The Scandal of the Skulls

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Run, Yssy, run!’ screamed Hildegard as de Lincoln began to get up.

  She threw herself down on top of him, striking out with the knife but he deflected it and went for the hand that held it. She was too quick and managed to press the blade against his cheek and hold it there. ‘Move and you’ll lose an eye,’ she hissed.

  ‘Hildegard,’ he murmured, keeping very still beneath her, ‘I did not expect you to be so eager for me. Is this how you want me to take you, in the mud?’

  His insolence made her press the blade of the knife into his brow-bone. But her hand trembled. She could not blind a man. Not even de Lincoln. He must have felt the blood trickle down his face because with his greater strength he grabbed her hand and managed to force the blade away from his eyes until it slid harmlessly against his padded hauberk where he held it for a moment. Then with a swift movement their positions were reversed.

  He leered down at her where she sprawled beneath him in the mud. The knife was still in her right hand and he began to press it back onto the ground to force her to release it.

  With a sudden, unexpected spasm his head jerked backwards and he fell abruptly to one side with an oath. Ysabella stood over him with a thick branch in her hands.

  As he tried to rise to his feet Hildegard scrambled out of reach. ‘Now run, Ysabella! He’s only stunned!’

  With no second bidding Ysabella fled along the narrow deer path and Hildegard was about to follow when de Lincoln suddenly reared up to his full height and with a roar of rage lunged straight for her.

  Still bleary from the blow to his head he missed as she side-stepped and he only managed to rip one of her sleeves. As she backed away he stood swaying and rubbing his head but he had the advantage because he blocked the way between herself and escape. Hildegard gave him a hard push in the chest. He stumbled but managed to drag his sword free.

  He lumbered doggedly towards her. ‘No quarter,’ he gritted. He raised the sword.

  Hildegard gave a frightened curse then jumped across the mud onto the nearest tussock of grass. She teetered there for a moment, willing it not to sink under her, then caught sight of another one further out. De Lincoln stared, waving the point of his sword, but he could not reach her.

  Jumping from one tussock to the next she managed to find herself balancing on a small patch of dry ground in the middle of the quagmire. All around the mud lay flat and deceptive with its green mantle concealing the dragging depths beneath.

  De Lincoln set off after her in dogged pursuit. She saw him sink up to his knees as he followed her from one tussock of grass to the next then prepared to jump across to where she was balanced but she knew that if he did it would be the end of them both. Their combined weight would send them both under. Frantically she looked for a safer spot but nothing looked firm enough and anyway, de Lincoln would quickly follow her. Then in her desperation she recalled the game of dominoes between Ulric and the mason, Col.

  With the heat and madness that comes to the prey as the hunter closes in she bunched her robes in one hand and made a great leap onto another patch of green with a prayer that it would take her weight for only a second. De Lincoln followed as she expected but at once she sprang sideways onto another smaller tussock, hoping against hope that it was as firm as it looked.

  Finding herself sinking she jumped again. This time the ground held firm and she risked a backward glance.

  De Lincoln, sword still raised, had tried to follow her zigzag path but failed to make the sideways leap onto firmer ground as she had done. He stumbled as the islet on which he landed began to sink beneath his feet. With a great cry wrenched from his throat he tried to jump to firmer ground but fell full length into the marsh.

  Without hesitating Hildegard risked another wide leap and followed it with two or three more until she found herself on the edge of the deer path where she floundered to her knees among the reeds. She lay half-paralysed with fear and relief for a moment until she dared to glance back.

  Far out in the middle of the marsh where she had been teetering in horror only moments ago she could make out a shape thrashing about in a sea of mud.

  With twilight already falling it was difficult to see whether de Lincoln was making progress to save himself. She saw a shape rear up as he rose with his sword in one hand, and then he sank back and slowly, without a sound, vanished from sight.

  There was no sound from the swamp after that, only a bird chattering in the bushes far off, until came distant voices, people approaching along the path. Hildegard was too stunned to call out.

  Then Gregory appeared, floating in his white robes like a ghost through rising bands of evening mist.

  He spoke softly through the gloaming. ‘Hildegard?’

  She must have replied because he said, ‘Praise Benet you’re safe.’

  Her eyes were fixed on the place where de Lincoln had disappeared.

  The others were following Gregory in single file along the path.

  She caught the hand he stretched out. ‘It’s de Lincoln,’ she gasped. ‘I fear the marsh has swallowed him whole.’

  ‘We saw what was happening from the other side but were too far away to do more than stare in horror.’ He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘You’re trembling.’

  ‘He came at me with his sword. I thought we’d both be pulled under.’ She shuddered with revulsion at the thought of the clammy, foul-smelling slime creeping up her body and stopping her mouth and eyes with its suffocating force. Her glance returned to the marsh. Nothing moved. Bands of mist were beginning to wreath it as the light faded. ‘What can we do?’ She meant, how can we save de Lincoln. Gregory understood at once.

  ‘The light is almost gone. I fear we’d never get him out even if we knew where to look.’

  The gentle murmur of familiar voices told her that Ivo and Ysabella had been reunited.

  ‘Breck has returned to the farm to get lanterns and fetch de Lincoln’s tenant,’ Gregory explained. ‘He’ll guide us safely back. Until he comes we must wait here.’

  As the night closed in the only sound was the shriek of an owl and the occasional bubble of exploding gases from the depths of the marsh. A thickening mist had unfolded in layers across the brackish lake of mud. Gregory, she noticed, made the sign of the cross and she heard the murmur of Latin in a prayer to St Aurea.

  It turned out as Brother Gregory had told her. Before long, Breck and de Lincoln’s tenant appeared from out of the undergrowth with a couple of labourers carrying lanterns.

  ‘I know this stretch of country like the back of my hands,’ the tenant assured them. ‘I come out here of an evening for the flighting. Nothing like a well-roasted duck. All you folk have to do now is follow in my steps.’

  He led with confidence through the moonless night with the flickering lantern-light to show the way.

  When, muddy, cold and exhausted by too much emotion, they eventually reached the little farm, his woman had already boiled water for them and as soon as they were washed and dried, with Hildegard shivering inside a blanket, she put a wooden bowl of pottage into every pair of hands without a word.

  Hay bags were found to lie on for the rest of the night and Hildegard said nothing when Ysabella and Ivo curled up together.

  Next morning, somewhat recovered, she suggested that the two young ones ride to Salisbury with herself and Gregory. ‘We’ll find lodgings for you until we decide what is to happen next.’

  Ivo had something to say. ‘Domina, if it conforms to your wishes, may I suggest that Ysabella stays with my kin? I have an uncle with a house in town. He’s a merchant and will welcome us until I can contact my father.’

  ‘Where is your father?’

  ‘He’s away in the West Country, talking profit and loss with the manager of his tin mine.’

  So it was agreed. Breck was to return to the countess where she was staying at Gaunt’s palace near Winchester to let her know that her nephew and damozel were safe.

  He refused to take Hildegard’s horse.
‘You’ll be needing her after that ordeal,’ he suggested. ‘When you’ve done with her we’ll send a lad for her. The Countess can whistle for her. She’s got plenty of others she can ride.’

  Shaking hands all round they went their separate ways.

  THIRTY TWO

  It was the day before May Day when they reached Salisbury. Already the maypole was lying ready to be hauled upright on the green and countless ale barrels made a rumbling background as they were pitched off the backs of wagons and rolled into the taverns or set up in the green bowers. The four of them rode past the Hawthorn on their way into town and a new bush of broom swayed on a post outside.

  ‘That ale-man doesn’t know his plants,’ remarked Hildegard as the countess’s bay mare carried her past.

  ‘He knows them, straight,’ replied Ivo. ‘That place is notorious for its open support for the rebels of the Hurling Time. That’s broom you see outside and everybody knows what that means.’

  Hildegard turned with a complicit smile. ‘That explains a lot.’ It explained Ulric’s allegiance. King Richard’s regalia incorporated broom pods from his mother’s coat of arms, planta genista, the symbol of the royal House of Plantagenet.

  She said no more but her thoughts immediately went to Frank and the unsolved mystery of who had murdered the two masons and tried to get rid of Frank as well. Gregory alone of the group knew that Frank, still the chief suspect as far as they were aware, was probably still hiding out in the house of the Benedictines.

  Before he left for his guest quarters in the Close, Gregory said in an undertone, ‘Let’s hope Frank’s still safe. Do you think those Benedictines will have kept him in custody?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. I’m going straight back to my lodgings after meeting Ivo’s uncle to make sure Ysabella is settled. Frank will surely still be there.’

  He reached across and briefly clasped her hand as she turned to follow Ivo’s lead towards the substantial house on the Close where his uncle lived.

  De Lincoln had been too eager to meet his Maker to allow himself time to confess his sins. If, as suspected, he was the murderer of Master Gervase’s two men, they now had no way of finding out so they could clear Frank’s name.

  Frank himself, still in hiding, was looking much better than when Hildegard had last seen him. He was being waited on hand and foot and had nothing to do but enjoy the experience. Sister Ann was being most assiduous in caring for her patient and made Sister Elwis tut at such solicitude.

  ‘He’ll never want to leave at this rate,’ she grumbled. Her smile, however, was indulgent.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve been away for weeks,’ Hildegard told her when she arrived. ‘Nothing has changed here, has it?’

  Elwis shook her head. ‘If you mean has the serjeant done anything more then the answer’s no. They’ll never find any evidence to nail the murderer at this rate.’

  ‘I think he may be dead,’ Hildegard informed her. She told Elwis what had happened and how de Lincoln was involved.

  ‘So we may never know the truth?’ Elwis shrugged. ‘In that case we shall offer prayers for the forgiveness of sins and trust that the matter is ended.’

  Hildegard went to sit by Frank for a while and explained what had happened. ‘Is there nothing else you can tell us, Frank?’

  He shook his head. Guild secrets would remain guild secrets.

  ‘Why would de Lincoln want Robin, you and Jack dead?’

  He pursed his mouth obstinately. ‘No idea.’

  ‘It would help if you could recall something more about the man who pushed you down the surveyor’s shaft. Anything come to mind while I’ve been away?’

  ‘Only that he wore something sharp on his left hand. I felt a sharp sting as it gashed me on the cheek.’ He showed a line of dried blood across his face, puckered like the threads on a tapestry. ‘I didn’t notice it what with all this.’ He pointed to his legs.

  ‘Less painful now, are they?’

  He nodded. ‘That Sister Ann would be a witch if she wasn’t a nun.’

  When they met later at the Cat Gregory was looking pleased. ‘Murderer found. Murderer punished. Job done.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Hildegard! All the evidence, circumstantial though it is, points to de Lincoln, does it not?’

  Hildegard listened thoughtfully while Gregory ticked the points off one by one on his fingers.

  ‘One: the mysterious man in the steeple paying the masons off so he could get rid of an informer who had played him false. Two: the knifing in the Close of a witness.’ Another finger. ‘And three: the unseen assailant who pushed Frank, another witness, down the shaft.’ A third finger. ‘All,’ he concluded, ‘point to de Lincoln in terms of motive and opportunity.’

  ‘You really believe that’s how it was?’

  ‘We shall probably never know with absolute certainty,’ he shrugged. ‘But there’s nobody else in the picture is there? It’s got to be de Lincoln. That’s my opinion for what it’s worth.’ He gave her a close look. ‘Do you have a better explanation?’

  ‘Not at present. But it still seems a somewhat small and local matter to concern a man with de Lincoln’s evident ambition.’

  ‘Do you doubt that he was using Robin as an informer?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Old scores. That’s what that would be about.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ After a moment she counted off her doubts on her own fingers the way he had done himself to prove the opposite. ‘Look at it like this. One, we don’t know that Robin turned double agent, do we? Why should de Lincoln want rid of him? Two, while it’s obvious de Lincoln would have the stamina to climb up to the windlass and set it going by himself – at least enough to winch a body part way up the steeple - how would he know where it was? It’s not as if he’s a familiar figure around the building. It was night, too. Can you imagine him stumbling around the cathedral in the dark? And three,’ she went on before Gregory could interrupt, ‘I’m not sure de Lincoln could be the man who pushed Frank down the shaft.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t see why he would.’

  ‘Unless Frank was in on Robin’s dealings and was becoming difficult - ?’

  ‘More than that,’ she interrupted, ‘According to Ysabella de Lincoln must have been back at Clarendon when Jack Winter was stabbed.’

  Gregory frowned. ‘How would she know that?’

  ‘It was the night he broached the idea of betrothal. She’s not likely to forget that.’

  ‘If not him, then who?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that it must be somebody local, who knows the cathedral and is familiar with the Close,’ he concluded.

  She nodded. She had already told him that Frank, still unable to walk, and still in custody under Sister Ann’s care, had been unable or unwilling to shed more light on the matter. He had been taciturn when she looked in on him, she told Gregory, but that was nothing new and, she explained, he had merely repeated the story he had told before: he and his now murdered mate, Jack, had thought to have a bit of fun with Robin, treating him roughly as he deserved for his many betrayals. They were as surprised as anybody when they returned and found him, not trussed as they had left him, but vanished into thin air.

  When Hildegard asked why they did not raise the alarm she told Gregory that he had merely mumbled something about not wanting to get into even more trouble with Master Gervase.

  ‘I asked him what trouble he was already in and he merely said that he had planted the idea of a match with Idonea to the Master but now she was creating trouble over it which meant he was caught up in her nonsense which put him in a bad light - through no fault of his own.’

  ‘Frank is a most ambiguous young fellow,’ remarked Gregory. ‘I don’t know what to make of him.’

  They left the matter there. Gregory, sighing, made a suggestion. ‘Let’s rest our minds from this problem for the present and go to find Medford. Maybe
he can tell us what is happening in Westminster.’

  Medford was reluctant to acknowledge Hildegard as he filed out of the cathedral with the twelve other canons at mid-day but Gregory, towering over him and in no mood for prevarication, took him by the elbow and hustled him into a doorway further along the cloisters. One or two looks from the remaining canons came their way but Gregory ignored them.

  ‘We’ve been out of reach and want to know what news from London. Has Burley been freed?’ he demanded.

  Medford gave Gregory a hard look. He was as pale and haggard as before but something had changed.

  ‘There is no news, brother. He is again being interrogated before the judges at Westminster and clearly failed to make his escape. Whatever decision Gloucester’s justices make will be broadcast far and wide. Be confident you will hear about it when everyone else does. If they find him guilty there is no way they can secretly execute him. His fame and the love the people bear him will prevent that. We will all know about it.’

  He eyed them like a cornered animal when the two monastics did not budge.

  ‘What more can I tell you?’ He gave Hildegard a baleful glance. ‘I dare not involve myself further. The plan to free him must have failed. Heaven forfend that the names of those involved come to light else we are all dead.’

  ‘We knew that was a possibility from the start,’ she said coldly. She still had the incriminating list of those willing to pledge gold for Burley’s escape.

  ‘I know something else,’ he continued, ‘I now know that I have been awarded a chance to amend my life. It is clear to me what I must do. The Church will be my path from now on. Spiritual rewards are what I crave. The reign of kings will continue as it has always done, without my help.’

  Hildegard gazed at him with dismay and astonishment. She saw a terrified man before her, one who had decided to exchange his loyalty to King Richard for a less controversial fealty. The church hierarchy was, even so, as much a step ladder to fame and fortune as a place at court - and far less dangerous. Medford, it seemed, had found the role destiny had marked out for him.