Gregory’s speed and style were matched by a like speed from de Lincoln but were set against a brutish force that the monk seemed unable to withstand. He retreated and retreated again until he was stopped by the edge of the waterway that carried the refuse from the town to the Avon.
De Lincoln imagined he had the upper hand but was too quick in his assessment. Gregory had retreated only to make a flashing assault on his opponent that, when he side-stepped, had de Lincoln, propelled by his own momentum, slithering at the edge of the ditch on his knees but, with the damascene sword still grasped firmly in his hand, he regained his balance, swivelled, and came trundling towards Gregory with the force of a siege ram.
Gregory stood his ground and waited for de Lincoln to get close enough then with a flick of his sword he pushed his blade out of the way and lunged for his opponent’s bare chest.
De Lincoln attempted another attack but gave a gasp of pain as Gregory’s blade came in under his own blade and sliced through the yellow bodice. As blood began to pour from the wound he made a grab for Hildegard with his free hand and using her as a shield pushed her in front of him through the crowd.
Hildegard did her best to trip him up by kicking out. She punched him in the stomach but his muscles were as hard as iron so when that didn’t work she bit the back of the hand that held her round her neck. She could scarcely breathe.
He gave a curse but did not loosen his grip, instead growling at her to keep still, with a warning that his sword was sharper than his knife. She had no choice but to allow him to use her to ram a way through the by-standers.
Behind them a commotion of protests broke out and the clamour of voices followed them to the edge of the grove. Surprised that Gregory had not immediately followed at their heels she heard the unexpected sound of steel on steel ring out.
By now De Lincoln was panting with the exertion of half-carrying a struggling woman with him but he pressed on. Powerfully strong he held her in an iron grip she could not break. Years as a militia man with Bolingbroke’s step-brother Sir Thomas Swynford had honed him to a peak of physical fitness. There was nothing she could do to escape.
When they reached the precincts of the cathedral he bundled her through a side door into the north transept. ‘You’re light as gossamer, my lady. My task is easy. It shows God is on my side.’ His laughter faded as he slammed her back against the wall. ‘Was that your Cistercian friend with the sword?’
Too winded to speak she nodded.
‘Then pray he can climb as well as wield a blade in my face. I believe you and I have a date with destiny.’
Without waiting for a response he forced her through the nearby tower door and up the steps inside. She tried to wedge herself against the smooth sides of the wall but he punched her arms out of the way and grasped them behind her back.
‘Get up these steps!’ he hissed. ‘Now!’
Seeing that she would not go of her own accord he climbed over her where she sprawled on the steps and began to drag her by the shoulders after him.
His sword wound was bleeding profusely. It stained the front of the yellow gown but he seemed not to notice. With superhuman strength he dragged her up to the first level where there was a bridge across the nave. She was battered and bruised but refused to give in.
Despite that he managed to pull her to her feet. ‘Now walk across.’
‘I won’t!’
‘You’ll do as I say!’ He glanced over the temporary wooden barrier that had been left in place by the masons. ‘It’s a long drop. Want to try it?’
A look at the blank eyes showed that he would have no moral objections to pitching her over the side. It was clear she would have to go along with everything he suggested in a play for time. Gregory would follow for sure. Gregory with his sword and his swordsman’s skill.
‘I’ll go,’ she told him. ‘Just don’t pull me. I’m black and blue. Those stone steps are hard.’
He put an arm round her and held her close and she could feel the length of his muscular body against her own as he murmured, ‘I only hurt you because you resisted me. Show me where it hurts.’
She lifted up one wrist in a gesture of defiance.
To her surprise he took hold of it and, moving it towards his lips, kissed the wound. ‘Anywhere else?’ he looked up into her eyes then brought his mouth towards her neck, pushing aside her torn shift and before she could move had rested his lips lightly between her breasts.
‘Lower?’ He looked up from under his lashes with a brazen smile.
‘Don’t you dare!’
Something kindled in the depths of his eyes. ‘I dare anything, my lady, you should know that by now.’
The sound of a commotion echoing up from the body of the cathedral galvanised him into sudden action and he urged her across the bridge to the next flight of steps.
‘Go ahead. Climb to the top where the windlass is kept. I’m right behind you.’
She noticed that he was breathing more heavily and the blood stain was turning the yellow fabric of his gown a shade of brown. He followed her glance. ‘A flesh wound,’ he told her with a flash of his eyes. ‘Don’t bother yourself about it. Get going.’ He prodded his sword hilt into her back.
With little choice she had to do as he commanded, running across the plank bridge then up the next winding stairway. The dragging sound of his footsteps followed, climbing ever upwards after her. At the next turn she risked a backward glance to see how far off he was but he was continuing to climb with a dogged persistence. She ascended the next flight. Not yet much out of breathe, she could feel the heat of her exertions making her face burn. She paused to listen.
Again the dragging sound stopped but after a moment it came on once more. His pauses were becoming more frequent. He sounded as if he was weakening. He must surely be losing blood. When he came into sight round the lower spiral she saw the stain spreading down the front of the yellow gown and he was holding his free hand to the wound. In the other, even now, was the damascene sword. He looked up at her, gave a sudden smile, then with an effort dragged himself up the next wind in the stair after her.
He cannot last much longer, she thought with desperate hope as he pursued her, and surely he has not enough strength to climb to such a punishing height?
Yet he came on, step by dragging step, the sword glittering with the promise of death.
If she hoped to outrun him she was doomed to fail. He climbed on as if in a growing ecstasy, step after painful step, trailing the cumbersome skirts of the yellow gown up the endless flight of steps until it seemed impossible that he could keep climbing after her except by the insane power of his will. She wondered how much blood he had lost and what would ever thwart his desire to keep climbing after her. And she asked herself in fear which of them would survive when they reached the top and confronted each other in what he believed was their date with destiny.
THIRTY SIX
It was not the highest point in the steeple but it was the highest level accessible to the masons where the great windlass stood. Tied now, monstrous and immobile, if filled up most of the space on the edge of the long drop down to the nave. All the ropes were coiled against the walls.
Wind was whistling through the loop holes and from the gap in the wooden floor, where building materials had been hoisted inside the steeple, there was an echoing roar from the floor of the cathedral at the end of mass as people came and went two hundred feet below.
She fled to the far side of the chamber. De Lincoln kicked the door shut and lurched towards her. She lifted her head the better to outface him. He trod heavily to within a couple of paces of where she stood.
He reached out with one bloodied hand. ‘I need your help, Hildegard. Get rid of this for me.’ He began to tug helplessly at the yellow gown. His face, still streaked with charcoal, was streaming with sweat. He was breathing loudly, gasping with every inhalation as if the air had thinned. ‘How do you get out of these devilish things?’ He pulled and tore at the fabric.
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br /> She didn’t move. ‘I thought that would be something you’d know about.’
‘Please, help me. If I’m to die I shall die as a man.’ He pulled savagely at the neck of the gown and the fabric was ripped a little more.
By now persuaded she was wrong about his having murdered the two apprentices she moved closer.
‘Like this.’ She lifted the skirts and pulled them up over his head. It was then she could have escaped or drawn her knife on him. He was helpless and unprotected. A feeling like compassion unexpectedly stayed her hand. He had taken a savage slash from Gregory’s sword. Blood soaked his white undershirt. He was innocent of the apprentices’ death.
Shaking his head and shoulders out of the gown he allowed it to fall to the floor. Evidently aware of his brief vulnerability he gave her a startled glance and picked up his sword. ‘Why did you not take your chance then?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘It would have been unfair.’
‘No more unfair than me with my greater strength dragging you up here - ’
‘I know.’ She gave him a steady glance. ‘I simply cannot.’
‘Because you’re a nun?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or are you truly that more complicated creature, Mistress York?’
She shrugged. It was a question she had asked herself often enough.
He smiled and for once his eyes came alive. ‘Say which it is to be. My mistress or my lady?’ He moved closer. ‘Now we’re safe from intruders maybe we can find out?’
Still smiling and still holding his sword in one hand he opened his arms. ‘You will stay. You will come to me. You will stand by me when they arrive as they will. I know you will not desert me.’ He took a pace towards her. ‘All I ask is my May Day reward. One little kiss.’
‘I thought you wanted the list of King Richard’s supporters?’
‘That later. Come to me now. We have a little time before they get here.’
‘De Lincoln. Is everything you told me about having no part in Robin’s death the truth?’
‘Why should I want him dead? He was of little consequence but he worked for me well enough.’
‘Is that the truth?’
He put one palm over the blood stain near his heart. ‘I swear to God and St Thomas.’
‘Then I have wronged you.’
‘Only in that one instance. I have wronged you more by trying to kill your Cistercian brother just now and I will try again if he shows his face.’ A look of sadness filled his eyes for a moment and the dancing light faded as swiftly as it had arisen. ‘Everything is equal in the end. We do what we must until the performance is ended. Then eternity claims us. Amen.’
As if shamed by any hint of weakness his head lifted. ‘Well, mistress. Are you going to give me a kiss or do I have to take one? It’s all the same to me. But I will have one.’
She did not move.
He took it as in invitation to come to her instead. The blood oozing from his wound was spreading. It was in stark contrast to the white of his linen under-shirt. He looked monstrous with his charcoal-smeared face, the sweat, the blood and most of all the look in his eyes.
She lifted both hands to ward him off. He was breathing raggedly and with more difficulty than ever.
She said, ‘I can try to staunch the blood if you wish - ’
He glanced down as if having forgotten it. ‘Later. A kiss first. Show me you have forgiven me.’
‘De Lincoln, don’t you understand? If you had reneged on your allegiance to Bolingbroke or Gloucester or whichever enemy of the king you serve, I would more readily believe in your repentance for what happened on Ludgate Hill.’
‘And my reward will be a kiss?’
Closing her eyes she nodded.
‘In that case...’ He dropped onto both knees and held his sword point down with both hands resting on the pommel, ‘I renege on all vows made to Henry Bolingbroke, and to his father John of Gaunt, the duke of Lancaster, King of Castile, and to their allies, the duke of Gloucester and the earls of Arundel and Warwick, and especially to that slimy braggart, Bolingbroke’s half-brother, Sir Thomas Swynford. I renege all fealty and every promise made to them or their kin.’
He reached inside the leather pouch hanging from his belt under his shirt and withdrew some coins. Throwing them to the floor he said, ‘I return their tainted gold.’
Lifting his lightless eyes to Hildegard he said, ‘By all that is most holy, Hildegard, come to me.’
He held out one blood-stained hand in invitation.
As he found it difficult to rise she went to crouch beside him. ‘Let me staunch your wounds first.’
Tearing a strip off the hem of his shirt she pressed it to the worst of the sword cuts.
Pushing her hands aside he brought an arm round her neck for support and pressed his mouth hungrily over her face. Sweat was streaming over his skin.
‘Forget all that,’ he murmured feverishly. ‘My pleasure will be to die in your arms.’ He pressed his mouth over hers again and again as he spoke, ‘Yes, my lady, yes, kiss me, yes, let me feel your lips, open your mouth to me, Hildegard, yes, kiss me, I want you. Give me your mouth. Yield to me. Yes. This is destiny...’
He gripped her in a tight and bloody embrace, first kissing her hard on the mouth and then lowering his kisses to cover her breasts. His blood smeared her skin where he ripped her garments aside. ‘This is fate,’ he mumbled. ‘It is written.’
A sound at the door made her lift a desperate glance over his shoulder.
At first de Lincoln did not seem to notice that the door had burst open and a crowd of armed constables followed by the serjeant were rushing inside. He lifted his head as, after them, came Brother Gregory, a rope tied round his wrists. Then even more people in their May Day disguises kept coming up the stairs and erupting, red-faced and panting, into the chamber where they milled to a confused halt, made wary by the gaping hole in the middle of the floor and, when they noticed it, stunned to astonishment by the sight of blood and two blood-stained people in an embrace, and one of them a nun.
A trail of red led to where de Lincoln was kneeling with his arms round Hildegard. He observed the intruders with bleared amusement and announced, ‘No-one will take me alive! Nor will you wrest this woman from me!’
With a huge effort of will he managed to rise to his feet. ‘Give me your arm, my lady.’ He held out his free hand.
Leaning heavily against her, he stumbled across the chamber towards the windlass and, still holding her tightly against him, managed to wedge them both against it with his sword in his right hand. He was gasping for breath.
The constables surged forward but he raised his sword and they fell back at once. In the turmoil she noticed that Gregory’s wrists had been cut loose. She saw him snatch a sword from the man standing next to him.
‘Come on, de Lincoln,’ he called taking several paces from out of the crowd. ‘Free Hildegard and then give yourself up.’
‘Never. I am innocent. I have done nothing wrong!’
‘You’ve abducted a nun, for one,’ said the serjeant. ‘And instigated an affray in a public place within the walls, for another. So put your sword down like a good fellow and let’s be having you.’ A nod towards his constables had them nervously spreading out while trying to keep close to the safety of the door.
Greatly outnumbered, de Lincoln simply roared with laughter. With a kind of mad heroism and clearly unafraid of going onto the attack against so many he released Hildegard and advanced an unsteady pace or two from the protection of the windlass. He raised his sword against Gregory.
The monk merely lifted his borrowed one as protection. ‘I’m not going to spill your blood on sacred ground, de Lincoln. You are outnumbered. A wiser course is to submit.’
‘Never!’
‘A charge of treason against the king is what you have to face, man, unless your overlord is willing to stand for you,’ declared the serjeant, amending his previous list of accusations.
There was a commotion at the door
and the rumbling bass of a new voice spoke up. ‘No lord of his will speak for him!’ A tall, barrel-chested red-faced old man dressed in wedding clothes burst into the chamber. It was the brother-in-law of Master Gervase, Sir Maurice de Quincy. His grey beard jutted aggressively as he pulled his sword from its scabbard.
‘Wait until I stand before the King’s Bench and tell’em how he tried to lure good men to speak treason!’ he declaimed. ‘He wove a web of treachery that would have cost us our heads!’
He was a military man, with a strong, physical presence despite his grey hair, and he strutted into the middle of the chamber to address the bystanders as if he was appearing in parliament.
‘That young traitor Robin Treadwell - ‘ he began, ‘all his mis-spent days causing trouble but now, praise God and St Thomas, to cause it no more! What did he do, my friends? To what depths of treachery did he stoop? I’ll tell you! He betrayed his brethren! He had no honour in him. He betrayed them one by one. He offered any name, for a price in silver and blood, to this deep-died, double-dealing fellow here.’
He pointed at de Lincoln with his free hand. A large ring flashed on one of his fingers. Strutting up to de Lincoln but making sure he was out of range of his sword, he demanded, ‘Who is this devil in human form, you might ask. Many of you will know him as Sir John. Others will know him as an upstart in the service of Arundel. Look at him well, my friends! This is the spy who bought information to sell to the king’s enemies. He bought it from Robin Treadwell. He bought it from others. Yes, from others!’ He cast a glowering look over the bystanders in their motley. ‘Don’t think you’re safe because you’ve still got a head on your shoulders! We know who you are! We know where you live!’ His voice rose. ‘We shall root you out! Do not doubt it! Treadwell learned this to his cost and paid the penalty. Jack Winter was another. Running to fetch the serjeant in order to tell him, what?’
He glared round, challenging, furious - and, Hildegard now knew, this was a man guilty of double murder.
She stepped forward from behind the windlass. ‘He intended to tell him that he knew you had climbed the steeple on the night of Robin’s murder.’
The Scandal of the Skulls Page 32
