Then her heart leaped. By a sliver of light filtering through an upper window she could just make out a shape against the opposite wall. With her pursuer closing in, she fled over to it.
It turned out to be a spiral stair. She looked up and saw it climbing into darkness. In desperation she started up it then, hearing him come to a stop outside the door, realised it would be useless. He was almost within the chamber. She would be caught before she got to the top. He would drag her down, step by step, and then there would only be the blade of her knife as protection. She would be no match for a trained fighter twice her weight and enraged to superhuman strength by drink and lust.
Quickened by fear, she flung herself into the cavity under the first turn of the stair and crouched there in a wedge of shadow, her heart beating like a drum.
Across the chamber she was just able to make out the ring-handle of the door, visible as the frailest glint of light.
It began to turn.
A subtle shift in the darkness showed the door beginning to open. A draught of air from the undercroft followed. Then fingers appeared along its edge. He was coming in.
She held her breath until it hurt.
He became visible as a blurred shape in the doorway. Her fear made him twice his actual size. She watched as, instead of coming straight into the chamber, he remained on the threshold, every inch of him attentive to the wisp of sound that would give her away.
There was a nerve-racking silence.
She could not even hear him breathe.
When she was beginning to feel she couldn’t stand the tension any longer he took one cautious step forward and then stopped.
A glint of steel leaped out of the darkness and vanished. With the stealth of a hunter he began to move slowly on into the chamber.
She watched the shifting in the layers of shadow that revealed his progress. He was creeping straight towards her. Now he was so close she could smell him. For a moment she thought he must be able to see in the dark. He was reaching out. Her fingers ached on the haft of her knife as she prepared to defend herself.
Then, when he was almost touching her and she was ready to cry out, to her complete astonishment, instead of reaching down to haul her from her hiding place, he was putting a foot on the first tread of the stair right beside her, then he was climbing two at a time to the top. A door banged open above her head and he vanished from view.
Unable to believe her eyes, Hildegard slid from her hiding place and ran breathlessly back into the undercroft. Never had such darkness seemed more welcome. She opened her arms to it, gasping with relief. But there was no time to delay. Retracing her steps by means of the distant glow from the brazier and the chanting of the men-at-arms in the yard, she found the door where she had first entered and fled back the way she had come.
The bailey was full of people going to the feast. Carrying torches, they paid no heed to yet another guest, and she went unnoticed into the crowd.
Rain was still falling. It fell on her upturned face.
Never had it seemed so wonderfully normal, never felt so sweet.
When Lord Roger threw a banquet he expected it to be as splendid as his cooks could devise. On all sides Hildegard’s senses were assailed by the opulence of the occasion. Heat swelled over her in a tang of roast meats, baked pies, fish, oysters, honey, herbs and exotic spices from the East, all of it summoning a life far removed from the horror of the last hour and as different as could be from the one she had led since Hugh’s death, in the austerity of her hermitage. To bewitch the senses even more, all the guests were attired in their most sumptuous apparel: silks and velvets dyed in colours she had not lately seen outside the stained glass of the priory chapel windows, bordered with ermine and miniver, decorated with trinkets of flashing gold, precious stones, lapis lazuli and silver.
It was as unlike the frugal mealtimes at the priory as could be imagined in the most voluptuous dream. Hildegard forced herself to walk between the loaded trestles without fainting. Still numbed by her ordeal, she could only fix a smile to her face to deflect attention. Her fingers fumbled her garments into place in the secrecy of the throng that pressed on all sides.
By some chance her kerchief was still wrapped tightly over her snood and, thinking it might be stained in some way, she pulled it off. It seemed to stink of the sweat of her attacker. She dropped it into the straw, then hid herself behind a pillar and tried to bring some order to her thoughts, wondering whether her persecutors would put in an appearance in the hall, and why they were drinking secretly like plotters in a remote yard, and why some instinct had made her stop short at telling that vile beast she was a nun. Somehow she knew this would be exactly the sort of thing to inflame him to further violence.
Roger’s favourite hawk was sitting behind him on the dais. It occupied a perch covered by a scarlet cloth. Over its head was a cleverly fashioned leather hood, and the gold bells attached to the chain that held it to its leather jesses chimed as it shuffled in this imposed darkness. The delicate sound of the bells could not disguise the fact that the bird was trained for slaughter. Its very presence, brooding over the ephemeral scene of merrymaking below its perch, brought shudders up and down her spine.
For some reason she could not take her eyes off it. She could not stop trembling. That man, that fiend without the blazon, with his hidden identity, had the same function as the hawk, trained to kill without compunction. She had no doubt that he would have taken advantage of the secrecy of the little chamber in the undercroft to murder her after he had used her. But who was he? she asked herself again with a shudder. And to whose household did he belong?
From behind the pillar she searched the faces of the guests. Men and women were coming and going through the great doors all the time. Some wore the livery of the de Huttons, others the triple band argent on a ground vert of Ralph and Sibilla, yet others, fewer in number, wore Sir William’s dragon badge. No sign of anyone who might be her assailant. There were other guests, burgesses from the towns, decked, like their wives, in all their gaudy show, jovial and ready to celebrate long into the night, accompanied by their own retinues of servants. It didn’t seem likely he belonged to any of these groups. And yet, the spiral stair must have taken him somewhere. Into whose apartment did it lead?
Just then a larded boar was piped in with a boisterous fanfare. Skewered on a basting rod thrust through its mouth to its anus, it was decorated with great artifice to make it look festive even in death. The guests cheered. Platters were held up as the carver flourished his knife. Hildegard turned away. She felt sick. Her legs seemed incapable of carrying her. She sat down for a moment on the edge of a bench. Nobody glanced her way. She inspected the guests jostling by to get a piece of meat or help themselves to more liquor, but he was not there.
In the middle of all the commotion Melisen was being helped by her squire back on to the dais. It was evident she was hoping to conduct a game of Hoodman Blind as she held a black hood in her hand and spoke in a loud and admonishing voice above the melee.
The rules of the game were simple enough. All the hangman had to do was creep up, grab someone and say, ‘Yield to me! I am the hangman and you are dead!’ Then he had to guess the identity of the victim in his clutches before being allowed to remove his blind. The cleverness came in the skill by which a false identity could be created to lead the hangman astray and make one’s escape.
It was no surprise to see Sir Ralph appointed as first hangman.
With a look of resignation he allowed Melisen to cover his eyes and tie a knot at the back of his head with the loose ends, then, trapped in darkness, arms flailing, he set off in pursuit of his first victim. It was then that the taunting began. Feet came out to trip him, pinches landed on his neck. He was buffeted from all sides. Groups of girls ran screaming in mock terror before him.
In no mood to be involved, Hildegard got up and stood to one side. Her hands would not stop shaking. She thrust them inside her sleeves and tried to say a calming prayer, and
felt that but for the shrieks that accompanied the game and rekindled her own real terror she would quickly have got the better of her feelings.
She decided to help matters by going farther off. There was a silent group at the far end of the hall out of earshot of Melisen and her game. They were clustered round one of the tumblers, who was performing a balancing act on a tightrope tied to two pillars. It required a lot of concentration. The audience played their part, waiting in silence for the fall.
As she made her way through the press towards this group she saw Melisen waft a scented kerchief in front of Ralph’s nose as he gripped her squire by the trailing point of one of his sleeves. The boy was not happy at having his immaculate finery manhandled in such a way but Ralph held on, shouting, ‘Now you’re dead, Melisen!’ until he heard her mocking laughter from across the hall. The squire pulled himself free with a crow of triumph. Ralph swore through his teeth. ‘I’ll get you yet, you bastards.’ He moved his head from side to side, mouth set in an expression of cold persistence.
This is too close to reality, she thought, pushing more urgently through the crowd.
For some reason an image of the murdered youth in the woods near Meaux came back. The man who killed him would have been trained to kill, just like her assailant. Another man without mercy. It was a quality much praised but practised less. In these days of heartfelt spiritual and civil disagreements men trained in that way were never out of work. She did not realise that Ralph, still wearing the blindfold, had followed her. Now her heart leaped into her mouth as someone shouted a warning and she swung round to see him almost on top of her. He clutched a lump of dripping meat in one hand and reached out blindly with the other.
‘I smell incense,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve got you now, Sister!’ Nose twitching, he clearly believed he had a victim at last, and he made a lunge to where he imagined she was standing. With a gasp she managed to flick out of his reach in the nick of time. But then something happened. Maybe it was fear but suddenly everything went black and she was falling and she thought she was in a deep well going down until, abruptly, everything swam back as noisy and vivid as ever. She found herself gripped in an embrace.
Her eyes snapped open. Then her lips trembled. ‘It’s you! Master Schockwynde!’ She wanted to hug him with gratitude but she pulled away in confusion. ‘Oh dear, I think I was about to faint until you saved me.’
‘My dear sister, your cheeks are like alabaster!’ He laughed genially and helped her straighten her clothes. ‘It’s only a game, you know! No need to take it seriously! But come, let me whisk you out of harm’s way.’
Meanwhile everybody was teasing Ralph and smugly feasting.
Dressed tastefully in tones of silver grey with a short cloak to hide his portly figure, a crimson liripipe flung theatrically over his left shoulder, Master Sueno de Schockwynde was the height of fashion. Small gold chains, much like the ones attached to the legs of Roger’s favourite hawk, held the long points of his shoes in place so he didn’t trip.
He was an architect involved in the latest bout of church building in Beverley. Now and then he came over to Swyne in the hope of persuading the prioress to fund yet another building or two after the raging success of his quire there. Hildegard had met him several times and had previously had to keep a straight face in front of his frequent pomposities, but now he was a figure of such engaging normality she was delighted to see him.
He was still peering anxiously into her face. ‘You’re looking most shaken, dear sister. Are these boisterous Saxons a little too much for you? I must say they lend a rather earthy vigour to Lord Roger’s festivities.’ He wafted a kerchief underneath his nose and cast a critical eye over the many signs of drunkenness in the hall before bestowing a benign smile on them. ‘But what would we do without them, eh? They’re our servants and they labour for us in all weathers, thank the saints.’ Courteous and urbane – an ancestor on his mother’s side was said to be Roman – he procured a goblet of wine from a passing servant and insisted she take a sip to steady her nerves.
‘So,’ she said as soon as she felt restored and could summon some steadiness to her voice, ‘how good to see you at Castle Hutton, master. And how is your tower at St John’s?’
To show he could take a joke against himself he boomed in a jovial manner, ‘By God’s will it still stands!’ It was an oblique reference to one that had recently fallen, killing several apprentices in the process. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he went on confidentially, ‘I’ve just come from the minster via Meaux, where I had a most interesting discussion with your lord abbot.’
Her ears pricked up. ‘I gather he’s hoping for some plans from you?’
‘He seems set on an extension to the dorter.’
‘So I believe.’
‘It would, of course, seriously interfere with the integrity of the space between the frater and the main cloister.’ He looked serious.
‘And did you tell him so?’
‘I had to. And I put forward a better suggestion.’
This was news. There had been endless discussion already. The prioress was highly amused by the whole business. ‘Master Schockwynde will test de Courcy’s mettle if anybody can,’ she had opined.
Oblivious to this, Schockwynde beamed. ‘I have the perfect solution. But there is one small problem. It means knocking down the nave. We’ve done with that old style.’ He shuddered in mock horror. ‘We can build higher than that, you know. The recent collapse taught us so. Height really is the thing these days.’
Hildegard was stunned. ‘Does the abbot agree?’
Master Schockwynde gave an airy wave of his hand. ‘He’s no architect, although I suppose he’s learned enough in his own field. He’s bound to need a little persuasion.’
‘My prayers go with you.’ And with de Courcy, she thought. The recent build had been the pet project of the previous abbot and was still referred to as ‘the new church’. And now Sueno wanted to pull it down! On top of that he seemed to disregard the fact that the order abhorred showiness. Soaring pinnacles were anathema to them. But perhaps he knew something about the new abbot’s taste that she did not?
Feeling better for being able to converse about such practical matters for a moment, she was about to take her place on the dais before he could tell her more about the dorter extension – and the burden of the building regulations that forever limited the genius of his creativity, all of which she had heard before – when she thought of something.
‘As you’ve just arrived from Beverley, master, I wonder if you’ve heard about the men who were slaughtered in the woods yesterday?’
Schockwynde frowned. ‘Everybody’s heard. Nasty business. Said to be five assassins plotting against the king. Deserved all they got, if that’s the case.’
‘Is that the story that’s going around?’
‘The whole town’s seething with it. Rumours abounding.’ He whispered, ‘Although some are claiming they were Tyler’s men. I tell you, Sister, I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of anybody the rabble brands a traitor.’ He mimed slitting his throat. ‘But which side will Beverley support should Gaunt insist on pushing matters farther? That’s the question.’
‘We’ve always been grateful in the Riding for the many endowments King Richard’s father has made over the years.’
‘We have indeed.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘He’s given us some magnificent buildings. Alas, it won’t be buildings to decide the issue, Sister. It’ll be brute force of arms as always.’
Schockwynde was claimed by the master of the castle works and Hildegard left them both to talk shop.
To say she was surprised by what Schockwynde had told her was an understatement. He was wrong. He had to be. Why were those men rumoured to be assassins? She thought of Tyler’s reliquary secreted in her chamber. Now it burned in her mind and she could almost see her room bursting into flames because of its presence. She should have left it as evidence for the coroner, but she had picked it up without a thought.
The usher made a place for her at the table next to Sir William. He threw her a dark glance. Clearly he was put out by having a nun seated next to him. He happened to be gnawing on a bone that looked too human for comfort, and the grease made his clipped beard shine so that he looked most satanic. She remembered the blue marsh dragons on the surcoats of his men-at-arms. Was her attacker one of his men, too? If so, why was he not attired like the others?
William reached out and stripped off a length of venison from an enormous platter and threw it to her. ‘Your Rule permits flesh?’ He raised his black brows.
‘On certain days,’ she replied, staring askance at the hunk of animal meat but not touching it. ‘Fish is our usual fare.’ She roused herself enough to attempt a little light conversation as politeness required and heard herself say, ‘Roger’s yield from his ponds is, I understand, most impressive. And they tell me you yourself rely for your revenues on fish? Tell me,’ she continued, ‘how big is your annual catch?’
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