It was over. His silence told her that.
It was over.
Now and for ever.
When Thomas came down again he met Hildegard in the lodge, where she stood alone.
He gave her a faint smile. ‘They live in more comfort than we do at Meaux. I shall have to bring Hubert up to the mark when we get back to Yorkshire.’
In silence he escorted her as far as the landing stage. When they arrived at the boats Thomas turned with a look of deep concern. ‘I assume you’ve told him, then?’
She nodded.
‘May I be permitted to ask—?’
‘Oh you may, Thomas. He took it as he always takes things. Enigmatically. He said nothing – only that he would need to see me more formally after he had consulted the proctor and the abbot.’
Hubert’s cold face swam before her.
Thomas took her hand. ‘If you want me to do anything, Hildegard, anything – anything at all – just say the word.’
After her outburst tears pricked her eyes. ‘I will. Dear Thomas.’
He towered over her, his young face full of kindness, and said, ‘I’ll keep you informed. There’s no rule I know that says I can’t do that. Now I’m going to escort you back to York Place where you can seek Neville’s advice. That’s your best course. Turn to him. Let’s go.’
‘No!’ She put out a hand. ‘You’ve no need to come back again. You’re wounded. I’ll do as you say and go straight back to consult His Grace.’
‘But—’
‘Forgive me. I want to be alone.’
Thomas instructed the boatman not to pick anyone else up but to take the domina back upriver and see her safely ashore.
He was a cheery character. ‘Never fear, Brother. I know the drill with you people. I’m so used to ferrying monastics about, I’m practically a monk myself.’ The man, with a large wooden cross protruding from a forest of hair under his jerkin, grinned down the boat at Hildegard as she settled herself on one of the thwarts.
As he began to row strongly out into the stream she raised one hand to Thomas. He was hovering on the shore with a look of fierce concern on his face.
It took longer to row back against the tide, even though it was less strong as it approached slack water, and the boatman had to use all his energy rather than giving her the benefit of his thoughts like the other fellow.
It was just as they were approaching the burnt-out ruins of the Savoy on their right when Hildegard saw a boat leaving the shelter of the bank to head downriver. That was nothing. There were a lot of boats on the water at this time of day. What aroused her interest was the figure sitting in the stern.
It was the man they had been talking about, Jarrold of Kyme.
His hood had been blown back by the stiff wind and if he had looked across the water he would have seen her, but he was holding the gunnels of the narrow craft with white knuckles and staring into the bottom of the boat as if to avoid seeing the yellow water frothing on both sides.
On an impulse Hildegard leant forward. ‘Boatman, can you turn here and go back?’
‘Me, I can turn anywhere.’
‘Then follow that boat!’
Catching the note of urgency in her tone, he gave a broad grin. ‘With the greatest pleasure, My Lady. Hold on!’
She pointed to where the other craft was already slipping away. Deftly plunging an oar deep into the water and pivoting the craft by the sheer strength of his brawny arms, he set off in pursuit with long powerful strokes of the oars.
They flew along and almost caught up with the other boat but her man cunningly fell back far enough to make sure they would go unnoticed. Eventually Jarrold pointed to the shore and the bows turned in towards Tower Stairs. Her own man followed, drifting to shore only when the other boatman had been paid off and Jarrold was striding up into a narrow cobbled thoroughfare. He disappeared between the two rows of tenements.
It was with some trepidation, quickly overcome, that Hildegard followed him into the labyrinthine streets off the quayside. It was thick with dock workers, porters, merchants overseeing their goods in readiness for the invasion and all the usual wharfside riff-raff that gathered in the hope of earning a penny or two. Suspecting that it was likely to be the district that catered for the needs of the vast hordes of sailors who peopled the riverside she pulled up her hood and kept her head down with only an occasional glimpse from underneath to keep Jarrold in sight. I’m wasting my time here, she told herself. He’s probably going to find a woman.
But he did not stop. He ignored the calls from the girls sitting on the balconies above the lane and walked on.
When he reached the top of the incline where the street met at a junction with a wide thoroughfare she realised they were close to All Hallows by the Tower. She shuddered at the thought of bumping into Ravenscar again.
He had said he had not finished with her.
She assumed he meant that he would be applying through the courts for restitution of his lands – the ones that had now passed to his younger brother, Guy – and perhaps he had already begun to make approaches to the Court of Arches too to try to get back the dowry she had brought to the marriage. So, out of caution, she kept her head down.
By now Jarrold was crossing the road and heading up towards the great market in the Cheap. She noticed that he was carrying two empty leather bags over his shoulder. He came to a stop outside an ostler’s. She watched him make payment and a horse was led out. Cursing under her breath she watched him ride on between the stalls towards one of the city gates on the other side. He joined the queue of people filing through.
She watched him leave.
An old man selling caged linnets was on the corner and she approached him. ‘Can you tell me which gate that is, master?’
‘That be Aldersgate, Domina.’
‘And this thoroughfare?’
‘Cheapside.’
‘And the road outside the gate, where does that lead?’
‘Out into wild country, towards Essex way.’
Deciding she could follow Jarrold no further she dropped a coin into the old man’s palm and made her way back to the quay. Someone would know where the road from Aldersgate led. It might only be that Jarrold was on a legitimate errand from York Place. He might even be innocent of all their suspicions, the rumours about him misplaced.
They were on the Strand. Ulf had gone to buy them a couple of pies from a stall while Hildegard sheltered from the wind in the lee of a goldsmith’s shop. Idly she peered in at the display of goods, then, losing interest, turned rapidly to scan the crowds for Ulf and the steaming pies. As she did so she caught sight of someone staring straight at her over the heads of the crowd from the other side of the street. He turned away at once but not quickly enough. She recognised him. So here he was again.
He was a fleeting figure now, weaving his way through the crowd. She thought she had seen him earlier but had been uncertain. Now there was no doubt. He could not slip away unseen. He was hemmed in by those going up Ludgate Hill towards the city and the ones coming down to Westminster. She watched to see if he looked back but he didn’t.
Ulf returned.
He gave her a puzzled frown. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No,’ she said at once, feeling flustered.
‘If it’s that bastard following you, you’d let me know?’
‘That – oh, yes,’ she recovered. That bastard Ravenscar. ‘Of course I would.’
‘I’ll abide by your decision not to harm him but I swear I’ll drag him in to face the music, you can be sure of that. He can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve got news he’s hiding out somewhere in Petty Wales. That makes sense, given that his lands used to be in the border country. He’ll have contacts there because of the wool interests he used to have. He must regret losing the income from them.’
The reason they were standing in a blustering wind in the lane called the Strand was because Hildegard had decided to
call on Ulf at the de Hutton house on the way back, needing to let him know that Ravenscar was still around, had visited her at Westminster and uttered more threats.
Ulf had greeted her news with a curse, furious with himself for having so far failed to track him down. He was more determined than ever. With the allies Roger had been able to summon they had searched every likely tenement around the church of All Hallows, he told her; now they were turning their attentions to neighbouring parishes like Portsoken and the area around the docks.
‘That wasn’t him,’ she added when she noticed him glance off across the street. ‘It wasn’t anyone. I’d tell you at once if it was him.’
Satisfied, he handed over one of the pies.
He threw his crust to one of the dogs roaming about and came to a stop. When he turned to face her he was looking serious. ‘Hildegard, I have something to tell you. It may as well be now as later.’
‘What’s wrong, Ulf? You look terrible. Are you sick?’
He shook his head. ‘Sick at heart, maybe.’ His eyes were very blue. They bored straight into her. ‘I’ll come straight out with it. Since I was knighted Roger’s determined I should marry. He’s offered me a couple of women: one, his ward, a young girl with no sense, and the other a widow with sense and property.’
‘Which one will you choose?’
He shook his head. ‘The way I feel, it would not be fair to choose either.’
‘But Ulf—’ she bit her lip. ‘For your own good, for your future happiness … ?’
He turned his head. ‘So now you know,’ he said gruffly and walked on.
By the time she returned to York Place it was a scene of organised, even military, chaos with servants hurrying in all directions in an atmosphere of grim purpose. The cats were receiving more kicks than usual.
‘His Grace?’ she asked of a passing yeoman.
‘Gone to Westminster to confer.’ Not even bothering to stop he rushed on.
Hildegard thought, I am reprieved. Again.
She recalled Hubert’s reaction to her news and wondered how the archbishop would take it. Rage against the abbot made her kick the step where she was standing. Damn him. He had failed to show the slightest concern about what she was going through.
Edwin appeared, hurtling out of the chamberlain’s office, and skidded to a halt when he saw her. ‘Just off upriver,’ he called. ‘I’m late!’
‘Wait a moment!’ Pushing her own dilemma aside she said urgently, ‘I’ve just had the most extraordinary conversation with Abbot de Courcy. Listen, Edwin, he has information that makes Jarrold sound dangerous. Can you warn the archbishop when you meet him?’
‘What is it?’ He hurried her into a corner of the yard where they could talk.
‘Jarrold earned the reputation of being a poisoner up at Scarborough. Warn Neville. He cannot know the sort of man he’s harbouring.’
Edwin raised a fist as he hurried off, calling back, ‘Priority, Domina. Tell me more later!’
Alone she went on into the kitchens.
This place was boiling with activity as well. Master Fulford sat high on his wooden throne barking orders. The minions scurried to obey and the kitchen clerk’s quill flew over the pages as, standing, he wrote everything down.
Remembering that Neville had planned a great feast for his closest allies, she realised it would be useless to interrupt the proceedings at present. Later, then, when the feast had run its course and everyone was mopping up while Master Fulford basked in the afterglow of the performance.
The top table on the dais was piled with subtleties in the shape of gilded castles, silver swans and other fantasies the cooks had devised and an endless succession of platters was brought out to fanfares from the heralds. Sides of beef, mutton, venison, pork and all the edible birds of the air had been fried, baked, boiled, basted and trivetted, then decorated with pastes and sauces and creams and made to look like anything but what they were, and the same with the fish. Wars or not, the fishmongers had brought the best of their catch to the kitchens, harvesting both sea and river. Hildegard surveyed the ornate concoction placed in front of her. She was told it was hake. One jellied eye looked back through a trellis of pastry.
‘Good stuff,’ murmured Edwin, gnawing on a more prosaic chicken leg.
They were seated at the lower end of the main table, Edwin opposite with his page, and Turnbull standing smartly beside Hildegard, glorying in his new role.
‘So Edwin, time to catch you on the wing. Events are overtaking us.’
‘There’s plenty happening,’ he agreed.
‘What did the archbishop say to you when you mentioned our mutual friend?’
‘Most extraordinary,’ he replied, mouth full. ‘I plainly caught him at the wrong moment. He was just going in to see Abbot Lytlington and when he heard what I was saying he almost turned on me. He said, “We are involved in affairs of state, boy.” He called me “boy”! How do you like that? “We have more pressing matters on our minds than the quarrels of servants. I trust you can bring the matter to a close yourselves.” And then he was gone. I do understand,’ he added, loyally. ‘It is piddling stuff compared to what’s about to erupt when Parliament meets. I hope we’re going to survive.’
He looked worriedly along the table. On Neville’s left was the chancellor, Michael de la Pole. On his right, Sir Simon Burley, the King’s former tutor, and further down were others of the King’s party.
‘Alexander’s in his most sumptuous garments,’ he observed. Brocade, silk, velvet. His ring glittering. His head freshly shaven, giving him an even more pugilistic look than usual. Now he was booming something about craving their indulgence over the poor quality of the food. There was surely no room for complaint, thought Hildegard. Any one of the dishes would have fed a family of six for a week.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘I offer my most contrite apologies over the matter of the sauces.’
De la Pole dipped his spoon into the sauce dish and inspected the contents with a mystified frown.
‘Shortly before we left Yorkshire my best saucier met with a most unfortunate accident. He’s a great loss. His fame was such that even the late Sir Ralph Standish invited him to Scarborough Castle to teach his own man from London how to make a good sauce.’ He raised his goblet. ‘To the memory of a good man.’
‘Standish?’ Chancellor de la Pole murmured flatly, draining his cup. ‘What an unfortunate demise. The sweating sickness, I’m told.’ He picked up a piece of pork from the communal platter.
‘No. It was the bloody flux,’ Archbishop Neville contradicted.
‘I understand there were rumours,’ murmured de la Pole as if the matter was of little concern to him.
‘There are always rumours,’ agreed Neville, smiling at his guest.
As if more urgently aware of the nature of the rumours, de la Pole’s glance darted to the food that lay before him. ‘The King’s food taster works overtime these days,’ he remarked. ‘Dickon won’t let Anne take a sip of wine without it being tried first. He’s the same himself.’ Then he chuckled, albeit with an air of bravado. ‘I hear Mayor Brembre suggested inviting the dukes to supper and poisoning the lot of ’em in one fell swoop! “That would rid us of vermin!” he said.’
Neville chuckled at this too but, like de la Pole, even he eyed the shin of lamb in his fist with a sudden wariness. ‘Call Master Fulford,’ he instructed his page. The boy ran off.
Neville began to tell de la Pole about the attack on his falconer at St Alban’s.
Hildegard’s close questioning of little Turnbull, her new page, had brought no further information on this matter. All he had done, he had told her, was take a message to the falconer with the lie about Master Fulford wanting to speak to him, although, of course, he himself had not known it was a lie until somebody, Medford, had told him it was. And he had got a beating from Swynford anyway, although he didn’t know what for. Hildegard fed the little lad venison from her own platter to comfort him.
He is
as honest as the day, she decided. If he had seen anyone in the mews that morning who should not have been there he would have told her.
While Neville and the others began to discuss the subsidy the chancellor would shortly have to ask for, she leant forward. ‘Edwin, about that matter at the Tower, did you get chance to speak to His Grace about that as well?’
He knew what she meant and nodded.
‘What was his response?’
‘He said, “Why the devil are they skulking round the Tower? They’ll be inside on the rack if they don’t watch their step. Go back and find out.” By which I take it the prisoner will have nobody to lobby for his release until we discover what they’re up to.’
‘We shall have to make greater efforts to find out, then, for that poor man’s sake.’
‘Neville doesn’t seem to have an inkling what it’s about,’ Edwin told her. ‘He thinks as we do, they’re seeing a French envoy. But Brembre’s vociferously loyal. His Grace can’t believe he’d be involved in a traitorous deal with the enemy.’
‘Might the King himself have sent for him?’ Seeing his startled glance she added hurriedly, ‘I don’t mean in a spirit of high treason but merely as a diplomatic approach, to try to avert the invasion?’
‘If that’s the case he hasn’t confided in the archbishop or any other advisors, as far as we know. Even Mr Medford knows nothing about it.’
‘I’ve never met Brembre. Have you?’ she changed the subject.
He shook his head. ‘We shan’t have long to wait. He’s been invited.’
Just then Fulford, attired in his chef’s garb, massive and red-faced, sailed into view. After a difficult bow to the archbishop and to the chancellor he asked, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Your Grace?’
‘We hope so, Jonathan, but a remark about the King’s food taster put us in mind of poison …’ He waved his shin of lamb.
‘I would wish to burn in hell for all eternity should I poison you or your guests, My Lord Archbishop.’
A Parliament of Spies Page 18
