No lasting harm? Medford was blind, then, to the heinousness of his own part in what had happened.
‘I thank God every day that I am one of the fortunate ones and ask Him why He saved me,’ Medford muttered with a shamed expression. ‘I can only assume He has some higher purpose in mind for me. Some good for which I may yet be the instrument.’
Suddenly his old self flashed forth and he gave a sardonic grimace. ‘I say I am fortunate - that is if it can be called fortunate to serve time in the Tower of London.’
‘What about your assistant, Dean Slake?’ The dean’s uncontrolled violence had incidentally saved Hildegard’s life. She had mixed feelings about him too.
‘The dean is shackled in the bowels of Bristol Castle. So far with no threat to his life. He’s protected, as am I, by his role as a servant of God. Maybe he’ll turn his coat if the torture becomes too much for him. Meanwhile I’m exiled here and watched every moment both day and night by Arundel’s spies. I’m forbidden to return to London or to communicate in any way with my king.’
‘But you can do, you do, surely? He is not quite abandoned?’
Medford gripped both her hands in his and whispered, ‘I shall never abandon him but betrayal would be my undoing. I doubt whether I’d escape with my life a second time.’
‘I will not betray you, Medford.’
He gave one convulsive grasp of her arm before letting his hands drop.
‘Poor, poor Dickon,’ he muttered. His eyes welled with tears.
Hildegard felt her own eyes filling too. ‘Is nothing being done to help him?’
‘None of us know what to do. He has no army. No-one to defend him. He’ll be sent mad by this.’
Medford’s black eyes stared into her own with a haunted look. ‘Mark my words, domina, not even a saint could survive such remorseless hatred. To see his dear Burley condemned as a traitor to England and the Crown is more dolour than any human soul can bear. If only Burley can be rescued from the Tower - ’
His voice, still hoarse, came near to breaking but he recovered, glanced up, noticed someone walking towards them, changed his mind about what he had been about to say and in prophetic tones, loud enough for anyone to overhear, declaimed, ‘We stand on the brink of the End Days and stare helplessly into the abyss. This is but a forewarning of further calamity to come. Sin not and repent.’
Hildegard was startled to see a man with his head down, a grey hood pulled well over his face, walk close by them. He did not stop or even appear to notice them but went on to the end of the cloister and turned a corner out of sight.
‘That man,’ she whispered, ‘who is he?’
‘One of Arundel’s spies no doubt.’
Hildegard gripped him by the arm. ‘I think he has followed me.’
‘Either you or me.’ Medford shrugged.
‘And Burley, you were saying?’
Medford eyed the corner of the cloister where the man in grey had turned off then gave her a covert glance. ‘They’re saying that if Burley could be rescued from the Tower of London – but no, it’s hopeless, he’ll be too well-guarded – ’
‘Good men and true will not stand idly by while their king is ruined,’ Hildegard vowed. ‘Richard is beloved by the people of England.’
‘He is England,’ agreed Medford. ‘He stands for us all. But I can foretell what will happen. I’ve seen the beginnings already. It is this. His power will be lopped little by little until the people themselves will declare him useless, an unworthy defender of the realm. Then they will be urged to cast him aside and choose another in his stead. This is my prophecy.’
‘Surely Woodstock, or Gloucester or whatever he’s calling himself, has got what he wants by now?’
‘King Richard’s enemies are urged on by that most heinous of all traitors - the one who is the most secretive about his desires and therefore the most full-dyed in evil, the man who desires above all else the Crown of England...’ He gave her a meaningful look.
She stared. The most secretive? That exempted Gloucester - and it exempted the earl of Arundel. Both men were blatant about their disdain for the unsoldierly king and it was generally agreed that Gloucester had had his sights set on the throne for years. No secrets there.
Medford could only mean the man who had so far only half-heartedly opposed the king in public.
She stepped further back into the shadows of the cloister and whispered, ‘You mean his cousin?’
Medford gave an imperceptible nod.
‘But he stood with the Appellants in Westminster, He also openly declared himself at the battle of Radcot Bridge,’ she reminded. ‘His ambition is known.’
‘He shows his allegiance,’ agreed Medford, ‘but always with a little hedging, demurring like a maiden at the May. Ask him if he wants the Crown and he’ll go silent like a shy child. He’s merely biding his time until it falls effortlessly into his hand.’
‘Was the time not right for him after Radcot, then?’
‘He brought his army up as if coerced by Woodstock.’ Medford’s lips twisted with contempt. ‘Bolingbroke marched through Oxfordshire as if he had no intention of engaging with the king’s army but meant only to stop de Vere from doubling back to London and the king. The plan to engage and kill de Vere on the battle field was foiled by de Vere’s unimpressive response. The time then was not right for Bolingbroke.’
‘And de Vere got away.’
Medford nodded. ‘And left the fragments of his army behind. Who would have expected that? Any other commander would have realised what was happening, accepted that he had walked into a trap, then stood his ground and fought to the death.’ He shrugged in contempt. ‘De Vere’s army melted away in the morning mist as soon as they saw what was happening.’
‘What else could de Vere do but save his own skin to fight another day?’
‘But he has no intention of fighting again. He’s living in Normandy, did you not hear? He’s hunting, enjoying the pleasures of Agnes de Lancekrona, the fate of England the least of his thoughts.’
‘He may yet be rallied to Richard’s support, surely?’
Medford gave another humourless smile. ‘Gloucester and Arundel may fear that, but I doubt whether anyone could persuade him to return. If he tried it they would take steps to prevent it. Indeed, they may already be planning to assassinate him and those other two friends of Richard who managed to escape in time - ’
‘De la Pole and Archbishop Neville?’
He leaned closer and whispered, ‘Watch how long they last in exile before some accident overtakes them.’
‘Richard must engage some loyal men-at-arms, mercenaries even, to defend the realm. All is not lost, surely?’ Hildegard feeling of desperation persisted.
‘He has no funds with which to bribe the faint-hearted,’ Medford pointed out. ‘The King’s Council make sure of that under instructions from great Gloucester.’ His lips twisted.
‘Surely Woodstock - Gloucester, I mean - has got what he wanted?’ she repeated. ‘The king is helpless. What can he do now but jump to their commands exactly as they wish?’
‘Have they got what they want? All of them? As I’ve just said, what about Bolingbroke?’
‘The king’s own cousin!’ She grimaced. She had never trusted Harry Bolingbroke, not since she had seen him trying to press a hard bargain over a holy relic with the Archbishop of York.
Medford lowered his voice. ‘If I’m seen talking to you, expect trouble, domina. Trust no-one. Should our paths cross, better for both of us if we pretend we do not know each other.’
‘So you have not mentioned my name to anyone here?’
‘Of course not. Why would I?’
His eyes seemed to pierce her own as if to confirm what he said but she did not know whether she could believe him or not, remembering, of old how devious he could be. ‘We must meet again, Mr Medford,’ she replied slowly. ‘As for our mutual friend - I cannot believe you will let matters remain as they are.’
Medford m
ade no reply, neither of assent or dissent but merely stared at her with his soulless dark eyes.
Hurriedly she said, ‘The king must have allies who will come to his aid. They must be summoned.’
‘And Sir Simon must be released from the Tower?’ he breathed, lifting one shaking hand to his throat.
‘Released, yes,’ she whispered, catching his meaning with a leap of hope.
‘He has friends,’ Medford murmured. ‘I pray for him, with this one ray of light in the pitch black night of hell.’ He stretched out his arms to display the tattered gown. ‘Look at me. I am reduced to the level of a canon in the service of Arundel himself. You perceive my predicament?’
‘I do. I also see that you have not lost your love for King Richard.’
‘Though powerless, we must prevail, Mistress York.’ He gave a twisted, half-humorous smile at her old alias. ‘For King Richard - ’ bowing his head, ‘and for the true Commons?’ With that he melted into the shadows.
As Hildegard peered after him a movement, glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, revealed a figure detach itself from a gloomy niche on the other side of the cloister. It was not the man in grey. When this fellow moved into the light she saw that he wore a bassinet and a mail shirt with a sword belt slung low on his hips. He gave her a hard glance from under his helmet’s metal brim when he drew level then followed Medford down into the yawning mouth of the cathedral.
FIVE
Straight after her encounter with Richard Medford she met Brother Gregory at the mid-day office of sext, as arranged. After the service he told her he was ready to accompany her to Clarendon Palace to visit her daughter whenever she chose to leave. They went out onto Cathedral Close with the idea of heading towards the town stables on the high street.
‘Gregory,’ she began as they strolled across the green sward. ‘Something has happened.’ She explained about Medford and what he had said.
The monk had never met the king’s spy-master but knew about him by hearsay.
Then she told him about the stranger in the Cat and reluctantly outlined as briefly as she could her alias as Mistress York.
Gregory was frowning when she finished. ‘How could he know that name?’
‘I have no idea. It’s most unlikely that Medford mentioned me. He is never unguarded in anything he does or says. The man in grey is completely unknown to me. I’m sure I would have remembered him if I’d come across him in the past. He’s -’ she paused, ‘well, to be honest he’s quite striking. Tall, athletic, with the swaggering self-confidence of a mercenary.’
‘Yes, I can see you might remember a man like that,’ Gregory teased. Then, serious, he said, ‘Do you think he is a mercenary? If so, for whom does he work? You say he might have been in that crowd at Lepe. I don’t remember him. I was still suffering from mal de mer.’
‘I didn’t get a look at his face then and he wore his hood up when he came into the Cat. It’s the grey colour of his cloak that looks familiar.’
‘Not much to go on. Many wear grey.’
‘I know.’ She frowned.
‘But you’re fearful that he might be one of Arundel’s spies?’
‘He’s a rather conspicuous spy whoever he owes allegiance to.’
‘Sometimes that’s the best way to squeeze information from your enemies. It puts them off guard.’ He looked thoughtful as if remembering something from the past, adding, ‘Yes, that’s often the best way. Instead of frightening them into revealing their secrets it can make them careless if they regard you as no more than a friendly buffoon.’
‘He mentioned Clarendon Palace. That’s why I thought you ought to know about him.’
‘Forewarned.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s get on quickly then. We can be there before Vespers.’
‘Shall we have something to eat first?’
‘I can see you’re eager to meet your daughter. Let’s pick something up from one of the pie stalls and eat as we go.’
Gregory was tall and athletic himself with a spare, muscular build. His uncut hair, reaching to his shoulders, was bleached by years in the desert sun. Despite her unease about the man in grey, she felt safe with the monk beside her.
He turned. ‘There’s nothing to be done about Mistress York’s admirer until the mystery man shows his face. I must say, though, I’d like to meet this other fellow, Richard Medford. He sounds quite the man. What must it be like to fall from being one of the most powerful men in the land to being a mere canon? It must be a humbling experience for him.’
He glanced back towards the cathedral. People were coming and going, ecclesiastics and their servants, burgesses, housewives, craft masters, apprentices, messengers, ordinary folk with little power in the realm.
‘You say he was deeply ambitious?’
‘Yes, but utterly loyal to King Richard. I’m not sure which was more important to him, his ambition or his allegiance. Either way, his fall must be almost impossible to bear.’ She had mentioned Medford’s hint about freeing Sir Simon Burley from the Tower.
‘His helplessness against the king’s enemies must be a continual trial, now so far from the seat of power.’ He cast his glance over the Close. ‘Not much useful information can come his way in a place like this. It’s a small town with small town concerns, far from the machinations that go on in Westminster.’
‘He has a host of devils at his back, that’s for sure. You should have heard him raving about the End Days. Although,’ she conceded, ‘it was partly done for effect while some suspicious-looking fellow strolled past us with his ears flapping.’
‘But you were partly convinced?’ He gauged her expression. ‘Maybe his recent experiences are pushing him over the brink into a fever of the brain? How did he look to you?’
‘Certainly unlike himself. Driven. Desperate. In fact,’ she paused, ‘he look terrified.’
Gregory, a note of compassion in his voice, added, ‘It’s unsurprising he’s at the end of his tether, given the violence perpetrated against his colleagues. You know, Hildegard,’ he turned to her, ‘Given the confusion of the time, maybe you should not worry too much about this fellow in grey. He might simply be following up a name to see where it leads. Maybe Medford happened to let it slip in some general context and someone overheard him and gave an instruction to have it checked out? In an effort to leave no stone, and all that?’ he added, with a kindly glance.
She shrugged. Gregory looked as unconvinced as she was. ‘Be that as it may, Medford certainly seems frightened out of his wits. What’s more, he told me he’s been forbidden any contact with the king on pain of death. No letters, no messages sent by servants, nothing. ’
‘Woodstock is turning into a tyrant. It’s outrageous that he should be allowed to get away with such draconian measures. But whatever happens,’ he took her arm, ‘I insist you go nowhere without me. Hubert would expect no less of me.’
‘I shall have to leave you when I return to my lodgings,’ she reminded with a wry smile.
‘I expect you’ll be safe enough with those Benedictines.’
While Gregory was a guest of the monks, Hildegard had been forced to lodge in a nearby house of nuns.
They hired a couple of amblers from the town stables and were just leading them towards the Laverstock road in the direction of Clarendon when they heard an outburst of shouting and wailing coming from the far side of the Close. When they turned to look people were running out into the mead while others were turning back inside the cathedral in obvious confusion. Some were excitedly pointing up at the soaring steeple.
‘What’s going on over there?’ Gregory asked.
‘Has there been an accident?’ Hildegard craned her neck.
‘It’s probably pilgrims - come to goggle at the folly of man?’ He watched the crowd milling back and forth around the central tower. ‘No doubt they’re wondering when God will choose to bring the whole edifice crashing down on their heads as a punishment for the vanity of the masons in building so high.’
‘I th
ink not.’ Hildegard stopped in her tracks. ‘I think it’s something serious.’
The smile on Gregory’s face died. ‘Has there been an accident?’ By now they were closer and could see more clearly across the mead to the big, central tower where the strengthening of the steeple was nearly finished. Through the open wall, in among the masons’ equipment, they could see the press of people still milling about.
‘They don’t seem to know what to do.’
‘They’re in a panic.’ Gregory’s voice acquired a note of urgency. ‘Wait here with the horses, will you? I’m going over.’
‘But Gregory - I -’
He was already out of earshot. Hildegard hurried after him with both sets of reins in her hands and when she was close enough she was able to pick out a word here and there as people hurried from the cathedral. Many were simply staring up at the steeple as others began to flock back inside. A few women were wailing. Still no-one seemed to know what to do. At first she thought someone must have fallen from the scaffolding round the tower but the main crowd were running back into the cathedral, not out of it. They were clambering over the building works and the masons were doing nothing to stop them.
‘How can it be?’ someone nearby exclaimed in wonder.
‘By his feet - ?’ an awed voice questioned.
She moved closer.
‘But how?’ came another voice.
‘Is it the devil, playing with an unbeliever?’
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
A woman in a kerchief turned to her. ‘One of them masons, they say.’
‘What about him?’ she asked.
‘That says everything - ’ someone else butted in.
‘A rivalrous mob - ’
At that moment Gregory turned up looking stone-faced. ‘There has been an accident, Hildegard. Nothing much we can do about it. The monks are looking after things. A coroner has been called. When he shows up he’ll be grilling the first finder. Nothing we can do,’ he repeated.
‘But what sort of accident?’ she asked. ‘Why call the finder? Is there a body?’
‘Something happened in the steeple where some masons were still finishing off. It’s to do with the windlass.’
The Scandal of the Skulls Page 5
