The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  The usual forthright manner of the prioress had softened as she shifted one of the candles as if its guttering flame were a distraction.

  When she had repositioned it she said, ‘I suggest you take one of these new bills of exchange instead of gold. Easier to carry. But don’t mention it unless absolutely necessary. I also suggest a pilgrimage as a suitable cover for you. And of course it will be prudent to approach the lord abbot for permission. Be warned,’ she fixed her with a stern glance, ‘we do not know where his loyalties lie. He must know nothing of your true purpose!’

  Hildegard had one further objection, even though she knew it was useless. ‘The abbot will be surprised to find I wish to go on pilgrimage at such a time—’

  ‘On the contrary,’ the prioress had countered, ‘he will think it perfectly natural to seek confirmation of your faith before embarking on the toil of setting up a house of your own.’

  There was no refuting her. Hubert de Courcy might be astonished by the abruptness of her decision but he would not be surprised by her alleged purpose.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS EARLY the next morning when, well girded against the weather, Hildegard was preparing to set out for the abbey of Meaux.

  The prioress searched her out where she was busy gathering a few vegetables in the kitchen garden to take to the abbey cooks. ‘Ah, Sister!’ she exclaimed with a quick glance round to see whether they were being overheard. ‘I just want to stress how important it is that we satisfy the archbishop in this errand. The existence of our little priory depends on it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He could have us closed down like that!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘What would our sisters do then? Where would they go? What refuge would our labourers and their families have? Not to mention the destitute and the dying who come to us in their final hours?’

  Hildegard rose to her feet and thrust some leeks into a basket on her arm. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to fulfil our purpose,’ she vowed. ‘I will not fail.’

  Later, as Hildegard rode the track to Meaux, she imagined the hazards that lay ahead. Meaux was only an hour’s ride. Multiply that by the many hours it would take to travel one thousand miles to Rome when every step led deeper into danger, the weeks and months stretching ahead. It would be summer before she would see home once more.

  Her horse plodded to the end of the lane that led to the abbey and her fears suddenly vanished as Meaux appeared in all its grace and beauty. She looked with love on its silvery walls, the bell-tower, the stone arches of its many buildings, the way the light slanted across the great court, and within the quiet halls, as she knew, the silent, serious, kindly monks would be going about their tasks in the peaceful order of their days.

  Even the dull light of February and the devastation of the floods could not detract from its harmony.

  And, of course, it owed its perfection to the will of one man, Hubert de Courcy.

  Peace was in poor evidence, however, when she rode the mud-spattered palfrey through the gatehouse and onto the garth. The abbot kept some fine horses but now these were augmented by a dozen more. Lord Roger and his retinue had arrived before her.

  The de Hutton men in their distinctive livery of scarlet and gold were all over the place, shouting orders, making sure their mounts were being sufficiently well attended, joshing and jostling each other in their usual boisterous manner. Not that they should have any doubts about the care taken with their animals. The abbey lay servants, the conversi, cheerfully dealt with every shouted command, treating the animals like royalty.

  When a stable lad hurried forward to take the reins of her own horse, Hildegard handed them over with thanks. Now to business. It would be best to seek audience with the abbot before Lord Roger had chance to come bustling between them. She sent a boy pell-mell with her request then made her way over to the guest lodge for a warming glass of wine while she waited for his response.

  ‘Pilgrimage?’ The abbot looked stunned. His handsome features froze. ‘You have need of such?’ he demanded in an accusing tone.

  Hildegard made an all-purpose dip of her head. He had been standing by the casement in his parlour with a book in his hand when she entered. Gratified that he had so quickly agreed to see her, she was chilled by his manner. He remained at a distance, staring at her with unfathomable dark eyes down the long length of the chamber.

  There had been no welcoming smile on his face when she went in. Indeed, he had seemed put out by her appearance as if there were more pressing matters on his time and he wished to get rid of her as quickly as possible. In consequence she had announced her petition simply and clearly if somewhat briskly. Indeed, if he had been so inclined, he might have read her own manner as cold too. Now he seemed to take great care to match it.

  ‘Why Rome?’ he snapped.

  This was a question she had not expected, for surely it was obvious? Swallowing, she managed to stutter, ‘It is the great mother of the Church.’

  ‘Not Avignon then?’ he flashed back with the air of having scored a point.

  She remained silent. Rumours about his allegiance flooded in. The atmosphere chilled by several degrees and she felt as if she were standing in a blizzard.

  The last time they had met – in the garden beneath this very window last autumn – the mutual warmth that had been kindled then had been stoked over the intervening winter months by the exchange of gifts: a small leather-bound book containing the writings of a German nun he thought she might find interesting, a silk stole to add to his collection from the priory at Swyne, not made entirely by my own hand, she had hastened to tell the go-between, not wishing for compliments where none were deserved. Then there had been produce from the gardens at Meaux: choice cabbages, a fat peach, a trivet of rose stems covered in small buds, the season so late that they never opened.

  She should have seen the symbolism of that. In happy ignorance she had replied by sending several trusses of dried lavender and rosemary and three kinds of mint to sweeten the masculine atmosphere at the abbey.

  Now it was all as nothing. He was looking at her with an expression bordering on distaste. What had she done? Had he heard some rumour and made the mistake of believing it? She was confident her reputation was unsmirched.

  His eyes were cold as they swept her face and she noticed how sunken they were. It gave him a haunted look. His skin was taut over the sharp bones of his face. He was as pale as death.

  Putting his book down, he made a rough gesture with his free hand. His jaw clenched. ‘Go then. Go to Rome! Have my permission! Do you imagine I’ll stop you?’

  He picked the book up again, opened it, pretended to read. It was a dismissal as definite as a slap across the face.

  She faltered. Then, fumbling towards the door, she went out with an expression as coldly indifferent as his own.

  Only when she reached the solitude of her guest chamber did she allow herself to rage – silent, furious, hurt.

  She threw herself onto her bed.

  Had she expected him to deny her this opportunity to visit Rome? She would, she knew, have had to resist. It wasn’t that. No, what she had wanted – what little she had wanted – was some show of concern for her safety. The horror of the journey filled her mind but it was as nothing to the feeling that the thing she valued – his concern, his regard? – had for some inexplicable reason been withdrawn.

  She sat up, set her mouth in a firm line and brushed a hand across her eyes.

  To Rome then.

  And as soon as possible.

  Lord Roger’s steward, Ulf, came storming into the guest-house kitchen like a tornado. The cook, master in his own domain, stepped forward grasping a knife. ‘My lord?’ He held the knife at chest level but, eyes wary, forced himself to make a bow.

  Ulf elbowed him to one side. His gaze alighted on Hildegard sitting quietly at a bench with a basket of onions on her lap. She raised her head.

  ‘Is it true you’re going on pilgrimage to Rome?’

  ‘Why yes, I—’


  ‘Are you mad?’

  Before she could protest he went on, ‘Do you know what that route is like? You’ll have to go through Flanders! Have you forgotten the battle of Roosebeeke already? Have you any idea how desperate the survivors from that bloody episode are by now? They’re starving, they’ll stop at nothing to rape a nun for no better reason than hatred. They see all Church folk siding with the Count of Male. And that’s not all. The companies of mercenaries are on the rampage. If you escape one you’ll not escape the other. How do they earn a living? By slitting the throat of anybody with anything they might happen to want. If not gold, then flesh. And there’s more. What about the swindlers and cheats that frequent the inns along the way, outlaws, pardoners, fake friars lying in wait to rip the cloak from the back of any innocent that passes by? And then there’s the journey itself. Have you given a thought to that? The snow? The Alps? Have you ever seen a mountain? A real mountain? Have you seen one in winter? Have you ever tried to cross a ravine on a rope bridge? And then there’s the Black Death, rife in every town and vill from Bruges to the gates of Rome itself. Hildegard, please. Think again!’

  His glance held hers.

  ‘Please,’ he said more quietly.

  She was conscious of the faces agog at everything they had just heard. ‘I’m not ignorant of the dangers,’ she managed as calmly as she could. ‘I’m also aware that many pilgrims make this passage without hap or harm. Why should I not be one of them?’

  Ulf’s scowl deepened. ‘I can’t believe the abbot gave his permission. Is the man mad? Does he not give one single jot for your safety?’

  Hildegard flinched.

  Suddenly the steward swivelled on his heel. ‘I’ll confront him. And if he doesn’t change his view I’ll see him in hell!’

  With that he strode violently from the kitchen. Everyone stood open-mouthed. Hildegard came to her senses first. She picked up the hem of her robe and ran after him.

  ‘Ulf Stop!’

  He was already halfway across the great court, heading with long strides towards the abbot’s lodging.

  She increased her pace and by the time he was at the door she had almost caught up with him. She was just in time to see the prior, frail and silvery and standing on his dignity, put out a restraining hand. ‘Sire, you cannot enter the abbot’s private chambers—’ But Ulf swept on and disappeared inside. There was the sound of raised voices. A door slammed.

  After a brief pause the abbot’s scribe appeared, wringing his hands. To the prior he said, ‘I couldn’t stop him! He’s gone straight in!’ The prior answered by fluttering his fingers and raising his eyes to heaven.

  An alarming silence followed.

  Before anybody could summon the nerve to go in to see who was being murdered, Ulf reappeared. He was looking somewhat shame-faced. The abbot followed. He stood in the doorway looking out at the crowd in the great court, taking in his fluttering prior, his worried scribe, and Hildegard.

  Their eyes met with arctic brevity. He turned back inside.

  Biting his lip, Ulf set off towards the guest lodging without another word. With a sigh, Hildegard returned to her task in the kitchen.

  ‘Sounds as if you made a bloody fool of yourself.’ Lord Roger didn’t mince words. ‘What the devil did Hubert say to you when you burst into his private chamber?’

  ‘He said Hildegard was free to do as her conscience told her and we should all be humbled by her piety,’ Ulf mumbled.

  ‘I heard there was a bit of a scuffle though.’

  Lady Melisen stepped forward, sliding her fingers inside Roger’s tunic. ‘Oh, sweetkin, do let be. You need a steward with a fiery nature, otherwise everybody would trample all over you.’

  Momentarily distracted, he kissed her fingers one by one. ‘My little martlet,’ he murmured then jerked his head up and rumbled something incomprehensible before guiding Melisen, his young fifth wife – no more than a year older than Philippa, his eldest child – to a chair heaped with stitched fox pelts.

  He swivelled to face his steward. ‘Don’t let it happen again, that’s all. I’ve got plans and I don’t want you upsetting them. Is that clear?’

  ‘It is, my lord. However – ’ Ulf leaned forward urgently, ‘I was thinking, as you’re about to send a cargo of staple to Bruges with Ser Ludovico in exchange for the—’

  ‘What of it?’ Roger interrupted with odd-seeming haste.

  ‘Well, in view of the fact that Sister Hildegard is determined to set out on this foolhardy pilgrimage, might I suggest, sire, that the sister at least has the protection of the armed baggage train as far as Bruges?’ He turned to her. ‘From there you can find a merchant with an armed escort to take you over the Alps.’ He turned back. ‘I know how fond of the sister you are, sire, and would only blame yourself if, through the abbot’s cold disregard for her safety, she should come to harm.’ He eyed Roger expectantly.

  Roger pulled at his beard and after a moment looked at Hildegard. ‘I won’t ask why you’re intent on going to Rome but of course I won’t let you travel all that way without protection. Let’s have some music while we plot and plan this venture. Minstrel?’

  A sulky youth appeared, carrying a lute.

  ‘Play something quiet and thoughtful, Pierrekyn, while we talk.’ With a glance at his wife he added, ‘I heard you murmur something about a new pair of sleeves, my lady. Why don’t you give Sister Hildegard your list of desires? While she’s in Flanders she can make a few costly purchases for us if she will.’ He glanced round the chamber. ‘Where’s that mincing clerk of mine to write up the list?’ Everyone shrugged. ‘God’s teeth! Reynard?’ he bellowed. ‘Where the devil are you?’

  When the clerk failed to respond Roger snorted with impatience. ‘Ever since he came back from Kent he’s been as elusive as a bevy of ghosts. Somebody fetch the losel. He’ll be in his bed, no doubt.’

  He turned to Hildegard with a majestic smile. ‘You can keep my men out of fights and taverns for me, Sister. And you might cast an eye over Ser Ludovico’s activities as well. Ulf will explain. You leave the day after tomorrow!’ With that he swept out, shouting, ‘Reynard? Work to do! Come forth!’

  Hildegard gazed after him in astonishment. Ludovico? Sleeves? And so soon? She shrugged helplessly. ‘I’ll need new boots!’ she told the nearest person standing by.

  Chapter Three

  AS IT HAPPENED she had no need to return to Swyne for final orders or, indeed, for anything else. The prioress dispatched her personal servant as soon as she was informed of Hildegard’s imminent departure.

  In addition, a new pair of buskins suitable for all terrain were cut and stitched in short order. The pattern-cutter, who had come to Meaux to measure Lord Roger for a suit of armour, thought nothing of dashing off a pattern for some boots. It was handed to a shoemaker in Beverley as the armourer rode through on his return to York and the finished boots appeared late the next day. Hildegard pulled them on, then stamped about in them to soften the leather and tried to imagine the many miles they would have to last before she eventually returned to Yorkshire.

  Up in her cell she ticked things off. Boots: made. She wriggled her toes. Knife: sharpened. She slipped it into the sheath on her belt. Scrip: packed. It was stuffed with foot balm, stomach powders, linen bandages, and had taken most of the day to find and prepare. With these necessities she rolled up in a small bundle a spare undershift, a light summer habit and a pair of much darned woollen leggings. On top of all that came her missal in its leather pouch.

  There was one more thing.

  The prioress’s servant had met her discreetly in an empty chamber off the cloister.

  He drew something from his sleeve and handed it over. ‘The bill of exchange,’ he whispered. ‘She says to guard it with your life!’

  It was now tucked inside a secret pocket in her belt. She ran her fingers round and felt the slight bulge of the folded sheet of vellum. It was the price of the cross of Constantine.

  Shadows were lengthening across th
e inner court as she made her way down to the wool-sheds with everyone else to witness the final stages of the packing of the staple. The high-roofed timber shed was a fog of wool fibres. Cressets were lit, casting a misty glow over everyone and making the shadows leap along the bales.

  Wool was sold in two ways, as clip or skins, and graded as either good, middle or young. After that it had to be weighed and corded up into sarples for ease of taxation. After the St Martinmas slaughter the skins with wool still on them, the fells, had been snapped up by Ser Ludovico, an envoy sent by the Vitelli company in Florence. He had also made an offer for the clip that Lord Roger, after much negotiation, had accepted.

  The skins were now being sacked up, two hundred and forty to a sack, and by tomorrow the entire consignment would have been loaded onto packhorses for departure at dawn. The clip was also ready to go and formed a soft wall deep inside the shed

  Roger had already made his entrance when Hildegard slipped in through the doors. He was accompanied by Ludovico and a large and gossiping retinue of household servants.

  Ludovico was the darkly handsome Florentine banker betrothed to Roger’s daughter, Philippa, and was accompanied by his own retinue as befitted his status. He stood by, smiling and silent, while Roger strode about the sheds, getting in everybody’s way, seeing, no doubt, not wool but gold ingots stacked up. He was due to make a handsome profit even though there was a tax of thirty-three per cent on exports. The northern lords, including the abbots, had been given a special dispensation from the king to send their staple through Ravenser to Flanders instead of from London to Calais where the rest of the wool export was sent. Well pleased with this arrangement, Roger was saying, ‘Think of the saving we’re making on carriers’ costs, let alone insurance against pirates in the Bay of Biscay!’

  ‘Top-quality wool is this,’ said his foreman, equally pleased. He went to stand beside the cellarer from Meaux. Both men were covered in fibres but were grinning with satisfaction just like Lord Roger. It was the crowning achievement of a year of hard labour for the floods had meant many sheep had been lost on the more vulnerable pastures. The bad weather had hit Meaux harder than de Hutton where the chalk uphills were well drained. But now both domains were content. The harvest of wool was gathered home.