The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Hubert?’

  ‘When you asked to go on pilgrimage I thought I’d go mad – imagining it might be because of something you felt, which you had the courage to fight – whereas I could only pray and see your face in all my prayers when instead I should have seen the face of God.’ He paused. ‘The thought of you, on such a journey, Hildegard, with that steward of Roger’s—’

  ‘Ulf, you mean? But he’s like my brother. We’ve known each other all our lives—’

  He gave her a haunted glance. ‘That would not stop a man loving you. It would only make his feelings stronger.’

  ‘Hubert, I—’

  ‘Even though I know you to be a woman of integrity – forgive me, Hildegard, I have to speak – I taunted myself with such—’ Again he broke off and again, as if the words were being dragged forth, forced himself to continue. ‘When I heard that a knight was to be hired to escort you—’

  ‘Sir Talbot? A tournament knight—’

  ‘But I know these knights with their code of chivalry.’ His laugh was strangled. ‘None of them is to be trusted around women. Even so, the fault lay with me. I acknowledge that. But it did not stop me torturing myself: why had I given you permission to go? I could have stopped you. I could have—’ His eyes were fixed on her lips. ‘I could have—’ His words trailed away and then, in an undertone he said, ‘Instead, all I did was send a pathetic token, secretly, at the last minute.’

  ‘Token?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘You have it. I saw you with it at the hearing when you opened it to reveal your proof of Escrick’s guilt. ’

  ‘The kerchief?’

  ‘It belonged to my great-uncle, a knight templar, although it was little protection to him in those last violent days.’

  ‘I have it here. It seemed to have a meaning – the embroidered flowers – but it eluded me until—’ She faltered. Reaching for her scrip she pulled the kerchief from it. ‘I’m honoured you should have entrusted me with such a precious talisman.’ When she tried to hand it back he folded his hand over hers.

  ‘Keep it. Take it as a pledge of everything in my heart.’

  Aware of the great arching minster about them, the air filled with incense, reminding them of the divine who saw all things, she managed to whisper, ‘We cannot admit this, Hubert.’

  ‘I have no choice—’

  ‘Think of the danger.’

  ‘No danger can prevent it.’

  ‘Have you forgotten the punishment meted out to one of your predecessors in France?’

  He gave a bitter smile. ‘You mean Brother Abelard? Do you imagine I think of anything else? But there is no man like Bernard of Clairvaux to lead the armies of the night against us.’

  ‘Even so,’ she replied, her voice husky, ‘it would be madness—’ She broke off, bound by a sacred oath, unable to voice her desire, not in the night, not in the light of day, not ever.

  ‘I cannot imagine a future after this one night.’ His voice was hoarse. His grip tightened.

  The thought of Hubert suffering the terrible punishment inflicted on Abelard because of his love for the nun Eloise – castration, solitary confinement, disgrace and humiliation – gave her strength to resist if only for his sake. ‘All your vows would be less than straw. Your soul would—’

  ‘My soul be damned, Hildegard. I am only half alive without you.’

  There was no time to search for a response because the sound of distant shouting erupted from the black depths of the nave. A cry of protest was cut off followed by the thunderous echo of approaching footsteps.

  ‘Who comes here?’ breathed Hildegard with a tremor of fear.

  Hubert rose to his feet. His fingers slipped from her wrist and he stepped forward. A crowd of clerks came tumbling dazedly from their quarters. Pierrekyn froze like a rabbit in the light of a huntsman’s flare.

  A fully accoutred knight emerged from the shadows. Such light as there was flickered over the burnished armour that protected him from head to foot in steel. He wore a round helmet and, low on his hips, a studded belt with a sword swinging from it. He drew to a halt under the full glare of a score of tapers. The sour-faced clerk who had objected to Pierrekyn’s lute was hurrying at his heels, saying, ‘I could not deny him entry. Heaven forfend! A knight banneret! The very thought!’

  With a premonition of what was to come, Hildegard saw that his tunic carried the emblem of the blue marsh dragon. In one corner it had an additional symbol. Horrified, she realised that Sir William himself stood before them. William, the butcher of Holderness.

  He drew his sword with a rasp of steel and thundered, ‘Hand over that miscreant!’

  The army of students, clerks and chantry priests, unarmed, crowded in a confused group in front of the frid-stool. When Sir William made a feint with his sword, they scattered in alarm.

  By now Hubert had positioned himself in front of Pierrekyn. Hildegard moved to his side.

  ‘You are liable to a fine of one hundred and forty-four marks should you proceed,’ Hubert announced.

  Sir William laughed without mirth and rested the point of his sword on the altar steps. ‘Cheap at the price, monk. I’d pay ten times that amount to stop this lie-monger in his tracks. Hand him over!’

  When Hubert made no move, William reached into his pouch and threw down a fistful of silver pieces. ‘Get the treasurer to count it. That should pay the fine and keep you happy.’

  Pierrekyn moaned as Sir William raised his sword.

  ‘You would also suffer the penalty of excommunication,’ added Hubert, ignoring the coins.

  ‘Out of my way, damn you!’

  Sir William began to mount the steps, his sword pointing.

  Hubert murmured, ‘Stand back, Hildegard.’

  She stepped away as Sir William approached. Hubert didn’t move.

  ‘If I have to run you through I’ll do it without regret, monk. You can’t stop me!’ William snarled.

  Hubert shook his head. He seemed paralysed.

  ‘I admire your nerve,’ mocked William, ‘but it won’t do any good.’ He was at the top of the steps by now. ‘For the last time—’

  ‘You’re wasting your breath, knight. The boy stays here.’ Hubert folded his arms.

  The tip of William’s sword flashed towards Hubert’s exposed throat and just as Hildegard shouted his name, he made one small movement that brought him alongside William’s outstretched sword arm and, grasping it in both hands, he rammed it down hard over his lifted knee. It didn’t break. It was encased in steel and Hubert could do little damage with his bare hands, but the sword shuddered in William’s grasp until he managed to regain control. He raised his elbow, intending to smash it into Hubert’s face.

  Again the abbot made a small turn of his body, reached up towards William’s throat and, like one who knew the failings of a suit of armour, pushed his fingers in behind the gorget and grasped his assailant round the windpipe. Coughing and struggling for breath, the knight was driven back, only to trip over Hubert’s outstretched foot. He stumbled backwards, sliding full length down the altar steps.

  With a roar, he staggered to his feet but by the time he lunged at Hubert with the full force of his armed weight behind the thrust, the abbot had snatched up the mace from the altar and, wielding it like a sword, parried until he had forced William away from the frid-stool and held him hard against the railings round the shrine of St John.

  The final blow knocked William’s helmet from his head. As it spun away Hubert brought the mace to within inches of his opponent’s snarling face. He could have killed him then with one hard blow but it was as if an unseen hand came down to restrain him. Jamming the mace across William’s throat instead, he said, ‘Don’t die. I’ll not be responsible for that. Just drop your sword.’

  There was a pause. The note of menace in the abbot’s voice made William falter.

  ‘Yield,’ repeated Hubert.

  William let his sword clatter to the ground. Hubert picked it up. There was a chee
r from the minster men and Hildegard let out a shuddering breath. This was Hubert de Courcy, back in control.

  ‘The hounds,’ whispered a clerk to Hildegard.

  ‘Go, Duchess!’ murmured Hildegard with a dry throat.

  While the lymer and the kennet pinned Sir William against the railings the minster men swarmed back, overwhelming him with sheer force of numbers.

  ‘Drag him into the sacristy,’ Hubert ordered, ‘and lock him in.’

  They bundled him eagerly into the small, windowless chamber and returned carrying the key.

  Just then there was a further clamour at the west door. A thunderous knocking could be heard.

  In the lull that followed a voice outside shouted, ‘Open up, on pain of death!’

  There was a pause then the voice came again. ‘I am the Archbishop of York and demand entry into my own church!’

  ‘Damnation!’ exclaimed one of the students under his breath. ‘It’s Neville himself. We’ll have to let him in or we’ll be hung out like crows!’

  ‘Open the doors,’ Hubert ordered. He glanced at Hildegard where she stood protectively in front of Pierrekyn. Still clasping William’s sword with both hands, he held it point downwards in the stance of a knight at yield. Then he carried it over to the altar where he offered it, hilt first, then placed it in front of the cross. She saw him kneel and mutter a short prayer.

  When he rose to his feet he positioned himself at the top of the steps to wait for the archbishop to appear.

  As the great doors were flung open a splendid retinue flooded in, armed men, squires and retainers, with in their midst, magnificently attired in a sweeping velvet riding cloak, a jewelled cross on his chest, Archbishop Alexander Neville of York.

  He strode down the middle of the nave, repossessing the entire building with a royal glare, and when he reached the place where Hubert was standing he gave the abbot a long, considering glance before growling, ‘Abbot de Courcy, I might have guessed you’d be somewhere in it. What’s going on?’

  ‘We should speak privately, your grace.’ Hubert indicated the dean’s office and the two men went in.

  The minster men, subdued by the appearance of their master, hung around the door, muttering about what new sanctions the archbishop might now seek to impose on them. Most were defiant; only one or two kept silent while the archbishop’s bodyguards observed everyone with narrowed eyes.

  After a prolonged delay the two men emerged.

  Hubert seemed his usual authoritative self. His glance, however, like that of the archbishop, slid past Hildegard as if she were no more than one of the statues along the wall.

  Archbishop Neville was aware of the hostility of the canons, and of the support given them by the rest of the minster men, and he chose now to ignore them too, merely demanding that Sir William be brought forth. Eventually, taking William with them, the whole contingent departed as swiftly and as magnificently as they had arrived.

  Pleased with themselves, the minster men returned to their beds, while Pierrekyn, assured that there would be no further attempts on the privilege of sanctuary, fell into a deep slumber on the frid-stool. Someone draped a cloak over him.

  ‘We’ll leave at first light,’ Hubert told Hildegard when everyone had gone. He would not meet her eyes.

  ‘What brought Neville here?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently he was riding back from Swyne.’ He waited for her to add something but she felt no obligation to do so. ‘Whatever happened there put him in a foul mood.’

  ‘That’s not difficult. He’s known for his choleric nature.’ The prioress had stood against him then? Had he not obtained his cross after all?

  ‘It made him decide to break his return to York at Meaux. My strict regimen may not have reached his ears, either that or he expected preferential treatment at my table.’

  ‘Would he have got it?’

  Hubert’s sombre expression briefly lightened. ‘You may see me as someone who capitulates too easily,’ his voice thickened, ‘but I can assure you, Hildegard, that’s not the case in general.’ He held her gaze. Scarcely moving his lips he said, ‘You would be damned along with me.’ He turned away.

  ‘What happened when Archbishop Neville arrived at Meaux?’ she asked with an effort.

  ‘He found Sir William fuming over his lame horse and the hue and cry still out. William told him about a minstrel arraigned for spreading seditious texts and how he’d broken out of prison and made his escape. His grace ordered one of his men to dismount from his horse so William could set off in pursuit. He must have seen me start out in this direction.’

  ‘The archbishop offered help to Sir William?’

  ‘I’ve just given him a more accurate version of events so that he can reconsider his position. He finally agreed that Pierrekyn should have an opportunity to request the king’s pardon.’ He peered into her face. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Things have turned out other than I expected.’ The prioress sending Neville away with a flea in his ear? Neville himself supporting Sir William then changing his mind? She glanced at the sleeping boy. ‘At least he’s going to have a chance.’

  He caught her eye. ‘He owes you something. As do I.’ There was a moment of awkwardness. Hubert covered it by saying, ‘Sir William has demonstrated his allegiance, should it have been in doubt. He must be the power behind Coppinhall, the maintainer who ordered Reynard’s death.’

  ‘My feeling is that William is the instrument and not the instrument maker. I believe,’ she went on cautiously, ‘we must look to the new constable at Scarborough Castle for the motivating power here.’

  ‘Sir Ralph Standish?’

  ‘Is it not more than coincidence that Escrick, lately in the service of Sir Ralph de Hutton, should have figured so prominently in this whole business? And where is Escrick’s home territory? Scarborough. And who is Gaunt’s man at Scarborough?’

  ‘That same Standish,’ Hubert supplied. His mouth set in a grim line. ‘Say nothing more. I am bound to a different master. Discretion might save our necks.’ He gave her a despairing glance.

  ‘You say you owe me something?’

  He seemed to struggle for a moment and then advised, ‘Betray me to the pope if you choose.’

  She dashed the idea away with a hand. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The schism won’t last for ever. I should have held my tongue. What I told you has made matters worse. If you knew the truth you would despise me even more—’

  ‘I have never despised you—’

  ‘Then it’s only because I’ve concealed the truth from you.’

  Fearing that he was going to admit openly to involvement with those who wished to overthrow the king, she begged him not to go on but, with a resigned smile, he insisted. ‘I must clear my conscience. I’ve lied about myself.’ Observing her look of disbelief, he corrected himself. ‘If not lied, I’ve allowed you to believe something about me that is not true.’

  ‘How so?’ she asked in alarm, convinced she was about to be tested further. His next question confused her, however.

  ‘Remember a remark you once made about Lady Sibilla and Escrick? That you thought she might be drawn to him because he was so unlike her husband?’

  Mystified, she agreed that she did remember.

  ‘And do you also remember mentioning your own husband, a knight in arms, I believe?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And do you remember one particular afternoon in my garden at Meaux?’

  Again she agreed she did, without having it described in more detail.

  ‘I believe my feelings were just then beginning to become known to me, to torment me, and on that particular day you seemed to return them.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, her heart missing a beat.

  ‘But it was based on a lie, don’t you see?’

  ‘No, I don’t see! And what does it matter where your allegiance lies in all this?’

  ‘Allegiance?’ He looked as if he had never heard the word b
efore. Ignoring it, he said, ‘I am not as different from your husband as you imagine. You saw me just now, giving a reasonable account of myself against Sir William?’

  ‘Reasonable? You were magnificent! A monk to have such fearlessness in the face of a murderous and fully armed knight—’

  ‘But, Hildegard, what I have to tell you is this: I have not always been a Cistercian.’ He seemed unable to go on and instead gripped her convulsively by the sleeve. ‘This is my confession. It will damn me in your eyes for ever: for many years I was a knight in arms, fighting in the hire of one of the dukes of France.’

  His expression was bleak.

  ‘I was paid to kill. I have killed men.’

  There was a silence while Hildegard struggled to understand.

  ‘I can never be other than what I am,’ he continued. ‘It has just been proved beyond doubt by my immediate recourse to violence. I should have bowed my head beneath his sword and trusted in God’s divine will. But I had no faith. I was ready to kill again. It was maybe only your presence that stayed my hand. You wrongly believed that I was a true servant of God, different from your husband, worthy of your regard for that reason. But I am at fault for conniving in the misunderstanding and at fault for trying to drag you down into hell with me’.

  Hildegard gave a stricken cry as he began to walk away.

  ‘Hubert! You could not be more wrong.’ She followed, putting a hand on his sleeve to detain him. ‘I see no virtue in submitting to death in meekness.’ She recalled the effigies in the church of Santi Apostoli, the glittering defiance of the martyrs. ‘You have gained my love by everything you do. You are without fault.’

  He turned to gaze into her face. His fine eyes smouldered. His lips were within inches of her own. They were so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She breathed in the scent of him. A feeling of joy swept over her and with a final unlocking of her heart she realised she could not resist him.

  ‘My better self,’ he breathed. ‘I have found you. There is no further purpose for me under heaven but to love you.’

  As in a dream she felt him lift her fingers towards his lips. Her skin tingled but the distance between them remained.