‘I’m going to call in at Northumberland’s place and warn him anyway. He’s one of the best. A bloody good chess player as it happens.’ He stared moodily into the fireplace. It contained a small lick of flame, the most the monks would permit.
Thomas looked at him with kindness. ‘Don’t despair, Edwin. Trust in God. Things are not always what they seem.’
‘I’ll be glad to get back home to Yorkshire. I’m sick of this snakepit. You can’t trust anybody.’
Medford had shattered his illusions, Hildegard realised. She put a hand on his shoulder. There might be an even worse disillusionment to follow.
Edwin was about to continue when the door opened and a page thrust his head round it.
‘His Grace, Abbot de Courcy of Meaux.’
Hildegard stiffened in alarm. But then Hubert came striding into the chamber, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw Thomas had visitors.
‘Brother, forgive me – I had no idea—’ He broke off as his glance raked the room and came to rest on Hildegard. His eyes lit up. ‘My messenger surely can’t have reached you already? He must have wings!’
‘Messenger?’ She remembered to make a small obeisance.
Hubert’s face was sparkling with pleasure. ‘I sent him out straight after tierce with instructions to inform you we have a judgement.’
‘Judgement?’ It seemed she could only repeat his words like a fool.
‘On your divorce.’
She held the word back and simply stared at him. She had forgotten that.
He came over to her and she was aware that Edwin and Thomas had tactfully turned away to continue a separate conversation.
Hubert looked carefully into her face. ‘You look ill, Hildegard. I hope you haven’t been worrying about this issue?’
‘No.’
There was a pause. She could think of nothing to add.
He lowered his voice. ‘You’re being very brave about it. The Chapter took their time, I’m afraid, but they agree that it should be possible. They say you’re free of any promises made to Ravenscar. You’ll have to reaffirm your vows to us. But that should be no hardship.’
She could only stare at him. Hubert had none of the louche sensual pragmatism of Rivera. His austerity, his air of authority and straight dealing were like fresh rain on the confusion that had gone before. He was smiling with great warmth, plainly concerned by her appearance, searching her face for an explanation. She felt suddenly tired. She swayed and he jerked out a hand. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I fear so.’
‘Thomas!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Have you no page in attendance? Can’t you see Hildegard needs help?’
Thomas sprang to his feet, winced when he leant too heavily on his injured leg, then plumped down again as Edwin got up instead, saying, ‘Let me.’
He gave Hubert a reproachful look. ‘You cannot know what Hildegard has been through, My Lord Abbot.’
‘There was no need to tell Hubert all that, Edwin.’
‘He would have had to discover it some time and it was best coming from me.’
‘My gratitude, then.’ The abbot had said nothing when Edwin told him about the mob’s violent attack and the subsequent beheading of one of Swynford’s spies. He had looked at her with concern when the clerk had gone on to tell him about Jarrold’s gutting, right there in front of her, and his anger was at once obvious, forcing Edwin to remind him, with many apologies for being so forthright, that even he could not stand against the King’s secretary without calling down trouble on his own head and probably that of his Order.
‘He will claim that the Cistercians are traitors and only here on sufferance. He’ll persuade the King to clear you out, just as they’ve cleared out so many other alien monastics.’
‘Close St Mary Graces?’ replied Hubert robustly. ‘I’d like to see him try.’ But it was true. They all knew Medford could persuade the King to do it in the interests of the state.
Now Hildegard drew her horse to a halt and called Edwin to stop. ‘There’s a little chapel here,’ she told him. ‘I’d like to go inside for a moment. Do you mind waiting?’
Haskin and the two Signet Office guards drew up behind them. When Haskin saw what she was going to do he said he would come inside as well. Just to be on the safe side. He swung down from his horse.
It was a small place, dark, its coloured glass letting in little light and the frescoes of St Margaret emerging in triumph from the belly of the dragon, the Devil in disguise, visible only dimly. The colours swam out of the shadows, ochre, black, purple, and a red pigment like dried blood.
A few candles were guttering under the east window where a coffin stood with its lid closed. She went over and looked at the flames. They were dancing like things living and taunting her with their vitality.
There was an inscription on the coffin lid, written in an educated hand. To our dearly beloved brother and martyr in Christ, Francisco Rivera.
Of its own volition her hand dashed forward, scattering the candles. Wisps of smoke rose and vanished followed by the smell of singed fabric.
Haskin touched her on the shoulder. ‘My Lady, come away now.’
The King, it was announced, was refusing to leave Eltham until a delegation of forty aldermen, including the new mayor, would come to hear his side of his grievance against the Duke of Gloucester. It was contrived, however, that the Duke with his two allies, Arundel and Edmund, another of the King’s uncles, turned up instead. Armed to the teeth. Insolent to the point of treason. Laying down the law as they intended to interpret it.
They claimed that if the King did not return to Parliament within forty days, it was written that it should be dissolved. Then he would certainly not get any money.
This was ancient law, they lied, and if he did not do their will he could be deposed and another member of the royal family would rule in his place. King or not, he had to obey the law of the land or lose his crown.
Unable to get any sort of legal advice that would have satisfied his opponents, Richard, nineteen years old, with no money and no army of his own, conceded. He arrived in the royal barge at Westminster quay on the twenty-eighth of October, the Queen, pale and plainly ill, by his side. They held hands like children. Richard put his arm round her when she stumbled and the Bohemian, Petrus de Lancekrona, helped him carry her into the palace.
Gloucester, fox’s brush swinging on its lance, followed, smirking. The Earl of Derby was not far behind. Attired from head to foot in green and gold, looking like a king himself, he crossed the yard to a storm of applause. The cheers followed him inside, where the King would hear the level of the crowd’s support.
Later that day King Richard made a surprise announcement. He had decided to name his heir. For the security of the succession and the peace of the realm he had chosen the one who would next wear the crown. It was to be a cousin, the Earl of March, thirteen-year-old Roger Mortimer.
The severed limbs nailed to the doors of various strategic buildings and symbolising the body of the realm had been forgotten in the more pressing and unsymbolic drama taking place in Parliament. Now the mystery of the body parts was brought back into public awareness when one of the hands was discovered shortly after lauds on the feast of Saints Ethelred and Ethelbert.
It had been thoughtfully stuck on a pike above London Bridge on the side facing out across the Thames to Southwark, so that anyone entering the city as curfew was lifted that morning would be sure to see it.
News of its appearance swept through the cobbled streets where the market was being set up, and down to Westminster almost as swiftly as a hawk could fly.
If the perpetrators of such barbarity intended to clarify their gruesome message, it was still at best ambiguous. Was it meant to represent the hand of God, the saviour who had caused the wind that drove the French from English shores? Or was it meant to affirm the power of the King – bow down all ye who enter here – and offer a warning to his enemies? Was it meant as instruction to the city men to
give the King their support against his enemies? The discussions went on with varying levels of acuity in all the taverns, at all the stalls, in the streets and byways and the courts and yards and ginnels, until Hildegard thought she would be driven mad by it.
‘It’s a civic matter,’ Thomas told her with conviction on the day he happened to be allowed to walk again. He had arrived by wherry at Westminster, discovered she was still staying with Roger de Hutton, and had made his way, limping, and with waning confidence in his infirmarer, halfway up the Strand.
‘It stands to reason,’ he said over a beaker of wine in Roger’s solar, ‘the other parts have all been posted up at sites within the city walls. It’s meant to scare the apprentices into obedience. Exton has already started to root out anybody who doesn’t agree with him.’
Roger growled something about the monk’s strange idea of reason and pointed out that the rest of the body hadn’t shown up yet.
Shortly after midday his complaint was satisfied. The head, wearing a makeshift crown of willow wands, was discovered nailed to the broken gates of the Savoy Palace.
A terrified servant brought the news. ‘It’s just across the street!’ he bawled out, tumbling over his own feet and throwing himself in front of the first figure in authority he could find. It happened to be Ulf, just then crossing the courtyard with a message to the vintner to bring up extra supplies to the solar. The steward followed him out into the street.
‘Show me,’ he commanded.
The frightened lad led him along until they reached the small crowd that had already gathered and were gaping up at the bloodied human remains with its crown awry.
‘Hildegard must not see this.’ Ulf dragged the boy back with him and handed him over to the under-kitchener. ‘Give him something to steady his nerves then tell him to shut his mouth. I’m going up to inform His Grace right this minute.’
It was impossible to keep something like this a secret for long. After a mumbled explanation to Roger, Ulf approached Hildegard where she sat in a niche. Everything about him showed that he had news he was reluctant to impart.
‘You’ll find out sooner or later, Hildegard. Somebody else is bound to recognise him. It’s Hugh de Ravenscar.’
She stood up.
Roger had sworn to kill him. Ulf too. Now they both looked stunned.
‘It’s justice,’ said Ulf. ‘Don’t waste tears on him.’
‘Tears?’ She had forgotten what tears were and now merely groped for her goblet and took a sip.
Ulf had heard a few murmurs from the onlookers outside the Savoy and now told her, ‘It’s being seen as a warning to the King’s enemies.’
‘Some good may yet come of it, then,’ Thomas said after a pause. ‘It might deter the Duke of Gloucester and his cronies from trying to steal what is not theirs.’
Thomas was somewhat optimistic. Another view was soon sweeping London. The severed head was a warning to the King himself. Obey your subjects or you’ll finish up with your head crowned with thorns and stuck on a pole like any other traitor.
‘Who would like to accompany me to Westminster?’ Hildegard asked. It was nones. Parliament would soon rise for the day.
Ulf offered at once and Roger, strapping on his sword belt, got up as well. Thomas, unable to hide his limp, said he hoped a horse could be found for him, if Roger would be so kind.
With an armed escort, the three of them set out and arrived in Westminster shortly after the doors of the chapter house had been flung open.
‘I should have been in there this morning,’ remarked Ulf without regret.
‘And I should have been in the other place,’ Roger pointed out. ‘To hell with the bastards.’ He shot a glance at Ulf. ‘What’s she brought us here for?’
Hildegard rode alongside him. ‘There’s someone we need to see, isn’t there?’
One of the shire knights was leaving as if he couldn’t get out fast enough. He recognised Ulf and came over. ‘You missed nothing, fella. The carve-up is now complete. I abstained. I doubt they’ll ask me again. I’m off to the country to save my life.’ He reached up to grasp Ulf by the hand and the steward got down off his horse and gave the man a bear hug. ‘Watch your step, Geoffrey.’
When he was out of earshot Ulf said, ‘He’s a rare bird. He’s called Geoffrey Chaucer. He’s Richard’s court poet but he’s retained by Lancaster on account of his wife. She’s the sister of the Duke’s mistress.’
‘Which one?’ Roger asked.
‘Katharine Swynford.’ The Duke had countless women but his liaison with Thomas Swynford’s mother was the longest lasting and most fertile in terms of the children she had borne him outside the law.
‘I saw her in Lincoln.’ Hildegard commented. There were other concerns on her mind at present.
A figure she recognised left the chapter house with a crowd of other men and she watched as they swarmed across the yard, some elated, others with grim faces. They disappeared into the nearby tavern.
‘That’s that, then,’ observed Roger with a covert glance in Hildegard’s direction. ‘What are we doing next?’
‘I understood you’d offered to escort me?’ she replied with something of her former spirit. ‘Now I’m going to go over there,’ she gestured towards the tavern. ‘You can accompany me or not, as you please.’
‘I’ve got better wine in my slop buckets than they’ll have in there,’ Roger began to point out when Hildegard dismounted and threw him the reins of her horse. ‘Come on, Ulf. I’m going to fetch him outside.’
When she looked back Roger was holding the reins of two extra horses in his hand with the possibility of a third as Thomas gingerly dismounted.
The tavern was bursting at the seams with the sort of people who like hanging around anybody with the lustre of political power about them, and as well as them there was the big crowd from the Commons who had just come in. Guy de Ravenscar was easy to spot. He stood head and shoulders above most of the local men.
Hildegard went straight up to him. ‘Was it you?’
She didn’t offer any of the usual greetings and when he saw her face he peeled off from his companions and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Come outside.’
People were staring as she pushed her way back through the crowd to the door and somebody shouted, ‘You’re doing well there, Guy.’
But then they were outside and she was turning on him shouting, ‘Did you do it?’
‘Do what, my dearest—?’
‘Don’t give me all that. The head. It’s horrible – that thing! Is it your doing?’
‘What is this?’
She took him firmly by the arm. ‘Did you, Guy. Tell me! That head, nailed to the Savoy gates. Who put it there? It was you, wasn’t it?’ Tears suddenly welled up and she felt she was having to fight for breath. She slapped his face and began to punch him. A crowd formed. Nobody interfered. Guy gripped her by both arms.
‘Steady on! What’s happened?’
Ulf stepped forward and explained, succinctly, adding, ‘I know I vowed to deal with the bastard but I would never have done anything so barbaric.’
Guy’s jaw seemed to sag. He released her and she stood panting for breath, shouting, ‘I don’t even care what happens to him! I don’t care! Don’t you understand? I can’t breathe.’ She was choking. ‘Did you, Guy? Was it you who nailed him up there?’
His strange reaction made her falter. He was staring at her with his mouth open. He looked back at the tavern then turned to face her. ‘I think I must have.’
‘What?’
Ulf took a step forward.
Guy suddenly seemed unsteady on his feet and groped his way to a nearby wall and sat down with his head in his hands. Hildegard and Ulf followed.
After a moment Guy rubbed his hands over his face and lifted his head. ‘My men are loyal to me and I to them. I hated Hugh. Everybody knew that. I’d no idea how much I hated him until I met him again in the city. Didn’t you hate him, Hildegard, truly,
in your heart? You have as much reason as anybody.’
She shook her head. ‘He was as he was. My only ambition was never to set eyes on him again. I don’t hate him. There’s too much sorrow in the world to make room for hatred.’
‘I don’t have your nature. I hated Hugh and despite that …’ he gestured vaguely in the direction of the Savoy ‘ … I still do. I feel no sorrow. If that’s what’s happened then he’s got what he deserved. But I fear I may have brought him to such a hideous end by allowing my men to think I would welcome it. I fear they have fulfilled what they see as their duty to me.’
He stood up. He seemed dazed. It was easy to see that he believed what he was telling them. Somehow he pulled himself together and managed to explain. ‘They’re wild border men. Used to everyday brutality. It’s how they survive. They live by simple rules. If they see that I’m dishonoured, they’ll take revenge on my behalf. Their allegiance to me is absolute. They know no other law.’
He took an unsteady step. ‘The city is no place for them. They are too savage, too free. Parliament is finished. I’m going back to Wales to raise men for King Richard. He’s going to need longbowmen. I beg you, do not detain them. My wild Welsh archers may yet save England.’
He went back into the tavern and Ulf and Hildegard were returning to where Roger was still waiting with the horses when they saw him emerge with half a dozen subdued but rough-looking men-at-arms. A few girls from the tavern straggled out after them with lewd comments and invitations to return.
Their horses were brought up. Guy swung into the saddle, the raven still hanging by its neck from his pike, and began to lead his men in the direction of the horse ferry. When he drew level with the de Hutton group he raised one hand in salutation and one or two of his men glanced over and then quickly away.
Ulf helped Thomas into the saddle. Hildegard leant her head against her horse’s neck for a moment and closed her eyes.
A Parliament of Spies Page 28
