But I’m no mystic, she decides through the rituals of kneeling and praying and lifting her voice to join the voices of the others, with the lancets allowing in a dazzle of coloured light, the reds, the blues and yellows seeming to dissolve the worn stones while the joined voices melt into the empyrean, and underneath this, still the objection to why not because she cannot see herself as an advisor to anyone and at present can only think of tending this one, poor injured child and her nestlings and others, sick and put-upon, the lost and alone. Heaven knows there are enough starving orphans in the world who need help until they can help themselves, she thinks. I will have wealth enough when I am granted my dowry to buy a place in one of the Orders, with the Benedictines, or the Cistercians, or one of the other orders, and I might return to my home county and ask to be taken in as a lay-sister even.
The more she thinks about it, however, the more impossible it seems. She has no vocation and has always enjoyed worldly pleasures and accepts the fact without struggle, abhorring the thought of struggling to come to something she cannot accept with her mind, something against the world she perceives through her senses. She is too rational to succumb to the voluptuousness of magic, to that laziness and ease of acceptance of the obviously impossible. She is too recalcitrant, too vain-glorious, would find the discipline hateful, the ritual trying, and the inability to say what she thinks untenable. It is not for me, she decides. But then again, nor is marriage.
A memory of Hugh’s rough usage when he was the only one to take pleasure in the carnal acts permitted by the Church returns and no contemplation of it will dispose of this objection. Even with a more kindly lord every wish or need would be proscribed and she would have to yield her rights and if she did not yield she would have to fight for her self-esteem against the rapacity of the men-at-law. But, she tells herself again, I have no vocation for the alternative. My doubts would lead me into all kinds of trouble. I cannot accept that the body and blood of Christ is turned into bread and wine as if by an act of magic. I cannot accept this. William Wyclif, with his close reading of the scriptures also cannot accept it and nor can many clear-sighted and common-sensical fellows and down-to-earth housewives nor practical Guildsmen, nor many of the nobility who do not believe in magic either. What we see is what there is and what there is is all we see. This is a knot I cannot unpick.
What she saw next when she left the precinct were the massive crowds gathering to witness the arrival of the golden boy, ten year old Richard of Bordeaux, the hope of all the country, at the great doors of Westminster Hall and on this fair day at the end of June he rides between the houses along the narrow streets crammed with cheering citizens, cheers that greet him in a ground swell of grief and love bursting from the throats of every man, woman and child, whose hopes for salvation have been ignored. What she hears in the roar that greets him is a cry for validation from people who feel they have no voice, no hope, a cry of trust that this royal child will bring them to the gates of heaven itself and dissolve their grief.
It is right that he is a gentle boy of great beauty, that he wears his gold-encrusted silk with dignity, that he is seen to be kind to his little white horse, polite to the adults who guard him and when in the tumult of adoration he arrives at the doors of the great and ancient hall it is right that he allows himself to be ushered briskly towards his future so that he has to quicken his pace to keep up with his guards, a good-natured smile on his face and then a shy halting at the threshold before making his first appearance before his vassals, the barons.
He is seen by those standing nearest to slip his hand into that of his mother Joan, the Princess of Wales, the Fair Maid of Kent, widow of the Black Prince, daughter-in-law to aged King Edward, and by her side he steps over the threshold into the hall for his presentation to be greeted by a monstrous roar.
All hail! And hail the future king!
And as one the nobility kneel before him and the thunder of steel armour on stone echoes and re-echoes like an endless wave echoing and reverberating round the great vault of Westminster with a sound like doom.
She imagines her little son Bertrand being brought before the household in the Marches, older than at present, and aware of the task before him, the balance he would have to bring to the nervous factions of the settlers and the settled and by chance she glances down the hall towards the place where Gaunt, Duke John, is standing in a line with his two living younger brothers, his expression vague, yet eyes dark with a sneering contempt as he nurses his jealousy and ambition for absolute power. The clipping of his wings by the Commons during these last few weeks has changed things, a difference in his manner has become apparent, his brusqueness is smoothed to a civility that sits strangely on what was his former self. Is it to be trusted, this amelioration? Something about his absence now, his aura of absence, of detaching himself while his thoughts fly elsewhere suggests that the battle with the Commons is not conceded by either side.
Even though Speaker de la Mare might get all he asks for, laws brought in, fraudsters imprisoned, the mistress dismissed, as soon as the Commons separate to return to their castles in the shires, to their distant towns, he could easily slip back and re-inhabit his old desire and ambition to do what he can to reverse the laws about to be enacted now. He seems to her like a man who is patiently biding his time.
Someone stands beside her in the crowd, a whisper comes: will he reverse the laws of the Commons as soon as they return to their homes? With her misgivings read so accurately, she turns to find the prioress beside her, sardonic mouth tilted in a private smile, who adds: isn’t that the question everyone fears to ask?
The herald calls for those in favour of a future King Richard to cry, Aye! The roof timbers shake. Dust flies down from the purlins.
Gaunt, as head of the Council, steps forward to reply but what he says is inaudible. When he strides solemnly between the ranks of standing militia following the chair bearing his father King Edward, he gestures for a group of his own men to come with him and approaching the doorway where Hildegard is standing he scatters the onlookers so that they are pressed back on themselves with mutters and dark looks and she can almost touch him, his arm encased in steel within a hand’s breadth of where she stands, and as he sweeps everyone aside she hears his order to his captain of guards, Attend me with six others.
In a close-pressed group the men exit to wild cheers for the aged king as soon as the doors are flung open followed by a falling silence at the sight of the duke and he passes between them with his men, his armed men, in a black silence. His grooms are straightaway hurrying forward with his destrier and as he is offered a knee by which to vault into the saddle a lone catcall from the back of the crowd is heard. It brings a gust of laughter, sharp as rain and quickly quelled, and from Gaunt himself the same blank face with which he listened to the eulogies pouring forth onto the grey head of the king his father and onto the fair young head of the king to be, his nephew, the child Richard.
And as he clatters out of the yard with his entourage in close guard about him, the prioress pulls at Hildegard’s linen sleeve and says, follow me, my lady, if you will.
Imagining there is news about the injured child and with the crowds now pouring from the hall she is swept away after her, away from the thick of the crowds until they reach the empty cloisters. The prioress comes to a halt.
Now sit awhile and talk to me.
I see we are both northerners, Hildegard begins. She falls silent, too many words block and jostle to take form.
I suspected that about you when I saw you run into the road despite the steel-shod boots of the militia. Go on.
And Hildegard haltingly begins to outline her dilemma.
The prioress gazes off across the cloister to a fountain making a flickering show of rainbows in the summer sunlight and when Hildegard comes to the difficulty of admitting to her thoughts in the Lady Chapel - the strange answer that had come to her question why not? - the prioress continues to watch them while saying helpfully, ther
e are many of us down here in London, we folk from the north. We come here to do what we must. We taste this life in the great city and find great pleasure and purpose in it but after a time we begin to feel a great longing to return home. When you feel like that, come to us.
Where are you? Hildegard asked.
My priory is near the north bank of the Humber in Haltemprice. It’s remote but we have a useful community of monks only a few miles across the marsh at an abbey called Meaux. Up there in the East Riding it’s a country of big skies, freedom, a certain harsh purity. Either you like it or you don’t. Much depends on whether you have the spirit to engage with such austerity. She gives her a frank stare. My priory stands on a wooded hill above an ancient Saxon vill called Swyne. No men. You’ll find that difficult. No fashionable gowns. She eyes Hildegard’s crimson mantle. Little meat, but plentiful fish, good wine, vegetables we can grow, orchard and hedgerow fruits, and passionate cooks who make the most of it all. Frugality is the watch-word. Definitely that. But there is in that place all one needs. We leave our ‘wants’ at the door. Austerity, certainly that in our day-to-day lives, I would never say otherwise. Much joy though. Light. Space. Serenity. All the colours of the seasons. The rhythm of the land. Happiness in small things.
But I have no belief. Only ones that might be seen as heresy and I would not wish that on your community.
You only need believe in what we do, in its necessity, its rightness, its value. Without us many folk would live in a state of loss and never see the light. You settled those little ones well, you might do the same for others like them.
I did nothing and what I did came down to payment, my worldly good fortune.
The prioress gives a snort of laughter. We are the wealthiest Order in England. We are wool producers. We export. We have set our quay by the river so that we can trade with Flanders and into Tuscany and beyond. We are not women to sit gossiping and doing nothing in petty obscurity. We are merchants and a force in the world. Why am I here in Westminster at this time? Because our power is sought by those who wish to increase their own. We are vital to the survival of the realm. You will know about wool in Wales, I should think? You know about the business side of it?
Yes. Our shepherds run many sheep over those hills.
She thinks of them at this moment as those hills, those distant hills, more distant than when measured in miles. It’s true she could be useful in this place by the Humber, this priory south of Castle Hutton with, as it happens, only the long leagues of the wildwood between them. The simplicity of the prioress’s way of talking about her life appeals, but a world without men? No romance, no love of the physical kind she craves? Could she ever live a life like that? Her thoughts fly to Ulf. It would never be possible to do more than think of him with unfulfilled longing wherever she was because she could not marry a steward, Lord Roger would never allow it and even if Ulf had ever thought of such a thing, by now he was probably betrothed. Even so, there might be other men. They would not all be like Sir John, desiring her land above herself.
The prioress pleated one of her sleeves in absent-minded thought then smoothed it out again. I travel northwards in a few week’s time with quite a retinue as usual, but plenty of room for more. Bring your children to travel with us so they can have a look at Yorkshire and you can find out how your Welsh flocks get on without you. Your young brother-in-law will, of course, remain at home to over-see matters, a young man with a useful destiny, I would think…? With that she rises to her feet and swiftly crosses the yard.
Hildegard sits on for some time with a tumbled heap of thoughts that need carding, spinning and eventually weaving into a pattern that makes sense.
Look! he says. For you! A flurry of crimson flies into her lap. Ribbons. They run through her fingers like silk. They are silk. The finest silk from Lucca. A gift before we leave London! His eyes are dancing.
A gift? But what’s it for, Guy?
It’s for you! He stands square-legged before her, thumbs in his belt, beaming, the beginnings of a beard he has been trying to grow looking thicker today as his boyish fairness darkens. It makes him suddenly handsome and more knightly.
But why for me? They’re lovely but I haven’t done anything to deserve presents.
He sits down beside her and she has to move along the bench to make space. I went into the city with those bowmen I’ve been practising Welsh with. They wanted to get ribbons for their sweethearts at home. I thought…he glances quickly away and back. I thought they’d look very fine woven into your hair.
They’re beautiful. She threads one of the ribbons through her fingers and seeing what she is doing he places his own fingers in the alternate loops so that their hands are tied palm to palm.
Hand-fast, he says, looking into her eyes without smiling.
She laughs out loud. Sot wit! She is laughing like a girl but when she catches sight of his expression she falters and before she can speak he gets up, colour racing across his face as after a slap.
Guy!
He is heading rapidly towards the door.
Guy, wait! I have a gift for you too.
He turns. For me?
Not a gift exactly but some change that I hope will please you so that you may come to see it as gift in the future.
You’re talking in riddles, my lady.
He comes to kneel on the floor at her feet, untrustful now, his defences up.
I have decided to take the children up to Yorkshire, to show them what it’s like. I am asking you to oversee matters at home. You might find you enjoy being lord of a Marcher domain.
You’ll leave me in charge?
With Gwylim to be heeded if a conflict arises, yes. Will you oblige me by doing this for me?
Hildegard? I cannot believe it. I thought you saw me as incompetent, just as Hugh did?
Never. I could always see through his needling. His continual criticism was obvious for what it was, deliberate malice. I know you to be perfectly as you should be at your age, a fine horseman, a fearsome archer, maybe something of a wild Welsh man…She pushes his shoulder with her beribboned fingers. Prove to me you can do it and that Hugh was wrong?
He grips her hand, ribbons and all, crushing them. Dear Hildegard. I solemnly plight my troth.
Parliament has resumed its inexorable course with the Commons gaining the upper hand for the first time in history, fraudsters impeached, made to pay back what they stole, and sent to the Tower, the king’s whore removed from his fond and foolish presence.
Sir John, casting his vote with his fellow Commoners, has seen them victorious, has tasted the power they possess when they stand together and speak out. England will never be the same, he tells Hildegard. These are ten weeks to change our freedoms forever.
He has with him today his stag hound, an enormous lymer, a silent creature that can bring down a man within a few yards such is its speed and purpose. It reminds Hildegard of Sir John, somehow, his focussed aim when hunting down his prey, his apparently placid demeanour otherwise. Now she is to thwart him and escape him she wonders what he will do. She tells him of her plan.
Northwards? And then back to Wales, surely?
It is my home at present. I shall go and collect the children and…a glance at the lymer, and I shall fetch my two hounds with me, for hunting and protection and then, who knows, by then we should have an answer from the courts about my dowry and Bertrand’s inheritance.
That lymer of yours, Duchess as you call her, was sired by this fellow here. He fondles the head of his hound. I gave her to Hugh as a pup as soon as he set foot in Wales. You’ll be needing a good hound, I told him. The fool should have taken her to France. And the other one, the little brindled one, Bermonda, you’ll be taking her too, will you? He nods as if it all makes sense. And that is all he has to say about her going away. Maybe he believes she will change her mind and never set forth. Maybe he believes she will eventually succumb to his blandishments?
Guy insists that he can quite easily go and fetch
the children himself. His new bowmen friends are going back. He’ll go with them and return with the children and their nurse-maid in a char, he says. You can wait here in Westminster for news from the courts. Hildegard is relieved not to have to return in case she is persuaded to change her mind after all. You are so thoughtful, Guy. She gives him a kiss on the cheek. He tells her he will be back in under a week.
The little injured child called Bet who only wanted to beg bread from duke John for her brother and sister eventually opens her eyes in a bewildered way and looks round to see the nun sitting in vigil beside her cot. By the time Guy returns with the children from Wales she is beginning to walk again and the five are seen here and there like sprites within the precinct. They are followed at a distance by a stately hound and a lively little table dog who gets under everyone’s feet.
And so it is, at the beginning of July the Good Parliament at last comes to an end. It is one of the longest on record. The Commons win all their demands and there is great rejoicing from those who feel relief at an end to the wasteful plunder of their resources by the corrupt ministers surrounding the king and triumph that at last they have won their point. It is the first time in the history of the realm that the independent voice of the Commons has been heard and obeyed. It is also the voice of ordinary people who have no say in the laws that govern their lives. They call it the Good Parliament and sing songs in celebration of their new found power.
TEN WEEKS THAT CHANGED ENGLAND FOREVER: Prequel - why Hildegard of Meaux became a nun (HIldegard of Meaux medieval mystery sereies Book 10) Page 4
