Pierrekyn stared stonily into space.
‘It’s really important that I know who else received a copy,’
No answer.
‘You said there were others.’
Still no answer. She restrained a sigh.
‘I went to see Hawkwood,’ she continued in a whisper. ‘He laughed in my face as of course we expected, but he took Reynard’s text and said he would read it. I don’t have much hope that he’ll do anything but we cannot know his mind.’ She touched him on the arm. ‘I have the slipper for you, too, but maybe this isn’t the best place to hand it over. Do you want me to keep it safe until they set you free?’
At this he roused himself sufficiently to say in a savage undertone, ‘I will never be set free. They want me dead. I may as well hang myself now and be done with it except they’ve taken away any means of doing so. They’ve even taken my lute and probably smashed it to pieces. I hate them.’
He took his hands out of his sleeves and wrapped his arms round his knees.
On the little finger of his left hand was a ring.
Rising to her feet she said, ‘Trust me, Pierrekyn.’
He lifted his head a fraction but after bestowing on her another despairing glance he buried his face again and did not move.
It was already nearly midnight. The sub-prior could be heard ringing the bell in the dorter to rouse the brethren for the nightly vigil. As Ulf bade her goodnight she saw a junior carrying a lantern, walking at the head of a procession of monks and leading them into the church.
The abbot and the prior stood outside the door as everyone went in. Hildegard pulled up her hood and followed. She took a place at the back and fell to her knees like everyone else, rising only when the abbot processed in. In the distance the bell stopped tolling.
Throughout the prayers that preceded matins she kept a careful eye on Hubert. In the dim light from the candles it was difficult to gauge how sick he was but undoubtedly he was suffering in some way. His voice shook. His steps were uncertain. After the sacristan brought the gospels from the altar he had to be helped to the desk to be vested in his cope while incense and more candles were brought.
Now when he turned she saw his face. It was paler than ever. His eyes were dark in their sockets. By the time he came to read the lesson he could only ascend the lectern steps by gripping the rail as if he would sink to the floor without its aid.
Hildegard felt a flood of rage surge through her. The sacristan continued his duties as if nothing was wrong. The prior and the sub-prior did likewise. Could not any one of these men see that their lord was sick?
Unable to bear it any longer she slipped out into the garth. The service would go on for another two hours. First matins then, without a break, straight on into lauds. She did an entire circuit of the cloister with her hands thrust into her sleeves. The circator was just going in again with a newly trimmed lantern and she watched as the door opened and closed behind him. From inside she heard a snatch of Hubert’s frail voice, railing against the sins of his brothers. And no doubt his own.
Last autumn she had had a private interview with the prioress at Swyne. To her consternation and disbelief, the prioress had cast doubts on the abbot’s allegiance to the English cause should it come to civil war.
She had drawn a horrifying picture of what might happen if the Cistercian abbeys, like Meaux, Fountains, Rievaulx and the others in the North, obeyed an edict, by way of their mother house in France, from the false pope in Avignon to support another French invasion. The Duke of Burgundy with his allies, acting on behalf of the Dauphin, was arming for war. Everyone knew that. The prioress, and others like her, saw the north-eastern ports as the unguarded back door into England.
Their only defence, should an invasion be launched through Ravenser, would be the landholders, like Roger and his brother barons, and the levies they could raise, but their defence would be as nothing if the abbeys lent practical support to a foreign army. They could withhold supplies from the king while maintaining the invading forces for many months.
Since she had been away in Tuscany the picture had changed somewhat. The Bishop of Norwich and his army had launched an attack against Burgundy and, even though it had come to nothing, attention had been deflected from the North.
‘And where,’ the prioress had asked, ‘does Hubert stand in all this?’ His father, she said, had been a French spy at the court of King Edward. Wasn’t it likely that Hubert would follow in his father’s footsteps?
What this might have to do with his present activities could only be surmised. The clerk, copier of a document deemed subversive by King Richard’s opponents, had been murdered within the purlieu of the abbey itself.
His death might have been the outcome of a drunken brawl, but it might equally have a meaning deeper and darker: a deliberate killing to silence a dangerous enemy. It was certainly true that someone had decided to treat Reynard’s death not as a simple homicide – for which the punishment might be a fine – but as murder, with hanging as the ultimate penalty.
It was obvious who would gain by silencing him.
Gaunt would gain.
Everything led back to him. To Duke John of Lancaster. Earl of Derby, Lincoln and Leicester. Lord of Beaufort and Bergerac, Roche-sur-Yon, Noyen. Seneschal of England. Constable of Chester. The eldest living son of Edward III. Protector prince of the realm of Albion – and father of young Bolingbroke, cousin of the king, schooled from the age of twelve in the art of war, his heir.
Ambition, as Roger had said, was the devil.
What Gaunt had to do to suppress the true story about what had happened at Smithfield was to get rid of the clerk who had copied the text, then find a scapegoat to accuse of his murder. It would be even better if it could be passed off as a crime of passion.
With the true text suppressed, the alternative story about the killing of Wat Tyler could be fostered. Gaunt and his followers could rip out the heart of the rebellion with lies. They could confuse good, simple folk with a treachery they would never imagine.
More than this: Gaunt’s ally was Pope Clement in Avignon, the man who issued orders from the opulence of his palace, orders that echoed down the line of command to the most distant Cistercian cell.
Hildegard waited in the darkness. Eventually the church doors opened and the soft glow of candlelight fell over the even stones of the garth as the brethren emerged. Hubert left the procession and made his way towards his lodge, which stood a little apart from the main buildings. Hildegard followed.
As he reached the door she caught up with him.
‘My lord abbot!’
He froze. She watched as he seemed to gather his energy to make the turn necessary to face her. His expression was scarcely discernible in the pale starlight filtering down. He peered at her as if he could not connect her to anyone he knew and to help him she pushed back her hood, stepped closer and said, ‘It’s Sister Hildegard, your servant in Christ.’ She bent her head. When she looked up he was gazing down at her without making a move. She straightened until they were eye to eye.
He lifted a hand in a warding off gesture. ‘You?’
‘I have just lately returned from pilgrimage,’ she managed. Finely attuned to every nuance of his voice, the ice in that one word chilled her to the marrow. Nothing had changed. She was accused and knew nothing of the charge.
‘What do you want with me?’ he asked in a hoarse voice. He took a step forward.
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.
A sort of madness seemed to blaze from his face, forcing her to take an involuntary step backwards as if he had threatened to strike her.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he whispered. ‘Leave the precincts of my abbey. Never set foot here again.’
Hildegard drew herself up before her defences could be overwhelmed and said quietly, ‘I am not here through choice, my lord. I’ve been called as a witness in the prosecution of Master Pierrekyn. Tomorrow I register my interest with the sheriff on instructions fro
m the lord steward of Castle Hutton.’
‘And what else does he instruct you in?’
‘My lord?’ She was puzzled.
When he failed to reply, merely giving her a long, piercing scrutiny, she said, ‘I’m surprised this is considered to be a matter for the abbey court.’
‘A writ will no doubt be issued after they’ve heard the plea. It’ll go to the Justices of the King’s Bench. Then the matter will be out of my hands and you can go on taking your instructions from Lord Roger’s steward to your heart’s content.’
He rested a hand on the door of his chambers as if the conversation had exhausted him. All the fight seemed to have left him. His voice was faint. ‘I meant what I said, Hildegard. Get away from me, from here.’ He rallied and his tone roughened. ‘Leave Meaux and never come back! Remain in your cell at Swyne! I withdraw any permissions I have ever given you. Tell your prioress it’s no use battering me with requests to change my mind.’
He finished speaking and in a moment had pushed on into the unlit chamber beyond.
Chapter Twenty-three
THE JUSTICES OF the Peace were elected by the chancellor and treasurer at a meeting of the king’s council. It was assumed that magnates like Gaunt and the other barons put pressure on the members to elect someone who would be useful to them. This practice filtered down to all levels of the realm. Knights and esquires were given positions of power through gifts of land or by appointment to official positions within the hierarchy on the basis of their affiliations. Roger himself made no bones about it. ‘It’s as helpful to have a Justice in your pocket as it is to bribe a jury.’
Hildegard remembered these words now as everyone filed into the chapter house. If Roger hasn’t secured the Justice – as he clearly has not – then we are at the mercy of those who have.
Normally the abbey court was held at the vill of Waughen but it was inconvenient for the noble visitors to have to set out on the road yet again. Besides, the hearing was expected to be over within a short time. The boy had no defence. He would hang.
The Justice was a professional lawyer. Roger clearly suspected the man of being maintained by Gaunt. There was nothing to be done about it now.
Hildegard took her place on one of the benches with everyone else. The commission’s role today was purely to take down the facts of the case and collate the evidence so that it could be checked by the jurors when it went to the king’s court. If matters turned against Pierrekyn, the serjeant-at-law would receive a commission of gaol delivery and hand him over to the Justice of oyer and terminer.
It was then that Pierrekyn would spend time in York gaol, waiting for the next court of the King’s Bench to convene. The Chief Justice would decide whether the court should travel or stay in Westminster. It could be a protracted process unless the boy’s enemies took matters into their own hands. Heaven forfend they pre-empt any judgment, she thought.
She worried about how Pierrekyn would withstand imprisonment. His lute had already been taken away but later it would have to be confiscated by the escheator who would assess the value of his possessions. He owned so little: the borrowed attired he had been wearing when he was arrested, his lute, the leather satchel he carried it in. And one other thing.
She had asked the monk-bailiff why he should not have back his lute when the escheator arrived. The monk had gladly agreed.
‘Let him keep his belongings for now. He’s still innocent in the eyes of the law and I like a tune,’ he had argued in deliberately affable tones. The escheator, not wishing to appear uncharitable in the monk’s eyes, had agreed, albeit with an ill grace.
The tune Pierrekyn had been practising since early that morning was still in her ears, plaintive but with a defiant chorus that would have had the foot tapping in other circumstances. Whenever anyone walked past his cell window they could hear it. Quite a number of novices had found cause to do their lessons that morning in the south-west corner of the cloister, much to their master’s annoyance.
Hildegard’s attention was brought abruptly back to the present as everyone rose. Hubert processed in at the head of his chief officials. This morning he looked even paler than before and refused to catch the eye of any of those present. He merely took his seat and indicated that everyone should do likewise. Only the suspect and the serjeant-at-law remained standing.
The latter read out the coroner’s deposition, then called the first-finder.
Ulf stepped forward to confirm that he had found the body. The serjeant asked him to confirm when and where he had done so, and to tell the court exactly when the bales of wool had been sealed. Ulf explained that the clip had been packed first, a day before the fells were sacked up. He added that it was around then, a full day before the convoy left, that Reynard’s disappearance had first been noticed.
The serjeant asked the man who had appealed the accused to step forth. A frightened-looking servant was thrust from the crowd. When he was asked to confirm his name and rank – he was one of Sir William’s grooms – his voice was no more than a whisper. The serjeant demanded to know what he had been doing at the abbey on the day in question and, too terrified to look up, he had come out with the information that he had been sent over with produce for the abbey kitchens from one of Sir William’s outlying manors.
The serjeant-at-law then asked him to tell the court what he had seen. Scarcely daring to look up, he claimed that he had seen a young man loitering by the sheds after everyone had gone and, having himself returned briefly to the scene to retrieve a gauntlet, had noticed him slip inside the shed whereupon raised voices had been heard. Thinking nothing of it, he had picked up the gauntlet and returned to the servants’ hall.
‘And this man you say went into the packing shed, is he here in the court today?’ asked the serjeant.
‘Yes. He’s there.’ The groom pointed. ‘It was the minstrel, Pierrekyn Haverel.’
The serjeant held up his hand to stem the murmurs that broke out and asked him whether, as was the custom, he would prove the truth of his statement by engaging in armed combat with the accused. Pierrekyn looked startled and was clearly relieved when this convention was waved aside.
The serjeant turned to the young clerk sitting on his left. ‘Got all that written down, Will?’
‘I have indeed, sir,’ he replied, wiping his quill on a piece of rag.
The person appealed had to appear next but to the serjeant’s blunt, ‘Did you do it?’ Pierrekyn answered, equally bluntly, ‘No, I did not.’
The serjeant was just about to slam his books together and give orders for Pierrekyn to appear at the county court when Hildegard rose to her feet. She made her way to the front as one of the clerks whispered her name and status to the serjeant. Grimacing at what he clearly thought was a waste of time, he nodded for her to begin.
Conscious of all eyes on her, of Hubert sitting opposite, of John Coppinhall’s narrow observation, she opened her scrip and took out the embroidered kerchief. She unknotted it, and spread out its contents on the lectern.
Hubert’s eyes were fixed on her fingers as she refolded the kerchief and put it to one side. The first thing she held up was the scrap of blue cloth.
‘This is the first piece of evidence I wish to have recorded by the serjeant,’ she explained. ‘It’s a fragment of the cloth they call calimala and it is triple-dyed in woad.’ A few glances were exchanged and there was a murmur that stopped abruptly when she turned to Lady Melisen. ‘Would you confirm, my lady, that you gave me a blue cloak to wear on my pilgrimage to Tuscany?’
Looking confused, but pleased to be the sudden focus of attention, Melisen rose to her feet. ‘I will indeed, Sister. May I see that fragment?’
Hildegard handed it over.
‘It’s very like the fabric of my own cloak, which I gave you. I had it specially made for me. The dye was my own choice. I have never seen another like it.’
‘Thank you, my lady. And is this part of the same cloak, cut down?’ She produced a bundle of blue cloth.<
br />
Melisen poked it with one finger. ‘It certainly is. It’s outrageous! They’ve quite ruined it!’
‘Where’s this leading?’ asked the serjeant.
‘This fragment of cloth comes from the cloak Lady Melisen gave me. It was lent to Sir Talbot, my escort in the Alps.’
As briefly as she could she explained the circumstances.
‘It was this very cloak,’ she continued, ‘that Sir Talbot was wearing when he was shot by a bolt from a crossbow.’
‘What of it?’ demanded the serjeant with the air of a man who fears he might be missing something.
‘This small fragment was discovered by fellow travellers coming through the pass a few hours later. Guessing it might be a clue to the identity of the murderer in whose tracks they were following, they handed it to me when we met again. Shortly afterwards I came across a man wearing this cloak cut down to a more fashionable length. I believe he was the murderer of Sir Talbot.’
‘One and the same,’ cut in the serjeant. ‘I still ask, what of it? What’s does it have to do with us here? It doesn’t prove the wearer of the cloak shot this Sir Talbot you mention. The cloak could have been bought either ready-made or in its damaged state from any pedlar. I assume they’re as plagued by pedlars over there as we are?’
There was laughter.
‘Indeed they are,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘However, after taking it from the body, the murderer of Sir Talbot might also have worn the cloak himself or even carried it down the pass, where it snagged on the rock, this fragment being found by the rest of the group scattered in the ice storm the previous day. A blue thing in a waste of white, easily noticed. Further,’ she continued before she could be interrupted again, ‘the same man who wore the cloak also wore this.’ She held up Sir Talbot’s leather pouch.
The serjeant-at-arms gave it a sceptical glance. ‘So? A pouch is a pouch. What’s special about this one?’ He seemed to have forgotten Pierrekyn for the moment.
‘This pouch is different to many others. Indeed, it is quite distinctive.’ She opened it so that everyone could see what she was doing. ‘Inside is a secret pocket. The thief failed to realise this. Otherwise he would have found something of far more value than a piece of worked leather.’ She took out the brooch and held it up.
The Red Velvet Turnshoe Page 22