There were a few exchanged glances at this pert response but then the story came forth, more or less as Gregory had recounted it to Hildegard during the night. The child of the ashes mentioned the fire, the ride across town, the howling dogs, the scene in the hall, her fear as she ran back behind her mistress’s horse to Coppergate and then, at a sign from Gregory, she stopped in mid-flow.
Lady Avis was breathing rapidly as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Her fat cheeks wobbled and perspiration broke out on her face. One of the kitcheners bent to ask her something then hurried out.
Gregory gave Avis a steady glance. ‘Is this true, my lady?’
Her mouth opened and closed. She looked to Sir Bernard but he avoided her glance.
To everyone’s surprise Osmund stepped forward. ‘That to me accounts for the racket from the dogs. I couldn’t work it out. It wasn’t Sir Bernard but his wife who entered the yard and set them off.’
He gave Sir Bernard a steady look. ‘I wish it to be known that although I answered the questions put to me fair and square I still have more to say.’
‘Go on, lad, about time,’ murmured Sir Bernard with a grimace of relief.
Hildegard’s heart sank. What on earth was Osmund up to?
‘Do I have your permission, my lord abbot?’ Osmund made a small obeisance.
‘Go ahead.’ Hubert waved a hand and his gaze came to rest on Ulf who merely continued to inspect the glazing in the lancet as if trying to work out how it was done.
Osmund seemed nervous and took a deep breath before he began. ‘Everything is as I told you, my lord. Sir Bernard left before Vespers after a short argument with his neice, saying he would return the next day. There was no answer from Eunice’s solar. That’s because, in fact, there was no-one there. Later Ulf of Langbar arrived, the dogs fawned all over him as usual, he called up to Eunice and someone appeared at the window and the shutters were slammed on him. He went to the well to get a drink. He told me he’d had a hard ride from his manor in order to reach York before the gates closed for the night. He ate some cheese he’d brought with him, standing out in the yard and offered me a piece through my window in dumb show. After that he came into my workshop and we had a stoup of ale together.’ He paused. ‘At no point did he go inside the house. As it was dark by now he went out, saying he supposed he’d be sleeping in the stables again. It had happened often enough before. He didn’t go into the house,’ Osmund repeated. ‘In fact he couldn’t have gone inside the house at all because it was locked against him. I saw him cross to the stables and a light come on when he went up into the loft. The stable lad who usually sleeps there had been sent away on an errand that afternoon and said before he left that he’d been told to stay overnight at his mother’s by Sir Bernard who’d given him two pence to stay away till morning. The only house servant to remain was the housekeeper. And the only other person there was me. And the prisoner,’ he added.
‘What does this prove?’ Bernard sneered. ‘Does it prove that child’s cock and bull story about my wife riding around York in the middle of the night? Why should we believe you? It sounds like a conspiracy to me.’
‘There is one more thing,’ Osmund began to feel around in the leather pouch on his belt. He drew from it a coin and held it up. It was silver and glinted as he twirled it between finger and thumb. Then he threw it at Sir Bernard’s feet. ‘You can have your silver. I don’t take bribes. I can’t believe you thought I would. I will never be an accomplice to your evil lies!’
Uproar broke out. Sir Bernard looked as if he might have a fit. A group of conversi moved with folded, beefy arms to stand across the doors although no-one showed the slightest inclination to leave while things were coming to a head.
The abbot, however, pre-empted them. He reached for his wooden crutch and levered himself up. ‘We’ll adjourn for now.’
Without another word, he stuck the crutch under one arm and limped towards the crowd who parted like the sea before Moses, falling over themselves in their haste to kneel, his men leaping to fling open the great doors for him. When he went outside everybody rose to their feet and poured out after him.
Several conversi gathered in a group around Ulf.
‘Is it back to the infirmary, fellows?’ he asked.
‘Not for long now at this rate.’
As Ulf drew level with Hildegard he gave her a soft look, his eyes very bright. She pursed her lips in a small kiss.
Her nuns joined her and they walked aimlessly in cloister garth for a while.
Eventually Sister Emma voiced the question uppermost in everybody’s mind. ‘If Sir Bernard was at the fire and has a crowd of witnesses to back him up and Lady Avis went back to Stonegate, was it she who pushed Eunice down the stairs?’
Even Agnetha looked stunned. ‘The little wild maid said Lady Avis boasted about getting away with murder.’
‘I believe Eunice fell by accident,’ Sister Ann announced. ‘That is the least horrible explanation.’
‘Least horrible isn’t the same as true,’ Agnetha grimaced. ‘Eunice must have been pushed as the child hinted.’
‘You would imagine she knew where her own staircase was without falling down it,’ Emma agreed.
‘Someone pushed her. It’s clear. Why else would she be lying at the bottom? But her own aunt?’
‘Maybe it was her lover who pushed her out of grief that she was married to someone else and Lady Avis found her but was too scared to tell anyone?’ suggested Sister Ann.
‘It wouldn’t explain why Lady Avis went back at midnight,’ Agnetha interrupted, ‘And why on earth would you do a thing like that unless you were scared your victim was still alive?’
‘I still think the lover did it. To show his love for her.’
‘If you choose to ignore what the little maid claims to have heard and try to make out that it was the lover who did it, you’ll have to prove he was present,’ Hildegard pointed out.
‘That’s true,’ Agnetha agreed. ‘But was he?’
‘Someone here has made sure we won’t hear about that from his lips.’ Hildegard’s words caused a sudden, frightened silence.
Images of the dead young man, still dripping water, his hair spread in fronds around his blanched face, arose before them to make the nuns cast nervous glances about the cloisters. Hildegard suggested they all went into the church to pray and think things over and also seek the protection of the Lord if they were beginning to feel unsafe themselves.
31
Inside the tall and elegant building with its lavish stained-glass lancets, and the sacristan and his acolytes calmly tending the lighting of the fat, honey-coloured candles on the altar, an air of security reigned. Earthly things took their place in the ordained design, heaven above, hell below, the Lord supreme in his plans for the fallen mortals over whom he ruled.
Sinking into the depths of a prayer to praise all living things, Hildegard for a moment forgot everything around her. Such peace was to be found here deep in the heart’s solitude and a certainty of something ineffable that she could not put into words stole over her. The accusations and counter-accusations, the pain and trouble and heart-ache of every kind taking place today would, in a hundred years, be forgotten. All of it would be swallowed up in the inexorable passage of time. So be it, she thought. We are nothing in the bigger scheme of the world.
When she felt Agnetha tug at her sleeve it was a shock to be dragged back into the present. ‘Domina,’ she whispered, ‘I believe we’re going back into the Chapter House now.’
Raising her head Hildegard saw a double row of monks beginning to process out of a side chapel and make their way towards the west door.
‘Yes, it looks as if we should leave too. They must be starting again.’
Slightly confused as she rose to her feet she happened to glance in the direction of a figure standing nearby and, as she began to walk away, she felt her head jerk round of its own accord to stare down at something that had caught her eye. It was a pair of sandals
in a by now familiar and exceptional style.
There was no mistaking them. Her glance inched up the leather leggings of the wearer and came to rest on his face. He was a stranger to her.
When she followed her nuns out of the church she glanced back. The stranger was also making towards the door and for a moment she thought of lingering behind so she could see whether he was going into the hearing as well. Then she noticed the Circator at the tail-end of the procession of monks and quickened her pace until she was walking beside him.
‘Brother,’ she whispered, ‘don’t look now but when you get the chance see that fellow coming towards us...take a look at his sandals.’
The Circator fiddled with some imaginary problem with one of his sleeves then gave a side-long glance at the man’s feet as he walked by. He also looked at his face and sighed.
When he disappeared outside, the Circator blew out his cheeks. ’I’ll never remember him again although it’s a notable face.’ He turned to her. ‘You remember him for me, domina. We’ll find out who he is and where he’s from. The sandals I do remember. They are the exact ones our friend the journeyman drew so accurately for us from my description. I also remember the shape of those feet. His rather long toes. A little bunion on the left big toe.’
As they walked onto the garth he whispered, ‘I’ll pass it on to Brother Gregory. It may be useful when he comes to give the rest of his evidence.’
32
The Proctor bowed as Hubert came in last to take his seat on the dais. The double doors closed with a slam. Everyone rose from their knees as soon as Hubert was seated. A hush fell. More onlookers had crowded inside than ever, now they knew a decision about the prisoner’s fate might be made. There was some jostling until a call for silence was heard.
First the Proctor stepped forward. ‘I shall sum up the proceedings as we have so far heard them in order to maintain clarity about the events of that night in early September resulting the death of Mistress Eunice of Langbar. We have on record the testimony of the accused himself. We have heard the testimony of his accuser. We have also heard the testimony of several witnesses, the veracity whom we may question on the grounds that some of them were paid by the accuser to support his story. And I should point out that bribery is also an indictable charge.’ He glared round, for once the mask of geniality gone.
‘Alleged bribery I insist! It’s that worm’s word against mine! You might ask who bribed him!’ Sir Bernard glared at Osmund with a furious expression.
‘Pray allow the Proctor to continue,’ the abbot instructed in his mildest tone.
With unexpected and commendable speed the Proctor took them so far, reminding them that at this point no allegations against anyone had yet been made.
‘If the accused, standing here before us, did not murder this young woman, then who did? So far we have hearsay and nothing but hearsay – and no murderer.’
He turned to Brother Gregory. ‘You said before the adjournment that you had more. Do you wish to continue?’
‘I do.’ Gregory stepped forward with his leather bag.
‘Before I lay before you evidence in defence of the prisoner I wish to ask Osmund the journeyman a question.’
Osmund, looking self-conscious and a little wary, edged forward.
Gregory gave him a friendly smile. ‘Worry not, friend. It is only this. You claimed that you tried to lay your deposition before the bailiffs. Is that right?’
‘It is.’ Osmund frowned.
‘And that while one of them was willing to accept it, as he is required to by law, two of them refused?’
‘They said it didn’t matter, brother.’
‘Not matter?’ Gregory raised both eyebrows but said nothing about that, merely allowing his gaze to sweep the Chapter House with a rather bemused expression. ‘And may I ask if these two bailiffs are present here now?’
Osmund lifted his head and gestured to the two standing beside the Sheriff. At once a murmuring broke out, quickly quelled when the abbot raised his hand in irritation.
‘And may I ask a further question, my friend, can you see here the third bailiff, the one who was willing to listen to your testimony?’
‘I can, brother. He’s over there by the door.’
Gregory beckoned to him. The man, with a quick, nervous glance at the Sheriff, stepped forward.
Gregory leaned down. ’And you are?’
‘Alwyn of York, brother.’
‘And how long have you been a bailiff in York, will you tell us?’
‘These past ten years, brother.’
‘Sheriff,’ Gregory looked over to where the Sheriff was standing with folded arms. ‘Would you agree?’
‘I would.’
‘Tell us, then, bailiff, the witness here, do you recognise him?’
‘I do. He came to us the morning the body was discovered and offered to tell us what he knew.’
‘And?’
The bailiff fell silent.
Gregory’s expression hardened. ‘You were willing to accept the deposition of my witness but the two other bailiffs refused. You were over-ridden? Is that so?’
‘I can’t answer that.’ He glanced over at his chief.
‘You are on oath!’ the Sheriff growled. ‘Answer the question!’
Brother Gregory broke in smoothly, ‘I shall ask you again, bailiff. Were you over-ridden in your willingness to accept the journeyman’s deposition?’
‘I was, yes.’
His two colleagues gaped and before they knew what was happening the Sheriff turned and gripped them both by the fronts of their tunics, one in each fist, and lifted them up so he could shout into their faces. ‘Did you bastards take bribes?’
They didn’t answer so he shook them. One of them broke first and nodded, his face suffused with blood, eyes darting, lips like blubber as he tried to defend himself.
‘And you?’ he growled into the face of the other one. He gave a sullen nod. The Sheriff shook them both again in high anger. ‘I expect it wasn’t the first time, was it, you bastards?’ Not waiting for an answer he knocked their heads together then released them so suddenly they fell to their knees.
‘Who was it?’’ he demanded as if to make sure.
Both turned to Sir Bernard in speaking accusation and not waiting for them to utter his name, the Sheriff swore viciously. ‘Get out! Get out of my sight! You’re no men of mine. Leave Meaux – walk where you will and leave your horses, they belong to the City of York. You are no longer in my employment!’
Dusting his hands as the two men stumbled through a resisting and punitively pinching crowd, he turned back towards the abbot, bowed, apologised for the disturbance and his language, and nodded towards the third bailiff who glanced heavenwards. The Sheriff beckoned him and when he was near enough clapped him on the back with a muttered, ‘Well done, fellow.’
‘So far,’ broke in Abbot de Courcy when the Chapter House was restored to order, ‘we have a tale of bribery, false witness and outright lies. What is not clear to me is how this young woman came to die. I sent our Beverley Coroner to York to view the body while the witnesses were enjoying the hospitality of Meaux.’ Looks were exchanged at this subtlety. ‘He had instructions to exhume the body in order to examine it. What’s the result, Coroner?’
The Beverley man, whose name everyone now discovered was Sir Heribert Thwing, a manorial lord from north of Beverley, bowed before the abbot and, to the abbot’s further questions, answered that in his opinion the dead woman had probably been given a herb such as henbane which may have killed her or merely rendered her unconscious. It was difficult to tell considering the passage of time. A person of such light build would have been easy to topple down a flight of stairs without being able to resist while dazed by such a drug. Her injuries were typical of such a fall.
‘How could you detect henbane?’ the Proctor dutifully asked.
‘A faint discolouration around the mouth and on the tongue, brother.’
‘There is also,�
�� Brother Gregory added, after begging leave to speak, ‘a quantity of henbane growing in the Vavasour herb garden on Coppergate. I observed this myself.’
‘Is this all?’ The abbot seemed suddenly eager to draw the hearing to another adjournment but Sir Bernard, who had been sitting in a defeated silence for some time, shouldered his way to the foot of the dais on which Hubert’s chair was placed.
‘This is all very well,’ he began in an unexpectedly genial manner, ‘but there is really nothing to link me to my niece’s murder.’ He gave an uncongruously affable chuckle. ‘Look at it, my lord. I grant you I, or rather, my wife, would stand to inherit my brother-in-law’s demesne which looks bad for us. But anyone could have gone into the house that night and attacked the girl. Her sweetheart, young Mark, for instance. And yes, both my wife and I were present on various occasions but so what? The girl was family. We were in and out of the house at all times. Only someone bent on mischief could make anything of that.’
Brother Gregory interrupted. ‘Quite right. If I may, milord?’ He turned deferentially to Hubert. ‘I would like to tell you the end of the story and show you a little piece of evidence which is less easy to explain away by recourse to the excuse of family devotion. May I, my lord?’ he asked again.
The abbot gave a brief irritated nod as if to say get on with it.
Unperturbed, Gregory smiled round at everyone. ‘Let me take you all back once again to that dreadful day three weeks ago when, at the request of his wife, the accused rode out from his manor at Langbar to go to the house they shared in York. We have heard how, on arrival at the silversmith’s yard, he called up to the solar where his wife was wont to sit and we have heard how, without replying, she slammed the shutters to tell him he was not wanted. We have also heard how, without entering the house, he spent the night in the hayloft where he was used to sleeping when shut out of the house by his wife.’
At this Ulf shifted about as if sick and tired of hearing with what weakness he managed his wife. Wouldn’t a real man have broken down the door to get in and sort things out before she got the upper hand? Hildegard could see this thought written on the faces of the men standing by.
Murder at Meaux Page 24
