Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Yes,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘You can’t imagine how restoring to the soul it is to have the power to endow a religious house and organise it exactly as one would wish.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the abbot, gloomily. His handsome features looked as if they would never break into a smile again. She rather pitied him, although not enough to forget they were still locked in battle.

  ‘We religious,’ she continued, still aware that he scarcely took her proposition seriously, ‘are the bulwark against the rising tide of barbarity, allies at the outposts of civilisation. Indeed, the grotesque forces of chaos are only held at bay by we monastics. We must all pull together, my lord abbot.’

  ‘And with such a fair ally, Sister, who could be more certain of success?’ He seemed to have come to a decision to concede a temporary defeat. It must be obvious she had run rings round him. Retrenchment was the sensible course. He would have realised she could be useful if he kept on her good side. Her priory, though small, ran a productive silk trade and somehow the prioress managed to attract regular bequests of land. It was a point he would be stupid to ignore when his abbey’s need for grazing land was a pressing concern and they at Swyne had so much of it.

  He spread his hands as if offering largesse. ‘So there it is then.’ It seemed as far as his pride would allow him to go.

  ‘I have your permission, my lord?’

  He gave a curt nod.

  So he has a soft centre, she noted with delight, even if he is a sarcastic devil at heart.

  His clerk had been assiduously copying down every single word they said. Now he was wiping his quill, well satisfied with himself. There would be many things I would change in the unlikely event I became abbess here, she thought as she prepared to take her leave. This clerk, for instance. He’d be better off working down at St Giles for a spell, with the lepers. That would teach him to be so sedulous in his note-taking. Hubert could not renege on having given his permission now it was written down in the abbey records.

  There was a flurry for the quill and tablet again as the abbot, almost as an afterthought, said, ‘Of course, sister, you could always talk to Lord Roger de Hutton. He’s bound to have an empty property that would suit you.’

  Hildegard levelled her glance. Lord Roger’s lands were distant. Hubert de Courcy might just as well have told her to go hence to Uttermost Thule. But she kept this thought to herself and smiled instead. ‘That’s an excellent idea, my lord.’ For a moment she toyed with her plain little cross until she noticed his glance, held as if hypnotised by the movement of her fingers. It made her wonder whether she had inadvertently led him to imagine unhasping it and letting it slither and…Not wanting to be damned for all eternity, she rose hurriedly to her feet.

  ‘This has been most helpful, my lord abbot. I shall keep you informed of my progress.’

  His morose smile followed her to the door, as if to say: I don’t doubt it. What he in fact uttered was merely a reminder to attend the inquest when the coroner appeared.

  The bell for vespers was already booming out across the garth, making the glass in the lancet rattle. The sound seemed to bring him back from a reverie and he became his customary brisk self. ‘Before you leave, dear sister, will you join us at high table?’

  Hildegard, thinking he would never ask, graciously accepted.

  What the abbot said was true: Roger de Hutton had a finger in most pies, and if there was a suitable grange going begging he would probably own it. He owned almost everything that didn’t belong to the monastery and, in the opinion of many, would be wise to allow a handful of devout and useful women to pray for his soul’s ease.

  Contrary to what the abbot might believe her heart was not entirely set on taking over Yedingham. It had been founded as a Benedictine nunnery but was so ill managed that Robert de Brus had been asked to take over. He was indifferent to the orders so long as they promised to offer prayers for him – politics were where his energy lay – and, with Lord Roger on her side, Hildegard was sure she could persuade him to let her take the lease to Yedingham. But it wasn’t perfect. For one thing it was quite remote, at least two days on foot to York, the nearest large town. The advantage of Meaux, and the reason why, despite her words, she hadn’t given up on the ambitious dream of having it turned into a double house, nuns on one side of the canal, monks on the other, was that it was only an hour’s brisk walk from Beverley with its thriving market. By horse it was even less, of course. She thought it prudent to bear such facts in mind.

  It was in a thoughtful mood that Hildegard prepared to set out the next morning. A messenger had arrived from York to tell them that the coroner was busy on important business and could not attend within four days at the earliest. The general opinion was that the feast in celebration of St Martin was the only important business that kept him in York, but she decided to take advantage of the delay, for now it gave her time to ride to Castle Hutton to seek Lord Roger’s help.

  As she had told Hubert de Courcy, she did not intend to bury herself and her sisters in some godforsaken wilderness where they had only each other for company. They’d go mad as well as being prey for brigands. You can’t be the Abbess of Meaux, sister. I’m the abbot, he had said. Well, she didn’t want to be at Meaux with him and his cronies breathing down her neck if that was his attitude. And Yedingham was good. Meaux was better. But there might be somewhere even better than both. She would take his advice then. She would consult Lord Roger.

  Leaving Meaux shortly before dawn, she was pleased to find that the rain was holding off for the time being. She proceeded for the rest of the day through the forests of the high wolds in a haze of autumn gold. The air was sweet with the scents of the forest. Leaves lay in drifts underfoot, muffling the sound of hooves. Wrapped in her cloak, she travelled unworried, in the knowledge that there was little chance of coming across another gibbet in such a sparsely populated region. The few hamlets she came across were small, without even the benefit of stocks, and for the most part the only habitations were simple assarts, wooden shacks set in the midst of new clearings where the foresters and their families could live close to their work. If she had a fear it was of wolves. Packs of them scoured the wolds at this time of year. At least there is plenty of game, she observed, and I’ll have to trust that their attentions won’t turn to human flesh. The worst predators will be men, she decided. She sent the lymer on ahead to scout the trail for signs of outlaws. Then, close to nightfall, she took shelter in an abandoned barn, dined on rabbit brought down by the running dog, Bermonda, endured a fitful night’s sleep wrapped in her cloak with the two hounds pressing close for warmth on either side, then set out again at first light.

  Soon a familiar landscape came into view. It brought a tender gleam to her eyes. It had been seven years since she had set foot in the old place. It was another life, one she had lost for ever. She had no regrets, however. With her husband dead and her two children now old enough to make their own way in life, what better occupation could she have than the one she had chosen? But it would be heart-warming to revisit her old haunts once more.

  The November mist that lay along the bottom of the dale began to thin as she travelled higher, and soon a fine rain began to penetrate her clothing and set beads of pearl in her horse’s mane. With her hounds ranging wide through the undergrowth, she was on the point of emerging from the trees above the main track when she reined in with a sudden low whistle to bring Bermonda and Duchess to heel.

  At the bottom of the dale a well-trodden path wound through a grove of oaks. Owing to the rain it was churned to a river of mud. It was empty now. But the drumming of hooves could be heard in the distance and soon a stream of Saxon oaths, followed by the faint jingling of harness, came to her ears. Then she heard the distinct sound of a woman’s laugh. Hildegard and the hounds withdrew behind a hawthorn brake and waited.

  Their attention was rewarded when a band of horsemen burst into view. They came roaring out of the trees, lathered in mud and sweat, and at their head,
resplendent in shining mail, a knight. His horse had socks of mud to its withers and its caparison of silver and green was besmirched most foully but this did not in any way detract from the glamour of the knight’s appearance. He was followed by the laughing woman astride a spirited little mare. It, too, was caked in mud. At a word from her the whole crowd skidded to an untidy halt in the clearing.

  Visitors to Hutton, Hildegard surmised, dazzled by the sight. The idea of visitors was pleasing. It might turn out to be a perfect time to ask a favour: Roger, the genial host, lavish with his hospitality, replete with manorial holdings – and generous to the requests of nuns.

  Intending to go down to greet them, she saw the woman on the muddy little palfrey push back her hood with a gloved hand to reveal dark hair plaited in the Norman style. Then her voice floated clearly through the trees. It was light and amused. ‘This is where I’d better get into the litter, sweeting. Out of sight of prying eyes.’

  Hildegard hesitated. She saw the woman slip down from the mare into the arms of an eager servant with scarlet tippets on his sleeves and, with little cries of disgust, squelch back along the muddy track to a litter piled with furs hitched between two ponies. Adjusting her cloak, she flung herself on to it and, burrowing beneath the furs, commanded the troop to continue. More slowly now, they moved off.

  Hildegard watched them go. ‘Whose prying eyes?’ she wondered aloud. Without answering, the two hounds followed her down the bank to join the trail on the final leg to Hutton.

  It was dark when she arrived. Rain had been falling heavily for the last two hours. But even the weather could not destroy the impact of her first sight of the castle again.

  It stood at the head of the dale and rose up gleaming white like the side of a chalk cliff from amid the tall forest beeches, its four towers alight with flaring cressets in every sconce. On the battlements she noticed the glint of arms and heard the commands of the serjeant as the watch patrolled. The drawbridge was down but guards were posted on both sides of the moat to check who went in and who came out. She was allowed across with no difficulty when they saw she was a harmless nun. A lad hurried forward to take her horse.

  When she reached the gatehouse, however, the porter barred her way with a stick, hefting a torch so he could look into her face.

  ‘I wish to have audience with Lord Roger,’ she told him, momentarily dazzled by the light.

  ‘I ain’t got no instructions as such,’ he replied with a scowl.

  ‘That’s because he doesn’t know I want to see him,’ she explained.

  ‘I don’t know neither.’ He looked undecided when she refused to budge. Then he called over his shoulder to one of the sub-porters. ‘Here, go and ask yon steward if I’m to let her in.’ He jerked his thumb at Hildegard.

  She was impatient now. Her boots were pinching and her cloak seemed to draw rain rather than repel it. Besides, Bermonda was whining for food and warmth and her little whimpers broke her heart.

  ‘Look, you can see I’m a harmless Cistercian,’ she tried again. ‘What’s the objection?’

  ‘I’m only doing my job, Sister, just as you do yours.’

  Over his shoulder she could see straight into the bailey. There was a great confusion of serfs going back and forth. It looked busier than anticipated. She was desperate to get inside, take her wet clothes off and don dry ones. But the porter, it seemed, was not to be hurried.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked conversationally while they waited in the flickering light for the sub-porter to fight his way to where the steward was bawling orders at a line of servants.

  ‘It’s Martinmas,’ he told her. Apparently relishing a chance to display his knowledge, he leant forward in a miasma of raw onion and garlic. ‘Security’s tight just now, Sister. My lord has his family and guests to protect. Everybody’s on the road at this time of year, with the hiring fairs and that. And down in the village they’re celebrating their own saint, Willibrod, and electing a mock mayor. And, if that’s not enough, we’ve got some Lombardy prince and his four henchman come all the way from abroad to talk loans!’ He leaned back as if to say: so what do you think to that?

  ‘It’s certainly a hive of activity,’ Hildegard remarked, ‘and you at the centre of it all.’ She was rewarded by a toothy smile. ‘I can quite understand why you have to be so strict about anyone entering the castle but,’ she lowered her voice, ‘it must be a hefty loan Lord Roger’s after to bring the Lombards all this way up north. I thought he was doing quite well. Why does he want a loan, do you think?’

  ‘They’re not just here on my lord’s account. They’re doing the rounds of the abbeys.’ The porter gestured northwards, then tapped the side of his nose. ‘Staple,’ he mouthed.

  Hildegard widened her eyes. This was news. ‘Is the pope still after a bigger cut?’

  ‘He wants the lot this time round. To get the better of Clement!’

  ‘The monks won’t be pleased. They rather favour the French pope, I understand.’

  The porter chortled with delight at the prospect of a massacre to come, symbolic though it would be. He probably thinks mutual excommunications have been the best of it so far, she thought, each pope, Urban in Rome and Clement in Avignon, trying to outmagic the other. In her opinion there was worse to come. She turned to matters closer to hand. ‘I can’t stand here till Lauds. Let me through. I’ll put you right with the Lord Steward. He knows me of old.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ began the porter, but Hildegard had already sidestepped his stave, slipped through the snickel gate and, her hounds with bared teeth in close order about her, had entered the seething crowd.

  The steward was easy to spot. He was six foot three at least, clad smartly in ermine and pers with a chain of office visible round his neck. ‘Ulf!’ she called as soon as she was within earshot. ‘It’s me!’ Rain was pounding down in a fury now, sending people running for shelter, but when he turned she pushed back her hood to reveal her face framed by its gleaming hair.

  He stopped in mid-shout and came wading towards her with arms outstretched.

  ‘My sainted sister!’

  Impervious to the bucketing rain, he swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace. ‘When they said there was a nun at the gate I didn’t suspect it was you! I can’t believe my eyes! Are you real? Have they turned you out of Swyne? Is everything all right?’ He gave her a close look.

  ‘Everything’s fine. Apart from something that happened on the way over. I’ll tell you about that later.’ Hildegard glanced at the crowd scurrying about the bailey. ‘I was hoping for a quiet word with Lord Roger,’ she said, ‘but it looks as if he’s going to have no time if your porter’s to be believed.’

  ‘Fear not, sweetheart. He’ll see you any time.’

  She gave him a sharp glance. ‘Wife number five permitting?’ News of Roger’s recent marriage had reached the priory almost before it was planned.

  ‘Don’t worry about Lady Melisen,’ Ulf said. ‘She’s Norman through and through. Knows the price of everything. A pleasure to do business with. She won’t consider it worth her while to get in your way. What do you want with Lord Roger?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Let me get out of these wet clothes. But what’s all the fuss about?’ She gestured towards the melee of porters, sumpter ponies, kitchen staff and serfs. They were now augmented by what must surely be the five Lombardy men sauntering elegantly across the garth towards the refectory beneath a canopy held over their heads by a couple of soaked and grimacing servants.

  Following her glance, Ulf grinned. ‘Loan men,’ he confirmed. ‘Smart, aren’t they?’

  The black-clad Lombards were looking on the Saxon scrum with some amusement. They were close enough for her to hear them say something to each other in a kind of base Latin. Then they all laughed. Stepping over a trio of roiling villeins locked in combat on the puddled ground, they continued into the Great Hall with a flourish of cloaks. The bearers hoisted the canopy above their own heads and trudged off.


  ‘You’ve arrived at just the right time,’ Ulf said. ‘The Lady Sibilla’s due any minute and I reckon they’re going to need all the help they can get.’

  ‘Sibilla?’

  ‘Lord Roger’s sister-in-law. Sir Ralph’s wife. After your time. You won’t have met her.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s the party I saw on the way over? If so, Sir Ralph was astride a rather mettlesome stallion. Most impressively caparisoned—’

  ‘That’d be Sir Ralph all right.’

  ‘And his lady? Hair black as ebony, and wearing a blue velvet cloak?’

  ‘And that’d be the Lady Sibilla. And what a size she is! ’Struth!’ Ulf held his hands in front of an imaginary beer gut. Despite his height and job he was as thin as a lath.

  ‘She didn’t look particularly big to me,’ said Hildegard. ‘Rather slight, I thought. Anyway, the party I saw must have arrived ages ago, the pace they were going.’

  ‘They did,’ said Ulf.

  ‘But I thought you just said she was due?’ Hildegard was puzzled.

  ‘Due. Yes.’ He blushed. Auburn-blond, he blushed easily and his skin was now nearly the same shade as his beard. He cupped his hands round an imaginary stomach and Hildegard suddenly understood.

  ‘But she was riding astride!’ she exclaimed, rain on her lashes making her blink. ‘And,’ she added in surprise, ‘she must be all of forty.’

  ‘That’s why Roger’s going to be pleased to see you.’ He tapped the scrip at her belt which he guessed was full of cures. ‘Many hands make light work.’