘although they aroused as much animosity. Are you aware of the rumour attached to him?’

  ‘I heard there was some story,’ she replied, careful not to mention that it was Ulf who had related it.

  ‘He is said to have had an opponent murdered and the body thrown into the town ditch,’ he told her. ‘When he was appealed, the appealer disappeared as well. So much for the king’s justice.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It appears that Coppinhall exercises his own will in this place but I wonder who his allies are, who keeps him here, and how real his influence is?’

  Hildegard had nothing to contribute. She had an opinion but it was nothing more. Coppinhall’s unpopularity was not only due to the fact that he could literally get away with murder. It was his allegiance to the Duke of Lancaster that irked the populace of this Yorkshire town. Now that one of his allies, Sir Ralph Standish, was ensconced in Scarborough Castle there was bound to be friction. The role of the archbishop might be questioned also, she felt, despite her prioress’s contrary opinion.

  The hours passed. Outside in the minster yard the noise from the townsfolk continued although somewhat more sporadically. The hurdy-gurdy stopped and then a little later started up again. Pierrekyn had his hands over his ears to shut out the sound. His lute, which he had somehow managed to carry all this way, had been confiscated by the dean’s clerk but there were moves afoot to let him have it back.

  ‘It’s a most ungodly instrument,’ fretted a thin-faced priest. He looked to the dean for support but, finding none, went away with a look that would curdle milk.

  Hubert paced alone down the entire length of the nave and stood at the far end underneath the south window for a considerable time as if deep in meditation. It was getting dark, candles were being lit, and by their glimmer, almost swamped in the soaring height of the building, he was a distant white blur in the shadows, standing motionless, like somebody in another, less brutish world. When he returned to join the group in the light around the altar, he said, ‘The yard sounds as if it’s still full of Pierrekyn’s guards. They seem to have decided to stay and defend their frid-man.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased to know that, despite their lac
k of musical talent.’

  Hubert’s mouth briefly lifted at the corners. ‘These are the townsfolk who were bound over to keep the peace by Gaunt after their civil disorder at the time of Smithfield. I wonder whether they’ll find themselves accused of unlawful assembly in the yard.’ Despite the hint of humour in his tone his thoughts seemed elsewhere.

  The vicars-choral and the one or two canons who were not absent at their other livings, together with a handful of clerks, brought food and drink for their visitors, then sat around the frid-stool trying to cheer Pierrekyn until other duties called. Hubert discussed recent events in the town with the chancellor, himself a vicar-choral but also the legal officer of the abbey and head of the grammar school.

  Hildegard went to sit by herself on the steps in the choir. Her hounds had been brought safely in by means of a side door. The clerk who somewhat gingerly accompanied them told her that the man-at-arms they had felled was now in the town prison on a charge of creating an affray.

  Hubert came over and she looked up with a start. ‘If you’d rather I sat somewhere else—?’ he said quickly

  She shook her head. ‘No, you simply startled me.’ He sat down on the step next to her. Her pulse began to race. ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ she began, hurriedly. ‘What do you think we should do? Clearly we can’t stay here for forty days and nights.’

  ‘I wish to God we could.’ His tone was rough. ‘I wish it, Hildegard, with all my heart.’

  She turned to him in astonishment.

  He was gazing off into the nave. ‘Here in this sanctuary we’re beyond the usual constraints of duty, if only for one night.’ He bent his head close to her own. ‘I have to speak out. This once only. Then silence. You have my word.’

  ‘Speak out?’

  ‘About my penance. About what is driving me to madness.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  CONCEALED BY THE cloak he reached for her wrist and encircled it with his fingers. ‘I can’t eat, or think, or pray. I am destroyed.’