by Keith Moray
A few minutes later, they were happily drinking each other’s health in the inglenook. Beatrice put her cup down. ‘But on a different note, you had better take care of yourself. You have upset George-a-Green the pinder. He stopped in a while ago in a rare temper.’
Hubert merely grinned. ‘Do I detect a note of concern for me?’
Beatrice pursed her lips. ‘Maybe a little. But seriously, he is a strong lad and not one to cross.’
Hubert took a deep draught of ale. ‘Nor am I, my dear. And I just hate being crossed by bully-boys like him.’
‘George-a-Green isn’t a bully, Hubert. He is big and bluff and speaks his mind. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he spends more of his time with cattle than with people. I do know that he hates to see injustice.’
‘Still, he needs to learn some manners. Maybe it will be up to me to teach him.’
Beatrice smiled. She liked Hubert’s rugged good looks and his self-assurance. ‘Can you teach many things, Hubert?’ she whispered coquettishly.
‘A whole lot, Beatrice,’ he returned, his breathing noticeably speeding up. ‘Just give me a willing pupil.’
Beatrice ran her eyes appreciatively over his face. ‘I expect that your master Sir Richard will not need you all night,’ she said after a moment. ‘Why don’t you call back here at curfew time?’
Hubert tweaked her knee and stole a kiss before draining his ale.
‘At curfew time it will be, Beatrice. I will see you then.’ He stood up and winked. ‘But first I must attend to any other business my master may have in store for me.’
Richard seemed to be in a merry humour when Hubert met him as previously arranged in the office of the Moot Hall. Richard was going over some administrative matters with John of Flanshaw, the bailiff.
‘I have another commission for you, Hubert,’ Richard said, as he sat back in his chair and tossed a document on the table. ‘I want you to go back to Sandal Castle and tell Sir Thomas all that has happened today. Tell him that I am reopening the Manor Court tomorrow at ten o’clock and will be viewing the body.’
John of Flanshaw coughed politely. ‘Did you say you would be viewing the body, Sir Richard? What body? William Scathelocke?’ He wrung his hands at the thought. ‘I was going to ask you about this, Sir Richard. He is already starting to smell.’
‘He will be buried soon enough,’ Richard replied. ‘But actually, we shall be viewing the body of the Pardoner. Although his crime was going to be tried by a consistory ecclesiastical court, his murder makes this a case for me to investigate.’ He looked sternly at the bailiff. ‘But you are to say nothing of this to anyone.’ John of Flanshaw hurriedly nodded his head and studied the documents before him.
‘Are you not returning to Sandal Castle tonight, Sir Richard?’ Hubert asked.
Richard shook his head. ‘Not tonight. Father Daniel has offered me his hospitality, so I shall stay in Wakefield.’
Hubert wondered whether his master’s decision had anything to do with whatever the minstrel Alan-a-Dale had been hinting at in his song that morning. ‘Then I should be back in Wakefield before curfew,’ he said lightly.
‘No Hubert, I want you to stay at the castle tonight.’
‘But, Sir Richard, I —’
‘No buts, Hubert. I also want you to have a chat with that friend of yours, Adam Crigg. Find out how many men are truly reliable and loyal to the King in the castle. That is what I want to know.’
Hubert eyed his master and was about to ask why he wanted to know this, for he had already told him of Adam Crigg’s feelings about Sir Thomas Deyville’s men. Yet he detected something in Sir Richard’s countenance that would not brook questioning. ‘When shall I go, Sir Richard?’
‘Now, good Hubert. This instant. Offer to escort Lady Wilhelmina tomorrow morning if she has a mind to attend the court.’
It was with a sense of frustration and disappointment that Hubert called at the Bucket Inn on his way to Sandal Castle. It was not often that he felt like cursing his master, but this was one of those times. He planned what he was going to tell Beatrice as he tied his mount up in front of the Bucket Inn.
But Beatrice was not in.
Then he did curse Richard under his breath. He had been looking forward to being a teacher to Beatrice Quigley. As well as being a willing pupil himself.
Father Daniel’s house was a neat three-storeyed building with its own garden enclosed with wicker fencing on top of the hill overlooking the Ings, where the township archery butts were located.
A servant met him and took his horse while a serving girl curtseyed and led him through an anteroom into a cluttered study. For some minutes he stood looking out of the window which was not yet shuttered, breathing in the scent of hollyhocks, columbine and calendula. Beyond the garden the hill ran down to the village of Thornes, which was in turn overlooked by the deserted motte of an early castle erected in the days of King Stephen. In the distance was the New Park and the dense woodland that eventually linked up with the Barnsdale Forest. All in all, it seemed a fine view for Father Daniel to contemplate as he sat and wrote.
Richard turned as the serving girl returned with a tray with a flask of wine and two pewter goblets.
‘The master will be with you soon, my lord. He sent word for us to begin supper preparation at six o’clock.’ She curtsied again. ‘My name is Susan, Sir Richard. Anything you need, I am to see to.’
Richard smiled and poured himself some wine once she had gone, then he ambled about the room with the goblet in his hand. It was a comfortable room, and clearly that of a scholar. A large table and chair occupied the area in front of the window. Its surface was covered with piles of manuscripts, an astrolabe, a huge illuminated Bible, ink-pots, quills and all the paraphernalia of the writer. Shelves strained with the weight of tightly wound scrolls, caskets, and yet more piles of fresh vellum and parchment. Maps of the locality and of the manor, of the country of England and even one of the lands beyond the channel were nailed to three walls, while beside the window a large plain cross was pinned to the wall above a small praying stool. The floor was stone-paved and bedecked with lavender, fleabane and yarrow.
Richard picked up a parchment from the desk, admiring the bold handwriting. Yet as he scanned the words, he found himself admiring even more the bold sentiments that they contained.
A fine poet indeed, he mused to himself.
He lay the parchment back where it had been and looked at another that lay beside it, clearly written in a different hand. He began to read it and realized immediately that it was a poem, written by a woman, he presumed. And clearly written to express love for the reader. Realizing that it was a personal piece, he dropped it back on the desk. A moment later, he heard the door open behind him and the tread of a boot on the rushes.
‘Sir Richard, thrice welcome to my humble abode. You do me a great honour by supping with me and staying the night.’
Richard shook his head abruptly. ‘Indeed, Father Daniel, I assure you that it is you who does me a service in giving me shelter tonight. It is frankly a relief to be away from the castle.’
Father Daniel inclined his head diplomatically. ‘Yet I fear that my conversation will not be up to that which you are used to, Sir Richard. I know little about politics and lofty affairs, such as you might discuss with Sir Thomas Deyville.’ He bowed humbly. ‘I am after all a simple scholar and priest.’
Richard gave a short laugh. ‘I have heard a lot about your modesty. You are a man of many parts, it seems. Parish priest, castle chaplain, nun’s priest, scholar, guild-master and —’
‘And playwright,’ Father Daniel volunteered. He smiled. ‘And in the last you discover the real me, Sir Richard. The writer is the true Daniel, the one that believes he can make a humble contribution to the world.’
Richard turned to the desk and pointed to the piles of manuscripts. ‘Ah yes, and I am told by Lady Wilhelmina, Sir Thomas Deyville’s daughter, that you are already famed as the Wakefield Master.’ H
e accepted the seat that Father Daniel offered and took a sip from his goblet.
Father Daniel poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘I fear that is a kindly title that I do not deserve, Sir Richard. I see myself as a scholarly scribe, little more than that. The words I write come to me from … a higher source.’
‘From divine inspiration?’ Richard suggested.
There was a tap at the door and Susan entered to let them know that the meal was prepared in the solar upstairs. Richard let Father Daniel lead the way upstairs to the solar, which had an even better view of the countryside beyond Wakefield. Yet it was the sumptuous meal that lay before them that most demanded his attention, and he realized that it had been many hours since he had last eaten.
They ate in relatively polite silence, enjoying a capon brewet, and a civet of hare, finished off by a frumenty of figs and nuts.
‘You seem to live well, Father Daniel,’ Richard sighed at last, sipping from his goblet.
‘I am conscious of my blessings, Sir Richard. But whatever we do not eat shall be received by whatever poor vagabonds and street urchins are already congregating at my gate.’
‘Have you always lived in Wakefield?’ Richard asked.
‘No, Sir Richard. I took my orders in York, but I also travelled in my youth. To Padua, where I studied languages and theology, and to Oxford, where I studied our own great language. But I was born in Wakefield and was happy to get a living and patronage here.’
‘And are there many educated folk of your station here?’
‘Lady Katherine, the Prioress of Kirklees is learned in many things, Sir Richard. She has a firm grasp of literature and an unparalleled knowledge of the scriptures.’
‘And the Mystery Plays, how far on are you with them?’
Father Daniel bent his head. ‘We will be ready, Sir Richard. It is a struggle getting folk to remember their lines, I will not deny, for they have to have them read to them until they remember.’
‘It is a problem that so few people can read and write, I agree,’ said Richard. ‘But it is a feather in Wakefield’s cap that His Majesty is planning to come to watch the performance on Corpus Christi Day. How did that come about?’
Father Daniel sipped his wine then lay the goblet down. ‘A strange matter, that, Sir Richard. To be honest, I have no idea. He has been invited every year, but so far he has never expressed an interest, and I never thought that he would. But this year he sent word himself to Sir Thomas Deyville.’
‘Another Wakefield Mystery, then?’ Richard asked with a smile.
As they both laughed at his little joke, Richard was mentally chiding himself. There seemed too many mysteries in this town. And he fully intended to find out about them soon.
9
Richard was woken by the noise of the town slowly coming to life. First of all, he heard the servants rising from their pallets, the sound of water being sluiced about, then the rattle of shutters and doors. From somewhere close, he presumed from the Parish Church of All Saints, the dawn bell rang out, and then from about the town came the noise of pigs, cows and assorted fowls being taken from undercrofts and stables to the pastures outside town. Shops and businesses began to open noisily, and the trundle of carts and the clopping of horses filled the air.
There was a tap on his door and Susan, the comely maidservant, came in upon his command, smiling sweetly.
‘Father Daniel sent me to invite you to accompany him to mass at the church before breaking your fast, Sir Richard.’
Ten minutes later, Richard had his first sight of the interior of the church of All Saints. On the way there, Father Daniel told Richard of its history from Saxon times. It was a fairly simple building as churches went, the tall tower of which was surrounded by scaffolding for repair work after its partial collapse in 1315, the year of the Great Famine. Understandably, the local townsfolk had taken the collapse, coinciding as it did with the suffering caused by the famine, to be a sign of God’s displeasure. Accordingly, work to reconstruct the tower at the public expense had been going on ever since, and slowly the walls of the aisles and the tower itself were beginning to take shape.
As Richard took his place on a front pew while Father Daniel disappeared to robe up and prepare for the service, he nodded his head approvingly at the size of the congregation, for he believed that a God-fearing community was likely to be a law-abiding community. That could make his task easier, he felt.
There were two aisles on the north and south of the nave, with the chancel beyond the ornate rood screen, and the altar and sanctuary visible beyond them.
And as he looked through he was aware of a couple of men, clearly felons, skulking in the sanctuary. He had no idea, of course, what crimes they had committed that had driven them to seek the forty days of sanctuary allowed by the church, but he expected that in due course of time he would find out. Inevitably, however, his thoughts went from the two sanctuary claimants to the Pardoner, Albin of Rouncivale. In a sense he had claimed sanctuary from the law when he claimed benefit of clergy. It seemed ironic that he might have been safer if he had sought sanctuary.
As Father Daniel’s voice reached him as he sang out to begin the service, Richard felt a surge of guilt. Perhaps if he had been more rigorous in his initial handling of the court, he might not have delivered him into the hands of his killer. And with the first surge of guilt it seemed to mount up inexorably. Like most men, he was not free of guilt himself. It made him feel determined. If he could not bring the Pardoner back to life, at least he could discover his murderer.
After breaking his fast with gruel and a mug of ale, Richard bid Father Daniel farewell until the court session at nine bells. He then went directly to the Roll’s Office in the Moot Hall where John of Flanshaw was already preparing the documents from the last session for Richard to peruse. Richard leafed through them, then leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and pondered.
John of Flanshaw, supposing that Richard was falling asleep, stopped writing and lay down his quill, for he feared that the scratching noise would disturb the Sergeant-at-Law. Yet he need not have worried. Although Richard looked to be on the verge of slumber, yet his mind was anything but inactive. He was going over all of the events that had taken place since he and Hubert had travelled through the Outwood to Wakefield. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to worry. He needed to talk to Hubert, to find out what, if anything, he had found out.
At about eight o’clock, Hubert arrived. Richard snapped open his eyes, dispelling any suspicion that he had been asleep, and immediately dismissed the bailiff to make the court ready.
‘How now, Hubert?’ Richard asked. ‘You have a peevish look about you this morning.’
Hubert scowled, and then grinned sheepishly. ‘I was peeved as it happens, Sir Richard. You see, I had an opportunity last night.’
Richard’s mouth formed a silent Oh. Then he smiled and asked, ‘Mistress Quigley?’ When Hubert nodded assent, he went on, ‘I thought that I had noticed an exchange of regard between the two of you.’
Hubert slumped onto a stool. ‘We had a sort of assignation, but I am willing to wager that I am no longer in her favour.’ Then his eyes twinkled and he added, ‘And you may not be in another lady’s favour either, my lord!’
Richard stared at him, then nodded his head to encourage him to tell all. ‘Well, go on! What mean you?’
‘The Lady Wilhelmina seemed both anxious and a little vexed that you did not return to the castle last night.’
He did not add that the minstrel Alan-a-Dale had greeted him at breakfast with another of his suggestive little compositions on the lute. Like the previous morning, he had followed it up by doing a disappearing act when Hubert turned away.
‘And what of Sir Thomas’s men? What had occurred yesterday morning?’
Hubert was immediately nonplussed, since he had expected Sir Richard to have been more concerned about Lady Wilhelmina’s reaction. He forced his mind back on the subject.
‘Aye,
yes, it was the Hood and his men. Sir Thomas’s men had been sent out to prepare an ambush on either side of the Wakefield trail through Barnsdale Forest, only they were lured into a trap. A group of mendicant friars came up the road, led by a big fat one that they called Friar Tuck. They challenged them, then immediately found themselves caught by two groups of bowmen who had outflanked them.’
Richard chuckled. ‘A pincer move! He has brains, this Robert Hood.’
‘They stripped them of their mail and weapons — which the Hood claimed as their toll for using the forest trail — and sent them back to the castle on foot.’
Richard ran a finger over his beard. ‘And what was Sir Thomas’s reaction to all of this?’
‘Rage! He flailed about with that whip of his. Gave a couple of the men, including the sergeant-at-arms, a few bruises. The brute! Then he vowed that he would take the outlaw.’
Richard looked worried. ‘And so tell me about the castle and how many men are loyal to the King. What did Adam Crigg say?’
‘Well, my lord, you may recall that Adam did not hold a high opinion of Sir Thomas’s men. He is still of that opinion, yet he cannot say whether they would be loyal or not. But there are thirty original men of the guard, and he feels that they would know exactly what to do if the castle was attacked. The castle can certainly be secured, and it would take an army with proper siege weapons to take it.’ Richard looked relieved. ‘So it is unlikely that a simple company of bowmen could cause a problem. Yet this Robert Hood shows that he has a tactical brain, so he cannot be taken for granted. Yet the thing that worries me is that there may be many dissatisfied former Lancaster supporters who have been declared wolfshead. If they joined together and were organized…’
Hubert’s eyes widened. ‘I see what you mean, my lord.’ Then he shook his head doubtfully. ‘But surely no such thing could happen?’
Richard shrugged. ‘Who knows? If there actually is an organized outlaw band, it could just take something to set it off. Wakefield is some three miles from the castle and is relatively poorly defended. And remember what the Hood said to us in the Outwood: if justice was not done, perhaps he and his men would take it into their own hands.’
