The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘It’s a choice of being knee-deep in mud or knee-deep in snow,’ said one.

  ‘God’s will is clear,’ declared another, looking out at the rain and opting to stay.

  Others expressed regret that they had made a bad choice in Dijon when they could have continued on through the easier terrain of the Rhône valley instead. Now their fate, it seemed, depended on the snows. Would they come or wouldn’t they? Nobody knew what to do for the best. They were in a continual fret.

  Hildegard’s group decided to push on, regardless of both weather and terrain.

  The atmosphere between Sir Talbot and Pierrekyn was another thing that worsened with the weather. Everything about the knight seemed to draw some barbed comment from the boy. When, every morning, Talbot practised swordplay in the yard of wherever they were lodged, robustly impervious to the rain, Pierrekyn would stand and watch from the shelter of the thatched overhang, with a jeering expression that the mercenaries for one would not have tolerated.

  Hildegard wondered how long it would be before Talbot struck back. He showed no sign of anger, however, but kept a courteous smile for everyone.

  She accidentally came across him one morning while he was exercising in the yard before the rest of the travellers emerged. He pulled on his tunic at once, murmuring apologies. She let out a long breath as she walked away. His lady, the fair Rosamund of whom he often spoke in most reverential terms, was a fortunate woman, she decided. As a knight competing at the highest level in the tournaments he would have to be in magnificent physical shape, she knew. He was an athlete in his prime.

  His sincerity towards Rosamund was not in doubt. Before they set out from Bruges he had asked Hildegard to accompany him to a goldsmith’s and she had taken him to the one who was making up the brooches for Melisen. From among the stock on display he had purchased an intricately wrought gold buckle and asked for an inscription to be added: je suy vostre sans de partier.

  During quieter moments of the journey he sometimes took it out to look at it and once or twice had asked for Hildegard’s reassurance that it was a good choice.

  He was, he told her, the youngest of four sons and had no wealth other than what he could earn himself. The patronage of a wealthy woman, married as Rosamund undoubtedly was, stood as just one of the many prizes he risked his neck for.

  Pierrekyn was apparently irked by Talbot’s chivalry and envious, too, of his moral certainty. There was safety in being sure of where one stood in the pecking order. Talbot’s very confidence must be a thorn in the boy’s side. Between himself and starvation lay nothing but a talent for music.

  They reached Salins. It was a long, narrow town, with closed shutters, situated at the bottom of a winding, limestone gorge that would eventually take the travellers up into the Jura.

  An endless train of wagons passed through the town both night and day, either bringing logs to the boiling houses that stood over the brine wells where the salt was evaporated, or else carrying away salt in the form of crystals packed in great pine barrels. These weighed around a quarter of a ton and the rumble of the loaded carts over the cobblestones was a continual deafening roar.

  The darkness and the noise added to the sinister character of the town. Hildegard was made nervous by it, aware that Escrick Fitzjohn might be close. She imagined she saw him in every shadowed alley, down every street, as the carts thundered past.

  It didn’t help that the inn, the only place that could put them up, was a brawling den full of drunks and beggars. Unfortunately for them the Domus Dei, a hospice run by the Canons Regular, had no room. The town was bursting at the seams as people poured in, only to be stalled by the weather: those from the south fleeing the threat of avalanches, those from the north wondering whether to brave the floods ahead. Meanwhile they hung about the town in ever more rowdy and discontented groups.

  The pilgrims in their own party were aghast at the drunken, brawling mobs and stayed in a frightened huddle in the belief there was safety in numbers. Their fear increased when those merchants starting out from Flanders began to leave, taking their retinues and men-at-arms with them. The ones remaining were ill equipped to protect anyone but themselves.

  The situation wasn’t helped by the attitude of the mercenaries.

  There were many more now, swarming south to join the free companies in Tuscany. Wherever Hildegard looked they were swaggering about, demanding the innkeepers fulfil their every whim. They commandeered the cellars, took first pick of the meagre fare in the kitchens and left the crumbs to the weak. There were girls on offer too, as always, a sorry bunch, pock-marked, slatternly, resigned to an existence without hope or respite.

  How different it is to the priory at Swyne, Hildegard thought. How different to the abbey of Meaux. Its cloistered tranquillity had never seemed more sweet. It seemed now, above all places on earth, to be the sweetest.

  To the credit of the three mining mercenaries they remained aloof. As siege specialists they despised the foot soldiers, the pikemen and their followers, but harboured respect for a couple of newly arrived gunners and treated the longbow men with deference.

  Harry, the ferrety little sapper, saw himself as above the rest because of his expert knowledge. He was the one who could tell at a glance how the land lay, what sort of rock they had to deal with, what foundations particular castles were built on. Without him the tunnels would be dug in the wrong place, as he never failed to remind them.

  ‘I can read the terrain the way you read a woman’s body,’ he boasted to Sir Talbot, making sure Hildegard could overhear.

  The Scot seemed to be the jack-of-all-trades, a one-man army in his own right, a tough backstop in any fight that broke out, as they frequently did. He was, not least, a cook. He carried a flat baking stone, which he heated every morning over the fire in the kitchen, then he would take it outside and bake flat cakes of bread on it in order to feed his companions. Eventually he began to share this bounty with Hildegard, her knight and squire.

  Soon, every morning was started in the same way and they would break their fast together. It was an unlikely alliance, but Hildegard welcomed it. Escrick Fitzjohn would think twice before trying anything while she was so well protected.

  Jack Black was the instigator of this unexpected accord. Hildegard assumed it was because the militia held a superstitious belief that a nun brought good luck. At first she found him affable enough, despite a hint of irony whenever he addressed her, and until she heard him holding forth, she found it hard to imagine he was an expert in the lethal skill of setting explosives. But it was a fact. His comrades vouched for it.

  He spoke with a chilling precision when he described the exact amount of explosive needed to destroy specific ramparts of stone. He even claimed to be able to work out, to the ounce, how much was needed to blow a man and a horse limb from limb. His favourite pastime was to cast an eye over the pilgrims, assess their weight, then work out how much explosive he would have to use on a particular man to do what he called ‘a good job’.

  Wherever he went came the death-scent of saltpetre.

  They shook themselves free from the noise and violence of Salins as soon as possible and travelled on along a route that was supplied with a string of unremarkable inns where Pierrekyn was for ever in demand for his singing. A particular favourite was the lament about the knight and the three ravens, which never failed to draw a sentimental sigh from even the most hardened traveller as the last note died away.

  One night Hildegard had a strange feeling as soon as Pierrekyn started to sing, causing her to blink back tears before anyone could notice. It took her a few moments to understand the reason.

  As the music wove its spell she discovered that she was haunted by the memory of Hubert de Courcy. She seemed to see him standing before the altar in the chapel at Meaux, his austerely handsome features softening as he turned to look at her. Unwillingly she recalled his voice in the pear-tree walk when he had uttered her name for the first time.

  Before Pierrekyn fi
nished singing she got up and went out into the yard at the back of the inn. The ribald sound of drunks floated from another tavern across the street but there was a crystalline quality to the air, and the stars, small and frosty, brought a surging sense of the immense emptiness in which the globe of the world turned.

  Her hounds were kennelled close by and she went to release them. It’s just a cheap song, she told herself as she paced the yard. It’s no wonder the Church rails against minstrels.

  After a circuit or two she sank down onto one of the benches against the wall. Her husband’s death in France had prompted many offers of matrimony but the last thing she had wanted was to be bartered for her inheritance. To live in loveless idleness with some semi-literate magnate from the shires was not to her taste. She had retreated to the priory instead. For seven years she had not regretted this decision. In fact, in an unexpected way, she felt she had found her vocation. The dream that had later inspired her to found a separate cell was on the verge of becoming reality. As soon as she returned to England she would move to the grange Roger de Hutton had promised to lease and set it up to help the poor.

  Now, the sorcery of Pierrekyn’s playing aroused an unexpected sense of loss. She sat for a long time, thinking things over. Eventually, she rose briskly to her feet.

  An abbot? she thought. Am I mad?

  Just then, Pierrekyn himself came outside.

  ‘Those pigs!’ he raved, storming over to her. ‘What do they know about music?’ He looked as if he was about to sit down but, apparently regretting his outburst, swivelled on his heel to return indoors.

  The way, however, was barred. It was the thin-faced mercenary, Harry, who stood there.

  ‘Bon-jewer, messire,’ he began in a needling voice. Then he burst into hoarse laughter. ‘You! You’re no more a Frenchman than I am!’

  Pierrekyn had started to effect a slight accent, being increasingly asked to sing chansons now they were journeying south. He didn’t reply but simply tried to push past the sapper who pushed him back, harder.

  ‘You’re not a frenchie. You, a troubadour?’ He jeered. ‘You’re a Kentish man just like me. And the point is, master, I know all about you.’

  ‘Let me past, you pathetic cur,’ replied Pierrekyn, incautiously. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Well, monsewer, I’ve plenty to say to you!’ The man prodded him in the chest.

  Hildegard stepped forward. Bermonda and Duchess pricked their ears.

  ‘Piss off, you piece of dung!’ yelled Pierrekyn, losing his temper with astonishing speed.

  He quickly propped his lute against the wall, then launched a wild punch at the grinning mercenary. This was not well advised. The man was a professional fighter. He dodged the blow with a mocking laugh and retaliated with a heavy fist to the stomach. Then, before Pierrekyn could get his breath, he smacked him hard in the mouth, grabbed him by the neck and rammed him up against the wall. It was then that Sir Talbot came sauntering into the yard.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he asked.

  By now the mercenary was pounding Pierrekyn’s head against the wall. The latter, refusing to fight, had his hands over his face.

  Sir Talbot took three strides, dragged the mercenary back by his tunic and smacked the back of his hand across the man’s face, making him stagger with the force of the blow. Then he gripped him by one ear, forcing him to his knees in the mud.

  ‘The code of chivalry does not allow me to chastise a commoner, sir, or by God you’d regret this base attack on one of my party.’

  With a swinging movement he hurled the man bodily down the length of the yard. The sapper collapsed to the ground and, half scrambling, clawed his way back inside with a hurried glance over his shoulder.

  ‘What was that about?’ demanded the knight, rubbing his knuckles.

  Pierrekyn refused to answer. His mouth was swollen. He picked up his lute and turned to go back in. Then, clearly bothered by what might lie in wait, he hesitated.

  Talbot understood. ‘Go through that door with your head high. Don’t let them see you’re afraid.’

  ‘They’ll kill me.’

  Talbot gave him a level glance.

  Clenching his fists, Pierrekyn turned on his heel and returned indoors.

  Hildegard was standing with her hand inside her cloak where it lay secretly on the hilt of her knife. Her hounds were still poised. Talbot shook his head. ‘He’s something of a loose arrow, our young friend. But not without a certain reckless courage. I’d better stay close to him. I may be needed again.’

  Hildegard, her hounds at her heels, followed.

  The last of the pilgrims were having a drink before turning in for the night. Talbot had wedged Pierrekyn in among them on one of the benches.

  The group looked peaceful enough. The matter was not yet over, however, because, as Hildegard entered, the three mercenaries were swaggering over in a group. She noticed Talbot’s hand move to the hilt of his sword.

  Jack Black spread his arms. ‘That was untoward, sir knight. But I believe this rancour has a history preceding our journey. Ask the lad the truth of the matter. And then we can judge who’s right or wrong.’

  Pierrekyn, confident in the safety afforded by Sir Talbot, scowled. ‘There is no history. I’ve never clapped eyes on that dog in my life.’

  ‘No,’ replied Jack, ‘but he’s clapped eyes on you.’

  Pierrekyn’s bruised mouth turned down. Jack shouted for one of the serving women to bring ale all round as if to make up for his companion’s roughness towards the boy, but Pierrekyn’s expression did not soften, nor would he answer any questions. When the last of the pilgrims went up to bed, he took out his own little dagger and began to hack sulkily at the edge of the table in a black silence.

  Talbot had been made restless by the skirmish and clearly wanted some resolution to it. He drank down half the contents of his mazer in one gulp and then looked around for something to excite his interest. Noticing what Pierrekyn was doing, he hooted in amusement and whipped the knife in an instant from between his fingers.

  ‘What’s this little toy, young master?’ He twirled it like a stick. Pierrekyn tried to grab it back.

  Laughing, Sir Talbot leaped to his feet and waved the knife above his head. ‘What is it?’ he teased. ‘You don’t expect anybody to be frightened of this, do you? It’s no more lethal than a piece of straw. Even a monk couldn’t sharpen his quill with it!’

  There were a few guffaws at the double meaning. With an explosion of rage, Pierrekyn threw himself bodily on the knight and tried to snatch his knife back but Talbot was as quick as lightning and whenever Pierrekyn tried to make a lunge he lifted it a carefully judged inch out of reach.

  The mercenaries cheered every time Pierrekyn failed to snatch his knife back.

  ‘He scraps like a jade,’ mocked Harry with a snort of contempt.

  Talbot offered the knife, handle first. ‘Here, take it. You need something better than that. It wouldn’t even gut a rabbit.’

  ‘I know what I can gut and what I can’t!’ Pierrekyn shouted, unappeased, grabbing the knife by its handle. With all his strength, he rammed the blade straight back towards Talbot’s chest. Startled, the knight smoothly disarmed him and the knife flew across the floor.

  Harry bent to retrieve it and held it up. ‘It’s rubbish, is this,’ he declared. He stabbed it hard into the table and the blade snapped like a twig.

  Pierrekyn gaped in horror. ‘That was my only weapon,’ he exclaimed, gazing aghast at the broken blade.

  Hildegard thought he was about to burst into tears so she said hurriedly, ‘I’m sure we can find you something to take its place, Pierrekyn. Let’s find you a better one tomorrow.’

  As if he had not heard he spun away but as he did so something fell from inside his doublet. It came to rest under the table at Hildegard’s feet and she crouched to pick it up.

  It was a red velvet slipper no bigger than a hand’s span. A child of ten could have worn it. Sewn with
hundreds of tiny seed pearls, it was a little turnshoe, stitched inside out then turned right side out. In the lining thus formed was something stiff that rustled as she crumpled it in her palm.

  She pushed it into Pierrekyn’s hand. ‘Yours, I believe?’ She stared at him closely. His face was ashen.

  Without looking at her, he stuffed the turnshoe inside his doublet and marched out.

  Hildegard gazed after him with a feeling of horror. She was astonished at the lack of control the boy had shown. If his knife had been stronger and Sir Talbot less agile, he could have run him through the heart and his victim would now be lying dead at their feet in a pool of blood.

  Talbot exchanged a glance with her and without speaking followed the boy out.

  Jack Black noticed her expression. ‘Harry here knows him from down Kent way, ain’t that right, fellow?’

  ‘No doubt of it. He was active in the Rising,’ he affirmed. ‘As were we all. When they took the leaders and hanged ‘em and set up courts on all the manors around to hang the rest, somebody betrayed a heap more names to the Justices. Men were hanged even if they hadn’t marched to Smithfield. Next thing was, that lad’s master was found dead, his throat slit, and, when the constables showed up, the lad had gone. Make of that what you will.’ He spat into the sawdust on the floor but would say nothing more.

  Sick of the animosity, and troubled by the alarming thought that Pierrekyn might well have more to hide than she believed, Hildegard made her way up to the dormitory she shared with the other pilgrims.

  It hadn’t taken long to reveal how uncontrollable Pierrekyn’s temper could be. And the sapper’s accusation was revealing. Why would the boy flee his master if he was innocent? And if guilty of one murder, why not a second?

  Chapter Ten

  THE FROST RETURNED and the danger of avalanches receded. It was best to risk going on while they could. The cavalcade entered the Jura.

  Talbot pulled rank and found a place for Hildegard on one of the wagons so she wouldn’t have to continue on foot. After a few days, when she had been shaken black and blue on the wooden seat, he again showed his consideration and managed to obtain a cushion for her. With her blue cloak pulled well up over her face to keep out the wind, she was as comfortable as she was likely to be on such a tough and tedious journey.