When she looked up, her brother-in-law’s small army had gone.
Later they discovered that before he left the city for good, Guy had made sure the head was taken down and he paid for a mass at All Hallows by the Tower, the little church where his brother had attacked Hildegard in the early days of her stay in the capital. Appropriately it was near Petty Wales, between the river and the Tower, where his men had hunted down their liege lord’s inglorious sibling and dealt him their own form of justice.
Hildegard doubted she would ever see Guy again. She had failed to get his measure. He had looked pleased enough when he set off with that jaunty salute. It was clear he was going home to consolidate his claim on his lands and not to mourn but to celebrate.
After compline later that day, when the kitchens at Roger de Hutton’s town house were quiet, Hildegard went down to boil some water. In her hand were some fresh leaves of hart’s tongue, a gift from the old gardener, Henry Daniels.
While she waited for the water to boil she thought of the wasted man-hours spent poring over arcane legal texts as the monks at St Mary Graces discussed her situation. She had been a widow before and she was a widow now.
The water began to bubble and she poured it over the crushed leaves, stirred them, watched small flecks rise to the surface, and let it steep. Old Daniels had told her what the plant’s virtue was before she left. Turnbull’s master had called it white hart physick, so pure the hart will never breed. Daniels’ words had been more prosaic. It’s a spleenwort, he told her, to promote women’s courses. When it was ready she strained it into a cup then lifted it to her lips and drank.
These days it was easier to get a ferry now that Parliament had ended. Most of those called had returned to their manors in the shires or to their great castles in far-flung corners of the realm.
Westminster Hall was again peopled only by the shadowy figures with business at the court of Chancery or the King’s Bench. The sightseers and the pilgrims in Palace Yard had found other places to visit, and after they departed the food sellers, the jugglers, singers, card sharps and other mountebanks had no trade so they too left, and even the chained bear no longer sat outside the tavern. That once boisterous place was again host to no more than a few regulars who regained their former positions by the windows and went back to watching the world go by.
The abbey, too, lost its guests and resumed the ancient pattern imposed by the followers of St Benet. Choirs of monks sang, undisturbed, the offices of the day from matins to nightfall and the only ripple on their serenity was the sad and sudden death of their abbot, Nicholas Lytlington. His legacy, his precious Missal, was hoped to outlast the plotting of the city men, the chicanery of the barons and the rise and fall of kings. He had voted for King Richard. The abbot’s death was sudden but he was, as Ulf told Hildegard, a very old man, an alleged son of Edward the Third by one of his mistresses. He would be missed for many years and no one thought his death in the slightest degree sinister.
The shrine beside one of the abbey bridges in honour of St Margaret, the helper of women, was empty too, although the altar was decked with late roses from the gardens at Eltham. Queen Anne and her entourage had just left when Hildegard reached the threshold and looked in. A sacristan was dousing candles.
She walked on towards the landing stage where Thomas and Edwin were waiting. There were several ferrymen to choose from, but as they strolled along the quay to make their choice one of them called up to them. He knew them, he claimed.
It was the same man who had taken Hildegard and Thomas downriver shortly after they arrived in London.
He asked what they thought now to the great capital.
They were polite and non-committal. In response he told them he had made a small fortune over the last few weeks and would be sorry to see the last of the outsiders leave.
‘By, you wouldn’t believe the passengers I’ve had in my boat while Parliament’s been on,’ he told them, pulling strongly from the shore as soon as they were aboard. ‘Magnates, burgesses, knights; I even had the King’s secretary in here the other night. Took him all the way down to Eltham, I did, when Dickon was refusing to come out.’
Thomas murmured his interest. Encouraged, the boatman continued. ‘Aye, and he knows your part of the world. How about that? Says it’s rough country. He was up there a couple of years back, he says, on king’s business.’
Hildegard sat up. ‘Whereabouts was he? Did he say?’
The boatman allowed the craft to ride the tide with only a token pull on the oars. ‘A wild place, he says, by the sea. A great castle high on a cliff.’
‘Scarborough, maybe?’ she suggested.
‘Aye, that’s the place. Been there yourselves?’
‘So everything is clear,’ Hildegard frowned. ‘Or is it?’ She got up to pour some of the archbishop’s Gascon wine into their beakers, then sat down in the corner of the cloister where they had gone to keep out of the wind.
The talkative boatman had dropped them off at York Place, where Edwin had to make some final preparations before returning north and Hildegard, belatedly, had been granted an audience with His Grace. Thomas was planning to leave with the Meaux contingent just as soon as Abbot de Courcy gave the command, but for now was not needed.
Many in Neville’s retinue had already packed up and the wagons, surrounded by prowling cats, were being loaded with baggage and filled the main yard amid all the mayhem of departure.
She waited for her companions to say something. Edwin spoke first.
‘It was Medford in the tower chamber with Archbishop Neville when Standish had his outburst and threw Harry down the stairs.’
‘Medford who sealed the butcher of Smithfield’s fate.’ Thomas frowned. ‘No doubt he would claim that Standish had to be silenced to avert civil war.’
‘And it was Jarrold, the poisoner, who was commissioned to do the job,’ Hildegard added. No wonder he had given that knowing smile when he had taunted her with the name of his secret master. Afterwards he must have found refuge at Bishopthorpe where Neville knew all about him. But then Martin got into the picture.’
‘He must have threatened Jarrold with the rumours over Standish’s sudden death. And, of course, he may have known something more specific, like what poison was used, working side by side with him in the kitchens there. Jarrold must have been desperate to shut him up—’
‘Then Martin made the mistake of trying to warn him off by telling him that he’d already confided his suspicions to his friend Willerby, the falconer.’
‘Frightened that everything was spinning out of control, Jarrold must have acted out of desperation. Later he appealed for help to the lord of his manor at Kyme, Sir Thomas Swynford.’
‘That’s what the argument in the chapel must have been about,’ Hildegard suggested. ‘Not about a woman at all. I thought Jarrold was lying when he said that to Swynford. And of course, he couldn’t tell him the truth.’
Rain, falling in the garth, the smell of wet fabric, puddled footprints on the floor and then that sign, his arm round Willerby, this is the man. And Swynford devised his devilish plot.
‘It’s a lord’s duty to protect his tenants just as it’s their duty to serve. You understand that too, Edwin.’ Thomas turned to the clerk.
Edwin was staring across the yard to where, his own master, the archbishop had appeared. He jerked round. ‘Quite right, Thomas. Quite right.’
They agreed that fate had offered up the perfect instrument to finish the job of obliterating the trail that led from Standish, through Martin, to Jarrold – the grieving father at St Albans.
‘Jarrold might have got away with it even then. He seemed to have no real motive for being involved. In fact, quite the reverse.’
‘But then Rivera perceived a wisp of smoke that led us to Harry Summers.’ Rivera’s name caught in her throat. ‘And there we got our motive,’ she continued. ‘To prevent Standish from revealing the entire conspiracy to assassinate the King. Who better than a master i
n the art of poison? Now only one mystery remains.’ She hesitated. ‘Medford believes the conspiracy continues—’
‘But where’s the secret in that?’ asked Edwin. ‘Gloucester, Arundel and Bolingbroke are open about their enmity.’
‘Couching their ill will in the hypocritical tones of men who pretend to be acting from altruistic motives,’ Thomas agreed. ‘When we all know they’re driven by greed and the lust for power. Indeed, where is the mystery?’
‘Even the secret of the Tower is out. The King’s cracker gun did its job. It kept the French away and now it’s safe in Windsor Castle where it can be perfected by the Queen’s compatriots.’
A final feast, lavishly augmented by all the leftovers, the scraps, the sudden gifts of venison and birds of the air from other barons with too many vittles uneaten in their larders, was set.
Brembre, ex-mayor, but still accompanied by his overlarge entourage, was howling with rage about the Duke of Gloucester. ‘Whoever heard of a king being overruled by his council?’ he fumed. ‘But without an army or the money to raise one what can he do?’ He patted his bulging money bag. ‘But we must not despair. I may not be mayor but I’ve still got the power of gold to offer.’ He turned to the archbishop. ‘And you’ve done well to get yourself elected onto the council, Alexander. You can safeguard Richard’s interests from there.’
‘I fear I’ve been invited merely as a sop to Gloucester’s critics. He’s making it as difficult as he can, demanding that we remain in London throughout the year of the council’s term. As if I can leave my northern flock for a year. He knows it’s impossible.’
Neville, unlike Brembre, had the look of a man who had lost the fight. A realist, thought Hildegard, or was Brembre the realist when he imagined they could still fight back? She recalled Guy de Ravenscar and his promise of a Welsh contingent of bowmen.
‘Others will rally to the King’s support, will they not?’ she asked Brembre.
‘Most certainly. Sir Simon Burley, Robert de Vere, Michael de la Pole when he’s sat out his prison term, all as loyal as you want. They’ll muster their forces. I’ll back them.’
‘I hear Richard insisted that he should be the one to supervise de la Pole’s sentence. The upshot is he’s invited him to Windsor Castle for Christmas as his honoured guest!’ Neville suddenly smiled. ‘He has style, our beleaguered King. I applaud him.’
‘You’ll be at Windsor as well?’
Neville nodded. ‘But I shall stay in London in the meantime to see which way the wind sets in.’
‘I’m invited,’ Brembre told him. ‘I’m keen to find out how far these Bohemian lads have really got with their firecracker experiments.’
‘What are they calling ’em, tarasnishs?’
‘Some Bohemian word like that. I prefer “bombard” or “firecracker” myself. It certainly sent Charlie boy scurrying off home with his wooden castles and his Spanish warships! The wind’s changed, oh dear! Down the market they’re claiming it was the hand of God came down to save us, the sot wits!’
‘If somebody from our side told him they were more advanced than they are, I’m not surprised he ran for it.’
‘Exton,’ said Brembre with satisfaction. ‘An old ally of mine.’ He chuckled and exchanged a knowing glance with Neville.
‘It was a clever bluff.’ The archbishop smiled. ‘Let them think the King would meekly offer them the keys to the city along with the fort of Calais the minute they showed up. Then hint that it was a trap to lure them in so they could be blasted to kingdom come by our secret weapon.’
‘Exton’s servant did a grand job. He put the wind up Charles and his dukes all right with his hints to their spies. The ultimate weapon of destruction!’ Brembre roared with laughter. ‘I don’t mind losing my mayor’s chain to Exton. We city men are in it together. If the dukes won’t save our skins, we can do the job ourselves. Hand of God, my arse!’
‘How far have they got with their invention?’ Neville asked.
‘Not far, although they’re experts at this sort of thing, they tell me. It stands to reason. Prague’s known as a city of alchemists. They understand gunpowder. Richard’s brother-in-law Wenceslas fosters their researches. What we need now is for our own merchants to put their hands in their pockets.’
‘City of alchemists?’ Neville raised a smile. ‘Is that why de la Pole’s so fond of the place?’
‘He likes it for the dancing and the good times. He says those Bohemians are more like Yorkshiremen than his own countrymen here in the south. When he was there with Simon Burley to bring the new Queen back he said they had a fine time. Music and merrymaking, he says, with a bit of alchemy thrown in.’ Brembre lifted his goblet. ‘Here’s to the cracker guns, real or imaginary. Let’s hope they blast the King’s enemies to kingdom come!’
Neville invited Hildegard into his privy chamber later. He seemed vague, as if something had shaken his confidence and was unsure how to proceed.
His falcon was sitting on a perch draped in scarlet cloth with the gold chain round her leg, and he went over to her and ruffled her feathers. ‘It’s the sweetest thing to watch a falcon stoop to her prey. Not sweet for the prey, of course.’ He glanced up. ‘I thought you were going to bring us down.’
‘My loyalty would have prevented it.’
He gave a sad smile. ‘Yes, I believe it would.’
He left the falcon and came to stand close so he could speak more confidentially. ‘I had to send you and Edwin to talk to that fellow in the Tower to keep you off the scent. We didn’t know what was being cooked up there, of course.’ He gave a tentative smile. ‘We’re living in uncertain times. Gloucester’s hatred for Richard runs deeper than you can imagine. He and Bolingbroke are determined to pursue him to the end. He is not mad. They really mean to destroy him. We know greed drives Gloucester, spite is Arundel’s motive, Bolingbroke thrives on jealousy and ambition, and poor Edmund tags along not quite sure what’s happening. I’m on the King’s council and I’ll do my best to protect Richard’s interests, but how long I can play both ends I don’t know. They’ll be coming after me next.’
Hildegard remembered the journey down to London, the attack on their convoy, the attempted theft. ‘You still have the cross?’
‘They will no doubt send hired men after it again. But they’ll never find it. I’m the only person who knows where it is and nothing will ever prise the secret from me. Not even you, Hildegard.’
He wore a disillusioned smile. ‘If it had any real power we would know it by now. It possesses only the power we ourselves invest in it. In these end days nobody gives it credence. We live in a godless world.’
He put a hand on her arm. ‘Jarrold came to see me, you know. He told me what he’d been paid to do. I said I would hear his confession but otherwise he was on his own. I had no idea it had led to murder.’
‘No one could have guessed that.’
‘That may be so. But what about you, Hildegard? I know where my path leads. Don’t be brought down with me when I fall. Go back to your grange at Meaux and live there in seclusion doing good and humble work. Live like that for the natural span of your days.’
If his death was not to have been in vain she had to solve the enigma of his last words: Follow the trail, it leads to the Queen. It could not simply imply that there was a plot – everyone knew as much – so might it be better to ask: what form does the plot take?
Thomas sent a messenger inviting her to St Mary Graces to say farewell until they met again at Meaux. Aware that the abbot would be present, and suspecting that perhaps he was the instigator of Thomas’s invitation, she made some feeble excuse and instead Thomas, alone, came down to the de Hutton house on the Strand.
‘I’m travelling back with Hubert tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘He was disappointed you were unable to come over. He’s flooded with last-minute obligations to his hosts and couldn’t get away. He sends his greetings and says he’s looking forward to meeting over a flagon of wine when you get back to Meaux. T
here’s talk that he’s going to represent us at the general synod in France next year,’ he added.
‘Will you go with him?’
‘I would deem it a great honour but am hardly worthy.’
Hildegard smiled.
When he asked her how she was travelling back she told him Roger was insisting she travel with his entourage.
‘You’ll be safe enough with those men-at-arms of his.’
‘What about you, Thomas, are you able to ride?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll manage. I just hope I can keep up with Hubert. He rides like a madman.’
She was no nearer making sense of Rivera’s words when the time came to say goodbye. Roger, Ulf, even Haskin, stood about in the yard looking uncertain.
‘It would take too long to explain. But it’s something I need to do. I’ve already been to see the abbot at St Mary Graces. He gave me his permission and his blessing.’
‘So you’re travelling down to Canterbury when?’ asked Ulf.
‘Tomorrow.’
Roger looked sceptical. ‘And then across into Normandy, over the mountains and down into Spain? Well, the saints preserve you, Hildegard. You wouldn’t catch me going on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella.’
Ulf looked troubled but said nothing to add to Roger’s verdict. He came over to give her a hug. ‘I’ll be married when you next see me.’
‘I hope you have every possible happiness and the joy of many children.’ She returned his hug.
‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to take a second look at her first.’
‘I’m sure she’s beautiful.’
The boat drifted towards the gap between the houses and the ferryman rested on his oars while his passenger took her time.
Moving, shifting, magical. She saw him coming out of the house, holding out his hand to her.
A Parliament of Spies Page 29
