The Red Velvet Turnshoe

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Bear with me,’ she said, ‘this is relevant to the present hearing.’

  Everyone craned forward to see what she was holding up.

  ‘This brooch proves that the pouch belonged to Sir Talbot. I myself was with him when he bought it from a goldsmith in Bruges. He had it inscribed: je suy vostre sans de partier.’

  The brooch was handed from one juror to another. Even Hubert took it although he passed it on to the prior as if it burned his fingers.

  ‘I am yours for ever,’ he said in dry tones, speaking for the first time. ‘Whom did he have that inscribed for?’

  ‘His lady in France,’ she replied.

  ‘These facts will be checked.’

  It sounded like a warning but she acknowledged it with a lifting of her spirits. ‘You will find everything I say is true, my lord.’

  His expression was ambivalent.

  The serjeant-at-law was looking longingly at his books. He was probably thinking he hadn’t studied law for sixteen years only to be unable to have recourse to them now. But procedure had to be followed. Here was a witness who could not be brushed aside. He returned doggedly to the point.

  ‘So this is intended to demonstrate that the fellow stole a pouch from the body of the knight in the wilds of the mountains. What has it to do with us here in England?’

  ‘His guilt will prove the accused’s innocence.’

  ‘Guilt of one murder doesn’t prove guilt of another. Where’s the link?’

  ‘There is a link. It’s this.’ She held up the ring that had fallen at her feet in the palazzo of La Gran Contessa. Again, outlining events as briefly as possible without mentioning the cross of Constantine, she said, ‘It links the murderer of Sir Talbot with the murderer of Reynard of Risingholme. It is the clerk’s ring.’

  There was a flurry of astonishment, quickly stifled.

  ‘How do we know that?’

  ‘We do know it,’ she continued, ‘because he had two identical rings made.’

  Pierrekyn was standing with his head down, staring at the floor. She turned to him. ‘Show us your hands, Pierrekyn.’

  Confused and sullen he spread them out. There was a gasp. The ring he wore was identical to the one Hildegard held up.

  ‘Can you confirm that the ring I have here belonged to Reynard of Risingholme?’ she asked him.

  His face was a picture of bewilderment. He nodded.

  ‘Say it aloud so everyone can hear,’ she suggested gently.

  ‘It is.’ He swallowed.

  ‘Will you make sure?’

  Reaching out, he took it and held it between his fingers. When he raised his head his eyes were glistening. ‘It is the very one. He had two matching ones made by a silversmith in Beverley. That’s Whitby jet in the mouth of the wyvern. I would know it anywhere. He had them made to his own design. He made the drawings and the silversmith worked from them.’

  ‘No doubt the court will call the silversmith as witness should it be necessary,’ Hildegard suggested with a covert glance at Hubert.

  ‘So he had two identical rings made?’ began the serjeant-at-arms.

  Roger stepped forward. ‘Let’s be clear—’ He stopped, suddenly remembering he was in somebody else’s court, and turned to the abbot. ‘If I may be so bold, my lord abbot?’

  ‘You may,’ replied Hubert tonelessly.

  ‘So the man who shot Sir Talbot, and betrayed himself by stealing his cloak and his pouch, also stabbed my clerk, betraying himself again by stealing the fellow’s ring and wearing it? Making him as much a thief as a murderer and, if either, then a blackguard of the first water.’

  Hubert roused himself. ‘I thank you for your contribution, Roger. That sums up everything so far.’ His icy glance fell on Hildegard. ‘Pray continue, Sister. I don’t doubt you have more to say.’

  The serjeant interrupted. ‘My lords.’ He nodded to the abbot and to Roger, and randomly wherever he felt his deference might be expected. ‘The cloak is the weak point. Another weak point is the ring. In short, both are weak points—’

  ‘And your point, serjeant?’ asked Hubert civilly. There was a quickly suppressed titter.

  ‘Well, the man might have bought the ring at the same time as he bought the cloak.’

  ‘From whom?’ asked Hildegard.

  ‘Why, the murderer of course, or maybe from somebody who accidentally came across the body in the wool-shed, picked up the ring and—’

  ‘And then travelled all the way to Tuscany where he sold it and obtained the belongings of another murdered man?’

  The serjeant nodded. ‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility—’

  ‘Doesn’t it leave rather a lot to chance?’ Her tone sharpened.

  Before he could answer she went on, ‘It is as certain as anything can be in this vale of uncertainty that, just as the murderer stole the ring from the finger of his first victim, he also stole the cloak and the pouch from his second victim. Although it may not prove that the same man wielded either the knife or the crossbow, it strongly suggests he was present close to the time when both murders took place, that is, when Sir Talbot was shot and when Reynard was stabbed and before the latter was interred in the bale of staple.’

  The young clerk sitting beside the serjeant interrupted: ‘A murderer wouldn’t leave a body lying where somebody could find it. And if he did leave it, an accomplice must have come along to hide it and could then have picked up the ring.’

  ‘Did he have an accomplice?’ demanded the serjeant-at-law.

  ‘I have no knowledge on that point,’ replied Hildegard. She suddenly became aware of Coppinhall. He was watching her like a fox.

  The young clerk interrupted again. ‘If we accept that it was the murderer who hid the body in the staple, then he must be the one who removed the ring – unless somebody stole it off the dead man’s finger on the quayside in Bruges.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Ulf broke in. ‘It was guarded at all times.’

  ‘Ergo, my lords,’ said the young clerk, ‘the thief and the murderer are one and the same.’

  ‘I believe the clerk has summed up the situation with precision,’ she agreed blandly. ‘The murderer stole whatever he could from Sir Talbot. Just as he stole what he could from the clerk.’

  ‘And do we have a name for this thief and murderer?’ asked Hubert in a quiet voice.

  ‘We do, my lord. It is Escrick Fitzjohn.’

  There was a gasp from those who knew his reputation and muttered questions from those to whom the name was unfamiliar. Hildegard glanced in the direction of Sir Richard and Lady Sibilla. Fitzjohn had once been steward to their household and complicit in their cunning. Sibilla was white-faced. Richard was inspecting his fingernails.

  Lord Roger took a step forward. ‘My apologies, Hubert, my lord.’ He waved an impatient hand to brush away the formalities. ‘I thought that blackguard was supposed to be dead?’ He turned to Hildegard.

  ‘He lives. I spoke to him in Florence on more than one occasion. I also caught sight of him while travelling through Flanders. It appears he left Ravenser at much the same time as ourselves.’ She thought again of the hooded man on the quay.

  ‘Master Fitzjohn is already outlawed for failing five exigents in five different courts, dead or not,’ said the serjeant-at-law, pleased to be able to get a word in on the strength of his books.

  ‘The minstrel is innocent,’ said a quiet voice from the crowd of servants at the back. ‘Give him his lute and let’s have a song.’ Sounds of general approval came from the back benches. Pierrekyn lifted his head. For the first time that morning there was a spark of hope in his eyes.

  ‘Stay!’ Coppinhall stepped forward with his hand raised. ‘This matter is not finished. There is this to consider.’ He held up a piece of vellum. ‘It’s an unfinished copy of a document found in the chamber of the murdered clerk.’

  ‘In his chamber? You mean somebody’s been poking and prying on my property?’ Roger sprang to his feet with a face like thunder.<
br />
  ‘No, sire. Not on your property but here in the servants’ guest quarters at Meaux. It was handed to me in confidence, having been found by a servant appointed to clear his chamber after the murder.’

  Roger had the sense not to ask why the servant hadn’t gone straight to the master of the abbot’s conversi. He sat down.

  The same voice that had asked for the lute to be brought out was heard to mutter, ‘A servant who reads, says he. A miracle!’ There were a few answering murmurs and an usher told them to shut up or get out.

  On Coppinhall’s appearance, the serjeant-at-law ceded the floor with a look of relief. It was clear from his expression that they were in collusion. Hildegard waited to hear what would come next. She had already guessed what the text said.

  Coppinhall looked round the assembly with a smile on his face. ‘It is my considered opinion that this,’ he waved the vellum again, ‘proves beyond reasonable doubt that the clerk was guilty of sedition.’

  The entire chamber fell silent.

  ‘My reading of events is as follows,’ he continued. ‘This youth, Pierrekyn Haverel, discovered Reynard’s true leanings, remonstrated with him and the two came to blows. He’s a strong lad and killed the clerk in a fight over the latter’s views. Panicking, he ran away. Later, thinking more carefully, he returned to the scene of the crime in order to cover his tracks. Unaware, or uncaring, that the ring had been taken, he hid the gore-stained body within the bale of staple in the belief that it would be miles away by the time it was discovered—’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Pierrekyn was staring at Coppinhall in blind rage. Two constables moved to restrain him.

  ‘Or,’ continued Coppinhall smoothly, ‘there is another possibility. It is this: the accused knew all along of the dead man’s affiliation to a proscribed society. There was no fight between those two – as he has just so vehemently attested – no fight, because there was nothing to fight over! If this is the case, the minstrel himself, whether guilty of murder or not, is guilty of the far more serious crime of sedition by association.’

  He swung on Pierrekyn but before he could extract an admission, Hubert came to life. ‘I adjourn this court! We meet again tomorrow morning after tierce.’

  There was uproar.

  The abbot ignored it and swept from the chapter house with his robes billowing behind him.

  He was followed in short order by the prior, the sub-prior and the sacristan. The cellarer, Anselm, drifted through the mêlée towards Ulf who had been sitting with a frown on his face and now stood up, looking round in a dazed sort of fashion.

  Pierrekyn was standing aghast with his hands by his sides. The two constables went to take him roughly by the arms and a third was about to clap irons on his wrists when the cellarer nudged Ulf and they went over to the men.

  Brother Anselm was firm. ‘May I remind you fellows that you are within the purlieu of the abbey of Meaux? We do not have a custom of putting irons on our prisoners until convicted. Nor do you have the power of arrest within our boundaries.’ When they hesitated and glanced across at Coppinhall, Anselm added, ‘Release him.’

  The monk-bailiff, a thick-set, powerful-looking brother, materialised at his side. Ulf stepped forward. ‘Do as he says. Be good fellows. You’re getting above yourselves.’

  Reluctantly the men let go their hold. Pierrekyn glared at them and rubbed his wrists. With the cellarer on one side and the abbey bailiff on the other, he was led out.

  Roger paced the floor. ‘We have a spy among us. Who is it?’

  ‘God’s feet, if I knew I wouldn’t be standing here scratching my head, I’d have my hands around his throat,’ replied the steward.

  ‘Narrow it down. Which of these sots can read?’ Hildegard spoke up. ‘Reading’s not necessary. He could have simply looked for anything in Reynard’s chamber that seemed unusual.’

  ‘But on whose orders?’ Roger thumped a fist into his palm.

  ‘Coppinhall’s,’ suggested Ulf at once.

  ‘Or Hubert de Courcy’s,’ growled Roger.

  Hildegard went cold.

  ‘Maybe now we know why he’s so riddled with guilt that he has to have himself flogged every morning,’ Roger went on. ‘What do you say, Hildegard?’

  Pulling herself together, she said, ‘We can’t know who the spy is at present. What we do know is that Coppinhall is determined to indict Pierrekyn. I can’t see why. It doesn’t make sense. What’s so important about him?’

  Roger pulled at his beard. ‘We know nothing about the lad, do we? I let Reynard bring him in and took that as recommendation enough. He needs some hard questioning.’

  ‘Asking him anything is like trying to get exemption from a tax collector,’ said Ulf, grimly.

  ‘If he is hiding anything Coppinhall’s going to reveal it after tierce tomorrow. Why tierce, anyway? That’s a bit late in the day, isn’t it?’

  Ulf sighed. ‘It’s because of the abbot, my lord, he’s a penitent and the Chapter meets before tierce—’

  ‘Oh.’ The light dawned. ‘After tierce then. Gives us a chance to talk to Pierrekyn. Maybe it’ll give Melisen a chance to work her wiles and get something out of Coppinhall. And Hildegard can find out what Hubert’s game is.’

  ‘I see you expect a full complement of cozeners, my lord.’

  ‘You can beguile anybody. Now,’ he gave them both a steely look, ‘what about this bit of vellum Coppinhall was waving about? Surely he can’t go and claim a thing’s seditious without it being proven in a court of law first? What’s it supposed to say?’

  ‘I believe it’s an account of Wat Tyler’s death told from a point of view regarded as unofficial,’ said Hildegard carefully.

  ‘Anybody found with a copy will hang,’ added Ulf.

  ‘Well, they can search me. I haven’t got a copy. Have you, steward? If so, now’s the time to set a taper to it.’

  ‘I haven’t got one, no, my lord.’

  Hildegard was silent. Eventually, when they both turned to stare at her, she said, ‘They can search my cell if they wish, they won’t find one there.’ Reynard’s text was burning a hole in her sleeve. She reached inside and drew it forth. ‘If they searched my person it would be another matter.’ She handed the document to Roger.

  He read a few lines, then gave it to Ulf. ‘It’s based on that thing they made us have read out after the Rising.’

  ‘Not based on it, Roger. This is the true version of events. The other one is a false account put together by Gaunt to discredit Tyler and the true commons.’

  Hildegard knew she was delivering herself into Roger’s hands as she spoke. He could turn his coat to suit his own interests without a qualm. If he decided to support Gaunt and the Lancastrians she was finished.

  He said, however, in a lowered tone, ‘How many copies have you got?’

  ‘Just that one. I made it from Reynard’s version and passed his on.’

  ‘I can tell by your face you’re not prepared to say who’s got it now. I hope for your sake he’s to be trusted.’

  ‘That’s a risk I had to take. His help, if he chooses to give it, could be invaluable.’

  ‘I’m in a devilish position here. The commons would get rid of me in a trice, along with Gaunt and his crowd, if they had the power. They don’t see the difference between us. Meanwhile—’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Ulf, ‘you’re in more danger from Gaunt than from the commons. Besides, Richard demands our support. He’s king by right—’

  ‘And the Lord’s anointed,’ Hildegard pointed out.

  ‘I’m not reneging on my oath of fealty. I just want to keep a hold on my lands – and my head, come to that. It’s not going to stop me opposing Gaunt. For that reason I’ll do what I can to support the White Hart lads.’

  Hildegard remembered Melisen’s little hart brooches she had brought back from Flanders and wondered whether Roger knew that his wife had also cast her vote.

  Now he smiled. ‘Better get a few copies made, Ulf. Anybody lef
t we can trust?’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  SOMETIME THAT AFTERNOON, shortly after the office of nones, Hildegard went down to the leper house at St Giles. It was a long, low-eaved, wattle-and-daub building beside the bridge on the opposite bank of the canal on the road to Beverley. There were maybe a dozen or so lepers provided for within, all of them in various stages of sickness, young and old, men and women, several bedridden, a couple on the point of death.

  Hubert, the sleeves of his white habit rolled up to the elbows, was washing an elderly man’s sores when she entered. At first he did not notice her. It was one of the other monks from the abbey, an assistant to the hospitaller, who saw her first.

  ‘Sister, welcome. Have you come to see our work?’

  ‘I thought I might be able to help as I’m staying in the guest house for a day or two,’ she replied

  Hubert, concentrating on what he was doing, was unaware of her arrival.

  ‘Come with me then,’ said Brother Mark. ‘We can always find work for useful hands.’

  For the next few hours she was kept busy. When Hubert happened to glance up to see who was helping him lift one of the bedridden onto clean straw, he said nothing. They worked silently together, anticipating what was needed, and, to a casual observer, it must have looked as if they were working in harmony, even though they scarcely exchanged a word. After some back-breaking hours it was time to return to the abbey. The bell for vespers could be heard tolling from across the canal.

  Giving her only the briefest of glances, Hubert said, ‘Come aside, Sister. I have something to say to you.’

  They went out into the stores yard at the side of the building. When Hubert was satisfied they could not be overheard, he asked, ‘Why are you defending this minstrel?’

  Hildegard gathered her thoughts. ‘Because it’s evident he didn’t kill Reynard, as I thought I’d demonstrated. It was Escrick Fitzjohn. He more or less admitted he shot Sir Talbot and he was at Meaux when Reynard was stabbed. You don’t doubt this, do you?’