Thomas was sitting at the end of one of the trestles, working his way through a pile of meat, it not being a fish day. ‘Edwin has made a list of everybody at Bishopthorpe,’ he told Hildegard. ‘By crossing off those the constables are dealing with and cross-referencing the others with the testimonies of those we’ve spoken to he’s been able to establish everybody’s movements and work out who has an alibi and who hasn’t. They all have. Until we get word from the gardeners, in case they saw something, it’s the best he can do.’
‘The usefulness of his approach depends on two things: the accuracy of people’s memories and their honesty.’
Thomas wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘What about this Jarrold fellow?’ Hildegard had told him about the odd little scene in the cathedral. Now he was frowning. ‘He comes on like a villain in a Corpus Christi play. Too bad to be true.’
‘Several people say they saw him in the main courtyard that morning, helping load the wagons.’
‘I must say,’ Thomas continued, ‘it would take ingenuity to find the privacy to carry out a murder in somewhere like the palace. It’s always so busy. The brewhouse must have been the only empty place that morning.’
‘Does it mean the murderer simply took his chance?’
‘He was lucky, then.’
‘Or,’ she picked at her fish, ‘maybe he was unlucky?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe he planned it expecting that if he waited until just before the convoy set off the body might go undiscovered for days?’
‘But then that mischievous little lad with his pig’s bladder got into the picture.’
‘If the murderer did plan the whole thing with such attention to detail, he must be a patient type, able to wait for the right moment to act.’
‘To plan so carefully, then kill in cold blood. Chilling.’
‘You can mix with these men more freely than I can, Thomas; who’s likely to be able to think like that?’
He shook his head. ‘They’re mostly a bunch of ribalds with no thought for the morrow. Of course,’ he frowned, ‘the falconers have to have patience. They need it, in order to train their hawks.’
‘All accounted for?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Well, our man is the one with the cunning to plan ahead and the patience to bide his time.’
News arrived while they were still dining. Due to some bungling by the custodian, the hostage thrown into the castle jail had been released.
Edwin was fuming. ‘How on earth? The sot wits. You don’t just open the gates and tell prisoners they can walk free!’
‘How did it happen?’ Thomas asked.
‘Somebody went to the guard with a release note and the fool failed to verify the signature. Now the document can’t even be found. The constable’s in hot water – he should never have let it happen – but it won’t bring the prisoner back.’
The news was soon all round the refectory and a buzz of conversation broke out. A murderer on the loose. And now this. Nobody to be brought to book for the ambush. What sort of world were they living in? The end days were approaching, that was for sure. Next thing: the apocalypse.
The archbishop’s earlier remark that the enemy was within the gates came back to Hildegard with greater force. The sooner they left Lincoln the better.
She reached for the bag beside her on the bench and slipped her hand inside it, just to be sure the contents were safe.
It was then there was a flurry of activity at the great doors. The herald blew a quick phrase or two and a woman appeared. In the silence that fell she made quite an entrance.
To be fair, thought Hildegard, watching as the newcomer made her way to a seat below the dais, she didn’t look as if she was trying to make an entrance and few women would fail to draw all eyes in such a world of men. Her gown, however, was the sort seen more often at court than in an ecclesiastical establishment. Her little page was attired in a tunic of silver thread.
Thomas had eyes like saucers.
‘Who is she?’ Hildegard touched him on the arm.
‘The Duke of Lancaster’s mistress.’
‘Katharine Swynford?’
He wrenched his glance away. ‘She’s a tenant here within the cathedral enclave. And that’s her son Thomas beside her.’
Hildegard had not noticed the son. He was an unhandsome youth with an untidy beard and strange crinkly hair like sheep’s wool. She turned to the monk. ‘You know Thomas Swynford?’
‘Know of him. I’ve seen him on previous visits to Lincoln. He must be here visiting his mother. I believe she has several manors around here. He probably has charge of them.’
Hildegard watched them both for a few moments. Katharine Swynford was notorious. Her long-term relationship with the Duke of Lancaster throughout both his marriages was a great scandal. She had borne him several children but despite that she had been in charge of the upbringing of his legitimate children – his eldest, Bolingbroke, the Earl of Derby, included. They said there was a rift between the Duke and his mistress now and she had been pensioned off to live here in Lincoln, distanced from court and favour.
In contrast to his mother, young Swynford was dressed unshowily in grey with a black capuchon pushed down round his neck.
Now, clearly unbothered by her reputation, she beckoned her page, whispered something in his ear, then sent him with a little push towards the dais where Bishop Buckingham was sitting in an ornately carved chair with Neville on his right-hand side.
From the end of the table Hildegard could hear the page’s piping voice as he begged leave to ask a boon of the archbishop.
The archbishop cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Speak up, boy. Ask away.’
Everybody stopped talking.
‘My Lady Swynford begs to present her son, Sir Thomas Swynford, Your Grace.’
‘Tell her she may.’ Neville exchanged a barely perceptible glance with Bishop Buckingham.
The page conveyed this message and with a poorly pretended air of reluctance Thomas Swynford rose to his feet.
He made his way to the dais and stood before it until Archbishop Neville acknowledged him.
Buckingham rose to his feet, made some excuse about needing to retire, and with a servant on either side, was helped out through his own private door into his apartment.
‘Listen to this,’ Hildegard whispered to Brother Thomas.
Neville was regarding the newcomer with a genial smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘So, Master Swynford …’ he invited.
‘Sir Thomas Swynford, Your Grace. I’ve been knighted since you last saw me.’
‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t catch what the little page said.’ The archbishop, known to have hearing like a bat, inclined his head no more than half an inch. ‘And your boon, sir?’
‘Your Grace, I beg leave to offer you the strength of my sword arm on the road south.’
‘So you’re itching to get down to London to join the fight against the French?’
‘I am, indeed.’
‘Or is Westminster your destination?’
Swynford, checked, murmured, ‘As the King commands, Your Grace.’
‘Then your offer is most gratefully accepted.’ Neville was at his most smooth. ‘You were a shield-bearer for the Duke of Lancaster, our putative King of Castile, I believe?’
‘I was indeed, as a boy.’
He’s a boy now, judged Hildegard, and surely no more than nineteen or so, not yet of age.
‘And who is your lord?’
‘I have the honour to attend the Duke’s son, Henry Bolingbroke, the Earl of Derby,’ Swynford replied, unable to conceal a smirk.
Hildegard stared hard at him. Neville was offering some polite platitude or other about the difference between being a retainer to the Duke and to his son, a harmless remark, but Swynford evidently thought otherwise.
He gave the archbishop the benefit of a curled lip and replied, ‘The difference is, the son is the future. He’s in his prim
e, not his dotage. This is no time for old men to cling onto power, neither in Church nor State.’
Neville took the insult to his forty-odd years – the same as the Duke’s – with a placid smile. Hildegard was astounded. He was noted for his flying rages, aroused at the smallest slight, but now he looked almost benign as he observed the grinning youth and after only the briefest pause replied, ‘I expect we old men can show you young fellows a thing or two if it comes to it.’
Swynford gave a barking laugh. The disparaging glance he gave the older man was undisguised.
Two of Neville’s men-at-arms standing behind his chair moved not a muscle.
But Swynford hadn’t finished. ‘No doubt you would have welcomed a fully trained knight by your side during the unfortunate incident on your way here. You might have been less likely to invite attack.’ There was a gasp from those close enough to hear.
Neville’s colour rose. But even then his reply was carefully modulated. ‘My men struggled on as best they could. I’ve no doubt we can struggle on to London, too, without any help. My gratitude for your offer, Swynford.’
He picked up his goblet and drank the contents before turning to the dining companion on his other side.
Swynford’s jaw dropped, but before he could make matters worse his mother appeared below the dais where she had been hovering.
‘My dear Lord Archbishop,’ she cooed. ‘Your Grace, forgive me my temerity in interrupting but we don’t stand on ceremony here in Lincoln. It’s a simple place—’
Neville lifted his head. ‘Madam?’
‘Lady Swynford, at your service.’ She sank in a billowing curtsy and remained in this submissive posture while looking up at the archbishop with the full brilliance of her green eyes fixed on his face, and when she was sure she had his full attention she rose to her feet with slow grace. ‘I am deeply honoured and full of joy now that you’ve agreed to include my son in your retinue on the long and dangerous road to Westminster. You are most generous, Your Grace, and quite live up to your reputation. Unfortunately for my poor dear son, he has only one servant with him, having had to leave Harry Derby to attend to business at our manor of Kettlethorpe. He is eager to rejoin his lord in London as soon as possible.’ She gave a dazzling smile. ‘I know he will make himself most useful to you in any way he can.’
Hildegard saw Neville’s eyes harden but he was sympathy incarnate.
‘The pleasure will be mine, dear lady.’ And as if Swynford wasn’t listening in, added, ‘Pray tell him so.’
‘That’s settled, then. He comes with us,’ muttered Thomas in Hildegard’s ear. He gave her a quizzical glance.
‘I know no more about him than you do except that it’s lucky for him his mother knows how to get her own way.’
The morning sun, low in the sky, was just beginning to cut a swathe through the banks of mist shrouding the close when the York retainers came stumbling out from the fetid stew of their bedstraw. It was quickly kicked into a corner of the stone passage where most of the servants had been sleeping, and one by one they staggered out into the cold damp air.
‘On the road again,’ somebody yawned, still half asleep.
‘Aye, it’s a dog’s life,’ another complained.
‘Even so, shift this water barrel and set it on that third wagon, Jack. Stop moaning and jump to it.’ The man who last spoke scratched his groin while he waited for his instructions to be carried out.
Hildegard had her leather bag over her shoulder inside her travelling cloak. She had slept uncomfortably with her head resting on the bag instead of a pillow. She too was yawning.
Thomas appeared. ‘This is a sudden change of plan. What’s made His Grace decide to leave all of a sudden?’
‘Urgency in getting down to London,’ she told him. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Nothing to do with Swynford, then?’
She shrugged. Swynford. Bolingbroke. The cross.
Soon the wagons were reloaded and the dray horses were backed into the shafts. People stood around in little knots. Suspicion of each other made them more silent than usual.
During the night it had come to Hildegard why she had been compelled to stare so hard at young Swynford. He was the same build as the man who had the argument in the cathedral yesterday with Jarrold, the same way of walking, the same swagger and, above all, the same voice, with that unmistakable Lincolnshire accent. She had seen him again as well. The scene in the bishop’s herb garden came back. The unknown woman pulling up armloads of the mysterious herb was Lady Swynford, and now she knew that the young man who had taken her arm in that familiar fashion was her son.
She recalled the fact that the herberer hailed from a place a little way south of Lincoln. Kyme. It could be one of the manors held by the Swynfords along with Kettlethorpe and some other holdings in the region. Jarrold still had kin down that way, so he claimed.
Eventually the archbishop appeared. After checking that Hildegard was carrying her bag he walked briskly to his char without greeting anyone, climbed in and had his grooms pull the hood forward to close the leather flap. Clearly he wanted to be alone. His was the first vehicle to rumble out over the cobblestones followed by his longbowmen in a brisk little cart beside which some of them preferred to run. The men-at-arms were in evidence too, one allotted to each wagon this time and all of them carrying arms. The vittling wagons followed, and the water wagon, the kitchen servants’ wagon, with the red-faced Master Fulford taking up more than his fair share of space as usual, and finally, after one or two more rumbled by, including the high-sided wagon bearing the falcons, came the wagon loaded with picks, shovels and a spare wheel or two, to take up the rear. Many servants chose to run and only jumped aboard the wagons when they felt they’d had enough exercise.
In this formation and at a steady pace equivalent to a horse’s trot, they made their way down the steep hillside to the flat country beyond, passing over heathland for many miles and wending their way eventually down onto the wetlands, skirting dykes and watercourses and passing many mills along the way, following the old Roman road that would lead them down to London.
Hildegard and Thomas decided to ride and Edwin joined them. He had news of a sort.
‘When I took in His Grace’s tisane this morning and happened to make some casual remark about the murder and how we seemed to be no further on, he really snapped at me. “I haven’t time for servants and their quarrels,” he said, practically snarling in my face. It’s my view he intends to wash his hands of the whole affair if we don’t get a lead soon.’
‘Poor Martin,’ remarked Hildegard. ‘I expect his wife, for one, would still like to know who killed him.’ She recalled the young woman standing outside the church the morning they left and the anxiety on her face as she peered inside.
‘We’ll get a statement from her when the Bishopthorpe messenger catches up with us. She should know if he had any enemies.’
The roadside. Day. Morning. Hildegard and Thomas.
‘It’s made ten times more difficult by being on the road. If we’d remained in Bishopthorpe we’d have solved the mystery by now.’
Thomas agreed. ‘There are too many laymen working at Bishopthorpe. Grooms, stable lads, the blacksmith, his apprentices, the saddler, the assistant falconers, the dairymen, and so on and so forth. Most of them living just outside the enclave or at home farm and none of them with any need to be up around the palace. But,’ he concluded, ‘you wouldn’t know if one of them hadn’t taken it into his head to stroll up to the palace to commit a murder.’
A day passed, a night, and then another day, and they had travelled a fragment of the journey that had taken Harold, the great Saxon king, only five days to accomplish. But he had his victory at Stamford Bridge behind him and dreams of future glory against the Norman threat in the south to goad him forward. His men must have been half dead on their feet by the time they staggered to Hastings.
They themselves journeyed in comparative comfort but still had many more mile
s to go and were staggering with exhaustion too.
Every day the hawks were flown and they ate well. The rule against meat for the two Cistercians was relaxed. The falconer was running alongside the archbishop’s char now and called up to their driver. When the horses were pulled to a trot and Neville poked his head out he produced the latest kill with a smile. It was a young hind, no larger than a dog.
‘Well done, Willerby. Who brought her down?’
‘Pertelot, Your Grace.’
‘Ah, sweet creature. Make sure she gets her portion.’
‘I certainly will, Your Grace.’
Whistling to himself the falconer stood by the side of the track with the animal dripping blood until the butcher’s wagon rolled up.
They reached the vast woodlands in the shire of Nottingham.
It was a savage territory, rendered dark and gloomy by the storm-contorted trees. A dead trunk blasted by lightning now and then emerged like a ghost out of the darkness of the undergrowth. The track became more and more twisted, full of ruts and potholes and sudden drops. They were forced to wind their way round tree roots that lay like snakes across their path. It was a perfect lair for outlaws.
Nobody mentioned the ambush at the beginning of their journey but it was remembered in every sidelong glance into the trees.
All this time Swynford had been riding with the convoy accompanied by his page. Sometimes they rode on ahead, sometimes they lagged behind. When the cavalcade stopped to enable cooking fires to be lit late in the afternoon, he remained aloof, as if afraid of catching some contagion. He had his own supplies, noted Hildegard, today augmented by a rabbit which his servant tried to roast on a spit over the small fire.
The burnt offering he produced was evidently not to Swynford’s liking because when it was put into his hands he inspected it disdainfully then hurled it into the grass.
A Parliament of Spies Page 7