[Hildegard of Meaux 06] - The Butcher of Avignon

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘I do. You’re brave lads. England’s best.’

  ‘I gave them nothing. My only fear is, will he stand firm?’

  ‘He will. Trust him. He’s rock solid.’

  ‘I wouldn't blame him if they found a way to destroy him and make him talk.’ Tears came into his eyes but he could not brush them away because of the pain in his useless hands when they knocked against anything so he had to allow them to trickle down his cheeks into the bristles on his chin. Hildegard turned away so he would not know she had seen them and be shamed.

  She left soon after that, saying she would return shortly with something else to sustain him and she hoped it would be more than food and wine.

  ‘What wine?’ he called after her. A cackling laugh followed.

  **

  When she reached the guest quarters where Sir John Fitzjohn was staying it was Bertram who greeted her. He conducted her to where Fitzjohn’s steward was sitting in a cramped ante chamber no bigger than a kennel for the hounds. He was a thin, dark, morose fellow and glowered when Bertram appeared. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My lady of Meaux begs audience with her countryman Sir John,’ he announced.

  ‘She does, does she?’ The steward looked her up and down as if he was about to give a sniff of dismissal when he chanced to catch her eye. He shambled to his feet. ‘Domina, Sir John has nothing to do with nuns. He has his own chaplain.’

  ‘This is not a church matter. I beg only a little of his time on private business.’

  Grudgingly he ordered Bertram to go inside and inquire if Sir John had any thoughts on the matter.

  In a trice the boy was back. With a covert smile of triumph he announced, ‘Sir John will grant the holy sister a brief audience. Please follow me, domina.’

  Hildegard turned to the steward. ‘Thank you, my lord steward, I am obliged to you.’

  In the passageway Bertram turned a grinning face to her. ‘We got the better of that old goat, domina. He makes our lives hell. But be warned, Sir Jack is no better and he’s in a foul mood today.’

  He opened the door into a fairly impressive chamber with a high ceiling covered in plaster mouldings displaying the papal insignia with windows down one side giving a distant view over the battlements towards the red roofs of Avignon.

  At one end, turned towards the door, stood the imposing figure of Sir John. He was wearing body armour, a leather hauberk showing underneath a tunic of some heavy fabric, cambric or worsted, with the blazon of the earl of Woodstock embroidered finely upon it. His sword belt was lying on a bench next to him within reach but he wore a tooled leather belt low and wound twice round his hips in the latest style.

  His blond hair was shoulder length and brushed straight back from his face to reveal strong bones and a confident expression. At some time his nose had been broken but it did not detract from his good looks, merely enhancing them and giving a ruggedness to features that might otherwise be thought too regular.

  Edmund, the dutiful esquire, had already stepped from behind the door and, looking well-turned out himself, offered a deep and courtly flourish. ‘Domina, may I conduct you into the presence of my lord, Sir John Fitzjohn.’

  Hildegard followed. Then Sir John was standing over her.

  **

  ‘Anyone from England is welcome here, domina. Have you news from Westminster?’

  ‘None that you will not already know, my lord.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘You overpraise my intelligencers.’

  She noticed now that he had a thin line of carefully razored blond hair on his upper lip and a slight cast in one eye. He was still physically daunting. She was reminded of his younger brother, Escrick, also a bastard son of John of Gaunt, and thought how different they were in appearance, Escrick dark and brutish, with a chip on his shoulder that made him unpredictably dangerous, and this smiling fair-haired and courtly knight.

  A few pleasantries were exchanged although he did not offer her a seat or anything to drink from the silver wine flagon on the table at his side.

  Picking up his goblet he drank deeply, staring at her over the rim, before asking, ‘So what may I do for you, domina?’

  ‘I have some information. It is something of which you cannot be aware, given the honour in which you stand.’

  A small scowl flickered over his face and he gestured impatiently for her to continue.

  ‘It has been brought to my notice that two men have been brought to Avignon against their will.’

  A long pause followed until he drawled, ‘What’s that to me?’

  ‘I believe you are aware of these men and that perhaps they were brought as a gift from England for his Holiness?’

  ‘I brought several men in my retinue but as a gift?’ He feigned amused astonishment.

  ‘I believe so. A gift, yes, because of what they know.’

  ‘Go on.’ His initial charm was fading.

  ‘They are two miners. I have seen where they are being held. They are suffering the most abject conditions. One of them has already been tortured.’

  His lips tightened. ‘I ask again, what has this to do with me?’

  ‘They are your countrymen, my lord. They arrived in your retinue.’

  He glared at her and she saw the colour rise to his cheeks. He turned on Edmund who was obediently standing by and cuffed him sharply on the side of the head. ‘What are you gawping at, dolt? Go and find a job, you idle devil.’

  Edmund bowed his head quickly but not before Hildegard saw the dart of rage in his eyes.

  Before he reached the door, Fitzjohn called him back. ‘On second thoughts, stay here and learn something if you can get anything into that fat head of yours.’

  Edmund came back and stood beside Fitzjohn with his glance fixed on the floor and his cheeks flaming in anger.

  Fitzjohn turned to Hildegard. With an air of exaggerated politeness he said, ‘I am at a loss, domina. You come to me in order to inform me that two Englishmen have been abducted and are now being tortured by my host, his holiness Pope Clement?’

  ‘One tortured, so far,’ she corrected.

  She did not want to add oil to fire but she needed to make things plain. ‘As an Englishwoman I find it a most heinous insult to our king that his subjects should be punished by a foreign power, one whose authority our king does not recognise. I understand that you are in ignorance of this treatment, of course, otherwise you would not countenance the stain on your own honour and that of your country.’

  He pulled at his stripling moustache for a moment. Took another drink from his silver goblet. ‘Torture?’ he said at last. ‘No, that will not do. But you see the difficulty of my situation, domina?’

  She waited for him to continue.

  ‘Let’s assume they were brought over here in my entourage somehow or other. As a woman, as a nun, you will not understand the delicate nature of our policy towards our host.’

  Hildegard showed no sign of how she felt at his words.

  He mistook her silence for encouragement. ‘What steps can I take that will not offend his Holiness? Can I go to him and say, “Clement, this will not do?” No, of course not. These men you mention, whoever they are, must have earned their punishment. We are now, I’m afraid to say, within the jurisdiction of the papal court of our most holy father, Pope Clement. Do you see that?’

  ‘I see my countrymen being tortured for no fault of their own. Your men, Sir John, ones you brought over here.’

  ‘They say that, do they?’ His eyes narrowed.

  ‘They have no idea who brought them here.’

  ‘So as I said before, what has this to do with me?’

  Hildegard waited. They both knew the truth.

  Fitzjohn’s expression hardened. ‘Understand this, I will not jeopardise the interests of my lord, earl Thomas of Woodstock, the Duke of Gloucester, no less, for the sake of a little discomfort suffered by two miners. They should tell the pope’s men what they want and then go free. This mulish resistance to a perfect
ly acceptable exchange of information is absurd. What is wrong with the men that they should refuse to cooperate? Are they traitors to England’s prince?’

  Before she could summon an answer he ground on, ‘It seems like it. They deserve all they get! If they don’t want to serve the prince and his interests then I’ll send men down myself to see if our methods are more persuasive than those of the pope. Now, if you’ll excuse me, lady, I suggest you stop meddling in things that don’t concern you and get back to your prayers. I have pressing matters deserving my attention.’ He gave a dismissive bow.

  Edmund, glance averted from his lord, stepped smartly in front of her, and indicating that she should follow, briskly marched from the chamber.

  When the door closed behind them Edmund would not look at her but tried to lead her back down the corridor with his head averted.

  ‘Edmund, wait.’ She put out a hand to detain him before they turned the corner to where the steward’s dog kennel was. ‘Does that happen often?’

  His eyes were glistening with rage. He nodded.

  ‘It was uncalled for.’

  ‘It can be worse.’

  ‘This is not ended. None of it. Trust me.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I may need your help and that of your guild of pages. Is there somewhere private where we can meet?’

  **

  Hubert’s strong profile was visible between the banners held aloft by the pope’s retinue of clerks and choristers as they processed through the crowds of petitioners into the Great Audience Chamber. He was standing on the opposite side of the nave with the other Cistercians to witness the proceedings.

  Hildegard had convinced herself that his coldness towards her was what she desired. She had no with to restart their little amour if that’s what it had been. It would be wrong on every level. She could not help recalling, however, Hubert’s declaration of desire two years ago under the soaring arches of Beverley Minster. That had been no trifling fancy. His words, vibrating with the intensity of his feelings, had left her in no doubt of the depth of his emotions. Now, it seemed as much a chimera as the page’s promise of riches. Put not thy trust in mortal things.

  Well, fools might. She wouldn’t, she hadn’t, and Hubert could go to perdition as he had told her to. It was better this way. She had no right even to remember anything of that period of her life when her vows had been so shaken by the feeling of desire he aroused.

  The chamber, large as it was, filled rapidly as more and more petitioners tried to enter. Soon it was crammed to the walls.

  Most had been waiting since before dawn, some even feeling their way in the darkness straight from lauds. Patience, it seemed, was a virtue much practised.

  Many Scots had arrived, she noticed, Clement being their chosen pope with preferment in his gift. A canon of Eglinton, for instance, lecturing in Paris, was one of the first to present his petition. It was for a benefice in the gift of the abbot of the convent of St Andrews. He excused the fact that he already received the profits from the priory of Blantyre by saying that he would resign it in favour of St Andrews, the richer one, she supposed.

  She listened to the words droning on over the heads of the crowd but her thoughts were elsewhere. A plan had to be quickly made and it had to be foolproof. Lives were at stake.

  The words of the petitioners drifted around her. The rich livings offered by Clement were dependent on the gifts of gold he received and the fealty he could expect in return. They were dependent on the sort of fidelity to him that would extend his empire.

  The canon got his wish and must have been overjoyed to find he need never go short of the trappings of worldly wealth again.

  Another petitioner followed, a priest seeking the benefit of a convent in Arbroath, and was less successful on the grounds that he already held the prebend of Dunkeld which he did not wish to relinquish. He left, chuntering to himself about injustice.

  Then three Scots appeared together and put their pleas to the canons simultaneously. Clement intervened when he saw his influence diluted by their ambition. Better for him to spread his influence rather than concentrate it in the hands of one or two who might be seduced by the offer of richer pickings elsewhere and take a large chunk of his estate with them. She saw him bend his head and mutter something to one of the clerks who turned to his roll and began to scribble rapidly.

  Hildegard could see John Fitzjohn among the crowd. His four men-at-arms were ranged about him. At least they were not trying their persuasion on the miners yet. Fitzjohn had not, to her knowledge, submitted his petition which he would have to do in public. It would be dependent on John and Peter being free with their trade secrets. It would be no good offering knowledge if it could not be laid hold of and used.

  The purpose of such a gift was still a mystery. There must be new discoveries of silver or maybe even gold somewhere within the Papal States. The miners may not have heard about any new deposits, despite their confidence. As for what Woodstock wanted in return, it could only be the knowledge that he had a wealthy ally should it ever come to a military showdown with King Richard.

  While her glance was ranging around the chamber she accidentally caught Hubert’s eye and quickly turned away.

  The number of petitioners did not seem to dwindle. Half way through the morning another team of clerks took over, fresh and efficient, unstoppering their ink horns with relish while the others headed hungrily for the Tinel and the first sitting at dinner. Fitzjohn went out accompanied by one of his men, a big fellow, empty scabbard hanging like a broken arm. Both reappeared a few moments later looking relieved.

  At least Fitzjohn had not yet sent his men to test the will of the miners.

  An air of tedium began to settle over the onlookers. They stood stupefied listening to the petitioners as if comparing the gifts received by others with their own aspirations.

  In this very hall, she thought, glancing round as she edged towards the doors, it is likely that the man who murdered Maurice is smiling and looking devout and maybe even scribbling down the details of some priest’s acquisitions or attending to his duties to his lord. He could be anyone here. He is going to get away with it. And there is nothing I can do.

  She reached the door and was about to go through when a voice stopped her.

  **

  ‘All right. Enough of the black looks. I didn’t mean what I said.’ A familiar voice in her ear. It was Hubert.

  The scent of fresh mint and sandalwood swept over her as if to draw them together. She took a startled step back. Even then he seemed to be standing right over her.

  She made to move away but he reached for her sleeve and gripped it so tightly she couldn’t escape without drawing attention to herself.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Hubert. Let me go,’ she demanded in a fierce whisper.

  He held on. ‘Listen to me.’

  ‘Why should I if it’s to insult me again?’

  ‘Insult you?’

  ‘To tell me to go to hell, as you did not two days ago.’

  ‘I said no such thing.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘Perdition. I said perdition. I swear, I only meant - ’

  ‘I have no interest in what you say you meant.’ She tried to prise his fingers open to free her sleeve to no avail.

  ‘I’m stronger than you.’

  ‘So, go ahead, take advantage of the fact. It just goes to show what you’re like.’

  He moved closer, pulling her against him as he did so, murmuring, ‘And what am I like?’ He added in a deeper voice, ‘Hildegard? Answer me.’

  ‘Let me go, Hubert. Are you trying to cause a scene in public?’

  ‘Who cares about the public, if that’s what you call this mob. I don’t care what they think and I’m sure you don’t.’

  ‘I have to live here among these people, at least for a time.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘It’s up to you if you care so little for your reputation.’

  ‘It’ll make no difference to my reput
ation. They’ll assume you’re my concubine. It’ll give you more status.’

  ‘Get away from me!’

  ‘It’s the custom here, hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Every churchman of standing has a lover, a handsome boy or a beautiful woman. It’s the necessary pass to gaining preferment. It demonstrates that they can be bought. Slack morals apply across the board. Would you deny me the chance to become a cardinal?’

  ‘This is monstrous! Let me go!’

  ‘We’ll soon be back at Meaux.’

  ‘And do you intend to make concubines the custom there?’

  His teeth were very white when he smiled, face razor-boned, hawklike, skin tight, unlined. He murmured, ‘If we follow Pope Clement maybe he’ll insist?’

  She tried to move away again but the crowd was surging into the next ante chamber taking them both with it and it was impossible to force a way out, especially with Hubert grasping her sleeve.

  She turned back to him in fury but with her voice low. ‘Do you want to cause a scandal and get me dragged before the court?’

  ‘It would never come to that. Not here.’ Despite his words he slowly released her. ‘Is this really how it’s going to be?’

  ‘How else?’

  She swivelled, bumped into someone, nearly stumbled, but managed to avoid the hand Hubert put out. In a moment the crowd had shuffled between them and she made her escape.

  When she got out into the corridor she was trembling. ‘Damn him,’ she muttered. ‘Damn him, damn him to perdition and damn him to hell, both.’

  **

  She could not trust him. Despite that strange remark if we follow Pope Clement he seemed to have no doubt he was on the path to preferment. And she could help! She felt like spitting bolts of iron. It certainly explained his presence here as more than the conventional one of following orders. He had so far failed to mention the terrible events taking place at home. Burley. Neville. Tresilian and the rest, indicted on charges of treason. Beheading their possible punishment.