Murder at Meaux

by Cassandra Clark

  She clipped at a few herbs without noticing what they were and returned indoors.

  17

  ‘Who are they all?’ whispered Sister Emma as she huddled with the rest of Hildegard’s nuns at the back of the guest house refectory. The witnesses were not going to be asked to appear in the Chapter House as expected but were to be confined to their own quarters and the guest refectory was considered to be suitable for a hearing. Hubert clearly imagined these men and women from the outside world would desecrate the holy precincts of his abbey and had deliberately decided to keep them at a distance.

  Agnetha, who had lived in York before joining the Order, recognised Sir Bernard and pointed him out. Not that it was necessary. There could be no mistaking him as a man of consequence. Today he was wearing an especially ornate hood of red and blue velvet wound into a cox-comb. It added at least six inches to his height.

  ‘Next to him,’ she continued, ‘must be his wife, Lady Avis.’ She paused. ‘She is much changed from the person she once was. I should not speak ill of her but I knew her when she was a girl. She was a regrator in York market no better than you or I – in their world,’ she added.

  ‘Now look at her,’ Emma smiled. ‘The follies of the secular world never cease to amaze me. Its sins are imprinted on the body for all to see. We are happily out of all that now.’

  ‘Pride, sister, be careful,’ Agnetha reproved with a quick glance at Hildegard as if she expected her to speak first. But she was staring straight ahead.

  ‘And that sulky young fellow in black sitting almost on her lap hoping he looks like a courtier-poet?’ Emma continued, unperturbed.

  Agnetha glanced at Hildegard again. ‘Do you know him, domina?’

  ‘He’s alleged to have been Eunice’s young lover, apprentice to her father the silversmith.’ For a moment she brought herself back to the present, eyes still fixed on the opponents of Ulf’s freedom. If he was found guilty here he would hang. It was a simple as that. She could think of little else.

  Agnetha whispered, ‘Courage. The Lord will not allow an innocent man to be condemned.’

  Sister Emma was still trying to work out who was who. ‘That young, clipped-looking fellow,’ she continued. ‘The one sitting behind Sir Bernard?’

  ‘The journeyman, Osmund.’ Hildegard looked in despair as he tapped Sir Bernard on the shoulder and whispered something to him. The two of them chuckled.

  ‘And beside him are folk from the silversmith’s house, the house-keeper, an outdoor servant, a stabler. I expect they’ll have something to say.’

  She wondered where they had all been on the night of Eunice’s death. Ulf had mentioned no-one else. He must have spoken to one or two men in the yard and surely they could vouch for the fact that he did not enter the house? When she saw Osmund chatting to them like old friends her hopes crumbled.

  ‘And who is here in support of the accused?’ Sister Ann whispered, looking over the group.

  ‘Lord Roger de Hutton will support him...but he seems not to be here yet.’

  ‘So the rest are from Sir Bernard’s household, are they?’

  ‘Yes. They brought a personal maid and what looks like a host of servants from Coppergate.’

  ‘They must be the ones bedding down in the lay-brothers’ house,’ Agnetha added, remembering what Hildegard had told her at the start of this incursion.

  ‘I do wish they would get on with it,’ Sister Ann murmured. ‘Why the delay?’

  The brother-monks had already filed in and unlike Hildegard’s undisciplined nuns, stood in a silent double row against one wall. She wondered what they were thinking. The Prior, looking as nervous as ever, kept glancing towards the doors in expectation of the abbot’s arrival. All the trestles had been folded up to make room for everyone but even so it was a crush. Even the doorway of the kitchen was filled by the master cook and his men jostling for a good view.

  In the space left in the middle of the chamber several chairs had been placed on either side of the abbot’s chair. She saw that they had brought in his carved wooden chair with a footstool.

  ‘Now all we need are the main players.’ Agnetha folded her arms inside her sleeves and stood, solid as a cliff, beside Hildegard. ‘Praise God and call on his mercy, sisters, Amen.’

  ‘And who’s he?’ whispered Emma as a thick-set, sandy-haired youth brought in cushions. He set them carefully on two vacant seats then glanced round with a narrowed-glance.

  ‘That’s Donal, one of Lord Roger’s household.’

  He brushed roughly out again through the onlookers.

  Several people were missing who might be expected to support Ulf. Pierrekyn was one, although what he knew about the business was not first-hand but he might stand as a character witness. Anther missing face was that of Friar John. It was strange that he should miss something like this as his future largesse to the poor depended on the verdict. Ulf guilty: a chance to inherit. Ulf innocent? Back to begging in the streets of Beverley and elsewhere.

  Trying to reassure herself she murmured to the others that Roger and Melisen must intend to accompany Ulf themselves when he was brought in. That would be why they were absent. One or two of their people had slipped inside and gone to stand at the back, a falconer Hildegard remembered from years before, a kennel man, the horse-master and a sprinkling of house servants. None of them eye-witnesses, character witnesses only, but they would be important if the Sheriff got his way and dragged Ulf back to York to face the mob.

  The chamber was beginning to smell. It was stifling and eventually somebody went to the doors to thrust them open. There was an immediate rustle of interest as some thought it was a sign that the prisoner was being brought in. When they saw it was merely to let in some fresh air they subsided into their former positions.

  Sir Bernard was certainly confident. Surrounded by paid servants he was as affable as anyone might be who expects to win a life or death contest and a fortune at the same time. Unassailable, thought Hildegard. He looks unassailable. Please, Lord, make it not so.

  Time passed.

  Eventually Eunice’s swain began to push people aside as he trampled his way out. He was fanning his face as if the smell of so many lower servants from both indoors and out, all crowded together, was insupportable to anyone of his sensitivity.

  He went outside and she imagined him walking up and down the cloisters with a book in his hand. It would probably be ‘Le roman de la rose’ or some such popular romance. Perhaps his grief was genuine. She could see him reading to Eunice and she, at her window, throwing down a rose. Ulf was not the sort of man to pay court in that way. How mis-matched they had been. It was a sorry story. Poor Ulf, poor Eunice.

  The night they had spent in the caves flooded back with images of his powerful and generous love-making, his guileless honesty, his true grit when he told her of his determination to prove his innocence, and always the threat of the noose before him.

  Her finger-nails drew blood from her palms. Save him, please, please save him.

  While they waited a novice entered from outside, glanced round at the assembled crowd with round eyes, found the person he sought and slid his way between the legs until he came up beside the Prior. A whispered conversation followed which must have been audible to those standing close by because there was a united gasp and a flurry of movement.

  The Prior put up both hands to command everyone’s attention. ‘My brethren, sisters,’ he bowed to each, ‘and our revered guests. I have an announcement. The hearing is adjourned!’

  ‘What!’ Sir Bernard was the first to respond. ‘What’s all this, Prior?’

  His face became suffused with blood and then the rage erupted in a verbal stream and what he said should not have been uttered anywhere near the sacred ground on which the abbey of Meaux was built. He made an attempt to recover himself and looked to his followers for support.

  Mutterings, another oath or two, a movement like a wave swept them first towards the door and then back towards the Prior.<
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  He, protected by his brothers, shook his head at them. ‘I cannot tell you more at this stage,’ he apologised. ‘Would that the whole business could quickly be resolved one way or another.’

  The novice tried to part the crowds to let him through and he stalked towards the doors with some hindrance until Roger’s horseman stepped in to help.

  ‘Pray be patient, good folk,’ the Prior said, ‘I shall bring news shortly.’

  ‘Well,’ Agnetha looked at the others. ‘Now what’s happened?’

  ‘A reprieve, at least for a time. When shall we return or do we stay here?’ Ann asked.

  The master cook had ordered his men back into the kitchens and the sound of activity could be heard above the excited conversation of the crowd.

  ‘Shall we stay?’ asked Emma. ‘He may have meant it was adjourned only for a short while.’

  ‘Yes, stay,’ Hildegard instructed. ‘I believe the kitcheners will be bringing something to sustain you all. Meanwhile I’ll slip outside and see what I can find out.’

  18

  The garth was the scene of some aimless activity as followers of Sir Bernard spilled outside too, looked round with mystified expressions, then tried to return against the current of others determined to see for themselves what was what.

  There was nothing much to see.

  Some lay-brothers appeared to be keeping people back from the far corner near the west entrance to the Church where a group of men were involved in some confused activity. Among them Hildegard spotted Abbot de Courcy first, leaning on one crutch, he seemed to be directing the lay-brothers and then the Prior reached the group and added his own instructions. She could not see what they were all staring at.

  Risking Hubert’s condemnation, she began to go across and as she approached she saw to her horror that someone was sprawled on the steps under the porch. Blood was in evidence although to whom it belonged she could not tell. The apprentice, Mark, was crouching on the steps too. He was groaning and clutching his face.

  She was breathless by the time she reached them and uncaring of anyone’s opinion she ran at once to where the body was sprawled. He was being held down by half a dozen lay-brothers and when they began to turn him over she saw with dread that it was Ulf.

  Still manacled, wearing a torn tunic, breeches and barefoot, he started struggling against what she now saw were the helping hands of the lay-brothers as they held him. She saw him shake his head as if to clear it. He was half-sitting now and his glance flew to the groaning youth, his rival, if he could be seen as that, and he tried to rise to his feet with his manacled wrists held in front of him.

  A burly lay-brother grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back as if to separate two combatants.

  The abbot, meanwhile, still leaning on his wooden crutch was watching everything as if at a public spectacle.

  Inexplicably she heard him ask, ‘Is he badly wounded? Lift his tunic.’

  Blood was trickling down the steps and Mark stood up and when he took his hands from his face she realised that it must be his blood. His nose looked as if it was broken and it was this that was still causing blood to drip onto the ground as if from a tap. No-one was giving him a second glance.

  Then she noticed a knife. It was the ornamental knife the apprentice wore so dashingly in the little jewelled sheath on his belt.

  Despite herself she went to stand beside Hubert and asked hurriedly. ‘What happened?’

  He glanced at her.

  ‘My lord...’ she added hastily ‘...if I may humbly plead an answer, unworthy as I am – ’

  ‘The apprentice attacked the prisoner as he was going into church to pray.’ An ambiguous expression played over Hubert’s face. ‘He should have been more cautious in choosing his victim. Your lover is an impressive fellow. I’ll give him that. Shackled as he is he seems to have broken the apprentice’s nose.’

  Hildegard felt a wave of relief sweep over her. ‘Is he – the prisoner – wounded?’

  ‘You must be anxious to know.’ His arctic glance swept her face for a moment. ‘If it’s any comfort the blood belongs to his attacker.’

  He swivelled on his wooden crutch and limped closer to the group. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ he indicated Ulf who was still struggling to free himself from the restraints of the lay-brothers. ‘Show me the wound.’

  Ulf, meanwhile, was saying, ‘Leave hold, lads! I’m not going to touch him! I wouldn’t waste my time!’

  Hubert glanced back to where the apprentice was still holding his nose and making a great deal of fuss. ‘Take that one to the kitchens and get them to apply a cold cloth. He’ll survive. It may even enhance his looks.’

  He went up to Ulf. ‘Let me see how deep the wound is, man.’

  Ulf, still being restrained by several brawny lay-brothers, glanced up and saw in shock that it was Hubert himself who was in charge. His enemy, as he must have thought.

  ‘I won’t put you to the trouble, abbot. It’s nothing.’

  ‘We don’t know that. Appearances can deceive.’ He regarded him with an ironic glance for one long-held moment.

  Then a brisk gesture indicated that someone should lift Ulf’s tunic and take a proper look at the wound. It was revealed as a dark red line, thin as a stave of music, with small bubbles of blood beading along it. Hubert peered at it.

  ‘Take him to the infirmary at once. That’s deep by the look of it.’

  Without heeding Ulf’s protests four men lifted him bodily and began to carry him away at a brisk clip.

  ‘These fellows never realise how much damage a knife can do,’ he remarked at large.

  The Prior clucked beside him then said he would follow on to the infirmary. ‘Unless, my lord, there is anything else I may do?’

  ‘Go back to the guest house and tell them we’re adjourned until some other day. They’ll be informed. I’ll go to the infirmary myself and find out how soon he’ll be back on his feet.’

  Hildegard watched him go. His manner puzzled her. Contempt for the apprentice seemed uppermost, concern for Ulf unexpected. The latter however, was no doubt merely because he wanted to know how soon he could have his abbey cleared of guests.

  Suspicious of his motives as ever she even began to wonder if Ulf would be safe in Hubert’s care.

  As she turned to leave someone bent down to pick up the little knife that had been forgotten in the confusion. It was Donal and he ran after one of the lay-brothers to hand it over but she saw him point Donal to the retreating figure of the Prior and, still carrying the knife, Donal ran after him.

  She found Pierrekyn beside her. ‘Did you see what happened, domina?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. I only know Mark tried to stab Ulf. Do you think Bernard put him up to it?’

  ‘According to Osmund it’s the sort of thing Sir Bernard might do.’

  ‘Osmund?’

  ‘Why do you say his name like that?’

  She told him what she had seen and he looked doubtful. ‘I can’t imagine he can be bought as easily as that, Hildegard. In fact I can’t ever see him being bought by anybody. What do these guild men say, “He’s on the square?”’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen Bernard hand him money with my own eyes.’ She felt worried about something else too, she told him. ‘Hubert seems to think Ulf’s wound might be serious. I wish I could get in to see him. I just hope they’ll look after him properly.’

  ‘They won’t object if I turn up. Nobody ever notices minstrels. That’s why we make such good spies. Shall I come across to the nunnery as soon as I find anything out?’

  ‘If you will, Pierrekyn.’ As she turned away she stopped. ‘Where is Friar John, by the way? Have you seen him?’

  ‘He was around in the garth until they carted Ulf away.’ He glanced round. ‘He’s gone now.’

  The onlookers had scattered and everyone was making their way to various part of the abbey if they no longer had any business in the refectory now the Prior had delivere
d his message about the adjournment. She saw her nuns come out in the wake of everyone else and begin to head towards the gatehouse.

  She went up to them. ‘Go back without me. I have one or two things to do here first.’

  The scriptorium was on her way and while everyone else was busy with other concerns she had something to do.

  19

  As she pushed open the newly-hung door there was a scuffling sound as someone swept something out of sight.

  ‘You, domina! You startled me.’

  Yes, everyone was busy, except for herself and Friar John. Or perhaps he was the busiest of all.

  ‘Are you looking for anything in particular, brother?’

  ‘They allow you access to their writing chamber, do they?’ he countered.

  I asked first, she thought, but instead of repeating her question she merely smiled back. ‘Perhaps I may help you, brother?’

  ‘I was merely searching for something with which to write down a few lines, ink that isn’t clotted in the horn, a piece of vellum not scraped to pieces.’

  ‘Here,’ she reached out to the nearest writing stand. ‘I believe these may be what you want.’

  Reluctantly the Friar moved towards her between the rows of desks. ‘I thank you, domina. Most kind and sharp-sighted.’

  When he took them she again noticed the prominent silver brooch on his habit and it suddenly occurred to her where she had seen something like it before. Twice now, once in Osmund’s workshop – and the second time just now pinned to Mark’s doublet.

  ‘That is a lovely example of the silversmith’s art,’ she commented. ‘Is it Scottish silver?’