The Scandal of the Skulls

by Cassandra Clark

  Bounty, she noticed, was pouring coins down the throat of Avarice. The coins would have been heated in the flames of hell and the face of Avarice was contorted with pain as he was forced to swallow them. Many people in the current game to win power were heading for a similar fate, she decided.

  Greed made the dukes resent the power of their young nephew. They hated the fact that, as king, he was able to donate lands to his followers while they themselves, their argument went, had to suffer in poverty. Woodstock, or Gloucester as he now was, particularly resented what he saw as his lack of lands.

  In fact, none of the king’s uncles were anywhere near poverty. They did not know the meaning of the word. A week working as a bonded labourer on some lordling’s domain would give them a taste of what poverty was really like. Or a week in any house of mendicants. Or a day or two without employment on the streets of any town.

  A touch on her sleeve made her jump.

  It was de Lincoln.

  She stepped back, her worst suspicions confirmed.

  He stretched out a hand to restrain her. ‘Forgive me, my lady. Forgive the deception. I knew you would not come if you knew I was your contact.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ It could not be Medford, surely? If so, what game was he playing now?

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, as you must well understand,’ he replied, keeping his voice low. ‘You will have been told about the plan to free Sir Simon - from whom I know not, nor will I ask you to break a confidence. But we have the gold to ensure his redemption.’

  He patted a pouch chained to his belt. ‘All it needs now is a swift night horse to London to convey it to the Tower and into the hands of the Keeper of the Keys. Then voila - our lord will fly free from his tormentors.’

  His blank eyes inched over her face. ‘Are you prepared?’

  ‘I think it ill advised to send such a weight of gold,’ she glanced at the pouch, ‘by night.’

  ‘There will be an armed escort. The arrangements have been made. All it requires is some person, trustworthy, unknown, such as yourself, to take this,’ he indicated the pouch again, ‘to the town courier and there ensure that it leaves according to our pre-arranged agreement.’

  ‘Who made this agreement?’

  ‘It is made. The courier is standing by.’

  ‘Why can’t you take it yourself?’

  ‘I am known. I am too easily recognised. I have no fear of that but my name might bring in other associates, men involved in the plot and those who are innocent and are not involved. A nun whom no-one knows or will even recognise or remember is the safest way to achieve our ends.’

  He bowed. ‘Of course, if it is against your principles to free an innocent man, a war hero, a venerable and beloved lord, and you deem the personal danger too - ’

  ‘You know those are not my reasons for hesitating.’ She gave him a measuring look. ‘It is your past allegiance - ’

  ‘I am humbled by you.’ He dropped to one knee. ‘I have sinned and now I crave the opportunity to absolve myself by an act of mercy.’

  He rose and towered over her in a way that might have seemed menacing if Gregory had not been sitting by.

  She stared at him. Was he to be trusted after all? She felt invaded by a raw, masculine scent that comes from hard riding and an outdoors life and time spent in taverns with other similar men. He was as hard as nails. A mercenary. A man who lived by the sword. She did not trust him. She stretched out a hand.

  ‘Give me the pouch. I’ll take it.’

  With a slight smile on his lips he produced a small key and unlocked the padlock on his belt. She watched his fingers fumble with the loops of leather which attached the pouch to the belt.

  ‘There are two keys,’ he explained. ‘One for the belt which I shall give to you so you can take it off when you hand over the pouch to the courier, and one for the pouch itself with its precious contents. This one I keep. Take the belt. Here, let me - ’ he made as if to put it round her waist but she drew back.

  ‘I can manage.’ She slipped it round her waist underneath her cloak.

  When he placed the pouch in her hands she felt its dead weight. She pushed its loops through the belt, buckled it and locked it with the key he handed to her.

  ‘You trust me with this?’ she asked, half ironically as she took the key and turned it in the padlock.

  ‘I trust you with my life, domina.’ His lightless eyes gave no clue to his sincerity. With little choice in the matter she had to accept what he told her. For now, that is. Sir Simon’s life might depend on it.

  Conscious of the heavy weight of the gold underneath her cloak she nodded and walked away. It felt loaded with coin and seemed to scorch her side. All eyes seemed to be on her and able to discern the secret she carried.

  This is not right, she was telling herself as she covered the length of the cloisters. She would do anything to save Sir Simon - but this? It had the hall marks of a trap.

  And yet, what if it were true? What if, indeed, the Master of the Keys was a loyal supporter of the king and was willing to set Sir Simon free for a price? What if she were the one to block his escape due to nothing more than fear and the unfounded belief that she was leading others to their doom?

  Her eyes moved from left to right as she approached the open door leading into the Close. One or two townsmen stood about. They did not look like informers. But then, what did an informer look like? A woman with a basket entered. A few choristers filed in. None of them paid her more than passing attention.

  As she stepped into the open air she waited to feel the hand of a constable on her shoulder but no-one even looked up as she walked on.

  With no fixed idea where to go next she made off across the Close in the direction of Choristers’ Green. Should she go straight to the courier at the George inn or wait awhile in case someone had spotted the transaction and with curiosity aroused, decided to follow?

  The light was fading.

  She crossed the green and reached the corner of the high street and only then permitted herself to glance back. There was no sign of de Lincoln - and no sign of Gregory either. She carried on down the street towards her lodging house.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was genuine gold coin. When she upended the pouch a shower of gold came spilling out onto the bed. It formed an impressive mound in the candle light. If not a king’s ransom then it was ransom enough to buy the freedom of a king’s faithful retainer.

  It had taken some time to unpick the lock on the pouch containing the gold. It was intricate and obviously made by a master locksmith and but for some prior knowledge she would have been thwarted. Now, she was pleased she had checked the contents because inside she found a roll of vellum.

  It was sealed but disregarding the fact that when or if it reached its destination it would be clear someone had tampered with it, she removed it and spread out the scroll under the light from the candle.

  It was a list of the donors of the gold. Most of the names were unfamiliar. Only Richard Medford and Master Gervase were known to her. The other names must be those of local landowners and other wealthy supporters. In her hand was enough evidence to condemn every one of them to a traitor’s death under Gloucester’s new law.

  She dipped her hands into the coins and allowed them to spill through her fingers onto the blanket. They fell with an impersonal clink.

  If young Thomas Usk could be hanged and have his poor head stuck above the gatehouse at Newgate prison for a minor transaction in silver, what would the duke of Gloucester do to those who offered to the king’s allies a treasury of gold such as this?

  The thought bolted through her mind that if the gold was bait for a trap with which to haul them to their deaths there would be no proof of their so-called guilt should it vanish along with the incriminating list of their names.

  She thought it through.

  One: she did not trust in de Lincoln’s epiphany. Two: others, ignorant of his past affiliation and charmed by his manner, might take
it on trust that he was for the king and thus be drawn in. Three: they had handed over gold in the expectation that it would reach its destination at the Tower and Sir Simon would be allowed to escape. Four: by doing so they incriminated themselves and their families and all their lineage. And five: they would be netted as surely as salmon in a Thames-side fish trap.

  She had a vision of the skulls ranged along the walls of the Tower beneath a circling cloud of crows.

  She stared at the gold coins again. The head of the old king, looking sure of himself, was indented on one side. She pondered his features and wondered if he could ever have guessed what sort of turmoil his kingdom would plunge into once his beloved son and heir, Prince Edward, was dead and his ten year old grandson inherited the crown.

  Would he have imagined how difficult it would be for his beautiful grandson to survive when faced with the implacable jealousy of his sons? Some monarchs had too few sons and strife soon followed, but others, like Edward, had too many, and strife followed then as well.

  Her thoughts returned to the problem of what to do next. She went to the lattice and looked down into the street. It was shortly before curfew.

  Carts trundled over the cobblestones away from the market place. One or two passers-by made their way homewards along the street. No-one lingered. No-one looked up at the high window in the house of the Benedictines. If she went out to the couriers’ office now she would be unnoticed as de Lincoln had suggested.

  She was fairly certain that she would be allowed to take the gold to the courier without being waylaid. That would be the arrangement made by de Lincoln. The gold with its incriminating list of donors would be sent safely on its long journey to London; it would be handed over to the Keeper of the Keys; and it would be then that the agents of the king’s enemies would swoop. The names of Burley’s supporters would without doubt find their way at once into Gloucester’s hands.

  Going to the bed she dropped the coins back inside the pouch, forced the lock closed again, attached the pouch to the belt, locked the second padlock with the key she had been given and slipped it inside her leather scrip. Then she stuffed the list of names underneath her mattress, went to the door and let herself out.

  Now to find Gregory.

  ‘So, the thing is, brother, I’ve removed the list. If the plan works then and only then shall I reveal it so that those involved may claim the king’s grace.’

  ‘Quite,’ he nodded. ‘And the gold?’

  ‘I could take it to a different courier to make sure it reaches its destination.’ She looked doubtfully at Brother Gregory.

  He was pensive but only said, ‘In a town this size it’s unlikely there’s another public courier service that can be relied on to carry anything of worth that sort of distance.’

  ‘And also I would have to explain to de Lincoln at some point why I’d deviated from the plan.’

  ‘And it would rope everybody in just the same.’

  ‘So what I thought was - ’ she gave him a sidelong glance then let her own glance drop to where she knew his sword was belted underneath his cloak. ‘It’s a long ride to London where anything might happen, much of the journey being through thick woodland, especially between here and Winchester. I gather there’s a place called Buckholt Forest where the old kings used to hunt. It’s just beyond Clarendon Palace. I’ve heard it’s a dark and sinister place, likely to be frequented at night by all kinds of felons, despite the fact that it’s the main route to Winchester – and London.’

  He guessed what she meant at once. A smile began to light his features. ‘Go on, domina.’

  ‘Well, I know de Lincoln said the courier would have an armed escort but - ’ they exchanged smiles. ‘I could find out the odds when I register the consignment.’

  ‘If you feel it necessary!’ He chuckled. ‘Two against two. That’s no gamble. So what are we waiting for? Let’s go!’

  Cressets fixed to the walls outside several houses on the High Street were already alight. People hurrying home in time for curfew also shed light from the smoking flares they carried. Shadows slid across the closed shutters of the shop fronts. The Watch was already out on its evening round.

  Hildegard walked alone, conscious that Gregory was following at a discreet distance, and only slipped into the courier’s office after a brief glance up and down the street. No-one took any notice.

  Gregory did not follow inside but left Hildegard on the corner of the street and entered the yard of a small church nearby where he could sit in the darkness of the porch unnoticed. When Hildegard came to find him she was looking pleased.

  ‘He leaves with one armed escort straight after Compline. He’ll change horses in Winchester.’

  ‘Will he, indeed?’ Gregory’s lips lifted at the corners. ‘We’ll have to see about that.’

  Away from the houses the sun sent thin shafts of light needling through the branches of the trees making deep shadows as they rode out. They had agreed that it was better to ride ahead of the courier, rather than be seen following him, just in case anyone - de Lincoln - was watching. The track up to Clarendon by-passed the palace and after a hard ride up to the ridge they were soon making their way into the woods where they had no difficulty in finding sufficient cover to position themselves to wait.

  It had been a hectic hour or so since Hildegard had delivered Burley’s ransom to the courier. She had hired horses from the town stables nearby while Gregory was busy elsewhere with another task. They had made it with enough time to mark out a suitable hiding place before the courier and his guard came thundering up the track.

  And by now the light had faded.

  ‘Do you think the courier is in on the plot?’ murmured Gregory into the darkness.

  ‘Probably not. Too many people in the know would weaken the chance of success.’

  A cart could be heard creaking towards them.

  Eventually a dark shape surged out of the undergrowth. A figure aloft chuntered to the old nag that pulled it. By pale starlight they could make out enough to guess that the old fellow driving the cart had farm produce under a sack beside him.

  The wagon creaked past and the sound faded under the hoot of owls and the rustling of the trees.

  ‘It’s wonderful how the eyes accustom themselves to the darkness,’ whispered Gregory. ‘How can it be so? What changes take place in their orbs that we are unaware of?’

  ‘We can only guess,’ supplied Hildegard, her own eyes fixed on the glimmering trail below their hiding place.

  The sound of horse’s hooves came next and they tensed in expectation. A lone rider burst through the trees and pounded rapidly away.

  ‘No escort, just somebody going home to his supper,’ murmured Gregory.

  With the light gone they could still make out the shapes of the trees against the lightness of the sky.

  ‘He must be well-paid to be travelling by night,’ observed Gregory. ‘Even so he’s certainly taking his time. Do you think they gave you the correct information?’

  Hildegard frowned. ‘I don’t trust anything de Lincoln says but it was the clerk in the couriers’ office who told me when his agent would leave.’ She hesitated. ‘He was at pains to reassure me that it would be soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Gregory shifted his position. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Just keep to our plan. That’s all you have to remember.’

  The frail moon was behind a cloud when the sound of hooves alerted them to more riders approaching along the track. Soon a prick of light from the direction of Salisbury appeared. At first it was no more than the size of a pin. Then it became brighter. Appearing intermittently between the trunks of the trees it was soon close enough to reveal a rider grasping a cresset that shed its brilliance over his hauberk and the steel bassinet on his head. He came on rapidly, leading the way, with another rider following close behind.

  ‘The second rider must be the courier,’ breathed Gregory into her ear. He was positioned in de
ep shadow. The approaching blaze of light illuminated the path but left the undergrowth in darkness. The monk’s abrupt appearance as if from nowhere took the first rider by surprise. His horse reared at the apparition suddenly clinging to its bridle.

  The rider recovered and brought the flaming torch down hard into where he imagined his attacker was but by then Gregory had him in a firm grip and hauled him backwards off his horse. The torch fell into the long grass and went out. A smack on the hind quarters sent the horse careering off into the darkness.

  The sound of a scuffle followed, a pained gasp, then silence. All this time the courier following found himself helplessly entangled in something that prevented him from riding on. His horse reared and thrashed its forelegs to no avail until it brought him tumbling from its back into the grass. He gave a shout to his companion. But he was past caring. Whatever Gregory had done had silenced him. The second horse freed itself and galloped off after the first.

  Hildegard pulled the net tighter with the courier inside it and held on until Gregory came to add his weight. He reached through the mesh and grabbed the trapped man by the jaw.

  There was a knife in his other hand and he pressed it against his throat with the warning, ‘Keep still and you’ll live.’

  ‘You can’t do this! I’m the town courier! I’m a guildman. I have rights of free passage!’

  ‘Not just now you don’t. Keep still. It’s not worth getting hurt for.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the man gasped.

  ‘Shut up.’ Gregory must have pressed the blade a little harder against his throat because the man started to whimper.

  Meanwhile Hildegard was hacking at the leather shoulder strap he wore. The pouch containing the gold had been carried inside the courier’s leather satchel which in turn was attached to a thick strap but it was exceptionally strong leather, difficult to hack free.