Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  On the far side of the hall Ralph was dancing with a few others in a circle and concentrating fiercely on his steps. She saw him push his hair from his brow with both hands and spin from the group when a servant tugged at his sleeve. Roger noticed this too and, accompanied by the visitor from Lombardy, managed to reach her side first.

  He planted himself in front of her. ‘You have news. I can tell by your face.’

  She beamed. ‘Lady Sibilla has a son.’

  Roger’s expression was one of relief. ‘So, the succession is safe!’ He raised a triumphant fist. In the hubbub of cheers from those nearest, Hildegard stared at him in astonishment. ‘But what about your own son?’ she blurted under cover of the cheering voices. ‘Surely Edwin will succeed to your title and domains? In the distant future, of course. Or failing him,’ she hesitated, ‘you wouldn’t let the law obstruct Philippa’s claim?’

  She noticed the Lombardy merchant, standing within earshot, narrow his eyes.

  ‘The law is the law,’ grunted Roger. ‘I’ve no reason to kick against it. Philippa can either make a marriage or choose a nunnery. As for Edwin…’ He scowled. ‘I have no son called Edwin.’

  Hildegard suppressed a reply. Puzzled, she watched him force his way into the midst of the rabble and hold up both hands.

  ‘Cease your romping, friends!’ At once everybody fell silent except for a lone lutenist who stopped playing only when he got a cuff on the ear from his master. Roger smiled expansively at his audience. ‘We are, dear friends, blessed with an heir!’ There were cheers. ‘And,’ he held up a hand, ‘it’s all thanks to my dear brother Ralph.’

  ‘Sibilla had a part surely?’ reproved Philippa from the sidelines.

  ‘I thank her as well,’ he huffed. ‘It takes two. I know that.’ He strode over to his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. Ralph, blinking in confusion, found himself smothered in a fraternal embrace.

  Coming up for air, he asked, ‘You did say a son?’

  ‘Yes, you dolt!’ Roger laughed.

  ‘Have you seen him? Who says it’s a son—?’

  ‘Hildegard has seen him. Just now! This very minute past!’ Roger was clearly elated at the news.

  Ralph clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, the Blessed Virgin and all the heavenly host!’

  Everyone cheered again.

  ‘I must go to him.’ He turned to the company and stretched out his arms to include them all. ‘Kindred, dearest friends, honoured guests. Allow me a few moments alone with my wife and babe – if they allow a sinner such as me near so precious a being – and then you may come and admire!’ With a bow to acknowledge everyone, including the merchant-prince, Ralph fled the chamber.

  William could not resist a jibe. ‘I doubt he’ll be so enamoured of the brat when it shits and pukes over his best cloak,’ he grunted. There was violence in his eyes. He might well rage for some time, thought Hildegard, now that in one fell swoop his own two sons were pushed back down the line of inheritance.

  And what of Melisen all this while? she wondered, turning her head. She was standing to one side without uttering a word. As Roger received congratulations, as if it had been all his own doing, she stood twisting the brooch on her bodice. Only when her husband happened to catch her eye did she go over and slip into the shelter of his arms.

  ‘We are happy for Sir Ralph and Lady Sibilla,’ she announced to the company at large. ‘May the babe be a blessing to one and all.’ Standing close by, Hildegard could not help hearing her add in a quiet voice meant for Roger alone, ‘But we too shall soon have cause for celebration, husband dear, shall we not? How could it not be so?’

  Roger cupped her chin and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Soon? You say soon?’ He kissed her possessively. ‘For your sake, my lady, I hope soon is the mot juste.’

  Hildegard saw the girl’s colour fade.

  ‘I meant what I said about that wine,’ said Ulf in her ear a few minutes later.

  The noise of the revellers had reached a deafening pitch now there was yet another cause for celebration. Toast after toast was made. The wine and ale flowed without cease. Melisen was dancing in a provocative fashion in the middle of a circle of admiring guests while Roger huffed and puffed, torn between pride in the youth and beauty of his fifth wife and jealousy at the lascivious looks she was arousing among his men. Pride won. Hildegard raised her eyebrows at Ulf as they watched Roger step into the circle to take his wife by the hand.

  With the cheers and ribald comments of the guests ringing in her ears as Roger was put through his paces, she followed the steward into his little room off the Great Hall.

  ‘So this is where you do your plotting!’ she joked as she glanced round at the neatly ordered shelves containing what looked like documents relating to the many manorial holdings he administered on Roger’s behalf. When she shot Ulf a glance, though, he wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘Sit down, do.’ He pulled a bench forward and threw a fur over it. There was a fire blazing in the new grate. She put her feet up on a log of wood, wriggled her toes in her scarpollini, the cork-soled shoes covered in cloth that made no sound on the stone alleyway of the cloisters, and gave a sigh. It was quiet in here with the door closed, the only sound the spitting of the logs in the grate.

  ‘Peace at last,’ she sighed with a sudden heartfelt feeling of relief. ‘I had the most frightening journey over to Meaux. I’ll tell you about it in a moment when you sit down.’

  With a goblet of what turned out to be as excellent a Guienne as one could wish, she asked Ulf again what was troubling him.

  ‘You can guess. It’s Edwin,’ he said, and stopped as if uncertain how to go on.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Ulf frowned. ‘Dead for all I know.’ He chewed his beard then came to sit beside her. ‘Sorry. That’s not very funny. He took off after an almighty row with Roger a couple of months ago: Roger swearing he was disinherited, Edwin vowing never to return. Since then, nothing. I would have expected a word by now. A sighting at least. I have contacts all over. But no, not a bloody thing. I’m fond of the lad and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘What about Philippa? Doesn’t she know anything?’

  ‘She’s worried sick. She thinks he’s gone to France.’

  ‘As a mercenary, you mean?’

  ‘What else?’ He gave her a sharp glance.

  She ignored it. ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘She may be right. It’s the sort of damned stupid thing he would do, just to show everybody. He’ll probably come swanning back laden with booty.’

  ‘Roger seems very hard on his children.’ She thought of a ring she had seen. ‘I was wondering about Philippa and whether she’s betrothed?’

  ‘You noticed her ring?’

  ‘I saw a ring. She keeps it well hidden in the folds of her gown while that Lombardy fellow’s around.’

  Ulf sucked in air through his teeth.

  She said, ‘I didn’t expect Roger to cut Philippa out of the succession. What on earth’s that about?’

  ‘He’s Norman all right when it suits him,’ muttered Ulf. ‘Why he’s following Norman law now of all times beats me. Old King Edward refused allegiance to France and young Richard seems to show the same spirit. So why is Roger coming out on the wrong—?’ He broke off and, as if to conceal his indiscretion on the subject of Roger’s allegiance, made a show of wrestling one foot out of its boot, fiddling with the lining, then shoving his foot back inside with a scowl. He retied the drawstring. ‘It’s common knowledge folks on the coast down south are being overrun by French pirates but nobody does a blessed thing to protect them. Imagine, unable to sleep in your bed at night for fear of having your throat slit?’

  ‘The French aren’t everywhere,’ she reminded him in an attempt to cheer him up. ‘At least the courts are using English now.’

  ‘’Bout time too. But let’s talk about you.’

  She explained h
ow unhappy she had been, living at the hermitage with no more useful purpose in life than to ferry people across the river and pray and think of Hugh. And then had come that night when she had the vision, or the dream, call it what you want, and it had all become brilliantly clear, and she had the funds, and she had permission from the abbot and the support of her own prioress, and she was going to set up her own small house where she could cure the sick and teach the children of the villeins to read so they would have a proper start in life. And it was more than she had ever hoped for in the horrible dark days of her solitude.

  ‘But isn’t it a dangerous thing to do these days? Teaching reading? There’s plenty in power want to keep the labourers in the bliss of ignorance.’

  ‘I doubt whether the poor think it’s bliss not to be able to read the laws that bind them,’ said Hildegarde. ‘And if they learn to read Wyclif’s Bible for themselves that’s surely to the good too.’ She had gone farther than she had meant to in mentioning Wyclif, but Ulf was an old friend, even if there had been a gap of seven years.

  He said nothing. She took his silence for agreement. As she hoped, when she went on to tell him about her need for a suitable place, he suggested a grange or two that might be available. Then she told him about the murdered youth she had found on her way to Meaux.

  ‘It was a horrible discovery. He was no more than a boy. He reminded me of my own son, he looked little older than Bertrand—’

  ‘I hear your young ’un’s trying to earn his spurs with the army of the Bishop of Norwich?’

  Hildegard nodded. ‘He could so easily end up the same way as—’ She faltered.

  ‘As your gallant Hugh?’

  ‘I was going to say as that poor youth – stabbed and left to bleed alone in some forest clearing. His mother living in ignorance of his death.’ She gave Ulf a tremulous smile as fears crowded her mind. ‘At least I persuaded some of de Courcy’s men to carry his body back to Meaux. He lies in the chapel there, waiting for the coroner. My part in the whole sorry event is almost over.’

  ‘And yet?’

  ‘Am I so transparent?’

  ‘I’ve known you long enough to read your face. You haven’t changed all that much in seven years.’

  She smiled at the recollection of a shared childhood, Ulf at five riding his woodsman father pick-a-back round the bailey, learning to handle his first bow, training his first hawk. The memories made her glance soften for a moment. Then, looking into the fire, she furrowed her brow. ‘I can’t help asking myself if I stumbled on something deeper than a random attack.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ulf leaned forward.

  Instead of answering she asked, ‘Can you tell me where the Beverley gibbet lies?’

  ‘On the West Common, of course.’ His eyes didn’t leave hers.

  ‘I thought so too. But after turning off the north lane to go on to the abbey I saw five men hanging there on a gibbet.’

  If Ulf already knew about them he gave no sign.

  She went on, ‘I was surprised at how far from the town the gibbet was but took it as an official hanging place and assumed that the men there had been punished for some crime, tried and proven in the court.’ Ulf was still watching her with a look on his face she had never seen before. It was coldly assessing, as if what she said were being rapidly balanced against other information he had. ‘It was only afterwards,’ she continued, ‘when I was describing the place where I found the body, that I realised I was wrong. The abbot’s sacristan is a local man and knows the woods like the back of his hand. When I said it was near the gibbet I thought he was being particularly obtuse in not understanding me. It was only later that I realised the gibbet I saw was nothing to do with the town.’

  ‘And that means—?’

  ‘Ulf, it was an execution! The mercenaries don’t waste time building gibbets. They rob lone travellers and kill them if they resist and move on. Or they kidnap anybody worth a ransom. But they don’t execute their victims. Certainly not by hanging—’

  ‘And quartering—?’

  ‘They hadn’t reached that stage. It was left to the crows to finish. Possibly somebody disturbed them. You see, if it had been a band of masterless men they would have taken off the heads of their enemies and paraded them about on poles to demonstrate what they see as power. But this was different. It was an execution,’ she repeated, wondering why he didn’t react, ‘it was the sort of punishment meted out to traitors, a most horrible death to inflict on anyone. And it was done secretly in the depths of the forest. Who would do that? And who do they judge as traitors?’

  ‘What did the abbot say?’

  She glanced down at her fingers and studied them. ‘It’s outside his jurisdiction. It didn’t happen on abbey lands so he can’t do anything. I had to bully his men to get them to bring the boy back before he got to know of it. I lied a little when he questioned me,’ she admitted. ‘I thought it was justified.’

  ‘Lied?’

  ‘About its exact location.’

  When she looked up Ulf was still watching her.

  ‘I wonder if he’s to be trusted?’ she managed, her thoughts running on. ‘The Cistercians are bound to France, to Citeaux, to Clement, their so-called pope at Avignon. He appoints the abbots in the monasteries. De Courcy himself was put in over the head of the old abbot at Meaux by Clement. They said the pope had to step in because of some irregularity in the election. But we, I mean the prioress and most of the sisters at Swyne, believe there’s another reason. No one can deny that the Church forms a separate state within the state. And the war continues despite the treaty—’

  ‘And you fear we have enemies in our midst?’ His lips compressed, he seemed like a stranger, his expression revealing a harshness that had not been there in the old days. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘Rome is a foreign power too.’

  There was a long silence while she took in this fact. He seemed to be staring at her monastic robes. The conversation had started amiably enough but it was now strangely weighted.

  She considered what he might intend to convey of his own loyalties. Many people rejected both popes, wanting an end to the power the Church held and supporting Wyclif in his dispute with the authorities. They wanted Church lands to be given back to the people. They saw all clerics as the enemy.

  It was politics and trade which made the king and his archbishop throw in their lot with Rome against Avignon. Maybe Richard’s ministers even hoped that when he came of age he would acquire the crown of the Holy Roman Empire himself. His new, young wife was the emperor’s daughter. But the choice of pope had turned into one more reason to quarrel with the French. It rendered more bitter the long war between the two nations that had already spanned several decades. The schism in the Church was doing nothing to bring the war to an end.

  Except for the warlords and their mercenaries, people were sick of the whole business. They believed all popes, present and future, should be barred from interfering in English affairs and the rapacious taxes they imposed should be rejected. The Commons had petitioned against papal taxation many times until they were driven to the folly of trying to impose another rise in the poll tax in order to pay. That time the people had risen up in protest. Now it seemed as if Ulf was saying what many said: a curse on both your houses.

  Hildegard gazed into the fire. Sedition and dissent are cousins, she decided, and it was best to keep quiet until she saw what new alliances had been formed since she was last out in the world. But she realised that she was in danger of being misunderstood.

  Before she could explain Ulf said, ‘To reject the clerics is one thing. It doesn’t imply rejection of King Richard.’ He frowned. ‘We know what Master Tyler and his friends wanted. They wanted the king to rule and the clerics thrown out with just one archbishop in charge. It was agreed by the king at Smithfield then later revoked by his council in his name.’

  His glance travelled over her white habit again and she could sense the questions he wanted to ask. But his eyes were
of that dangerous blue that can be both as clear as glass and as concealing as the ocean. It made him difficult to read, and she was wary of uttering a careless remark that might acquire a more dangerous meaning if circumstances changed.

  Trusting to their shared childhood, she decided to risk a small admission. ‘I do believe we women are different to many of the men who join the orders. We take the veil for reasons that are often more secular than not. I believe we feel a greater need to do good in the world. Many men seem only interested in conquest and killing. I believe women bleed more easily for the poor, the sick and the dispossessed. It seems to me that only by joining forces with other like-minded women in our own houses can we garner the power to change anything. Even then, of course,’ she gave a rueful smile, ‘our efforts are like leaves in the wind against so much misery.’

  She was on the point of adding: our allegiance is to humankind, not to some man sitting on a throne somewhere. But fear of going too far and appearing to speak against both king and pope made her hold her tongue.

  ‘You say change,’ he pointed out with a dry smile, ‘but that can mean all things to all men. It can be a desire to turn everything upside down, to rip out corruption, root and branch, or it can suggest something more like a gardener retraining the branches, snipping off a bud here and there, digging out a few weeds. Both are kinds of change.’ He watched her closely.

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed, without giving anything away.

  The small chamber seemed to prickle with darker meanings. Neither could speak frankly. Trust was something that in these terrible times no one could risk. They were both aware of the penalty for dissent – France and Germany were aflame with the bodies of heretics. Thankfully that hadn’t happened here. But the punishment for plotting against the king was equally violent. The heads on spikes at every town gate testified to it. It was as well to remember that power is as shifting as the wind, and an untimely confession of loyalties today could turn to betrayal tomorrow.

  As the months unfolded after the riots in London it became clear that the king’s strongest support came from the dissenters. That fact, or hope as some would see it, could lure the incautious to their doom. If Ulf looked askance at her Cistercian habit then she too had to remember that he was Lord Roger’s right-hand man. And where, she wondered, did Roger’s allegiance lie? I don’t want to be mincemeat, he had told her.