[Hildegard of Meaux 06] - The Butcher of Avignon

by Cassandra Clark

  Now Hildegard considered what she would tell her when she wrote to her. With probably little interest in the drama of the treasury thief, the prioress would certainly be interested in the presence of a vassal of Prince Thomas of Woodstock at the court of Pope Clement.

  **

  Rumours about whether the thief had an accomplice began to take shape. Whether this unknown accomplice had turned on his, at this stage, equally unknown companion was an opinion that vied with suspicions about the story now being given out by the guards. They were adamant they had seen no accomplice. There was no second thief.

  For some, this put their honesty into question. There was even speculation about the reason for them not being taken into custody themselves. Of course, said the pundits, they denied that they had killed the thief. They would, wouldn’t they? But, it was also argued, to kill him would not have been a shrewd move on their part. They weren’t sotwits, were they? Yet if it were true that there was no second thief, who was to blame for the murder?

  The rumours told Hildegard one thing: nobody knew anything. For some reason the papal officials was keeping a tight hold on what facts they must have.

  **

  She got a chance to seek out the second guard involved sooner than expected. On her way to the couriers’ office she had to go past the guard room, as it was in the same block of buildings, and the guard she had spoken to before happened to be standing outside. When she asked if she could speak to the other guard who had found the body, he reluctantly nodded towards a fellow sitting inside polishing a knife.

  ‘That’s ’im.’ He called through, ‘The domina is on business for the magister.’

  She ducked her head under the lintel. ‘May I crave your indulgence, captain?’

  The man rose slowly and somewhat deferentially to his feet.

  ‘The reverend brother has sent me on a little quest,’ she smiled. ‘Sadly, he is confined to his chamber and has asked me to find out what I can from the guard who had the misfortune to discover the body of the thief.’

  His eyes were hard. ‘It was his holiness himself who found him, tell the magister that,’ adding, surprisingly, ‘that is, if he doesn’t already know it. When Pope Clement returned from lauds the trapdoor into the vault was gaping open and inside was the thief, caught red-handed and as dead as a stone.’

  ‘That seems clear.’

  ‘It is clear.’

  ‘And, pray, can you tell me, was the thief one of the stable lads as it’s rumoured?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May one ask who it was?’

  ‘You may but you won’t get an answer from me. However, you can put all the rumour-mongers to shame domina, for you have the full truth of all that is available to be known at this moment.’

  ‘My most profound thanks for the privilege, captain.’

  She went back to Athanasius and told him word for word what had been said. When she came to the part about Athanasius probably knowing that the pope himself had found the body, he shook his head slightly, although whether to deny his knowledge of it or to deny the guard’s assertion she could not tell.

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘All he would say.’

  ‘No rumoured name for the victim?’

  ‘No name.’

  **

  It had not escaped her notice that many of the cardinals had brought their mistresses with them while they conducted business at the palace. Some even had children with them against all the vows of celibacy they must have at one time professed.

  Now, one of these children, a cardinal’s child judging by her expensive velvet gown, was skipping across the yard towards her. She was carrying a pet squirrel and as Hildegard drew near the creature jumped from the child’s arms and ran a little way along then stopped, looking back with head on one side, paws lifted.

  The child gave a cry of alarm and ran after the squirrel which, taking it for a game, ran on further, then stopped, then ran and stopped again.

  Failing to catch her pet the child burst into helpless tears.

  Hildegard put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. ‘Let him come to us, child. Look, he’ll like a taste of this.’ She pulled a piece of bread from her sleeve. Not knowing whether the child understood her words or not, she said, ‘Take it. Offer it to him.’

  Words were not needed after all. The girl took the morsel, crouched down to hold it out to the squirrel. Cautiously it returned, nose snuffling, paws ready to reach out.

  Before it did so Hildegard scooped it up and stroked it until it lost all resistance and she could hand it back to its owner.

  ‘Many thanks, domina,’ said a pleasant voice behind her. When she turned she found she was being addressed by a handsome, youngish-looking cardinal. He had spoken to her in Latin and she replied in like mode.

  He smiled. ‘You’ve saved me from my Flora’s tears, domina. Most grateful.’ He bowed slightly before lifting the child and the squirrel into his arms and walking on.

  Judge not, she reminded herself. He seemed kind but then, that was a judgement in itself.

  **

  ‘Come,’ Athanasius beckoned. ‘This is a very great privilege. I am summoned and you are my necessary help-mate.’

  Leaning heavily on her arm, he guided her towards a flight of stairs at the end of the passage. At the top was a small ante chamber leading into the Jesus Hall where the cardinals usually waited for the pope on business. At this time of day only one or two servants were busy, one sweeping the floor with a besom, another polishing a brass candelabra.

  A figure in red stepped from out of the shadows as they approached.

  A thick set man of middle height, not young but with the presence of long-held authority stood before them. With a modest crucifix glinting on a chain round his neck, he was plainly attired compared to other cardinals she had so far seen about the place. He looked vaguely familiar and she realised it was one of those who had greeted Sir John Fitzjohn on his arrival in the early hours. Athanasius greeted him with little more than a nod and they continued through the chamberlains’ quarters towards a flight of steps. The cardinal followed them up without speaking.

  At the top an usher stepped forward. He was wielding a large bunch of keys. They jangled as he inserted one of them into the lock of an iron-studded door. Then he stepped aside so they could go through into a lobby leading to a further chamber. It had a sumptuous look and a faint smell of perfumed oil from Outremer. Furnished with an altar, fireplace and several candelabras the main feature was a platform with an embroidered baldaquin topping another chair for the pope. The tiles were highly polished and squeaked underfoot as they crossed. A door of a similar heavy construction to the other one faced them and the keys rattled again as the lock ground open.

  A vestibule was revealed on the other side. Two guards sitting on wooden stools, looking sheepish. They sprang to attention when the clapped eyes on Athanasius and the cardinal.

  More stairs. A short flight, not well-worn, new work by the mason perhaps. At the top, a further door.

  When they stepped through this one Hildegard looked round in wonder. It was a small, intimate chamber with a high stone ceiling disappearing into shadows but on the walls at eye level were the most stunning frescoes she had ever seen. Foliage so lifelike she could almost smell the leaves, formed a backdrop to a series of elegant hunting scenes continuing around all four walls.

  ‘Beautiful work,’ murmured Athanasius with a casual glance. ‘We have nothing like this in England yet.’

  So he was English? His use of Latin was spoken with the purest accent making it difficult to glean any hint of his mother tongue. She turned to him, testing alliances. ‘King Richard would relish this. He has an eye for beauty and skill.’

  The old monk nodded. ‘May he prosper in his love of beauty.’

  Without wasting time he climbed with difficulty up a short flight of steps to a small, richly furnished bed chamber. A capacious wooden four-poster had been hauled to one side. The guard w
ho now accompanied them stuck his lantern into the wall rack and bent to heave open a paving slab in the floor with both hands.

  Athanasius went to peer down into the vault and Hildegard heard him give a growl of interest.

  ‘More light,’ he commanded.

  The guard lifted the lantern and brought it over. Hildegard and the cardinal joined Athanasius while the guard allowed his light to play over the treasures stacked below. It picked out the sparkle of gems and worked silver, the gleam of gold chalices, crucifixes, coronets, salvers, plate and medals. It shone over innumerable gold ingots piled like softly glowing bricks from floor to ceiling.

  ‘We are going down. Show us where the body is.’ Athanasius stepped to one side to allow the cardinal to be the first to descend into the treasury.

  **

  Hildegard leaned in to have a look.

  Under the blazing light of the cresset the body, clearly visible between the towers of gold, was lying stiff and awkward on a heap of coins. It was a young man, little older than King Richard himself. Jewels winked all round him from every part of the vault as the cresset flooded the stronghold with light. It flickered and flared over a priceless hoard. Briefly something glimmered in the corpse’s grip.

  Athanasius was descending with painful slowness after the more nimble cardinal then he reached the bottom and the two churchmen moved deeper into the treasury, blocking the light, dark to light. When the guard followed them down his light revealed Athanasius beside the body, crouching on a mound of gold coins and peering into the dead youth’s face. With a swift gesture he indicated the light to be brought closer. The guard crunched over scattered gold and raised the torch aloft. In the cone of light they could all see the fatal wound, a single gash from ear to ear, dried blood gleaming like a string of black pearls around his throat.

  In one hand he held a small dagger. The hilt was studded with balas rubies and amethysts. It was locked with the fierce rigor of death between the dead man’s fingers. His dilated pupils were set in a fixed stare at something he could no longer see.

  Despite all this, Athanasius felt for a heart-beat and inside the dead man’s shirt found a small crucifix on a thin chain. He inspected the finger nails. He glanced at the feet in soft-soled night boots. He noted the silk hose and short jacket of expensive brocade. Hildegard felt her eyes prick at the sadness of it. Amidst such wealth of treasure the body was bereft of what is most precious of all.

  ‘Certainly dead,’ grunted Athanasius with a swift glance at the cardinal. ‘Four hours or more. Note the rigor of the limbs?’

  With the ceiling low the old monk could not stand to his full height. Tall for a man of advanced years, he had to creep crouch-backed over scattered ingots to the wooden steps where he climbed back up, breathing hard, into the pope’s bed-chamber. He growled to Hildegard, ‘Go down, domina, if you’ve the stomach for it. Tell me what you observe.’

  Hildegard let herself into the vault. The guard stoically held the light for her and she looked at what the monk had seen. What else was there? What did he expect her to find that he had not already noticed? She stared at the youth. He was probably no more than eighteen or so. A pleasant face, recently shaven. Reddish hair sprouting from his head with a vitality that made his death seem the more unreal. Did he have the features of a thief? Is larceny written across the human face? Is that what Athanasius expected her to discern?

  Blood was caked on the coins underneath his head, a king’s ransom to be cleaned in lye by a trusted servant before they could circulate again.

  The cardinal, on his knees, was mumbling a blessing with the desperation of a man who thinks words can return the dead to life. Hildegard climbed out and reached the upper chamber with a sense of relief.

  After a few moments the cardinal climbed back after her into his lord’s chamber. He put a hand over his face as if the light dazzled him.

  ‘Come.’ Athanasius ushered Hildegard across the chamber towards the door.

  In parting, he touched the cardinal lightly on the sleeve.

  **

  ‘How was my lady prioress of Swyne when you left England?’

  So it was the prioress he had referred to earlier. ‘She was recovering from an ague but otherwise in good spirits, I’m pleased to say.’

  ‘She gives little away, that one.’ Athanasius lifted his head as an invitation to agree. When nothing was forthcoming he added, ‘Recent events in England cannot please her?’

  ‘I expect she’s in great distress. Alexander Neville is not only her brother in Christ, but her blood brother too.’

  ‘Send her my warmest remembrances when you write to her, domina. Meanwhile,’ Athanasius continued, ‘we have the interesting conundrum of why the body of one of our fellow countrymen has been found in Clement’s treasury.’

  ‘You recognised him?’

  ‘Cardinal Grizac identified him. He is, or I should say, was, one of his acolytes.’

  ‘What do you think he was doing inside the treasury?’ Hildegard asked.

  ‘Allow me to tell you a little about the cardinal who accompanied us, domina. Although now past his prime, he is a younger brother of the old pope who died some while ago, Urban V, last pope before the second Great Schism that has rent the Christian world. Our cardinal is the son of the lord of Bellegarde, Count of Grizac. As you will understand, with these connections, he is a man of some power. In the past he had many significant roles in the papacy. At one time he was even Dean to the Chapter in York and wrote some impressive music for them.’

  ‘So he would have met Archbishop Neville while in York?’ Later she would ponder this interesting fact and try to make sense of what it might mean, if anything.

  Athanasius was smiling. ‘Quite so. But, far more interesting is that he was expected to become pope.’

  Hildegard was startled. ‘So he was passed over?’

  ‘Yes, and entirely because of the exploits of Clement on the battlefield at Cesena while defending the Papal States.’

  ‘And that event gave the triple crown to Clement instead.’

  Athanasius was watching her carefully. ‘To everyone’s surprise, our Cardinal Grizac declared for him. As a consequence the English threw poor Grizac out as an enemy and he lost his preferment in York. He returned to Avignon and was made bishop here, small compensation, one might think, for his earlier brilliance.’

  ‘Is he content?’

  Athanasius gave her a meaningful look that could have meant anything. ‘Since then,’ he continued, ‘apart from a short spell in Rome, he has resided here in the papal palace or across the river on his estate at Villeneuve. The dead youth was brought by him from England as his acolyte. He renamed him Maurice.’ He pronounced it in the French way. ‘Maurice is - was - noted for his singing,’ he added.

  That touch on the sleeve. Sharing the cardinal’s grief. It made sense. Athanasius, against appearances, must have a heart.

  **

  With just a pull at one or two threads, a secret order was beginning to show itself.

  Maurice had been recruited in York from the song school in the Minster. He came over with the cardinal to Avignon when the latter was thrown out of England. The cardinal was Anglic of Grizac. He was the bishop of Avignon. Maurice had been about the same age as King Richard and, like him, was a child born into a courtly world of ambition and intrigue. In order to survive he would have had to make his way through a myriad of unseen dangers. Plots and counter plots. The intrigues of the papal court.

  And now he was dead.

  She wrote a letter to the prioress, using the cipher they had agreed on. There was enough to tell the prioress, although it could be of no more than parochial interest in Swyne.

  She put down her quill. Archbishop Neville. It was he who could have had Cardinal Grizac thrown out of England. She wondered whether he would be able to outface and outwit his own accusers now.

  **

  Because of the continuing enmity between England and France and despite the internationa
l trade in the busy port, it was a rarity to find anyone who spoke English within the palace walls. It was a fortress, standing like an island surrounded by the French and Burgundian territory on the other side of the Rhone. With its many fortified towers of unscalable height and its well-guarded gates, it was a small citadel within the larger walled city of Avignon itself.

  It was a surprise, then, to hear English voices, and ones from the north at that, inside the palace enclave. Hildegard was rounding a corner into a short passage between the stable yard and the kitchens in an attempt to find a short cut to the couriers’ post, when she heard the familiar accents above the rumble of cart wheels.

  She stopped abruptly and turned her head.

  A couple of scruffy, travel stained fellows were huddled on a parapet that ran under the high pointed arches of the inner wall. They continued to talk without giving her any attention, like travellers who did not expect to be understood by those around them.

  She went over to them. ‘Greetings, fellows. You must be Sir John Fitzjohn’s men?’

  They gaped in astonishment at being addressed.

  ‘You English?’

  An affirmative seemed superfluous. ‘I take it you’ve just arrived?’

  One of them nodded with his mouth half open. Both of them looked dazed. One of them swept off his cap and scrambled to his feet. ‘Aye, we got here last night.’

  ‘And you come originally from my part of the world, I’d guess?’ They looked blank. ‘I’m from the Abbey of Meaux in the East Riding.’

  ‘Southeren!’ one of them chuckled, recovering first. ‘We hail from further north, sister, up by Guisborough way.’

  ‘I’ve visited the priory there,’ she told him. ‘And I know that Kilton Castle area quite well.’ She felt a shadow pass over her as the memory of what had happened there at nearby Handale Priory last year.

  Looking puzzled, the other man rose to his feet. ‘Who’s this Fitzjohn when he’s at home, sister?’

  ‘Sir John Fitzjohn?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’