The abbot came swiftly towards her but stopped within an arm’s distance as if an invisible gate barred the way. His glance rested on her face. Gathering himself, he told her, ‘I’ve sent for the infirmarer but as he’s slow of pace you’ve preceded him. Perhaps you would take a look, although I’m afraid it’s too late even for your skill.’
‘Infirmarer? But why—?’
He moved to one side and she saw now, among the heaped documents, half hidden behind a chest, what she had assumed was a cloak tossed down with all the other things. But, moving closer, she saw that within its folds was a man. A monk. A young monk, she saw as she bent to look, no more than twenty-one.
He lay on his back, and at first appeared to be sleeping. But then she noticed the gashes on both wrists. Deep grooves, made by a knife. The blood had pumped unstoppably from the main artery that ran from heart to wrist. It was already congealing and had spread stickily across the coarse wool of his habit and soaked into the parchments underneath.
Hubert spoke. ‘When he failed to show up for matins the sacristan was worried. Knowing he’d been working in the scriptorium but failing to find him there, he guessed he would come up here to deposit the deeds he was copying.’
‘And when did he find him?’
‘Just before prime.’
‘Recently, then. But not recently enough to save him.’ She remembered drifting to sleep as the bell tolled and how it had become part of the confusion of her dreams, like a premonition.
‘There is a note.’
She had unconsciously knelt beside the body and the abbot came over. ‘It suggests suicide but I know this boy. He understands fully the fate that awaits one who takes his own life.’
‘Where is the knife?’
The abbot indicated the sub-prior. Shame-faced, Brother Gilbert stepped forward with a single-edged dagger wrapped in a cloth. ‘I picked it up without thinking,’ he apologised. ‘It was in his hand.’
It was the sort of knife anyone might use at table. Sharp enough to cut a rabbit into strips, sharp enough to gut a man. The hilt was bound in leather. Nothing special to it. The only thing to remark was that it was a similar type to the one they guessed had killed Ada, another single-sided blade.
‘The note?’ she asked.
‘Inscrutable.’ Hubert handed her a piece of parchment like that used in the scriptorium. On it in careful letters was written in English: Fields have their eyes, forests have their ears. None escape notice. She shivered.
‘Was this found in his hand too?’ She turned to the sub-prior, who had had the grace to flush at his earlier mistake.
‘It was tucked into his belt, sister. I removed it on the assumption it had some import regarding what had taken place.’
She could understand Hubert not wishing to believe that the monk was capable of killing himself and risking hellfire. It would negate the teaching of the order, of the Church itself. The note proved nothing either way. It was, as the abbot had observed, inscrutable. What was more, it appeared to have been deliberately cut from some other parchment. It was covered in blood.
Kneeling beside the young monk, she placed a finger on the side of his neck but there was no sign of a pulse. His flesh was already chilled. His eyes remained open as if staring at something terrifying and she gently pressed his lids down to give him some respite from his ordeal. Around her stood the silent figures of the monks: the abbot, the sub-prior, the sacristan and the two novices. ‘Where is the prior?’ she asked, noticing his absence.
‘Gone to fetch the infirmarer and his man. For what good they can do now. I think it falls to us to ease the passage of our brother’s soul to heaven.’ It was clear Hubert did not believe in the suicide of the young monk. And yet the wrists were slashed. And there was a message of sorts.
Peering closer, Hildegard noticed a contusion on the side of the young man’s head. It might have been caused when he fell. One of the treasure chests was in close proximity to the body. It was not beyond imagining that he had struck his head against its brass-bound edge. Yet what had made him fall? ‘You’ve seen this?’ she murmured, indicating the wound.
Hubert crouched beside her. ‘Someone cracked him over the head? And, unconscious, he was unable to prevent the attack with the knife?’ He sighed with a measure of relief at having his initial assessment of the matter apparently confirmed.
‘We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ she reminded him. ‘What’s your procedure in matters such as this?’
‘The coroner in York will have to be recalled.’ Hubert gave a grimace. ‘My cellarer would normally collate the evidence but it’ll be some time before he’s able to return from the grange at Tharlesthorp because of the floods. He’d present the evidence to chapter and we would make a collective decision on how best to apprehend the culprit, given, as would be expected, he had fled the abbey lands. All this is assuming we’d reached the conclusion that it wasn’t suicide.’ He gave her a glance. ‘In fairness we need someone to look at the evidence. A person who has no vested interest in the matter. Someone outside our abbatial jurisdiction.’ He gave her another glance. ‘It’s most unusual to ask a nun to carry out such a duty, but given your evident knowledge and objectivity I believe chapter would agree to your involvement.’ He raised his head and gave his officials a piercing look which would have taken courage to resist.
The sub-prior blew down his nose but nodded in reluctant agreement. ‘The prior may have another point of view,’ he murmured but without conviction.
The sacristan pre-empted any further objections. ‘I can offer you the services of a scribe, sister.’ When she accepted he beckoned to one of the novices. ‘This is Brother Thomas. He has a fair hand and a cool head.’
The abbot suggested that all but Thomas, Hildegard and himself return to prepare for the night office and to give no hint yet about the fate of their brother monk. That could be announced at chapter later that morning when the whole abbey gathered as usual to discuss the issues of the day.
When everyone had left he turned to Thomas. ‘You are sworn to secrecy. What I’m about to say was told to me in confidence.’ They listened intently as he explained that the doomed monk, Brother Nevyl, had come to him in distress shortly before compline the day before after hearing the confession of one of the visitors from Hutton. ‘He could not tell me what was said within the privacy of the confessional, of course, but it was sufficient for him to be deeply troubled.’
‘But why should that result in his suicide?’ asked Hildegard. ‘Did he feel complicit in what he heard?’
‘That is not what I intended to suggest.’ Hubert frowned. ‘Nevyl’s distress was on behalf of the person he had confessed. For the enormity of their sin and the hazard of their immortal soul. He believed it might be a matter for the justiciar. What he required from me was advice on the confidentiality of the confessional and whether it was right to break it. I suggested it was a matter between God and his own conscience.’
‘And the identity of this person, did he admit that?’ asked Hildegard.
‘I would divulge the name if I knew it but he hinted only that they belonged to the household of Sir Ralph.’
‘Forgive me, but I fail to see the connection between a confession and Brother Nevyl’s apparent suicide.’
The abbot sighed. ‘So do I. But I have a firm belief there is one. This was never suicide. Nevyl was true of purpose. I offer these facts in nothing more than a spirit of conjecture.’
‘You sound as if you think that the person who made the confession regretted the impulse – and decided to silence the only person aware of their guilt,’ Hildegard suggested.
Hubert’s eyes sharpened. ‘It’s the obvious inference. I rue the fact that I didn’t press him further.’
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ she replied. ‘Confession would normally ease a troubled soul, not rouse it to further acts of iniquity.’
‘It certainly shouldn’t have frightened him into committing murder. If it did…’ He trailed
of, uncertainty in his tone.
Thomas, standing silently beside them, made a sudden start. ‘If I may be permitted to speak, my lord.’
‘What?’ Hubert turned abruptly towards his novice, as if having forgotten he was present.
‘It so happens, my lord abbot, I saw someone leaving the confessional late yesterday. They were with Brother Nevyl, God rest his soul, for some time. In fact, they were the only ones to come in all afternoon. I was on duty between nones and vespers,’ he explained. ‘I saw all who came and left.’
‘Who was he?’ demanded Hubert.
‘Not he, she,’ said Thomas.
‘She?’
When the answer came Hubert uttered a sound of astonishment.
‘It was a maidservant of the Lady Sibilla. The one I believe to be the wet-nurse for baby Roger. I was at the lodge when the cortège arrived from Castle Hutton,’ he added. ‘I saw the entire party debouche from their wagons.’
‘That upsets our theory somewhat!’ Hildegard exclaimed. ‘I can hardly imagine that girl taking a dagger to anyone, least of all her confessor.’
The three of them glanced back at the scattered muniments. ‘The two events cannot be connected, then. Maybe it really is a case of common theft that went wrong,’ suggested Hubert without conviction. ‘And yet, after a cursory inspection, we can find nothing missing. The way the rolls are thrown suggests it was a deliberate attempt to give the impression of a break-in. And the wounds aren’t the sort one would expect from a tussle with a burglar. And the note,’ he went on. ‘Nevyl would never have left a deliberate mystery to confuse and tantalise, whereas a murderer might.’
He gave a sudden grim smile as something else struck him. ‘There is something we’ve missed.’ He went over to the body where it lay, waiting for the infirmarer. ‘The dagger. I remember how Gilbert unclasped the fingers of Nevyl’s right hand to prise it free. In fact,’ his tone became more certain, ‘the lad is left handed. The dagger was planted. There is no other conclusion.’
Aware that Hubert was keen to prove that his brother monk had not committed a mortal sin, Hildegard was forced to point out that the monk might quite naturally have slashed his right wrist while holding the dagger in his preferred hand, then changed hands to slash his left wrist. ‘This would be the natural thing to do,’ she reluctantly concluded.
Hubert could not help but agree. He gave a heavy sigh. ‘We have to get at the truth. For his soul’s sake and for our own peace of mind and to see that justice is done.’
‘We need to talk to the wet-nurse,’ Hildegard suggested. ‘Let’s see what she has to say. Perhaps she’s awake tending the baby at this hour. It would not be unusual. If you like I’ll go to Sibilla’s apartment and see what I can find out. At least that will close one avenue of speculation.’
Hubert gave her a warning glance. ‘Take Brother Thomas with you. With a murderer on the loose you’d best go accompanied.’
Fields have their eyes, forests their ears. The phrase made Hildegard’s flesh creep every time she turned it over in her mind. She felt unseen eyes spying on them as they left the others with the body and returned to ground level down the twisting stairs. It was the sort of phrase the guild men might use in order to maintain control over their apprentices. A warning to anybody against stepping out of line. Whoever the murderers of the five members of the Company of the White Hart were, guildmen or not, they must have had their spies. They would have obtained their intelligence from sources among the manor officials in the fields and from those appointed as wardens of the forests. Had the murderer of Brother Nevyl left the scrap of parchment behind in order to hint at the monk’s membership of that same company? Someone had removed the pewter badge of the white hart from the murdered apprentice’s tunic. Was it Nevyl himself, or were the two incidents unconnected?
Well used to prowling the abbey in the dead of night, Thomas was a reassuring presence as they made their way across the garth and out on to the other side to the guest house. When they went inside servants were lying around in the corridors, hunched shapes slumbering beneath their cloaks, one or two snores rending the silence. A light burned in a sconce at the foot of the stair leading up to Sibilla’s apartment where the baby slept.
‘The little mite must be having a peaceful night,’ whispered Thomas as they made their way upwards. Treading softly, they reached an upper corridor with doors running its entire length. They looked at each other in confusion. ‘The personal servants bed down together in a chamber at the farthest end,’ said the novice. ‘Maybe in order to preserve the sanctity of their slumbers Sir Ralph and the Lady Sibilla prefer to keep the child at a similar distance?’
‘You’re probably right.’ Hildegard smiled, surprised that a young man, a celibate as he was, should be so knowing. ‘Lead on, if you will.’
He glided along the corridor until he came to a door at the farthest end next to a back stair. She guessed it led down towards the privies over the mill race, an artificial sluice constructed by the monks many generations ago. Since then the order had become renowned for the construction of sluices and drains and a canal system had been designed that had already reclaimed tracts of marshland, where they now ran sheep. She waited as Thomas pushed open the door of the servants’ chamber and looked inside. A chorus of snores greeted them.
Grasping the shoulder of the nearest man and gently shaking it, Thomas bent down to whisper, ‘Quiet now, just tell me where the baby sleeps.’
‘Pissing little brat,’ mumbled the servant, not knowing or caring who was quizzing him. ‘Been put out yonder behind that flimsy door…don’t keep the scratching of a bloody mouse at bay…me get some sleep now. Bugger off.’ Grumbling to himself, he turned over and pulled his cloak around his ears.
Thomas straightened. ‘Poor fellow. They work so hard, their sleep is precious to them.’ He indicated the next door. ‘That must be the one he means.’ With a burglar’s stealth such that Hildegard wondered about his previous career, he pressed the door ajar. Within all was silent. In fact, it was a silence so complete Hildegard felt her heart turn over with fright.
‘The light, if you please, Thomas!’
Standing behind her in the doorway he lifted the lamp so that the small chamber was illuminated in every corner. There was a heap of empty blankets on a pallet on one side and a wooden crib next to it. They hurried over. It too was empty.
‘Perhaps the nurse has taken the baby to Sibilla,’ Hildegard suggested. ‘We must risk waking her. Come.’
Sibilla’s quarters were guarded by two sleeping servants huddled on either side of the door. Stepping over them they made their way inside. The room was lit by a solitary night-candle and by its dim glow a bed could be discerned and on it a sleeping figure. Hildegard made her way over and peered down. It was Sibilla. Of the baby, and the nurse, there was no sign. Still praying for some simple explanation for the child’s whereabouts, and fearing a certain amount of anger from Sibilla when she woke her, Hildegard braced herself to touch her on the shoulder. ‘Sibilla, wake up for a moment, I need to ask you something.’
The woman stirred and at once her eyes blinked open. Thomas moved closer with the rush lamp held before him. Sibilla put one hand over her eyes. ‘What? Is that you, Ralph?’ She sat up, blinking in the light, and shook her plaits from her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s me, Hildegard. Baby Roger isn’t in his room. Nor is his nurse. We must speak to her, Sibilla. It’s urgent.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Where is he, Sibilla?’
‘Where is who?’
‘Your baby, little Roger.’
‘He should be sleeping. Down there—’ She pointed vaguely back towards the door.
‘The cot’s empty. Come and see for yourself.’
With surprising speed Sibilla rose from her bed and, without even putting a robe on over her nightgown, hurried, complaining loudly, down the corridor to the baby’s chamber. When she saw the empty crib she gave a loud scream tha
t roused every servant within earshot. They came pouring into the chamber, half dazed with sleep, jostling and complaining, until with a roar one of them stepped forth and told them to hold their noise. It was a servant Hildegard recognised at once.
Shrugging on the jacket with its familiar scarlet tippets, he went over to his mistress. ‘My lady?’
Sibilla pointed to the empty cot. ‘Where’s my child?’ she demanded. ‘He’s gone!’
III
The black-cloaked envoy had taken ship at Damme. The port, situated at the mouth of the River Scheldt, served the city of Bruges where guilds supporting the men of Ghent and their leader Van Artvelde prepared for war. Damme was a convenient port of departure for the envoy as it happened to be the gateway into England via the North Sea and the eastern river estuaries of Thames, Humber and Tyne. The papers he offered before embarking had been accepted without question. Now, comfortably aboard the cog Isabeau, he was treated with exceptional deference by the captain, who had seen his papers, and with indifference by the crew, who had not. During the thirty hours of the crossing he spoke to no one and no one spoke to him.
Chapter Eighteen
WHILE SIBILLA WAS raging, her manservant stepped in to take charge. Hildegard took the opportunity to ask one of the maids his name.
‘That’s Escrick Fitzjohn,’ replied the maid. ‘He’s Sir Ralph’s right hand, though if you ask me he does more for the Lady Sibilla, if you know what I mean.’ She gave a sniff.
Hildegard was astonished. So he really was one of the inner household, someone trusted, sharing Ralph and Sibilla’s private life. She asked, ‘Has he been with the family long?’
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