THE SCANDAL OF THE SKULLS
A Hildegard of Meaux medieval mystery – book 7
Cassandra Clark
© 2016 Cassandra Clark
Cassandra Clark has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in eBook format in 2016
ISBN: 978-1-78301-994-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also in the Hildegard of Meaux series
Hangman Blind
The Velvet Turnshoe
The Law of Angels
The Parliament of Spies
The Dragon of Handale
The Butcher of Avignon
The Scandal of the Skulls
and to come...
The Alchemist of Netley Abbey
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
TWENTY TWO
TWENTY THREE
TWENTY FOUR
TWENTY FIVE
TWENTY SIX
TWENTY SEVEN
TWENTY EIGHT
TWENTY NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY ONE
THIRTY TWO
THIRTY THREE
THIRTY FOUR
THIRTY FIVE
THIRTY SIX
THIRTY SEVEN
ONE
In the Narrow Seas, April 1388
As soon as the lines were thrown off, the bows of the little hock boat disappeared under a storm of foam. Shrugging off the rolling surf she reappeared and began to force a zigzag furrow away from the shore. Hildegard braced herself for the rattling assault as the small vessel plunged into the trough of the next wave.
‘It’s a wild ride, master!’ she shouted above the thump of the seas against the hull. Gusts of rain slanted across the canted deck. A jagged flash of lightning was followed by a rumble of thunder.
‘It’ll be wilder yet, domina,’ the ship master shouted back. ‘Wait until we poke our snout from behind yon cliffs!’ He pointed to the Isle of Wight visible as a wall of rock behind the rain.
‘Your boatswain tells me you were chased by the French down the Narrow Seas all the way from Sluys?’ she shouted.
‘They caused us no problem. Fast little craft this’n. She could easily outsail them fellas. Trust her!’ The shipmaster slapped the tiller affectionately. Despite the storm he was as reassuringly calm as a farmer inspecting his crops. ‘I’d sooner face a bit of weather than a French sailor wielding a cross-bow.’ Chuckling to himself he guided the ship round the headland into the teeth of the storm and gazed undaunted towards the invisible coast of England on the other side of the seething cauldron of water. On hearing voices from below deck, he raised his voice into the wind again, saying, ‘Your holy brother fares ill, poor soul.’
‘Yes. I’d best go down to have another look at him.’
The ship master flashed her a smile. ‘Wait a minute, now.’ At once he was bawling orders to his crew and the ship became a mass of bodies as the boom of the cog swung over.
A wall of water as high as the top of the mast ran like fate towards them before picking up the flimsy craft, balancing her on its tip, then slamming her down the dark slide of its back. As soon as they were on an even keel again Hildegard slithered down the ladder into the hold. Barrels of hock from the Rhine were lashed together filling most of the space.
In the gloom she could just make out the long shape of Brother Gregory, sprawled as if felled in a brawl. He was groaning and holding himself as if to stop his body from flying in pieces about the ship. Beside him, their abbot, Hubert de Courcy, was murmuring words of consolation while Brother Egbert, wedged comfortably between two wine casks, looked on with a bemused expression.
Just then the cog seemed to turn onto her side. Everyone grappled for a handhold and articles of this and that too small to be tied down flew round their ears to the other side. As the cog righted herself, Hildegard walked unsteadily towards the group.
‘How’s he faring?’ she gasped.
Abbot Hubert de Courcy gave her a quick smile. ‘As you see.’ He shook his head.
In the half-light she saw that Gregory’s face was green. His eyes were closed. Every now and then he moaned feebly as if scarcely conscious.
Hubert said, ‘I’d trust Brother Gregory in any circumstances except on the water.’
‘I’m mystified.’ Brother Egbert frowned. ‘He must be bewitched by devils. A storm’s blowing up, I grant you, but he was sick at the mere sight of the sea. You know when it started? It was as soon as we reached the quay at Ouistrehem! It’s a mystery! He’s certainly no more buffeted than on horseback surrounded by a horde of yelling Saracens. He was more than well enough then!’
‘We’ll have to watch him,’ Hubert warned. ‘I’ve seen fellows taken like this before. Their minds are so destroyed by mal de mer they try to climb overboard, under the illusion that fair meads and fields of corn surround the ship.’
‘We’ll guard him,’ Egbert agreed. He wedged himself more firmly between the barrels and folded his arms. ‘Trust me, abbot. I’m undaunted by the sea.’
As the ship master had warned when they paid him to take them off the Isle of Wight on the last leg of their journey from Avignon, it was a rough crossing but they had been lucky to find any ship at all willing and able to take them back to England. The one they had boarded in Ouistrehem ran for Wight but before they could make the final leg back to England the weather worsened and the ship’s master refused to raise anchor again until it improved.
So urgent was their need for speed and secrecy Hubert had paid over the odds to the master of another ship, asking him to cast off as soon as he could. This more intrepid shipman told them he’d be putting to sea anyway but Abbot de Courcy’s gold coin was judged to have been the final persuader.
Their need for secrecy came from the danger that faced them in the shape of Thomas Woodstock, recently elevated to the dukedom of Gloucester. With his war lord ally, the earl of Arundel, Admiral of the southern fleet, they made formidable enemies of the young king. During the current Lent parliament Woodstock had ordered men with powers of arrest to be posted at all major ports. Many people had fled the realm over the previous months as Woodstock and Arundel tried to impose their rule but even more were trying to make their escape now, during what was being called the Merciless Parliament. This included the king’s Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, and the Archbishop of York, Alexander Neville. With the threat of execution hanging over them, as over the heads of many others who supported King Richard, the only safe course was to ge
t out. The result of Woodstock’s purge of the king’s supporters, leading to the escape of prized victims, had sent him into an apoplexy of rage. The extent of his malice could not yet be gauged.
It so happened that after recent events in Avignon Hildegard and abbot de Courcy also feared arrest when they tried to re-enter England. Hubert warned that if they headed to Calais they risked being picked up by Woodstock’s militia even before they reached the safety of the fort. As it was it had been cat and mouse with his militia all the way up France until they reached the English territory of Aquitaine which was strong for King Richard. From there, rather than take the obvious route out of Bordeaux, they decided to elude their pursuers by travelling through the Duchy of Normandy and, after leaving Bayeux, to take ship at one of the less important Channel ports where there was less likelihood of being seized.
The last leg of their journey was this, the turbulent barrier of the Narrow Seas, the great moat separating the kingdoms of England and France.
‘So near and yet so far,’ Brother Gregory had observed when they reached Oustrehem. He had stared, pale-faced with misgivings across the stretch of water that separated them from home. Hildegard noticed he turned a paler shade of grey even then.
‘I reckon I could swim that puddle,’ Brother Egbert brooded, gazing through the rain towards the invisible shore. He turned away. ‘I shan’t tease Lord Neptune. We’ll find a ship at once, shall we, Abbot?’
The turbulent waters of the Solent seemed to mingle with the clouds that lay like a bruise along the horizon where the coast of England could only be surmised while behind them France was a dark threat as night began to fall, the storm gathered force and they took ship.
It had been a rough ride as the ship master had warned. The last few sea miles were a hard fought battle. The hours passed in a state of fear and fatalism.
‘As god wills the storm, so he wills us,’ muttered Egbert.
To attempt landfall on the now looming Hampshire coast seemed like the utmost folly. The wind dragged and scourged the small vessel and threatened to pitch her broken-backed onto the shore, drowning all on board, but eventually the storm passed over leaving only the wind whining in the rigging and the black waves bunching monotonously under the keel. Even so the little cog was being thrown down so hard into the trenches between each swelling wave it was a wonder her planks did not spring asunder. Those on board stared into a black void where neither sea nor land seemed separated. The ship master, steady as ever, assured them they were close to shore.
‘I see no land,’ Brother Egbert objected.
‘Patience, brother.’
‘Mea culpa,’muttered Egbert, unconvinced.
Hopefully they watched for lights to starboard. The darkness was so thick they could almost touch it.
Eventually, for no discernible reason, the boatswain began bellowing for the triefs to be dropped and after they crashed down and were lashed in place he followed up with the shout, ‘All hands to the sweeps!’
A low gravel bank appeared almost on top of them. Suddenly the cog was sluicing past a flickering lantern at the entrance to a small harbour. She entered with the roar and racket of the tide sweeping her in.
Menacingly close,the shore loomed large out of the darkness. Small figures on a wooden jetty began to appear in the flickering light of storm lanterns. Shouted instructions carried on the wind as the hock boat emerged from the darkness. In the brightening flares a crowd could be seen jostling at the water’s edge.
‘Wreckers!’ Brother Egbert shouted in alarm.
‘Friends,’ corrected the ship master with comfortable grace.
‘God bless those English voices!’ Gregory had dragged himself from below and now clutched the rail. ‘Beloved earth, this blessed isle!’ He reached out a hand towards it. ‘Praise God in his goodness. We are home!!’
Hildegard watched the black waters between the ship and the quay diminish alarmingly and then, when it seemed that Egbert’s prophecy would be fulfilled and they would be wrecked, the tiller man proved his skill and the cog slid as neatly as a pin into a hole alongside the jetty. Lines were rapidly thrown ashore. With a deal of shouting she was made fast.
The sea released its prey.
With something like his old vigour, Gregory shook himself free from the restraint of his brother monks and scrambled over the rail. He took his first tottering steps ashore. They watched him stumble a few paces then fall to his knees.
‘He’s kissing the ground!’ Egbert laughed out loud then he put one leg over the side. ‘The old sot-wit! But I think I’ll join him!’
Hubert, handsome face streaked with rain, turned to Hildegard. ‘Sweet homeland? But what lies in wait? We are not free from danger. Now we face enemies who will go undetected among our compatriots.’ He put a hand on her sleeve. ‘It behoves us to act with the utmost caution, beloved.’
‘Do you believe Sir John Fitzjohn’s couriers will have arrived from Avignon before us?’
‘If our messengers have reached the Abbey at Beaulieu, Fitzjohn’s will most certainly have reached Woodstock’s ally at Arundel Castle. We should expect trouble.’
‘That’s if they guess we’ve crossed the Narrow Seas by our rather devious route. And at night. In a storm.’
‘Indeed, we may have the element of surprise. I must say, I did not expect such a large and noisy reception.’ He glanced disparagingly at the crowd on the jetty. ‘I wonder if they treat all arrivals like this?’
It was impossible to go ashore unnoticed as they had hoped. By the look of it every inhabitant of the small port had come down to the shore to inspect what the sea had thrown up.
They soon learned that they were out in such large numbers because they believed the hock boat to be full of marauding French. Talk was of the recent invasion of the nearby Isle of Wight by a fleet of French ships. No-one believed the French had simply fled after burning a few cottages and driving off some animals.
‘They’ll be back!’ was the general opinion.
As soon as Gregory spoke in their own tongue and the shipmaster stepped ashore to confirm their Englishness, there was a rousing cheer followed by a chaos of congratulations on surviving the tempest.
From out of a crowd of onlookers, holding cloaks of russet, grey and ochre over their heads against the pelting rain, a spokesman pushed his way forward. He informed them of wrecks further along the coast. Of the winds that had already taken off the roofs of houses. Of floods inland. Trees uprooted. Animals lost. Carts overturned and crops ruined.
‘We need horses at once,’ Hubert told the two monks, pushing some coins into Brother Egbert’s hand. ‘See to it. We can’t hang about until Woodstock and Arundel send a welcoming party. As it is we might as well announce our arrival with pipes and sackbuts.’
‘I’ll see if I can rustle up some bread and ale from somewhere.’ Hildegard pulled up her hood and strode off into the crowd.
The shipmaster took charge when his boat was berthed to his satisfaction in the safe haven of Lepe.
By the time Hildegard came back with a promise of bread and ale he had explained where they could hire horses and Egbert had gone off, returning almost at once with the promise of three sound mounts and the good news that a stable lad had been instructed to guide them through the Royal Forest and bring the horses back next day.
The shipmaster nodded. ‘It’s dangerous to ride through the Forest in the thick of night. Even in daylight it’s treacherous, even for them forest folk. There are quagmires where great stags are swallowed up without trace, where a man and a horse can disappear forever. As well as that you’ll need proper sustenance and to dry out before you set off. Come with me.’
While Hubert demurred, wanting to leave at once, the shipman insisted. ‘I like you Cistercians, you do a lot of good round here, so come, be my guests.’
He led them along the beach to a wind-blasted cottage with a brush swaying on its pole outside to show that ale was fresh-brewed. Wet and tired they followed him in
the company of a group of men returning to their half-finished stoups of ale who had come out to see what the tumult was about. Soon they were settled in a back room, close to a roaring fire, with bowls of good broth placed before them. The ship master said he would exact payment with a yarn he had to tell.
‘It’s my guess you know nothing about the brutal events of the last few months,’ he began, having had a good look at their travel bags and worn-out boots.
‘We’ve been in France since the beginning of Lent,’ explained Hubert with some caution.
‘And now you’re eager to reach your destination, though not to what awaits you, I’ll be bound.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I expect you’re riding on to Beaulieu Abbey. No questions asked, no answers needed. Those monks there are Cistercians like yourselves. Very fair to their conversi, all things considered.’
He took a deep drink from his stoup of ale, set it down, then fixed them with a considering stare. ‘I expect you’ve heard the rumours?’
‘We heard they’d beheaded the mayor of London, Nick Brembre,’ Hildegard interrupted. ‘Is it true?’
The ship master crossed himself. ‘And not only him, domina. Since Parliament first sat at Candlemas they’ve done just as brutally for many others besides him. The one thing their victims have in common is that they are all men close to the young king. That’s been their only crime as far as the country can see. To be supporters of King Richard, bless him, this is now deigned to be the act of traitors.’
‘Traitors to whom? That’s what I’d like to know,’ Brother Egbert tugged at his stubbly beard in anger.
Gregory was listening intently. Tall and athletic, his strong face tanned and his hair bleached by years in Outremer as a soldier monk, he reminded Hildegard of Ulf, lord Roger’s steward back in Yorkshire. Gregory was a practical man too and, despite his recent bout of sea-sickness, as tough as steel. But he also enjoyed disputing far into the night on points of law, like Hubert.
Now he asked, ‘By what interpretation of the law could such accusations be made and so violent a retribution exacted?’
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