‘Anything that lies a way underground. We’re not your open-cast fellas. We dig deep. No point in having the roof cascade in on your head burying your men and your silver, is there?’
‘Hence, us.’
They spoke alternately.
‘By the way, I’m Jack of Tyndale.’ A strong hand was extended. ‘And this here gormless idiot is Peter Beckwith.’
They shook hands.
‘I’m Hildegard of Meaux.’
Her interest was quickened further when one of them offered the greeting used by the White Hart rebels who were prominent in the ill-fated Peasant’s Revolt seven years ago. Pockets of resistance still continued in many parts of the country by men loyal to King Richard whom they revered. Their loyalties were usually given to the ideas of the late lamented John Wyclif too. It was a test, she could tell. Anyone who didn’t sympathise would fail to give the proper response.
To his God save King Richard she replied, ‘And the true Commons.’ Hands were once more shaken all round.
‘So now, tell me, why did you think you were in Prague?’
**
It was a convoluted story, at least in the manner in which Jack and Peter told it. They worked in Northumberland, mining for coal, they worked in Wales, after silver, and they had worked in Devon at the silver mines in Combe Martin and Bere Ferrers and also down in Cornwall trying to extract still more tin from the ancient mines down there.
‘Didn’t understand a word they said to us. Especially in Wales. But it never mattered. We all got on. One miner respecting another, like, each with his own ways and willing to share what skills he had.’
‘That’s why we didn’t balk at being asked to go to Bohemia. We thought we’d pick up the lingo quick enough and find out how they did things.’
‘And the money, that was a great enticement.’
‘Who asked you to go all that way?’
Glances were exchanged. ‘It was shifty-shifty,’ admitted Peter. ‘First this fella comes to us after a word with the master. Friendly, like. Wanted to know how we were getting on. Interested in the workings.’
He exchanged a quick look with his companion and Hildegard guessed there was more to the story than she was being told. ‘Well, we take him down, shows him round, he rides off and that’s that. Or so we think.’
‘We hear nothing more - ’
‘Until he comes back a few weeks later. “Come up and meet my lord,” says he. Thinking it was one of the earl of Northumberland’s vassals we agreed. Then he sends militia to fetch us. Armed escort. “He’s down south now,” he says. “And I’ll tell you who my lord is. You can trust him to hell and back. It’s a Hull lad. Now he’s Chancellor of England.”’
‘”What?” says we, “Michael de la Pole?”’
‘”No less!” he answers.’
‘What did you think to that?’ she queried.
‘Nowt at this point. It explained the rewards and we thought it likely to do with the Cornish mines, mebbe. They were wanting to dig deeper but struck a problem with drainage, like. And we knew we were the men to solve it.’
‘So you went down to Westminster?’
‘Took ship out of Hedon on the Humber.’
‘Quickest way, barring sudden weather, but we were blessed by good fortune, us. We got there in short time. Things were looking good.’
‘We were met at Three Cranes quay by some men-at-arms who knew the same fella who’d brought us down. Then we were being lauded in the City. Best Rhenish. Good lodgings. Nothing too much trouble.’
‘Met them city guildsmen. Mayor Brembre was one. “Lads,” he said, “I want you to know we are all King Richard’s men here and there’s something afoot and you might be the lads to help us.” Then he explained.’
‘After, he says, “Name your price.”’
‘So we did.’
‘So what did he explain to you?’
‘That he wanted us to go on a special mission to Prague to do some work for the Emperor. Hush-hush, like.’
Hildegard considered they knew more by another of their complicit looks but it was clear they were going to go no further by the way they both clamped their mouths shut. She tried a shot in the dark, based on the merest whisper of something she had heard in Westminster last autumn. ‘Tyndale,’ she said, ‘where you come from, Jack. I believe there’s a rumour they found silver there. It is a silver mine, is it not?’
His glance dropped to the floor. ‘So what of it?’ He raised his head. ‘To be honest, domina, it’s not much of one. You might already have heard that it’s on the verge of being mined out.’
‘So you were being asked to transfer yourselves to the silver mines in Bohemia at Kutna Hora, famous for the silver ore they produce.’ It wasn’t a question and they did not treat it as such.
John merely murmured, ‘I see we understand each other.’
‘That explains Prague,’ she replied. ‘It does not in any way explain Avignon.’
**
Peter adopted a fighting stance. ‘You won’t believe this next bit, domina. After we’d been feasted and feted we were given instructions to report to the Steel Yard to pick up a Hansa ship into the Baltic.’
‘Best way over to Prague, cutting out the duke of Burgundy and all his cursed armies.’
‘But before we could get near the gates a fella rides up to us, ermine, plume in his cap, a couple of armed guards riding beside him, a convincing type, looked just like one of them guildsmen we’d met. “My good men,” says he, “our plans are askew. You must now take ship to Calais instead. Welcome on board.” He points to a neat looking cog at the dock side.’
‘Then he showed us letters of safe passage with our names on them.’ John looked a tad sheepish and Hildegard wondered how much he could read, if at all. It would not be impossible to do the job he did and be to all intents illiterate. She did not pursue the matter but merely nodded with understanding. ‘So you went on board?’
‘We did. How could we know it was a trick? It was only when the lines were cast off that we began to feel something was up. The crew, for a start, not an Englishman among them. We assumed they were Bohemians until we picked out a few words that were definitely a sort of French.’
‘Nobody spoke to us. Nobody looked us in the eye.’
‘We were treated all right. Vitteled, given plenty of good strong wine. Slept. It was when we came into harbour just before the anchor went down, a group of ruffians surrounded us - ’
‘And forced us to go ashore in barrels. Big ones. Not your usual ale tuns.’
‘We thought it was to avoid customs. Fair enough.’
‘Like washing barrels they were,’ Peter explained in outraged tones. ‘I could stand up in mine.’
‘And then it was onto carts and the journey began. Every so often the lid would be opened and food shoved inside with flagons of ale to follow.’
‘Pittle water it was, not like our stuff.’
‘But better than nowt.’
‘And then you arrived here and were let out of your barrels and took it for granted you were in Prague?’
‘You'll be thinking we’re a couple of sotwits but I tell you, domina, we were held in darkness and lost count of the days and nights, couldn’t tell them apart, nobody spoke to us in English, we had no way of knowing where we were. Or whether we’d get out alive,’ Jack gave a grimace.
‘We were blindfolded and let out to piss now and then. Didn’t even see each other until we got here.’
‘By, I don’t mind saying this but I was right glad to see his ugly mug gawping at me when they let me out.’ Jack cuffed Peter on the shoulder. ‘A right mess you’ve got us into, Beckwith.’
‘Me? I like that! Who said it was a good idea from the first? Make our fortunes in one fell swoop, you said.’
Hildegard listened to them bickering amiably then she asked what they hoped to do next.
‘Get back to England as quick as we can. Sod Bohemia.’
Peter gave their prison
a miserable glance. He held up his wrists in their manacles. ‘They’re not going to let us go without a fight, are they?’
Unsure how she could help them or what other ramifications would have to be taken into consideration Hildegard tried to rally their spirits. ‘Given that you arrived in barrels I’m sure you won’t object if you have to leave by the same means?’
‘We are in your hands, domina. You’re our only hope and saviour.’
**
The questions Hildegard had not asked them was who had brought them here and why. Were there hopes that silver deposits would be found among the marshes of the Provencale coastline? What little she knew of such matters did not suggest the likelihood of that. So why here?
If their meeting had not been cut short by the guard, who deemed that their prisoners had been prayed over long enough, she would have gone on to ask them. But she had to leave in a hurry, with time only to tell the guards that she would regard it an honour to be allowed to return and offer her services to the English prisoners again.
‘Fine by me, domina. That’s your job. So long as you let us do ours.’
If the question why the miners had been brought here was unclear, the question of who had abducted them was not.
**
Athanasius was still sipping his evil-smelling concoction of herbs against his fever when Hildegard entered his cell. He was not alone. The cardinal who had visited the pope’s treasury with them was sitting expansively on the only bench. His face was a perfect picture of grief and she caught the end of a phrase, something like, ‘and to see him nevermore…’
He rose to his feet in a disarray of brocade and velvet, great bell sleeves billowing as he returned her greeting and at once offered her his place. ‘I’ll perch on the end of the magister’s bed, if I may.’
He settled himself inside his robes with a rheumatic sigh.
‘Well, domina?’ Athanasius croaked through the fumes. ‘What news?’
‘I followed your suggestion.’ She gave a hasty glance at the cardinal.
‘Cardinal Grizac has no interest in our affairs,’ cut in Athanasius as he read her meaning. ‘I take it you want to tell me something about the two dolts?’
‘You’re harsh, magister. They’re skilled in their own craft by the sound of it, their expertise being the chief cause of their current plight which is not unconnected to a pair of barrels and a group of well-armed militia.’
‘They wish to be conveyed elsewhere?’
‘Home. As quickly as possible.’
‘Transportation often puts a strain on the resources at Avignon,’ he replied cryptically.
‘Indeed?’
‘This is a fortress. Yet every day many barrels convey goods in as well as out.’ He sighed and sipped more of the concoction. ‘I would not, however, advocate any interference in this matter. Clearly Sir John Fitzjohn intends them as a gift for our Holy Father.’
‘But against their will, magister?’
‘Pope Clement moves in a mysterious way, domina, ever watchful for our best interests.’
He couldn’t have sounded more like an out and out Clementist and she wondered if it was a show to appease the cardinal, Clement’s man.
Warned off for the moment she could only say lamely, ‘I feel sorry for them. Let’s hope he makes his decision soon.’
‘What do you think to the manner in which our Holy Father is conducting inquiries into the attack on his treasury, my friend?’ He turned to the cardinal.
‘It behoves us to give him every assistance. Pool our thoughts on the matter.’
‘He is ever discrete,’ Athanasius observed. ‘I wonder if he has had a proper look at the unfortunate young fellow?’
‘I would expect it.’
‘So would I.’
A look was exchanged.
‘The matter is still being gossiped about as attempted theft.’
‘Yet nothing was taken.’
‘No sack for the pickings,’ agreed the cardinal.
‘Nothing with him but a little jewelled dagger such as you or I might possess.’ Athanasius gave Grizac a piercing glance which the cardinal acknowledged with a shrug.
‘I’m told the dagger still lies with the body in the mortuary.’ The cardinal raised his head to gaze mournfully at the magister. ‘I would like to have it. A memento, shall we say?’
‘Have you had chance to explore the palace yet?’ Athanasius turned to Hildegard. ‘You’ll find our chapel next to the mortuary a place of wondrous beauty and most skilful craftsmanship. Your admiration for such craft skill will be amply rewarded should you care to visit St Martial’s chapel. The frescoes are very fine.’
‘I’ll make time to see them, magister, when duties permit.’
‘Your first duty might be this. See if the cardinal’s dagger is still there and bring it back for him? The second duty is that I would like you to go down to the apothecary and fetch me some elecampane. Will you do that kindness for me, domina?’
‘Certainly, magister.’
‘I would consider it a boon. You may have to find the master apothecary to advise you. There’s a tall fellow in there, often to be discovered mixing his mysterious potions. He’s the one you should speak to. He’ll give you what you need. I find he has some most efficacious cures. Elecampane, I think, in this instance, with a few leaves of horehound, the white variety, if you will, then I’ll be back on my feet in no time. But first, St Martial’s chapel, I suggest.’
‘My pleasure, magister.’ She got up to go. ‘Excuse me, your eminence.’ With an inclination of the head to the cardinal heaped on the end of the monks’ bed she went to the door. ‘Our Bohemian friends are many leagues distant,’ the cardinal murmured before she opened the door, ‘but no doubt we shall hear from them soon enough. They wish to free themselves from the Cistercian monopoly on their silver. It happens to be their greatest natural resource. They seek allies. Such conflict, everywhere we look.’
**
‘Extraordinary,’ she murmured to herself as she set off on her errand. So the cardinal did know something. It made Fitzjohn’s abduction of the miners even more suspect. Grizac even knew about the Cistercian control of silver at the mines of Kutna Hora.
As she was nearer to the kitchen quarters than the chapel she decided to make her first errand elecampane and horehound - and then a little jewelled dagger.
She headed towards the apothecary’s across the yard adjoining the kitchen wing. Plenty of people were scurrying about at their many different tasks and she attracted little notice. She found the apothecary but even without being told she would have found it by the scent of dried lavender and the mingled aromas of other herbs and plants that swirled through the open door.
Another nun was in there already, discussing cures with a man standing at a chopping board as he laid out several herbs for her inspection.
‘Try this,’ Hildegard heard him suggest. ‘Steeped in a little wine and honey, it should clear the matter up to your lady’s satisfaction.’
When the nun left Hildegard approached but she was unsure how to proceed. Was this the apothecary the magister had recommended? She decided to mention Athanasius straightaway. The man glanced covertly round the chamber at the name then beckoned her to follow him, leading the way behind a curtain of drying herbs suspended over a doorway that gave onto a smaller, windowless storeroom beyond. Peering at her, he asked, ‘The magister is still unwell?’
Hildegard nodded.
He reached for a bundle of dried leaves. ‘Elecampane. And white horehound.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I have both.’ He thrust a few long stalks into her hands. ‘He knows how to prepare it. Anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘Then give him this.’ He went to a table chest set against the wall, took a small key from inside his shirt, unlocked the box and removed something before quickly relocking it. He placed the object in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers round it. ‘Something I obtained with him in mind. A charm aga
inst the ague. Keep it safe. He may return it as he wishes.’ With that he gave her a meaningful look and returned to his next customer waiting in the main chamber.
When she got outside into the passage she peered at the object cupped in her hand. A figurine was revealed. It was shaped like a female saint with a staff and something like a sack or loaf of bread in one hand. It was the colour of lead. She rubbed it on her sleeve until it gleamed with a subdued lustre. Silver.
**
Next, to the chapel of St Martial. Adjoining it, the mortuary.
A choir was singing in the chancel when she entered. Sweet trebles spiralled ethereal melodies into the bright vault of the roof. It was not yet nones. The office of the ninth hour would not begin until later.
The chapel was on the highest level of the tower, the windows unimpeded by any other buildings. Light swam in through panes of green glass, sufficient to illuminate the frescoes Athanasius had mentioned, the excuse for her presence here, if an excuse were needed. An air of sanctity prevailed.
None of the officials paid any heed. One or two figures knelt in front of the gilded altar, lost in their meditations, a sacristan attended to the candles, intently scraping bees-wax from their ornate gold supports. Hildegard paced along the side wall with her attention on the frescoes depicting the miracles Martial was supposed to have wrought - here was the saint taking ship for the east, here he was with an anchor rope round his neck, and here he was under the sea with the white marble halls of a palace rising around him. When she came to the door into the mortuary she slipped inside.
On each side of the body two black robed nuns were mumbling prayers for the soul of the dead youth and did not raise their heads.
He was as she had last seen him. Now lying on a byre but still clothed. His fingers gripped the hilt of the dagger she had noticed earlier. Impossible to believe that less than twenty four hours ago he must have been as blithe as any living being.
She trod softly over the tiles. Neither nun paid any attention. Coming to a halt within the circle of candlelight she gazed down at the corpse for a few moments until she felt they were used to her presence, or, indeed, as it seemed, oblivious to it then, gathering her courage, she reached forward. Something made her take her eyes off the dagger for a moment and a glance across the body into the gloom on the other side showed two beady eyes watching intently from the confines of a cruelly tight wimple. It distorted the nun’s features so much she looked like a weasel. Even her nose twitched when she spoke.
[Hildegard of Meaux 06] - The Butcher of Avignon Page 6