[Hildegard of Meaux 06] - The Butcher of Avignon

by Cassandra Clark

  Unfounded, she reproved herself, switching her attention more carefully to what Hubert and Montjoie were discussing.

  Dull nonsense, she decided after a moment. Hubert was simply marking time so she could have a good look at the cardinal and make up her mind about him. Then, if he was complicit in her game, he would work round to that night on the bridge.

  ‘And praise God that in His wisdom He is sending us more clement weather,’ Hubert eventually remarked.

  ‘Clement? He has surely a hand in the matter too,’ murmured Montjoie with coy humour.

  ‘Without doubt. I remember in horror the walk across the bridge a night or two ago - you remember, when we had been privileged to dine with his Holiness, en prive.’

  Flatterer, thought Hildegard. Why not say ‘in private’ instead of all this en prive stuff.

  But Montjoie was at home with it. ‘That was a most satisfactory evening,’ he purred. ‘To be honoured with an invitation to confer with His Holiness in the privacy of his inner chamber - ’

  ‘Only spoilt by the walk back to Villeneuve,’ Hubert interrupted, smoothly bringing him back to the point. ‘We were in such straits we were almost driven to stop at the chapel half way to seek shelter and offer up a prayer to St Nicolas but, undaunted, we decided to press on. Did you go straight across too?’

  ‘Most certainly.’ Montjoie gave a shudder. ‘I’m not at my best when soaked to the pelt. I hurried back as fast as my lazy servants could carry me. Even so I had to have hot water brought to me so that I could lie in a tub for a while to recover. I’m happy to say my villa, although not as vividly decorated as Cardinal Fondi’s,’ he paused, ‘has enough comfort for my humble needs.’

  ‘Fortunate, God be praised,’ murmured Hubert with the air of a man fascinated by such revelations.

  **

  ‘So what do you think to him? Not much, I can tell by your face.’

  ‘I thought I covered my feelings rather well.’

  ‘In front of him, maybe, but not now. Just look at you!’

  ‘If there was any justice he would be manacled and made to kneel in a puddle to plead in seven languages for his humble life.’ She shrugged. ‘Justice is blind. Nothing links him. To my regret.’

  ‘I’ll check with his servants to see if he really did cross straight over.’

  ‘I’d bet on it. I’m afraid it only leaves Grizac.’

  ‘Poor old Grizac.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He strives so. He’s a man who had everything, by birth and family connections, and what has he done with it?’

  ‘He is a cardinal, Hubert.’

  He gave a disdainful shrug.

  The gesture did not fit with his own apparent ambition but she let it pass.

  ‘Apparently he wrote some good music when he was in York but somehow he’s one of those people who always seem to be hurrying to keep up with themselves. Since being made bishop of Avignon when Clement took over he’s done nothing very much. He doesn’t even write music any more as far as I know.’

  ‘Is he not charitable?’

  ‘I grant you that. He gives lavishly to the poor.’

  As she turned away she said, ‘Thank you, Hubert. I must say you played Montjoie like a master angler enticing a fish onto your line.’

  ‘I always do my best for you, Hildegard.’

  As he raised a hand in farewell he said, ‘You’ve changed again. I never know what you’re going to be like towards me. You’re more variable than the weather.’

  **

  If you only knew, she thought as she trailed off to the couriers’ office, I’m always the same underneath. It’s only suspicion and doubts in these terrible times that make me seem to change towards you. And you are such an infinitely skilful fisherman. I fear the hook.

  They could not dwell in the same building without some heart-stir like a sickness, nor meet without some well of healing opening up by being in proximity. Yet suspicion cut them asunder. And the bonds of allegiance bound them to different masters. And nothing could come of it.

  **

  The esquires were crossing the yard, Edmund and Bertram, followed by Elfric and Simon and when they spotted her they changed tack and soon surrounded her. Nobody broke step. In the busy courtyard it must have looked like a natural configuration to anyone watching.

  Edmund. Scarcely moving his lips. ‘We spoke to the sentry.’

  ‘So did I. What did he tell you?’

  ‘He saw nobody else go onto the bridge except for the cardinals and your friend Abbot de Courcy.’

  ‘What were his words?’

  ‘He said: after them lot went over nobody else showed themselves until one or two left the Coq and ran under the bridge, out of the wet.’

  ‘That’s where the girls who don’t work at le Coq ply their trade, is it?’

  Edmund, blushing, nodded. ‘Nobody was there because of the weather.’ He added sheepishly in the voice of the sentry, ‘No point in plying your trade with no punters, is there?’

  ‘Quite!’

  What a night to be unable to get back into the palace. All because somebody forgot to leave a gate unlocked.

  ‘Did he say anything about hearing the uproar from le Coq?’

  ‘No. He said it was too windy to hear anything and he only found out about it when it was light and folk wanted to bring their carts across.’

  ‘Do you think Taillefer was one of those who ran under the bridge?’

  ‘Not for that he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I know about Yolande.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  Without changing pace the boys peeled off to wherever they were originally heading.

  Hildegard went down to have a look at the side gate. The guards nodded her through into the street. That interfering nun. Where’s it got her?

  She paced round the outside of the walls. When she came to the little postern, the side gate, it was locked.

  She returned to the palace, back through the gatehouse, located the same gate from the inside. No key. When a servant went shuffling by with a sack of something she called a question to him.

  ‘Kept locked, domina. Second steward has the key.’

  She went to find the second steward.

  ‘A matter of some discretion, master, may we step outside?’

  They went into one of the nearby courtyards where the vast amounts of produce needed to feed the hundreds in the palace was stored.

  ‘The little side gate in the wall, I know you were helpful to the young lads wanting to get out into the town for a bit of fun. How did it work? Did you leave it unlocked most of the time or did they have a key?’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know how you found out - ’

  ‘And I’m not going to tell you. Discretion is the word I used.’

  ‘Thank you, domina, most grateful, my genuine thanks. I’ll tell you this. I used to open it before midnight and lock up again just after lauds. What went on in between is not my concern.’

  ‘If they didn’t get back before it was locked?’

  ‘Then the young sinner would have to go back to where he’d been bedding down outside till the gatehouse was opened up, get me?’

  ‘Indeed. Did it often happen?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That somebody would be accidentally locked out?’

  ‘Ah, I understand. This is about young master Taillefer. Poor soul.’ He crossed himself. ‘He was unlucky. With it being the devil’s weather that night I thought they’d all stayed in the palace so I didn’t bother to unlock it at all.’ He paused. ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I never thought to wonder how he got out till now.’

  Hildegard thanked him and walked away before he could have any more inconvenient wonderings.

  A door that could be left unlocked to allow people who were in to get out. And a door that could also be left u
nlocked to allow those out to get in? It meant that anyone from outside who knew about this arrangement would have no difficulty in getting inside the palace whenever they chose.

  **

  That mysterious time in the early hours between matins and lauds when most people were asleep. A night of rain. A raging wind. The river in flood. And two figures running under the bridge. Was that the key?

  **

  And now the squirrel. Red and sleek as a chestnut. Small paws like human hands. Observant eyes that seemed to hold an answer as the child whispered her stories to him.

  ‘Flora, your squirrel is so sweet,’ said Hildegard, ‘but he’s a creature used to living in the wilds. Does he make an awful mess everywhere?’

  The child pointed to a broom and a small pail in a corner of the chamber

  ‘Do get someone to remove it all, cara.’ Carlotta frowned and brushed her skirt as if the squirrel had suddenly spoiled it.

  **

  Hildegard was unable to prevent an icey shiver running up her spine as her suspicions were confirmed. She watched the little girl carefully sweep up after the squirrel and brush the droppings into the pail.

  Someone carrying the squirrel had entered the nun’s death chamber.

  Surely it can’t be Fondi, she admonished herself. He’s a friend of Hubert.

  And Hubert was a Clementist.

  She tried to remember if Fondi had been told that she and Hubert were not returning to Avignon that night when they went out hawking for the day.

  She went to find Hubert in the small ante chamber Fondi used as a scriptorium where he appeared to be writing a letter. And without mentioning squirrels she asked him when he had told Fondi they were going to be away for the night.

  ‘I didn’t tell him. How could I? He was here in his villa and anyway, until we were actually riding our horses out onto the palace foregate it would have been premature. I wasn’t sure you’d come with me, let alone stay overnight.’

  ‘He thought I’d return to the palace that night then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He probably didn’t even know we’d left.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  **

  At last the couriers’ clerk had received a message for her. It was not from England, however, but from Aquitaine. As English as makes no difference she could hear the miners claim.

  It was couched in ambiguous terms in order not to incriminate her or her accomplices when it was read by the censor. It began, ‘Dearest sister mine’ and continued as if written by a merchant accompanied by his wife, referring to ‘the companion of my heart’ and their trade which was going well, the gist being that they had found a spice merchant travelling in a hurry and had gone with him through France until they reached English territory. They had even gone on to Bordeaux with him and were now waiting for passage in a wine ship but, it continued, her brother was strongly tempted to stay with the English army and make his fortune by using his special skills to improve the appearance of a few Burgundian castles.

  She smiled at this.

  The message itself was written in a flowing hand that they must have paid a scrivener to produce. It ended with flowery wishes for her safe return home ‘after her long pilgrimage’ and promised to attend her to pay their undying respects. It was signed ‘your ever loving brother in this world and the next’ with a name that might have been deliberately blotted.

  When she found the guild of pages in their secret lair she told them that the miners were safe.

  ‘At least that matter has ended well. But it’s still a mystery to me how they managed to get themselves kidnapped in the first place,’ remarked Bertram, furrowing his brow much as his own father probably did.

  Hildegard told him how it had come about. ‘They assumed they were targets because their skill was something Fitzjohn’s lord could use as barter.’

  ‘So what did he want in exchange?’

  Hildegard gave a sudden start.

  Apart from the money to raise an army what else was useful to Woodstock?

  Poison.

  The acknowledged poison-masters were Lombards. They were skilled and knew of concoctions that could kill at the slightest touch of a doctored garment, or cause death by a single sniff from a perfume bottle, or by kissing a poisoned ring, or by all the old methods of adding some lethal ingredient to food or drink. Some poisons worked slowly, others in an instant. Some copied known symptoms and were never detected. Some were so sudden and violent they were blamed on the Plague. The Lombards were masters of them all.

  Both popes, to their shame, were reputed to have access to the latest potions of the poison-makers and employed their adepts, secretly, in their palaces. As she had seen, Clement took the greatest care over his food and drink as, to be honest, most monarchs did these days.

  The poison from Clement’s treasury must have been precious and rare to be hidden in the hilt of the dagger. What if it had been a poison so refined that it could never be detected?

  Woodstock, through his vassal Sir John Fitzjohn, would want above all else to obtain such a weapon against his enemies.

  A poison that would be undetectable. And the victim? The answer made Hildegard dizzy.

  Woodstock desired one thing above all else. To be King of England.

  And one man stood in his way.

  Richard.

  Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Bertram was asking in a tone of bafflement. ‘Why would the pope want to get hold of a couple of miners, no matter how good they think they are?’

  Hildegard focussed her thoughts to answer the question. ‘It’s to do with the English alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor, Clement’s great enemy.’

  The boys stared.

  ‘When King Richard was married to the Emperor’s sister, Anne, at the age most of you are now, she came with no dowry. Ordinary people were up in arms and thought it was a bad bargain and she was unpopular at first until everyone saw what she was like.’

  ‘They call her Good Queen Anne wherever you go.’

  ‘Now, yes. But at first they thought it a bad bargain because they didn’t know the truth, that it was a secret arrangement between the Emperor and Chancellor de la Pole.’

  ‘God save de la Pole,’ murmured Bertram. ‘My father says he’s the only one of the lot to talk sense.’

  ‘Well, de la Pole has been anxiously aware of the shortage of silver to make coin and keep trade flowing for some time. He knows the country needs a new source. Bohemia is famous for its silver mines as you know. Anne’s dowry came down to this - it was to give King Richard a share in the silver ore extracted at Kutna Hora.’

  ‘So that’s it!’ Bertram nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it would have to be something to do with the revenue. If he can get his hands on a source of silver King Richard will at last have the means to raise an army.’

  ‘To protect us against invasion?’ Elfric surmised.

  ‘And against his enemies the barons. His uncle Thomas Woodstock has his own army. The king has nothing to use against him.’

  ‘Remember the massive fleet the French assembled last year,’ reminded Edmund, ‘everybody thought London was going to be under siege. Everybody expected to be slaughtered in their beds. We had nothing to defend ourselves with except for a few warning beacons on the south coast and some ditches round the walls dug by Londoners themselves. And why were we in such parlous fear?’

  ‘Because the King’s Council would not allow Richard the money to raise an army and equip a fleet,’ Bertram cut in.

  ‘He has no money of his own,’ agreed Hildegard. ‘He has nothing that isn’t granted to him by the Council.’

  ‘And the King’s Council is run by Gaunt and Woodstock.’

  ‘So you’re saying that with access to Bohemian silver King Richard will have enough money to provide ships and a paid militia to defend the country against all enemies and make himself independent?’ Bertram summed up.

  ‘Quite so.’ Hil
degard nodded.

  ‘But why miners?’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Don’t the Bohemians have any of their own?’

  ‘Those particular two are skilled in deep mining, knowledge the Emperor needs.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because his mines are almost worked out near the surface so he has to dig deeper. Pope Clement and no doubt the French king thought that by kidnapping them and stealing their special knowledge they could do three things. They could spoil England’s alliance with the Emperor, ruin our trade because of lack of coinage, and gain the means to further their own mining interests.’

  ‘So those two were pawns in a very big game?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Bertram looked as if nothing would ever surprise him again. ‘That makes such sense,’ he remarked.

  ‘And is that why my brother died?’ Elfric spoke. ‘Because he knew about the poison that the pope was going to exchange for the miners?’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said Edmund putting an arm round the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Maurice was murdered before Fitzjohn and the miners even got here. Did Maurice know Fitzjohn was after it?’

  ‘And what would Maurice have done with the poison when he got hold of it?’ Bertram asked.

  ‘Was somebody else after it, domina? Did they order Maurice to get it first? Is that what it means?’

  ‘It must do,’ Bertram was emphatic.

  ‘It would certainly add to Fitzjohn’s rage,’ Edmund exclaimed. ‘Somebody getting there before him.’

  **

  As Edmund said, somebody had got there before him. Hildegard wanted to hug the boys for their persistent questioning. They still did not have all the answers but the problem was clearer now. The link between the Fitzjohn-Woodstock faction and the poisoned dagger was slim, nothing but circumstantial, and yet the more Hildegard thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Maybe it was the fact that Maurice was English that made the connection plausible. What they needed though was evidence.

  ‘Are you sure Sir Jack has never mentioned poison?’ she asked Edmund.

  ‘I’d know if he had because I’d be looking for it to tip into his wine goblet,’ he replied rubbing his sore head.