Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  Longing to speak freely, she watched Ulf reach out for the flagon and refill their goblets. Remember Wyclif, she warned herself. His writings while Edward was on the throne were radically different now his grandson reigned. It wasn’t the king who had wrought the change but the logic of Wyclif’s own reasoning which had led him to throw out his earlier beliefs. She had read his works. She understood their logic.

  ‘Now then, what about Hubert de Courcy?’ said Ulf breaking into her thoughts. His expression had acquired a gleam, inviting confession.

  ‘He seems popular with the fine folk of Beverley,’ she replied, matching his lighter tone.

  ‘Especially the female side, I hear.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Avoiding the probing of his glance she said, ‘In many ways his views are surely ones most of us find acceptable – the values of his order, I mean, such as poverty, humility, lack of prideful show of wealth—’ She broke off when Ulf began to chuckle. ‘What?’

  ‘And this is the Hubert de Courcy you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I know him at all!’

  They both laughed in unison then but Hildegard doubted whether it was for the same reason. At least it enabled her to move the conversation on to the topic of Roger and his new wife. ‘I expect he’s drinking as much as ever he did?’

  ‘He’s not changed in that respect.’

  ‘What about Melisen? Doesn’t she mind?’

  ‘She takes steps.’ He gave a grimace and when Hildegard raised her brows he added, ‘You probably haven’t noticed her eyes? I reckon she’s as out of it as he is by the time they tumble into bed. And him wanting another son? That’s not the way to go about it to my way of thinking. It’s been three months now and still no sign of a little one. That’s why Sir Ralph’s been able to step in.’

  ‘Her eyes, you say?’

  ‘That stuff she uses. You should know, with your electuaries and your weird cures.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the belladonna? Well, I assume she knows how to handle it. It’s common practice in France and Italy, I understand. For beauty’s sake, they say. Of course, it might draw Roger to her bed but it’s not going to make her pregnant. If that’s what she wants she’s going to have to change her apothecary.’

  As she left Ulf to go to the privacy of her chamber Hildegard wondered why she had not mentioned the little glass phial she had found in the dead man’s hand. Did she really not trust Ulf any longer, or was it simply a question of wanting to have a proper look at it herself before offering it to anyone else for interpretation?

  With the door firmly closed she took it from her scrip and raised it to the light. The possibility of what she held made her shudder. She had been right to be cautious. The phial was intended as a reliquary. But she guessed it would be no saint’s knuckle bone she would find inside. She hesitated before scraping away the wax and unscrewing the stopper. There was a sort of holiness implied by the care with which the contents were protected. But she had to be sure.

  Inside she found a tightly furled scrap of linen. As she opened it out she knew her suspicions were confirmed. It was a piece torn from a banner. Roughly hand stitched, it bore a sign of some kind, a motif that could have signified an animal of which only the edge of one leg still remained. There was also a stain. Dark and somewhat stiff to the touch, it could only be blood. Rumours had brought news of this new type of holy relic. Certainly it was not for trade by any pardoner.

  When Wat Tyler and his supporters, the men of Kent and Essex, had their demands met so swiftly by the king at Smithfield they later dispersed, taking with them the charters agreeing to their terms, complete with a royal seal and the banner from their own manor or vill. They had borne these proudly home as proof of the king’s bond. But the hopes of the protesters had been dashed when the king reneged.

  Some loyally said it was because Richard had forced him to withdraw promises not to the liking of them or the council of magnates and bishops. They said they had even threatened to take away his crown.

  Others said King Richard had never intended to keep his word but had given it wildly out of fear of the power of the peasant armies that held London in their grip for three days.

  Overnight the charters which the labourers hadn’t been taught to read became worthless, the banners symbols of defeat. But meanings, like power, can change. Now it was said that the banners dipped in Tyler’s blood were more sacred to the rebels than any relic of the saints.

  After the labourers from Kent and Essex were butchered by the king’s men the shock waves were felt throughout the country. Afterwards, the repression, so swift, so violent, was worse because it took place in secret. Known sympathisers simply disappeared. It didn’t need rumour to blow it up into the stuff of nightmares. It was easy to fob off a grieving wife or mother, an inquisitive neighbour or concerned kinsman with an excuse for a sudden absence. She herself understood the grief of these vanishings.

  But this relic, now.

  When Tyler had been slaughtered by one of Mayor Walworth’s men at Smithfield he had been taken to St Bartholomew’s where he had lain dying for some hours, his followers, it is said, dipping their banners in his blood and vowing to fight on. Pieces of the banners were said to circulate as symbols of the continuing rebellion which was now forced underground. It was said that when the pieces were brought together it would be the signal for a second and more organised revolt.

  Her fingers trembled. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from the relic she held in her hand.

  The rebellion was moving north.

  Chapter Three

  THE HOUNDS HAD been kennelled in the yard beside the servants’ kitchens. Now, when she returned, a scullion was feeding them scraps in the shelter of a thatched lean-to. A skinny little urchin not more than nine or ten years old, dressed in a grubby tunic of fustian and barefoot despite the time of year, the boy was settled on his haunches, oblivious to the rain pelting down outside his den, and conversing in a language known only to himself and his charges.

  Hildegard contemplated the scene for a moment. No doubt the child would be bedding down beside the hounds this night and thinking himself lucky to have found a dry corner of the yard and two warm creatures to nestle beside him. He looked less well cared for than the hounds. Her heart melted. Just then he must have caught sight of the tip of her robe out of the corner of his eye because he uttered a little cry and scrambled to his feet. She waved him back down. ‘They like you, elfling. You must have a way with animals.’

  ‘She’s a good ’un, this titch,’ he tickled Bermonda behind the ears, ‘but I’m a bit wary of the big ’un.’ Indeed, the lymer’s muzzle was almost on a level with his little face and Duchess could have bitten it off in one bite had she been so minded. Instead she nuzzled at his tunic and seemed quite enamoured.

  ‘So what’s your name, sir?’

  Blushing to his carrot-top at being expected to speak to a woman in a nun’s habit, he muttered, ‘Burthred, my lady.’

  ‘You may, Burthred, if you will, see to the care of these creatures for the whole time I’m a guest here. Provided they have not harmed either themselves or anyone else I’ll make sure you’re well rewarded. What do you say?’ Of course he couldn’t refuse. He was a serf. But she thought it fair to ask. His urchin smile gave her the clearest proof of delight she could desire.

  She informed the kitchener in charge and it was agreed that the boy should be released from his other duties for a time. ‘I expect to be away first thing tomorrow morning,’ she told them.

  A scene of such sweet harmony had brought a smile to Hildegard’s face as she set off across the bailey, and she felt so well pleased that even the piercing rain could not dampen her spirits. She merely tightened the linen kerchief she had on over her snood and pulled up the hood of her cloak until only her eyes were visible, then, hitching her hem out of the mud, she fixed it in place with a couple of turns on her leather belt until she could get back indoors.


  Such was her inattention to her surroundings as she did all this that when she reached the door she thought would lead to a passage into the Great Hall she found herself in a part of the castle she had never seen before.

  A stone-flagged corridor ran straight and empty for a few yards then descended by six short steps to a further door studded with brass nails. Rather than turn round and go back into the rain again she decided to press on, and soon she was at the door and grasping the large ring-handle to let herself through. Believing it to be a short cut to her destination, she was surprised when she found herself in what could only be the undercroft.

  A labyrinth of stone pillars rose before her out of the darkness. They were made visible only by a faint glow that came from the far side of the cavern. The muffled sound of men’s voices bellowing some ale-house chant floated from the same direction. Assuming it was the sound of revellers in the Great Hall, she stretched both hands in front of her to counter sudden obstacles, and set off into the void, one step followed by another, gingerly, carefully, aware of the danger of an uncovered well or a sudden drop to an even deeper level of the cellar, but confident that she had found the short cut she was looking for. From all sides came the scent of spices and the stored fruits of summer: apples, pears, quinces and dried fruits, too, apricots and lemons, and a sweetness like oils from a warmer climate, all packed and bottled and trussed in the shadowy arcades between the pillars.

  Eventually, unscathed, she reached the light that outlined the door into the hall and pushed it open with a feeling of relief. For a moment she was blinded by a blaze of light. It came, however, not from the many cressets and candles that lit the hall but from a single brazier, wild with flames, set in the middle of a small yard. Stone walls rose up on four sides, without a chink, to the height of the battlements. Acrid smoke was drifting through the rain and filled every nook.

  Sprawled around the fire, faces crimson in its lurid light, were four men-at-arms. They were bristling with weapons and – hardened to the weather – ignored the rain that was now drilling spikes into the ground from a slit of sky high above. Instead, they gripped flagons of foaming ale in their fists with evident satisfaction. When Hildegard burst in on them they were in the middle of some raucous chant, mouths open to reveal blackened teeth, eyes small with drink. The blazons on the surcoats of the three nearest were not the red and gold worn by Roger’s men but the blue marsh dragon of Sir William. The fourth man wore no blazon at all.

  This one, dark haired like the others, was sitting facing the door astride the keg from which they all drew their ale, and had the attitude of being the man in charge. He was the first to see her and the instant she appeared his mouth froze, half open in surprise at what must have looked like an apparition. Her dark cloak and concealing hood may have alarmed him but he was not too drunk to forget his training. He responded with alarming speed.

  Dragging a short, wicked-looking blade from the scabbard at his side, he leaped to his feet at once. The others, noticing something amiss, broke off in mid-chant and followed his gaze. There was a hiss of steel as they too drew their weapons but, unlike their leader, they did not bother to rise to their feet but lolled where they were on the muddy ground, waiting to see what would happen next.

  After a brief pause the first man started to cackle with apparent delight. He had noticed Hildegard’s cork-soled scarpollini under the tucked-up hem of her cloak and pointed at them with the tip of his dagger.

  ‘Look, lads! I do believe St Martin has brought us the gift of a wench!’ Pushing between the sprawling legs of his comrades as he resheathed his knife, he stepped round the brazier and lurched towards her. Before Hildegard could work out what his intention was he was looming over her with a leer on his face which his short, tufty beard could not conceal.

  He shot out a hand and felt for her breasts. ‘It’s a wench, all right. Tonight’s your lucky night, woman!’

  ‘Take your hands off me! How dare you—’

  ‘Come on, don’t be like that!’ As she turned to move away he reached out to grip her by the wrist and pulled her hard up against his chest.

  ‘Stop this! I—’

  ‘Shut up, whore!’ He cuffed her on the side of the head. ‘God’s looking after you. He’s about to grant you four times the pleasure.’ Taking both arms and forcing them behind her back so that she was trapped, he threw a glance over one shoulder. ‘What do you say, lads? Who’s first?’ His companions started to shout drunkenly and bang their flagons on the ground, and one of them even managed to struggle to his feet to stake his claim.

  Hildegard didn’t wait to hear what they would propose next. Taking her captor by surprise, she wrenched herself from his grip, swivelled and plunged back the way she had come, straight into the black pit of the undercroft, but this time with no guiding light to aid her. Weaving blindly between the columns with the outraged curses of her pursuer echoing around the vault, she had gone only a little way when she felt him grasp her cloak to bring her tumbling back against his leather body-armour in a violent embrace. She screamed and began to struggle.

  ‘When I say come back, I mean come back!’ he snarled. She felt his fingers bite into her jaw as he jerked her face up. Then, before she could protest, he began to grind his mouth against her own, and no matter how much she struggled, her strength was no match for his. Only when she felt him fumbling in the folds of her cloak did her anger force her to kick him as hard as she could, knowing even as she did so that her cork-soled shoes were useless against the cured leather greaves he wore, but at that moment she was unable to think of any better way to defend herself.

  ‘Bitch!’ he ground out. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want to please me.’ He drove his mouth against her own again in a stink of ale and bad teeth.

  Over his shoulder she was aware of the blazing fire and the silhouettes of his companions as they jostled to get through the door first, but her captor turned his head and grunted, ‘Get away, you bastards. You can have her when I’ve finished.’ But just as he turned back to tear at the tightly belted folds of her cloak, she brought her right knee hard into his groin. It met the edge of his leather tunic and this second feeble attempt to thwart him only made him laugh with malign satisfaction.

  ‘Come on,’ he grunted, ‘fight me! I like a whore with spirit! It makes winning all the sweeter.’ He hit her on the side of the head. ‘Show me, bitch! You want to fight? Come on, then, fight!’

  As he was taunting her he was backing her feverishly into the darkness of the undercroft. His breath rasped with a feral urgency as his lust increased, and she knew that if she didn’t do something quickly it would be too late. Her only hope was the knife in her belt but he held her in so tight a grip she could not get her fingers round it without revealing what she was trying to do.

  To distract him she dug her nails into his face with all her force. His response was to shake his head to dislodge her grasp and laugh all the more. It was a grating sound that lacked any sign of joy, and in retaliation he ground his teeth into her neck, tearing at her cloak and all the while cursing the inconvenience it was causing him.

  Discovering the leather belt that held it in place, he grappled at the buckle but could not open it. Angered, he slammed her against one of the pillars, and as she fell back her head cracked against it. She would have slumped to the ground with the shock but for the fact that he still held her round the waist. As he pressed his body against hers the rank smell of old sweat swept over her and the staleness of his unwashed garments made her want to vomit.

  With an effort she forced her fingers into the notch of her belt and found the knife, but although she managed to get a grip on it she couldn’t manage to turn the blade. Instead she had to bring it hilt upwards. She rammed it hard under his jaw. ‘You devil! Let me go!’

  The action took him by surprise. He obviously hadn’t realised she was armed. His head jerked back but, professional fighter that he was, he recovered instantly and, enraged at bei
ng struck by a woman, grabbed her round the neck with both hands and began to shake her like a doll, grunting, ‘I’ll teach you, you bloody whore!’

  His eyes locked on hers and she saw the madness of evil in them. There was no doubt about the end he had in mind. It was obvious he would relish the chance to gloat over her dead body after he had done with her what he willed. It would be ill-doing for its own sake. She had to loosen his grip.

  While he was still fumbling under her cloak she brought her free hand up and jabbed two fingers hard into his right eye and rammed the hilt of her knife into his throat and, while his head jerked back and a cry of pain was torn from his lips, she twisted free. With a sob of fear she fled crazily back into the darkness and on, deeper into the labyrinth of pillars.

  I must find the door, she thought in desperation. But where is it? Already her attacker had recovered and she could hear his feet pounding the stone flags as he came after her. His steel-tipped boots echoed like the sound of a dozen men. She ran first one way then another. His breathing seemed to fill the entire chamber.

  With a gasp she saw a glimmer of light that seemed to indicate an exit and, with an extra spurt, she flung herself towards it. At her touch a door swung open and, sobbing with relief, she fell through to the other side.

  Her relief turned to horror the instant she realised it did not lead to safety as she had hoped but was instead the entrance to a small, lightless cell. With the swiftness of thought that comes from fear she ran her hands over the walls, frantically searching for a way out, but found only stone beneath her palms.

  Her pursuer was still rifling among the arcades crammed with provisions destined for the castle kitchens but she could hear the echo of his footsteps as he approached. There was a clatter of steel followed by a curse as he realised he had lost the trail and his sword came up against the wall. Her reprieve was short lived. There was a short pause, then his footsteps rang out again as, like a hound quartering on the prey, he regained the scent and resumed the pursuit. Stealthily she pushed the door shut, playing for time while she tried to find a way out. He was coming closer. At any moment he would find the door and all would be lost.