Murder at Meaux

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘But my lord,’ the Prior broke in, plainly distressed. ‘He was found in the scriptorium, a beaker of some foul poison beside him – and the doors locked from inside!’

  Hubert made no comment. He bent to take another look inside the coffin then indicated that the lid should be replaced and the cloth pulled over it. Egbert helped the abbot back into the dog cart. Prior Benedict waited for the order to proceed but Hubert held up a hand.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘My lord?’

  A pause ensued.

  Then Hubert spoke with some authority. ‘Turn around.’

  ‘My lord?’ Puzzled, Prior Benedict stared.

  ‘Turn back. We’ll accompany you to Meaux. It will do him no harm to spend a few more days before the altar in the precincts of our church. He will not harm to lie there a little longer.’

  ‘But my lord, we have come thus far and through the night with no little inconvenience –’

  ‘You question me, prior? You put your own physical discomfort above the safety of Anselm’s soul?’ The sudden cold rage in Hubert’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘My lord, I mean –’ Prior Benedict dropped to his knees. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I mean no disrespect to Brother Anselm nor to you.’

  ‘Then do as I ask.’ Hubert’s reply was hoarse with anger. ‘I will have all necessary rites performed, ten times over even if you say you have already performed everything necessary for his soul’s safety. When is it too much trouble to extend our compassion to another human being? Tell me that!’

  ‘It is never too much trouble, my lord. My concerns were for my brothers who have accompanied Brother Anselm and myself so far and at some cost to their health.’

  Hubert did not reply. He merely shook the reins of his mule and set off towards Meaux. Out of the corners of her eyes Hildegard saw the cortege, now checked, make a sweeping turn on the muddy track before taking up the rear of their procession.

  Knowing the abbot of old she could tell he was in a cold fury.

  Gregory murmured something she did not quite catch. It sounded like, is this Hubert showing his true colours?

  ‘He is disturbed by what the prior told him,’ she suggested, just as puzzled herself by Hubert’s manner.

  Gregory murmured a possible agreement. ‘Even so, I feel for those poor fellows. Have they had to walk far?’

  ‘Not too far if they turn back now. A league, no more.’

  ‘I wonder,’ he went on in a contemplative tone, ‘why they brought that fellow with the lute?’

  Hildegard glanced back. The hooded figures were indistinguishable except for the one she imagined as having an affliction. Now she saw that Gregory was right. The hump on his back must be a musical instrument of some kind. His face was shrouded like the others but he was walking with an easy swinging stride that suggested fitness and youth.

  ‘Will you slow a little so he may catch up with us?’ she asked Gregory.

  He obliged and when the cortege was level she leaned down. ‘Tell me if I’m right.’

  A hand with long, slender fingers inched the hood back to reveal a youthful face, silvery in the mist. Though changed by the passage of several years it was immediately familiar.

  Despite the sombre nature of the occasion Hildegard smiled. ‘Well of all the things! It’s Pierrekyn Haverel!’

  There was a slight, confused pause then a startled voice exclaimed, ‘Domina?...I can scarcely believe my eyes! By all that’s good, is it really you?’

  4

  Dawn appeared across the meadows as a luminous glow the colour of pewter. As they approached the Abbots’ Bridge leading to Meaux, instead of the ravishing sight of its towers and imposing gatehouse a confused hallucinatory assemblage of half-seen walls shrouded in swirling fog appeared. A slight breeze ruffled the waters of the marsh sending wisps of vapour trailing over the grey stones. Here was seen an archway, there a column disappearing into the ether, and before them a rolling sea of white vapour.

  The cressets, still alight, seemed to fade against this whiteness as if drowned in a greater light as the cortege wound its way between the water channels towards the gatehouse. Now visible, now vanished to nothing, the sea roke folded and unfolded in sinuous deception about the sculptured facade.

  Gregory said nothing.

  Egbert merely exclaimed, ‘Here?’

  The abbot was silent.

  Hildegard was the only one to breathe, ‘Home, at last.’

  It was all bustle and confusion as the night servants in double astonishment welcomed inside their abbot and the unexpected return of Brother Anselm and the cortege.

  Hubert only had time for a brief word with Hildegard as he was helped down from the cart in the garth. He looked harried.

  ‘I’m going to show my face at Prime now and the rest of the day will be freighted with abbey business.’ He leaned closer. ‘I have not forgotten your promise to me, Hildegard. We will sort this matter out once and for all, come hell or damnation. You will tell me your decision today as you promised. I’ve lingered long enough in this limbo of indecision. I want your answer. Meet me after Vespers on the bridge as we used to. You can give me your decision then.’

  As soon as he finished speaking he was whisked off by an army of monks and obedientiaries to the inner courts of his abbey. Gregory and Egbert, with backward glances, followed.

  5

  The house of nuns beside the canal on the opposite side of the bridge to the abbey was referred to, for want of a better name, as the nunnery. It accommodated several lay-sisters and a handful of nuns living under Hildegard’s direction when she was present and under that of her old ally, Sister Agnetha, when she was away. A lay-sister who had helped Hildegard set up the now destroyed house at Deep Dale, Agnetha had taken the veil in Hildegard’s absence. Now, forewarned of her arrival by the sound of horses over by the abbey gatehouse, she came bustling out of the house to greet her old friend.

  ‘Safe and sound! I do believe all my prayers are answered! Come inside at once out of this nasty fog and I’ll help you to your chamber. Everything is just as you left it, Hildegard, except for fresh pots of lavender and a nicely aired bed.’

  ‘All I want is to sink into it, then, my dear Agnetha! We shall talk later in the morning. There’s so much to tell. But we heard about poor Brother Anselm when we met the cortege on our way here –’

  ‘So sad. We can scarcely believe he would do such a thing. If we had known he was in such straits we would have done anything to help. But let me take your cloak...’

  Hildegard submitted to Agnetha’s fussing with a grateful though weary smile and eventually crawled under a blanket and let sleep fold her in its embrace.

  6

  ‘So, the news, my dear Agnetha? Surely not all bad? The abbot was deeply upset by Brother Anselm’s fate. I trust everyone here is well and content?’

  ‘Always. Our sisters have settled in so well.’

  ‘Sisters Emma and Ann?’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘And Pierrekyn Haverel is at the abbey too?’

  ‘He is. His music-making has brought such joy to us all. His main task is to – I mean, was to assist Anselm copy down the music the monks sing. They have some new way of writing it down so the chants will not be lost –’

  ‘I’m so pleased Pierrekyn has found a niche where he can use his talent, although I had hoped he would have been appointed minstrel with some high secular lord by now –’

  ‘But Hildegard, there is something else. It will distress you but you must be told.’

  ‘What is it?’ She smiled. It would be something to do with the thatch on the roof or a problem with the well. ‘I’m sure now I’m back I’ll be able to solve any problems we have.’

  It was sweet to be home. Absence had made her forget the beauty of their small community at Meaux. She recalled the Latin name for Meaux, melsa, honey, and thought how appropriate it was but then it brought to mind the decision Hubert would demand of her later in the day. With many mis
givings she was still undecided how she would answer him.

  For the moment she forced herself to put aside the decision that would change their lives forever and with a fond glance round the comfortable parlour, she said, ‘Everything looks as well cared for as I knew it would be with you in charge, Agnetha, and your –’

  ‘But Hildegard – domina –’ Agnetha interrupted. ‘You must listen! This is something else! It concerns Ulf – Sir Ulf of Langbar,’ she added as if there night be another man of similar concern to Hildegard named Ulf.

  ‘Is he ill?’ she demanded with a worried start.

  Agnetha shook her head. ‘It’s worse than that –’

  ‘How worse?’

  ‘He is accused of murder.’

  ‘What!’ Hildegard rose from her chair.

  ‘It must be a terrible mistake but he was accused of murdering his wife and taken into custody. He’s in the town jail in York. Hildegard,’ her lower lip trembled, ‘they say he’ll hang.’

  7

  York seemed busier than ever or it might have been her exhausting ride that made every obstacle, every lounging passerby, every awkwardly placed street stall, every dray horse, every cat and every dog designed to slow and halt her progress. The last little climb up the steep side of Micklegate nearly finished her off. By the time she reached the top where Lord Roger de Hutton leased a town house she was beginning to stumble.

  ‘Who goes?’ A pause. Two eyes peered out at her through the peephole. Their expression changed. ‘Is that Hildegard? My lady...’ and then the studded wooden doors were swinging open and she was being ushered inside the courtyard by Roger’s long-serving porter and someone was rushing forward to take the reins of her horse and then she was somehow being held in a great, familiar bear hug by Lord Roger himself with his young fifth wife, Melisen, squealing with surprise and delight, beside him.

  ‘I came as soon as I heard about Ulf,’ Hildegard blurted even before her cloak had been removed.

  ‘Come to my solar. This is a terrible business.’ Roger briskly guided her up the wooden stairs off the hall to his upper chamber. Melisen was calling for food and drink for the domina and for themselves too and a lad was chivvied to throw more logs on the fire. The mist that clung over Meaux had left York dank and cold. Roger did not stint on comfort either for himself or his guests and Hildegard could command whatever she wished – except, it transpired, the one thing she desired above all else, the safety of her old child-hood friend, Ulf of Langbar, Lord Roger’s Steward at Castle Hutton.

  ‘Is it true, Roger? Is Ulf accused of murder? How can it be? He would never harm anybody. Where is he? I’m told he’s in the town jail? Can’t you get him out? He’s your man, Roger. I thought you had power here? Have him released!’

  ‘Hildegard, stop!’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t you imagine I’ve done everything I can? There isn’t a palm in this town I haven’t greased. There’s some force behind it I cannot reach.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Someone wants him out of the way.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Tell me exactly how it came about.’

  ‘Sit down, do, my dear Hildegard,’ Melisen broke in. ‘You’re all in. The hem of your habit, look, it’s quite soaked through with mud. If you’ll let me take your garments I’ll have them washed and dried for you while you talk, I beg you –’

  Hildegard succumbed to Melisen’s ministrations, half glad to be rid of her wet garments and half impatient to hear what Roger had to tell her.

  When she was decently clothed in a warm houpeland with a pair of rabbit-skin house-boots on her feet and a mug of spiced wine in her hand then and only then would Roger explain.

  ‘It’s like this,’ he began. ‘You may or may not know that his marriage with Eunice has not gone well from day one. The girl did not wish to marry. Her father insisted and won the day but she never let Ulf forget that she did not want him.’

  ‘How could she not want him? Any woman would want him. He’s a most handsome, kind and generous man. Protective and honest –’

  ‘Yes, we all love Ulf and always will –’ Roger broke in somewhat testily.

  ‘But she’s right,’ added Melisen. ‘I shall never understand why she objected so heatedly and with such malice to so wonderful -’

  ‘Malice?’

  ‘She was unkind to him, Hildegard. You’ve been away for so long you can have no idea what’s been going on. When did you get back, by the way?’

  ‘Shortly before prime –’

  ‘Heavens! You’ve hardly slept -’

  ‘But what about Ulf?’

  ‘She used to make the most heartless comments and in public too. I’m not surprised he snapped.’

  ‘Snapped?’ Hildegard echoed.

  ‘We don’t know, Melisen, dear heart, that he snapped,’ Roger reproved. ‘We have a made-up story and the fact that he’s condemned to death or as good as.’

  Hildegard went cold and gripped his sleeve. ‘For pity’s sake, tell me what happened.’

  ‘Because of Eunice’s animosity he suggested that she stay in York among her friends for a while. Her father died recently and she inherited his silver workshop and a pleasant house came with it, one where, thought Ulf, she would be happier than running his manor at Langbar.’

  ‘She certainly saw herself as no country-woman,’ interrupted Melisen with a sniff. ‘Such airs and graces. You’d have thought she was the daughter of an earl at least.’ As the daughter of an earl herself Melisen was allowed such an opinion.

  ‘So this made-up story?’ Hildegard asked, to keep the account on track.

  ‘They say she sent for Ulf to come to York on some business matter a few days ago and when he turned up they had a violent row and he strangled her, threw her body downstairs, then fell into a drunken stupor in the kitchen where the housekeeper found him next morning.’

  ‘Never! This can’t be true?’

  ‘It’s the story going round but it’s obviously not true in fact. Ulf? Strangling someone? Unable to hold his drink? Don’t make me laugh.’ Roger got up and began to pace angrily about until Melisen reached out to tug at the edge of his sleeve.

  ‘Sit down, my lord. You’ll need your fire to find a solution. Now Hildegard’s here we shall be sure to work out a strategy to save him.’

  Roger glowered but did as his wife suggested, sitting down heavily onto the cushions piled on his chair.

  ‘May I go and see him?’ asked Hildegard.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ She rose to her feet with fists clenching.

  ‘Sit down. He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean?’ She sat. ‘You mean he’s broken out of jail?’

  Roger looked vague. ‘The jailer must have turned his back at the wrong moment.’ He avoided her glance. ‘It’s for the best. There was no way he was going to get a fair trial.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause while Hildegard took in what he was hinting and then she said, ‘But doesn’t that make it worse? I mean, if he’s absconded – doesn’t it suggest guilt? Surely it makes his predicament worse than ever?’

  ‘Worse than having your neck in a noose?’ He appeared to consider the matter. ‘Not my view, Hildegard. At least freed he’s alive.’

  ‘As an outlaw? With the possibility that he can be beheaded legally, on sight? How can that be better?’

  ‘Better than swinging from a gibbet as an alleged murderer.’

  Hildegard looked helplessly at Melisen.

  ‘It’s as Roger says,’ she shrugged with a glance at her husband. ‘At least if he’s free we have time to find out what really happened. Once he’s dead the whole thing will be forgotten and he’ll be forever vilified as the man who murdered his wife.’

  ‘But the law – what about that? He can’t be hanged until he’s proven guilty and –’

  Roger interrupted with a sarcastic burst of laughter. ‘This is York, H
ildegard. When has justice prevailed? Oh, that once,’ he corrected, ‘when the lads sent Gaunt’s place-man packing. But they had to spend a few days in a London prison before they managed to talk their way out.’

  He was referring to a scandal shortly before the Great Revolt seven years ago when the popular Mayor of York was imprisoned along with his supporters on the town council on faked charges of treason. They escaped hanging only by a hair’s breadth and the personal intervention of the king’s Justiciar.

  Roger was looking worried. ‘I’m convinced there’s someone behind it but I don’t know who or why.’

  ‘Who benefits from the death of Eunice and the condemnation of Ulf?’ she asked.

  Melisen clapped her hands. ‘Yes, I knew Hildegard would get straight to the point.’

  ‘So what’s the answer, Roger?’

  ‘It doesn’t help,’ he grunted. ‘Don’t you think I’ve already thought of that?’ A glance at Melisen. ‘The beneficiary, if Ulf is out of the picture, is a friar down Leeds way. It can’t be him. He’s not going to want to inherit a silversmith’s, is he? In fact, he can’t, whether he wants to or not. Not without leaving his Order. Who are they, Melisen? Gilbert of Sempringham’s lot?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The rumour is he left them.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Sempringham?’

  ‘No, this friar.’

  ‘I haven’t been near Leeds for a while,’ Roger replied.

  ‘But look, a friar is hardly likely to think up such a plot and be able to carry it out, is he?’ Melisen interrupted with a helpless glance at Hildegard. ‘We’ve talked it over and over. The girl was murdered. There’s no disputing that. And now they’re after Ulf. The villain must be nearer home.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ This was a big concession for Roger and he started to pace again then, remembering Melisen’s earlier admonishment, went instead to lean against the stone mantle round his new fire-place.

  ‘So who inherits – after the friar?’ Hildegard asked.