She slammed the door shut behind her. Outside she could hear the echo of approaching footsteps. They came to a halt. Someone began to push the door on the other side.
Enormous bloody carcases hung from hooks hammered into the roof beams. They cast shadows over the chamber with its lighted cressets and when the hunks of meat swayed shadows danced up and down the walls like living creatures. On a nearby butcher’s block an animal with the chest cavity of a man was being dismembered, ribs still partly covered with flesh. A knife wielded by a half-naked boy hacked in between the white spindles of the ribs. Entrails slithered onto a block, purple and stinking, drawn out to their long length and held for a moment as if the knifeman himself was the victim. Another half-naked youth quartered the oozing flesh and threw the pieces into separate barrels with casual skill.
As she hurried forward Hildegard bumped into something by her head, another carcase dripping blood dangling from a hook. It swung back towards her as she flinched away. Blood stained her white habit. When she wiped the side of her face the back of her hand came away red. An image of all the men Favent had named swam before her and she felt faint at their similar bloody and butchered deaths.
The man with the hatchet followed her and put out a hand. ‘This is an unexpected visit, my lady. Come away.’ He stepped back to indicate a passage between the butcher’s blocks. ‘Have you come to choose something for your table?’
‘No – I – ’ She felt faint, ‘I mistook my direction and opened the wrong door – ’
‘ – into the salsary,’ he finished.
She peered between the blocks of meat towards the door. Whoever had begun to open it had entered and appeared as a dark shape between the carcases. After some confusion they went out, closing the door again.
Hildegard was trembling. What was worse? Pursuit by the man in grey, whom Gregory regarded as coldly dangerous, or entrapment in this charnel house?
The place was filled with noise and activity. The shouts of the men hauling in the day’s kill, the orders to flense, and gut and hack the flesh into its required quarterings, were matched by the continual hammering and sawing of raw flesh. Among the many carcases of deer there were smaller animals, hare and rabbit, with split bellies, and many different birds, both small and large, hanging from hooks with blood black on their feathered breasts.
If she left now would the man in grey be waiting for her in the passage? She turned to the master butcher. ‘Is there a door into the yard outside?’
The butcher frowned. ‘No venison for you, my lady? I have some here that will surely tickle your palate.’
‘My Order forbids me to – ’ she spread her arms in apology.
‘In that case, you have my sympathy. We have the best meat here. But you may leave by the far door if you wish. Be careful, I beg you. Blood is slippery underfoot and we’re still dealing with the day’s kill.’
Even as he spoke two men carried in a fresh carcase hoisted on their shoulders. It was a doe. Its mouth gaped, eyes, long-lashed, were glazed and seemed to stare at this new place where it found itself, with stupefaction. Its tongue lolled from between blackened lips.
Hildegard made her escape through the door the butcher indicated and once outside stood for a full minute, breathing deeply, drinking in the cool night air.
Eventually she took a cautious route to her chamber and caught a glimpse of Favent being helped along by two strong serving men. His legs were buckled drunkenly under him and he was attempting to sing a chanson but with too much wailing for it to be pleasant on the ear.
The knight in grey was nowhere to be seen.
NINE
‘I am grief-stricken that you should think of leaving us already, domina. Ysabella has been made so happy by your visit. Your view that she is far too young to be betrothed is charmingly eccentric but I agree with you. We shall wait to see how these troublesome matters in Westminster are resolved.’
‘These are dangerous times to contemplate a marriage,’ observed Hildegard. ‘Houses fall as well as rise.’
‘Quite so.’
The two women exchanged glances. The countess would agree that it was folly to tie her protégée to a house that was falling.
Before she left the palace early that morning she spoke once more to Ysabella.
‘Remember to hold your tongue, sweeting. You cannot know anyone’s affinity. It may be different to the one they proclaim.’
‘I’ll remember, of course.’
‘And wear your hair like that. It looks so pretty.’ She paused. ‘As I’m sure young master Ivo has already told you.’
Ysabella blushed.
‘Be it so. He seems a fine, serious young man. I assume your views are in accord. But do not allow him to talk you into danger. Nothing can be achieved by martyrdom.’
‘Nothing? But I thought - ’
‘I would not wish to see my dearly beloved child throw away the precious gift of life when it will change nothing. I like your countess,’ she went on swiftly, ‘but remember, even she may find it expedient to betray her friends should the thumbscrew be not to her liking.’
‘I’ll remember that, mother. I’m just so happy you think well of Ivo. But mother, before you return to Meaux we shall need to speak again. Events in London change day by day. My idea is that if anything requires your urgent return I shall send a bunch of lavender to you in Salisbury as a sign.’
‘Very well. I shall understand it and return at once.’
She lowered her voice. ‘This will only be if I hear something about Sir Simon. Or if there is danger of some kind.’
They hugged and with tears in her eyes Ysabella gained a promise from her mother to call on what influence she had through her Order to urge the release of Sir Simon from the Tower.
‘It is unjust to condemn him with no evidence. And when he is freed as he should be he can muster an army on King Richard’s behalf.’
Hildegard saw this as one strong reason why Sir Simon would never be released by his captors. The last thing they wanted was to have him inspire the country to take up arms on behalf of the King.
They parted, Ysabella to help the dowager countess dress her hair, Hildegard to make her way across the courtyard to the stables where her horse was being held for her by a hooded monk.
As she put her foot in the leather he murmured. ‘All well, domina?’
‘Much to discuss,’ she replied. ‘He is here. I know his name. Also here as a guest is a master Favent of the duke’s affinity.’
‘I shall come to you in the cloister after vespers Ride on.’
She had led her palfrey through the busy mid-day streets towards the town stables and handed him over later that morning when an approaching cortege made everybody stop what they were doing and flatten themselves against the house walls to give it room to pass. Men doffed their hats, women knelt and crossed themselves, and a few vendors hurriedly put up their shutters as a mark of respect.
A small band of pipe and tabor players with black ribbons tied to their sleeves marched at a slow pace in front of a dray pulled by a single horse. On the dray was a wooden box with a cross incised into the lid. Behind it came twenty or so towns folk, men and women, children, a group in masons’ colours and a weeping woman supported by two others.
The silence of the procession was shattered when someone broke from the group of mourners and ran towards the coffin.
It was a girl, familiar to Hildegard as Idonea.
She flung herself towards the dray, fingers scrabbling for a handhold until she held tight, her feet dragging over the cobbles as the horse moved forward. She was lifted along with it, arms now grasping the coffin as if she would never let it go.
A couple of mourners hurried after her and tried to pull her away and although she struggled they eventually succeeded and she collapsed, sobbing hysterically, to be half-carried between them, her head flung back, long hair trailing to the ground, her eyes shut and face blotched with the raw soak of tears.
‘Ido
nea making a show of herself as usual,’ observed a tight-lipped by-stander pressed against the wall along with Hildegard and some others.
‘Poor lass,’ came a contradictory murmur.
Another voice answered, ‘It’s Robin’s mother I feel for. Widow as she is. It’ll be the begging bowl for her with her son gone.’
‘Look not for whom the bell tolls,’ the first voice replied somewhat smugly.
Idonea, the girl who had hit one of the masons in the face on the previous day when the young man’s body had been found in the steeple, was being half-carried up the street. Hildegard glanced at the mourners following the coffin and noticed Idonea’s brother among them with a face like stone.
When the cortege had passed, the street came to life again and people continued about their business to the sound of shutters banging down to display the vendors’ wares.
The last amen spiralled into the echoing roof vault and vespers came to a conclusion with the bishop’s benediction. Hildegard thought she saw Medford in a group of black robed canons near the choir but was too far away to be sure. She went out with everyone else into the cloisters.
Brother Gregory was sitting in a niche away from the crowd as he had arranged and when she went over to him he glanced up with a dazzling smile.
‘I followed soon after you left but I was not the only one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Our friend from the Cat followed too.’
‘I know his name.’
‘So do I now.’
‘Are you sure he was following me?’
‘As near as damn it. After I brought your horse out and you rode away his page came running out of the palace and started to saddle up a grey mare. The stable master came out and asked him what the hurry was. The poor lad could scarcely speak. “It’s my master, he’s suddenly got urgent business in Salisbury. Saddle up, quick, or I’ll be the one to pay!” So saying he threw the saddle over the horse’s back and began to buckle it on while the stabler chivvied a couple of lads to help him. My horse was already saddled so I simply went to fetch her then hung about adjusting the leathers until this fellow comes rushing outside. “Where is she?” he shouted. I didn’t know whether he meant the mare, which is what I first thought, or you, until he grabbed the reins, leaped astride and kicked his mount into a gallop at almost the same moment. Those stable lads certainly scattered. His little page was in a sweat and came flying out on his own pony a few moments later. By then I was half way down the hill from the gatehouse myself, hood well down of course, not that there was any chance of him giving a backward glance. I let the lad get ahead of me and followed him instead. We all fetched up in a queue at the town gate until milord pleaded some special cause and got them to let him through ahead of everybody else.’
‘So what does it mean?’ Hildegard asked, stopping his story there.
‘He wants to get a better look at you. This so-called Sir John de Lincoln. And he didn’t expect you to leave Clarendon when you did.’
‘Lincoln, yes. So that’s where he’s from. I knew I’d heard that accent before.’ She frowned. ‘So where is he now?’
Gregory shrugged. ‘He certainly didn’t attend vespers.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I’m afraid it’s a question of combing the taverns until we flush him out - or sitting here and waiting for him to find you?’
He saw her expression. ‘I thought not. Come on then. Let’s go.’
The tavern was the third or fourth they had sauntered through and on, out through a back door without pausing. The next one was as jammed with customers from wall to wall as the others. Work done for the day, food and ale were what everybody wanted. There was no sign of the man in grey they now knew to call John of Lincoln.
‘Let’s try the Cat again,’ Hildegard suggested.
It was as crowded as the others when they returned. They wedged themselves into a corner and took a look round.
Eventually, as if engrossed by a loose thread on her sleeve, Hildegard whispered, ‘Don’t look now but he’s just come in. He’s gone to stand over by those barrels close to the dice-players.’
Gregory turned casually as if studying his stoup of ale for quality. ‘I see him. Where’s his page?’
‘No sign
‘Maybe only taken on for his visit to Clarendon.’
Affecting to enjoy an animated conversation they surreptitiously studied the man for a few minutes.
‘Good quality damascene sword he’s got there,’ murmured Gregory with professional interest. ‘I noticed it in the grove. I wonder if he can use it?’
‘You’re not going to find out,’ Hildegard scolded. ‘Let’s just watch and see what he’s up to.’
Their patience was eventually rewarded when a young man they both recognised came in. It was the young hot-head from the Forest. With complete disregard for the dice-players and de Lincoln he bought himself some ale and then turned with such abruptness he jerked the stoup in de Lincoln’s hand, spilling his ale. Apologies followed. Recompense was made. Another stoup of ale was pressed into the knight’s hand.
‘Neat,’ observed Gregory. ‘Did you see that?’
‘I did.’
‘At least he’s got his pay.’
The man they now knew as de Lincoln drank his ale swiftly enough then left. The nameless younger man went on standing by the dice-players, looking idle.
‘You stay here and keep an eye on him. I’ll follow de Lincoln.’
Gregory started to protest but she ignored him.
‘Meet me back here before Compline. Or at worst, leave a message for me with the taverner. I think he’s discrete but make it sound monastic.’
She pushed her way out.
De Lincoln was already half way down the short street that runs alongside the new canal, heading towards the market square. Keeping to the shadows, Hildegard followed. She saw him poke his head inside a small tavern, not much more than a hole in the wall, then come out at once.
He did the same at one or two others along the street. This must be the drinking quarter, she realised. He might be looking for me now he had got his hands on the gold as arranged and can turn his attention to other duties. He was being thorough in his search. She had to give him that. It made her feel nervous to think she was probably the one he was hunting for. Was he on the trail of Mistress York or had his search shifted after their brief meeting at Clarendon to Hildegard of Meaux? Maybe she would soon find out. She certainly had no intention of hiding away like a frightened rabbit. Let him come. And if he didn’t she would take steps herself to find him.
The big bell began to chime from the cathedral.
He crossed the street and doubled back on himself and then headed in the direction of the Cat once more. She saw him go inside. By the noise issuing into the street it was busier than ever. She considered the situation for a moment then decided she had had enough.
Going round to the back she found herself in the little yard by which she had left when de Lincoln had first come looking for her. When she was close enough she peered in through the casement.
It was steamed up with the heat from the number of bodies inside so with nothing for it she opened the back door and slipped inside.
The taverner was standing with his back to her, one hand round the waist of a serving wench. He swung round when he felt the cold blast from outside on his bare legs.
‘My apologies, master,’ Hildegard greeted. ‘I’ve just caught sight of a mutual acquaintance entering by your front door.’
He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. ‘First he was looking for you and now you’re looking for him. Remember my advice, domina.’
‘I have not forgotten.’
‘Then pray enter.’
The serving wench moved aside with a puzzled glance at her employer and Hildegard found herself standing behind a stack of barrels, peering into the crowd of drinkers.
De Lincoln was visible in the press on the other side with one hand cradling his flagon against his chest an
d the other gripping a leather pouch attached by a chain to the belt round his hips. There was no sign of Gregory nor of the young man who had brought the gold to de Lincoln,
She pressed forward into the thick of the crowd.
TEN
With an old cloak thrown round her shoulders and her hair stuffed inside a coif with a hood over that, she looked no more like a monastic than Gregory had when, with his shaggy blond hair tied back with a strip of leather and a cloak thrown over his shoulders, they had entered the first tavern on de Lincoln’s trail.
Now she was close enough to take a better look at him than the glimpse she had risked on the previous evening at Clarendon.
His hair was cut in a military trim, giving his face a raw look. He was even featured, with a high forehead, a strong jaw, a neat, fair beard trained to the shape of an unobtrusive fork as was the fashion, nose and lips in harmony such that a limner would have been overjoyed to get out his charcoal and make a sketch for the mason who wanted a knight’s head for the facade of his cathedral.
All this she had seen before. It gave him a rugged, almost handsome appearance. And yet, there was something about him, something that made Hildegard distrust him just by looking at him. She continued to size him up from her vantage point behind the barrels.
It was almost as if the mason had not finished the job. The man’s eyes were empty.
They crawled over the drinkers sitting along the trestle and revealed nothing of his thoughts. The ale-drinkers, the dice-players, the diners gobbling food, even the dusty-looking travellers new to Salisbury, all, when you looked closely into their eyes, betrayed varieties of feeling expressing contentment, amusement, greed, lust, anger, plain weariness and so on.
This de Lincoln seemed to have shut down any show of natural feelings towards his companions and gazed with complete neutrality upon them.
He reminded her of Sir John Hawkwood, the notorious English mercenary, and his lightless stare when she had accosted him in the Signoria in Florence.
The Scandal of the Skulls Page 9
