TEN WEEKS THAT CHANGED ENGLAND FOREVER: Prequel - why Hildegard of Meaux became a nun (HIldegard of Meaux medieval mystery sereies Book 10)

by Cassandra Clark

  Hildegard looks down at the motionless features, small and dainty, with eyelashes fanning the pale cheeks, the lips as if carved prettily in ivory and but for the bruise and the dark badge of blood on the forehead, a face perfect, such as an angel might possess.

  The lay sister touches Hildegard’s arm. I’m sorry I have nothing more cheering to tell you.

  Is there anything I might do?

  Wait on God’s will.

  My gratitude for taking these waifs in.

  We will take then permanently if need be and you so wish.

  If it’s best for them - ?

  We think so. They are born and bred in the parish. It is our duty and pleasure to take them. Come again tomorrow.

  I will.

  As she leaves a prioress in the white robes of a Cistercian is being ushered inside by two monks who show her great deference even though she is not of their Order. But tears are already standing in Hildegard’s eyes and she scarcely notices the new arrival through the sheen of moisture blurring them.

  Later she tells Sir John about her visit and how there is no change in the girl’s condition and then, seeing his flushed and excited expression, asks after the events in parliament.

  It is all a furore of argument and counter-argument but not, he hastens to explain, on the topic of our main purpose. On that we are in full agreement. We are not an unguarded chest of gold to be filched by royal robbers. We all agree on that. We stand firm. But the detail, the detail of evidence against the embezzlers, this must be soundly brought, every document, deed, bill, account, all need to be perused by the clerks word by word to seal up every loophole and then the accused will be called to stand forth and be revealed for what they are. Can you believe this, Hildegard, his tone changes and he places a hand on her shoulder and leaves it there, friendly, no secret intention in his innocent gaze, can you believe Sir Richard Lyons has brought bills to the king for loans which were never made? Is it possible that men should do that? He and several others also agreed to buy back the king’s debts - debts they themselves forced him to incur - at ridiculous rates of interest! Imagine forcing the king to pawn his royal crown and his best jewels to Lombardy bankers and then making a profit to release him from his debt! They are the necromancers of misfortune. He is too old, too senile and wallowed in lust for Madam Perrers to rouse himself sufficiently to see them for what they are. It is up to us to strip away his blindfold, to reveal the truth about his ministers, his trusted advisors, his court thieves.

  After this come days of turmoil which seem to lead only by slow moment after slow moment to the point when the Commons, swearing fealty to one another, are ready to stand as one, face to face with their over-lords in the Painted Chamber. The Commons have kept these lords, these dukes and earls, the men of royal lineage waiting seven days, seven days, while they discuss the levels of corruption and outright theft committed under the very nose of the king and in his name. Then lords Latimer, a northerner known to Hildegard by hearsay as a rapacious double-dealer, and Richard Lyons, Warden of the Mint, are summoned before the combined houses in parliament.

  She, meanwhile, is unable to do more than present her plea of widowhood to an under-clerk, an assistant who is clearly burdened by the absence of a master with the more weighty matter of the impeachment of the king’s ministers on his mind. Rubbing ink-stained knuckles over his face he asks her why she has not produced her husband’s body to the proper authorities. This is a matter for the Coroner, he begins.

  Forgive me, magister, there is no body –

  No body? Then on what grounds do you claim a death has occurred?

  My husband was fighting in a detachment in France under the command of the earl of Arundel and disappeared in a skirmish near a vill called…she fumbles for the piece of parchment she was given, reads out what it says.

  The clerk flexes his fingers. This proves nothing. Without a body we cannot ascertain that a death has taken place. You must understand that. How else would we know he’s dead? He may be a prisoner. How do we know that he may not be offered at some future date for ransom? We cannot rest a case on mere hearsay –

  Two men came to me in my castle near Penarlag –

  Is that one of Mortimer’s strongholds?

  No, although of course my husband supported Mortimer. He held the land in his own right as a bequest through the line matrilineal. It was proven. There is no doubt of his ownership.

  I don’t doubt your word but I must see the deeds.

  I have them.

  She hands some documents over and he flicks through them. Puts them to one side. And so, you say two men sought you out? What of it?

  They brought verification of his death, two men from Brittany from the region where my husband is last known to have fought in a detachment of Arundel’s militia. They handed me his ring and a document from a Breton captain recording his loss of ransom because of my husband’s death. She hands both the ring and the document written in a spidery and almost illegible Breton to the clerk who purports to be able to read it - and maybe he can, she allows - which he then places on top of the deeds to Hugh’s estate.

  And what did they say to you, these two Bretons?

  I was unable to understand them in any shared language but my steward speaks Welsh and between them they seemed to reach an agreement on the manner of Sir Hugh’s death – It was from a wound sustained in battle.

  My condolences but I must ask in all reasonableness is that all, their word and this? He rests a forefinger in the middle of the page.

  What more can I give you?

  I shall have to put the whole matter before my master. We shall need proof of your status, my lady. That might complete matters. Is there anyone who can speak for you?

  A neighbour, Sir John Dinsdale. He will guarantee I am who I say I am.

  The clerk relents a little and gives a flickering smile from behind the delicate haze of his fashionable beard. He steeples his fingers above propped elbows. You will understand that in this present situation your affairs will not be first in the queue? They will not take precedence over matters of state.

  I understand that.

  However, I can offer you a reasonable estimate that you will receive your widow’s dower in due course and - he glances down at the unfamiliar name - your husband’s property will be held in trust for your son. With another glance at the documents she has handed him, he adds, your son Bertrand, a child. He gives her a compassionate glance. You will continue to remain at your castle in the Marches until he is of age? He notices her uncertainty. Unless, he corrects, you are contemplating remarriage?

  I have made no decision yet.

  He begins to shuffle his writing materials into place. You are free to return now. Should anything unexpected arise from these, he taps the documents with one finger, you will be informed by the clerk of the court. He rises to his feet and offers a casual bow. I trust you have no further questions, my lady?

  When she shakes her head, wondering how long she will have to wait for a decision, he adds, let Sir John come to me and make himself known to someone here in order to take his oath. I know him by sight. If you can extract him from his deliberations in the Commons committee I shall be pleased to see him. He hesitates and then, carefully he says, these matters often take some time. With the present parliament having no end in sight we clerks are rushed off our feet. But take heart. You will eventually get satisfaction.

  Before Sir John can gather himself and put in an appearance in front of the clerk of the court, something terrible and unexpected happens. Prince Edward, the heir to the throne dies.

  The Commons, poised to put their demands, the barons ranged in opposition, the city of London, the country towns, the vills and hamlets of England, the farms, the granges, the stables and workshops, the inhabitant of every field and copse and royal forest, every man, woman and bawling child old enough to understand, are halted in their tracks and the entire realm is thrown into confusion. Even while his father, the illustrious K
ing Edward III, struggles against old age, his warrior’s body wracked by weakness so that he can scarcely lift a cup to his lips and in council has to be strapped upright in his chair to pronounce the verdict whispered into his ear by his concubine, Alice Perrers, even while this goes on, his eldest son, the heir to the realm, famed and fabled throughout Europe for valour and feats of arms, lying on his stinking litter in a foul heap of rank flesh relinquishes his soul to heaven.

  And who is to rule next? The second son, duke Lionel, is dead, poisoned, they say, by his father-in-law the duke of Milan, or by some other ambitious devil. Or the third son, vile Lancaster, duke John of Gaunt? Will it be him?

  The people, lacking rights and privilege as they are, will, even so, not accept that. Bill-hooks, scythes, axes are remembered - and the whetstones with which to sharpen them.

  The Commons agree: we want no king called John.

  An announcement is made. The old king made a whispered covenant weeks before with his now dead war hero son that the line of inheritance will not deviate from custom, the crown will pass through him, Prince Edward, to the prince’s eldest son, the grandson of the present king. It will pass straight down the male line to young Richard. The boy will rule.

  The chroniclers write it up and wipe their pens, a promise of fealty is made by the barons, and duke John of Gaunt, sufficiently cowed, devious or overcome with grief, third in line only, accepts the proposition, a boy king of ten will rule England, Ireland and as much of France as his grandfather could lay hold of in the fifty years of his war-mongering reign. A boy of ten. Richard. King.

  Meanwhile Hildegard, the lady of the Marches, begins her wait on an answer regarding her own future from the clerks in their hive at Westminster Hall.

  The dead prince, the valiant soldier, the one-time heir to the crown of England, lies in state in his castle at Berkhamstead with his previously written instructions now read aloud by his chamberlain on the manner of his funeral rites. He is to lie at Canterbury beside the tomb of Thomas a Becket, his body conveyed there by two destriers clothed in his arms of war and peace, with plumes and banners and all his devices and with his black pennant carried by an armed man alongside.

  But before that his son, his heir, the royally sanctioned future king of England, young Richard who shall be the second of that name, is to be presented to the barons of England and to the newly formed and acknowledged Commons in order to make it clear who will rule next. Preparations from top to bottom of the realm begin at once, the markets thronging with the activities of weavers, broiderers, semptresses, gold and silver smiths, hat-makers, glovers and all guild workers involved with the proper presentation of the human form. Mercers do good business supplying all the trimmings that go with personal display. Sumptuary garments are inspected for infringements of the law. Fur brushed, leather polished, gold rubbed to its true dark lustre. A bother and a clutter as the wives preen, argument and nervous laughter following, then from every house the people set forth. There are some swift returnings for things forgotten. But the great setting out from all the palaces and towering houses and from the tenements near the wharfs and the stable yards and inns takes place and a cavalcade of the people converges on Westminster.

  While they are in a frenzy of waiting for the prince to appear the lady of the Marches makes good use of her time and struggles through the assembling crowds to visit the girl who was struck down by Gaunt’s careless militia, notes that there is still no change, that the nun who attends her is praying harder than ever and the hospitaller is shaking his head as he bends like a benign crow over the form lying on the cot. The best she can do is to take the two little ones off to a quiet corner and tell them a story. When one of the monks hands her a chap book she reads from that and when the boy asks about the patterns on the page she explains about letters and words and so the progress from illiteracy to literacy begins which she will pay the monks to further.

  While she reads, a figure in Cistercian white appears in a doorway lit by the sun, a white flame burning through the Benedictine darkness, a shaft of brightness suggesting matters not of this world but of some unearthly visible realm seen only through the clear glass in the clerestory windows. And the flame flickers and remains motionless, splintering the darkness, standing in the midst of silence like a white flame dispelling the shadows and she, the prioress, blazes with white flame, and Hildegard is aware of the cold fire of the spirit, the silence, the power and the flame and feels it burn through the darkness and enter the chamber unrolling light before it.

  The prioress says, I hear you are about to lose everything you possess?

  She is drawn to her feet by the power of the flame and puts out a hand as if to warm it in a fire.

  An exaggeration, domina. I trust it will never come to mean everything. Some things I would never want to lose until I lost the most precious gift of all.

  Remember, lady, the things of this world are ephemeral but necessary. God be with you when you make your choice.

  Sir John expresses a controlled interest in the progress of Hildegard’s application to the courts and in the midst of the turmoil caused by the prince’s death, the stunned grief, the fantasy of the funeral preparations when it seems his dark presence is still alive among them, the knight is assiduous enough to present himself that very morning before the clerks as guarantor, casual and confident that his lady of the Marches will gain everything owing to her and confident that he too will gain, step by step, what is owed her.

  In conversation he invokes the law of Winchester against the Salic law the French espouse which, he says, seems to be based on a view that women cannot handle their own affairs and must therefore be deprived of them.

  Later, when she leaves the abbey precinct and joins him near the great hall she observes his lips, very red and mobile in the nest of his clipped black beard as he speaks.

  It is the basis of this infernal war with the French, he repeats. It leads them to an intransigent refusal to accept King Edward as their rightful king. Clearly he is next in line. All laws say so except for the primitive edict of Charlemagne which the French dukes insist on merely in order to put one of their puppets on the throne. Our kings are as French as theirs are, they speak French, they read French, they even think in French. What does a stretch of water between our two shores matter when it comes to inheritance? Is King Edward not as good as the nephew several degrees removed from their old king whom they have foolishly set upon the throne? Now we even have fellows in the Inns of Court trying to ride the same horse through our own affairs but I tell you, my lady, I will never allow you to be deprived of your inheritance. Believe me, Hildegard, trust me and never fear. I am the man to protect you.

  I can think of no good reason why Bertrand should not inherit his father’s land nor any reason why I should not be allowed to stand as guardian and run things in trust until he is of age, should I so wish.

  That was not the same as inheriting outright and she knows it. She is also aware that Sir John imagines that he himself could assume the right for her and rule her domain and is therefore the more keen to secure it on her behalf. There is never a moment when she is not aware of this.

  Should you so wish? He looks askance. His red mouth hangs open. I trust you do so wish, my dear, otherwise we are here in vain.

  She goes into the Lady Chapel for the purposes of contemplation. The silence is like a globe, swelling, immanent with mystery. Light falls in shafts of colour over the mosaic floor, on the gold of lectern, candelabra and on the leather marker tooled in gold leaf hanging from the open book. Stillness. Silence. A rich scent of incense. She sinks into it, allows her thoughts to rearrange themselves. She believes that Sir John’s ire on her behalf may well be in vain.

  She sees that should she lose what he imagines to be her right this will not suit her marriage prospects with him one bit. Her dowry is something she will fight for, but the land, against the natural right of her son? The thought of marriage is becoming less attractive when she considers a
ll that she will lose. She is no burgess's wife who could take her husband to court at little expense should they have a disagreement. Such land and property as she might hold in her own name would incur the rapacity of the legal profession and she would be left with the lees after they had ridden their horses at full gallop through their law books as Sir John fears. Is she ready to give up her glimpse of freedom so soon?

  A flame burns steadily behind a screen and she lifts her eyes to the high window where the circle of blue framed within it opens onto infinity.

  With no sign yet of the little prince’s arrival she returns to the abbey yard. The sound of singing from one of the chantries floats on the air, each note like a shard of silver as a flame of white appears, the prioress, with hands inside her sleeves, her serenity unaltered when her glance falls on Hildegard, calls, Join us, my lady. Why not?

  There is tranquillity in her progress, and a group of nuns emerge from a nearby door, six, walking two by two in black, and the one gleaming, ethereal, in their wake, and it is like balm to Hildegard’s troubled thoughts to follow them, blinded, uncertain, towards the close dark of the shrine with the words why not? chiming in her ears throughout the ritual that follows. Why not join us? Is that what the prioress meant? Join us. Why not? She meant merely ‘follow’ surely? But something more opens up. Why not?

  Images in the high windows of painted glass suggest the lives of other women and what they had made of a monastic life, the famed Abbess of the Whitby Benedictines, Hild, for instance, mistress of a double house, convenor of the Great Synod that set the date for Easter, and also her own namesake, Abbess Hildegard, advisor to Popes and prolific writer and music maker at Bingen, and Abbess Eloise of the Paraclete, defying the condemnation of Bernard of Clairvaux and the excommunication of her lover and mentor Peter Abelard, and Catherine of Siena, an advisor to another Pope in Rome and to the bellicose dukes of Tuscany. And why not? They were all women of power. And at home are the mystics, Julian of Norwich, drawing people to her for advice and solace, assuaging the sorrows of the poor and dispossessed, and of course all the many abbesses in charge of land, farm stock, granges, all contributing to the wealth of the realm, running their convents, priories and abbeys as well as, and in many cases, better than men, and the hundreds of self-effacing but no less effective nuns providing schools and hospitals for the poor. And why not? How could she believe there was no answer to the question? The answer stood clear, like a challenge. Even my own name, she reminds herself superstitiously, even that suggests a course I might follow. And why not?