The Scandal of the Skulls

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘But who is his bride?’

  ‘I cannot tell you. The whole thing is being planned with the utmost secrecy. We are reliably informed,’ she lowered her voice, ‘that it was only decided yesterday. Can you believe it? Whoever his bride is she has deliberately kept him hanging on for an answer, or so they say.’

  Unable to keep the note of astonishment out of her voice, she added, ‘Even his housekeeper is in the dark. He told her to prepare a feast and ask no questions.’

  ‘Does Frank know anything about it?’

  ‘We’re keeping it from him for the time being. His health improves little by little but with his legs strapped up he’s best kept calm in case he tries to walk.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’

  ‘I intend to ask a favour of the serjeant when he shows up today. We cannot keep the poor lad here forever.’ Before she left to go about her duties she said, ‘Attend us after you’ve broken your fast, if you will, Hildegard. He’ll be over with his constables before the rioting starts. You’re the one who can tell him how you found the poor young fellow. We must persuade him that there is no case against him if that’s what we truly believe.’

  With the noise of celebration continuing ever more loudly in the streets Hildegard was quite content to wait a while for the serjeant in the peace and harmony of the little guest chamber off the hall. When he at last arrived he was puffing with impatience and addressed Sister Elwiss as soon as he entered.

  ‘Let’s get this done,’ he began. ‘I’m going to be in demand today. It’s the usual mayhem out there already. So far no brawls and no injuries. Let’s hope it stays that way. Now, sister, do you know of the whereabouts of this miscreant as you claim?’

  ‘Follow me.’ Sister Elwis was unperturbed by the serjeant’s brusque manner. When she pushed open the door she put her head round first. ‘Do you still want to talk to this visitor?’

  A voice inside assented.

  ‘You may enter, serjeant, but your visit must be short. He is not well.’

  The serjeant gave a grunt and went inside.

  ‘Does he want to ask me anything?’ asked Hildegard.

  ‘Wait until he comes out.’ Sister Elwis was wringing her hands. ‘I do hope I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘It’s a fact that Frank cannot stay here until he is walking again,’ Hildegard replied. ‘It could be months. By then the exeats will have been called and he would be outlawed by default. Of course you’ve done the right thing, sister. He must be allowed out on bail at least. I’d be willing to stand surety for him.’

  The nun smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  In no more than the time it took to say a half dozen hail marys the serjeant came out.

  ‘That’s him all right. Frank Atkinson.’ He gave Sister Elwis an assessing look. ‘By, you nuns,’ he said, ‘you’re dark horses and no mistake. How did you get yourselves involved in this, locked away here in your little priory?’

  Sister Elwis looked as innocent as she was and didn’t reply.

  ‘It beats me, anyway,’ he collected himself, ‘but to business. He’s in a poor state of mind as you’ll have seen for yourselves. Admits horseplay, tying the apprentice to the rope for a bit of a lark. Boys will be boys. Fact. Can’t get away from it. At least we’ve got that straight. I can hardly hold him for murder on the strength of it.’ He looked round the small group of nuns who had appeared when they heard a man’s voice in their precinct. ‘To my mind the guilty party is the man who hauled up the body, if he did it knowingly.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘And if he did it unknowingly, well, that was just Robin’s bad luck. Anything further to add?’

  His glance settled on Hildegard.

  Forced into saying something she replied, ‘I have a belief but it is unfounded. I may be wrong and there is a second possibility, but it’s a far shot. By the end of the day I imagine I might have further evidence to offer you.’

  ‘Aye, get ‘em drunk then they’ll spill the beans. Now then, domina, I’m told it was you found Frank. Can you confirm where and when?’

  ‘I can.’ She told him what she knew. When it came to how Frank was lifted from the shaft she mentioned that she had found two likely lads who had come to help.

  ‘Names?...Come on,’ he urged when she hesitated. ‘You must have heard their names.’

  ‘I promised I would keep them out of it.’

  ‘I shall have you appealed if you won’t answer. Which is more important, your own private promise or the law of the land?’

  ‘That’s a very interesting question,’ she began and then, when she saw the granite face of the serjeant she reluctantly answered but only after an assurance that he would do nothing about it today.

  ‘I’ve too much on my hands to deal with them now,’ he added, taking the grace out of his agreement. ‘And by the way,’ he called back over his shoulder as he left, ‘If that lad in there can walk, he can walk!’ Laughing uproariously at his own joke he went out.

  His two constables, waiting outside, followed him down the street and after a brief exchange they too burst out laughing.

  Hildegard herself went out as soon as they disappeared round the corner. She would have to admit to Col and Ulric that the serjeant now knew they had helped her. She could not see how it mattered much as Frank had been granted a reprieve but she did not like to break her word.

  The wooden horse, Hob, a tall man with a horse-head mask hiding his identity and with only his large feet in rough leather boots protruding from under the horse’s skirts, had put in an appearance on the green. He struck terror into the children who ran shrieking from his approach but the game was to touch the horse without being caught and he was besieged by an unruly mob.

  The horse’s huge jaws snapped at clothing and bare flesh and when caught the victims had to pay the penalty of passing underneath the horse’s skirts. The crowd pushed to get close and swayed back in alarm out of the way as it made its sorties in amongst them. Soon it was making lunges at every passing beauty. The onlookers chanted a taunting song and the girls emerged from under the skirts, red faced and giggling, with black smudged faces from the soot.

  Next the Morris bells were heard accompanied by the heavy tread of wooden pattens stamping out the rhythm of a war dance. To conceal their identities, the faces of the team were smeared with charcoal, black for luck, and one man even carried a black cat on his shoulder. Close to, Hildegard noticed the straw sticking out of it and realised it was a stuffed totem. Two-legged guisers squawked and gibbered until the leader of the Morris drew a sword and carved a space for their acrobatics. Their stamping feet and the clashing of swords had a sinister intensity, enough to whip the crowd into a frenzy.

  Adding to it were the molly men. Their bearded faces were blackened with charcoal, their womens’ gowns trailing long sleeves and only their men’s boots protruding at the hem to show what they were. It was another guise believed to bring good luck. Every so often a girl in the crowd would be swept into the arms of one of these bearded men-women and after a lot of shrieking she would finally submit and give him the kiss that would bring luck for the rest of the year. Already a lot of faces were besmirched with charcoal from the kisses of the molly men.

  What uncertain lives we lead, thought Hildegard as she watched, to hope such foolishness can change our lives for the better.

  When someone tugged the edge of her sleeve she turned. A woman held a baby up to her. ‘Give me a portion of luck, sister, and bless you.’ The man with her laughed out loud. ‘She’s a guiser, you sot wit. No real nuns are out today. Ain’t that so, sister?’ Laughing, he crossed himself and pushed his wife and baby on through the crowd.

  On the far side of the green she caught sight of Brother Gregory. She was unsurprised that he did not despise the celebration of the May either. He was watching a group of sword dancers spinning about within inches of their sharpened blades with evident respect.

  Their dame, long skirts flying, leaped over crossed swords again a
nd again. They were real ones, blades glinting in the sunlight. Not content with that, and in strict rhythm with the beating of the dancers’ pattens, the dame did a back flip and stood on his hands while the swords whirled around him. Then he bounced upright without a scratch. The dancers kept this up for some time with no blood drawn.

  Evidently intent on a different destination Gregory began to drift away through the crowd. Hildegard lost sight of him before she could attract his attention and decided that she would never find him in all the throng. Nor was she likely to find Ulric and Col among all the many May revellers either.

  Instead of continuing her search she drifted with the crowd towards the maypole where a chain of people were dancing round it in a farandole while the dancers holding onto the ribbons in the middle wove their colours in a complex, strict and ancient pattern. The leader of the outer ring was jigging at the head in a two-step with some neat footwork while less able dancers tripped and fell amid raucous laughter from the crowd pressing in around them. People were constantly running up to link hands in the farandole to make the chain grow. Soon it had to double back on itself adding a third ring of dancers round the pole.

  To her astonishment Hildegard suddenly found herself swept up by one of the molly men and forced to join the line.

  They whirled round the maypole several times, the steps getting faster and more complex then, while she was wondering if she could keep it up much longer and without any warning she was abruptly pulled from the chain and hustled backwards in amongst the spectators. They scattered to let them through and before she could regain her balance she was being pulled down a narrow laup between two cottages.

  When she turned the figure of the molly man loomed over her.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, half-laughing. Something about his stillness made her laughter die. He was staring with an odd, intense expression.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked again, stifling her unease and telling herself it was some sort of joke.

  ‘If the disguise is broken the luck is broken.’ The man gave a deep-throated chuckle. It was a voice she recognised with horror and disbelief. She could only stare back.

  His features were hidden under a layer of charcoal. Sweat trickled down into a dark, forked beard - one that without the disguise would not be black but fair.

  The woman’s yellow kirtle he wore, with its low, round neck, looked bizarre on such a muscular, male body. Fair hair sprouted on his chest above the neckline. She stared into his face again to try to penetrate his disguise. He could not know how grotesque he looked.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Don’t say my name,’ he warned with a finger to her lips.

  She took a breath. There was no mistaking him.

  He gripped her by both arms.

  ‘But you’re dead,’ she managed to stammer.

  ‘And like our lord, new risen.’

  ‘Nothing like,’ she croaked, stepping hastily back. ‘More like the anti-Christ.’

  He slid his hands down to grip her by both wrists and drag her close so that he could look into her eyes. ‘What is it you fear from me? Why this unending suspicion? I’ve told you, I have repented.’

  His lightless eyes held no expression.

  ‘Repented of abducting my daughter?’

  ‘That was business. Before that. In London. When your lover was beheaded by that mob of Swynford’s supporters.’

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ she managed.

  ‘What do I have to do to make you believe me?’

  She could only stare, lost for words until she managed to croak, ‘If you have to ask that you’re truly lost.’

  ‘You must have believed in Rivera when he and you - ‘ he tightened his grip. ‘Or did that not bother you then?’

  ‘Let me go, de Lincoln - ‘

  ‘There now, you’ve broken your luck. What a shame. What will happen to you now?’ A leer briefly crossed his face.

  ‘How did you get out of the quagmire?’ she breathed.

  ‘By the grace of god and my own strength.’

  ‘By the grace of the devil, you mean!’

  ‘What have I ever done to you - so far,’ he added with menace. When she did not answer he said, ‘I’m not here to bandy words with you. I’m here to tell you what’s going to happen next.’

  ‘No-one tells me what I don’t - ’

  ‘Shut up!’ he snarled. ‘You have something I want. You have the list of donors to that treacherous plot to free Simon Burley which you purloined from the bag of gold I gave into your keeping.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘My courier did not get through to the Tower in London. He was waylaid. Someone stole the gold he was carrying. In the bag was a list of names. Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ He tightened his grip until she cried out. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Let me go, you’re hurting - ’

  ‘Get used to it. When the Constable of the Keys, our man, by the way, opened up the bag, the thing most valuable inside it, the list of traitors names, had gone. Where is it?’ he repeated.

  ‘Why do you want it?’

  ‘You know why I want it. Those men are traitors. Tell me where it is.’

  ‘Why do you imagine I have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Because the monk who delivered it to the Tower came from St Mary Graces. The headquarters of your Order in London. He was most reluctant to admit where he came from. But eventually those professionals in the Tower extracted the truth from him. One thing is certain. He’ll never again be a scribe. Now give me the list or it’ll be the worse for you too.’

  He began to feel roughly inside her sleeves, running one hand down her arms while he held her captive with the other, and jeering when he found her small knife, then grabbing her leather scrip on her belt and wrenching it open, cursing when he found only a few coins and some herbs inside.

  He even thrust a hand down the front of her robe inside her shift and she struggled, kicking out at him, clawing his face and achieving nothing but a besmirching of her hands with charcoal.

  ‘Is it inside your breast binding?’

  ‘Don’t dare touch me!’

  ‘Tell me where it is or - ’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Is it in your lodgings?’ he demanded.

  ‘I shall never tell you!’

  He gripped her by the back of the head and tilted her head, squeezing her neck hard but she closed her eyes and refused to make a sound.

  ‘Hildegard,’ he lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want it to be like this. It could be so different between us. All you have to do is obey me.’

  ‘No chance - !’

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ignoring her protests, ‘how did you manage to open the inside lock?’

  She refused to answer.

  ‘Listen to me. I can help you.’

  ‘Help?’ she managed to utter. ‘How can you help me?’

  ‘I’ll keep your name out of it. You’ve stolen something of great importance to certain men of power. I need that scroll. I need the names of the traitors listed on it. You must give it back or you’ll be in serious trouble. It is not yours.’

  When she made no answer he growled, ‘Those names can mean nothing to you. They’re nobodies. Trouble-causers. They’re dead men. Why keep hold of such a list?’

  Again she refused to answer.

  ‘You’re in serious trouble, you must know that. We want that list back and I have orders to stop at nothing to get it.’ He tightened his grip on her neck as if to snap it with frustration and said through gritted teeth, ‘It’ll be the worst for you if you don’t hand it over. But I’m willing to help you even now. Let me help you, Hildegard. I can help you. I can save you a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t need your help. You’re the one who needs help. When the masons find out that you’re a spy for Gloucester they’ll hunt you down.’

  ‘Masons?’ he spat
. ‘All they know is magic numbers. Necromancy. They can’t harm me. I’m protected by something more powerful than magic.’

  He held her tight enough to prevent her escape and she could feel the hard muscles of his body underneath the woman’s yellow gown pressing unyieldingly against her.

  ‘Let me go,’ she gritted, knowing she pleaded in vain.

  ‘I will never let you go. Never!’

  Struggling against him she managed to bite his wrist but he merely twisted her arms behind her back with a derisory laugh.

  ‘Listen, this is how it’s going to be. First you give me the list. Then I take you somewhere private and teach you well who your master is and then I keep you with me forever. Understand? That’s what I want and that’s what I’m going to have. Learn it and submit.’

  He pressed harder against her, forcing her against the wall in the narrow passage. Nuzzling the side of her face with his rough beard he murmured, ‘We are forever meeting like this but I know a better place. Somewhere more private where we can take our time. Come with me. But walk willingly with me.’

  ‘Never!’

  He drew a knife from somewhere among the folds of yellow fabric. ‘You will do as I say. You will take me to where the scroll is hidden and you will hand it to me and then we shall celebrate May Day in a secret place far from the madding crowd. You will do it now - ’ He pressed the knife under her ribs. ‘Or you will die here in the street. Slowly and unremarked. Your choice. Which is it to be?’

  A look at his blank eyes showed that he mean it. With no option she allowed herself to be marched towards the end of the laup. If she hoped to get away as soon as they rejoined the crowds then the hope was foiled because de Lincoln put one arm right round her as if in an amorous embrace, making sure the knife pressing into her ribs was concealed under the folds of his yellow sleeves, then he urged her out into the crowd of merry-makers.

  ‘Walk beside me in my arms as if we are already lovers,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You will give me what I want or I vow to stab you through your treacherous heart.’

  THIRTY FOUR