Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  She turned to go, but not before bursting into tears again as if abruptly remembering she was supposed to be grieving. ‘Oh, my poor dear father,’ she wailed. ‘Why was he always so unfair?’

  That gives us almost all the family, Hildegard murmured to herself as she continued up to Sibilla’s apartment: Melisen, William and Avice, and now Philippa. If anybody had a solid reason for wanting Roger out of the way, it was her. But the idea was inconceivable.

  As for the others, there were obstacles there too. William, for instance. Although he must be furious at Ralph’s baby being preferred above his own sons his prospects wouldn’t be changed by getting rid of Roger, as Ulf had pointed out. There were too many other claimants to the de Hutton title and lands. Besides, to poison somebody needed planning. Roger hadn’t announced his intention to name Ralph’s son until shortly before he drank the poison. Even Melisen had looked stunned by the news. That seems to put William out of the running. It was an act that had required forethought.

  Well, at least Ralph was off the list of suspects owing to his good fortune in having sired the heir. She could easily envisage him patiently playing the role of regent. It was what he had always done, played second fiddle to his elder brother. But Sibilla? She didn’t know the woman at all.

  As Hildegard made her way towards the sound of a crying baby she considered others who had been present the previous night. There were the visitors, Ludovico and his men, plus Master Schockwynde, of course. Not much change from a penny there. Who else? There was a throng of guests below the salt, burgesses from York as well as Beverley, some wool dealers and their wives, and she had a vague memory of the two friars way down at the far end. Then there were the servants. In and out. Now here, now there. All the yeomen of the board, present in abundance, had had open access to the top table, where Roger sat with his family.

  Lady Sibilla was looking remarkably crisp in a lace nightgown. Her hair with its white blaze was swept back, making her look rather regal. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms. She smiled warmly when she saw Hildegard come in. ‘I’ve just got him off,’ she warned. Closing the door quietly, the nun tiptoed over to have a look. The baby’s small face was framed in a bonnet of fresh cotton and lace. His eyelids were like tiny rose petals.

  Ulf had told her with a grin that he took after Ralph in looks. ‘A chip off the old block,’ he said. But she was not so sure. She watched Sibilla tease a little sigh from him with her long, white fingers and, noticing the high neck of Sibilla’s gown, she asked, ‘Aren’t you nursing him yourself?’

  ‘Certainly not! I’ve got a wet-nurse. She should be here any minute.’

  They regarded the baby in silence. He lay there sleeping peacefully and Hildegard wondered how he would turn out when he was fully grown. She asked about the name.

  Sibilla frowned and dabbed her eyes with a corner of the baby’s gown. Her rings flashed. She wore many more than the one garnet Hildegard had noticed during her labour. But there it was, as dark as blood on her finger. ‘We had,’ she said with a sigh, ‘intended to ask Roger if we might name him after him. But now, oh, what now? Poor, poor Roger. Why did it happen now of all times? And how? He seemed so fit. He was such a man.’

  ‘I’m sure Roger will be proud to give his name,’ said Hildegard, momentarily careless with her tenses.

  Sibilla, unnoticing, brightened. ‘If you think so then I suppose it would be all right to make the announcement? We are not too precipitate?’

  ‘What does Sir Ralph think?’

  ‘Ralph will follow me.’

  Sibilla seemed confident of that, Hildegard thought. It was no surprise. Ralph had the air of a man for whom decisions were what other people made. Head in the clouds, just as in the old days. And yet he was astute in many ways, no ignoramus, whatever he might pretend to the contrary, and, she recalled, even at the age of ten he had been outstanding chess player. There was a board over on a table by the casement with a few pieces set out, offering an intriguing challenge to the white queen.

  Hildegard said, ‘I’m so glad we’ve met at last, Sibilla. I knew Sir Ralph when he was a boy. Of course, he’s ten years younger than me.’ Than us, she thought, thinking of Hugh.

  ‘So he told me. He said you were a sharp one.’

  ‘He did?’

  Sibilla laughed. ‘He said, “Nothing gets past Hildegard.” I admire you, not remarrying. I suppose you’re free to do pretty well as you like nowadays?’

  ‘Except for the Rule,’ Hildegard reminded her.

  Ralph entered. He was carrying a cat.

  ‘Do you want to say hello to Master Jacques?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you found him. Clever you!’ cried Sibilla. ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Up the new chimney. He’s still puzzled by them.’ Ralph stroked the cat sensuously from head to tail, and Hildegard realised that what she had taken to be a fur tippet was Master Jacques the cat. ‘Sweet creature.’ He kissed him on the nose. Then he glanced up. ‘Hildegard, it was good of you to look in on Sibilla last night. The midwife told me how you went up to help. How are you these days?’

  ‘She’s a nun, Ralph,’ said Sibilla.

  ‘I suppose you’re using your Latin all the time now, are you?’

  ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘Getting a bit rusty myself.’ Ralph kissed the cat again. ‘Gatto angeli est. Orisit angelo? Is it even gatto?’

  ‘I’m sure Hildegard doesn’t want to talk Latin to you, sweeting,’ said Sibilla. ‘Would you if you were visiting someone?’

  ‘It would depend why I was visiting them. Why are you here?’ he asked. Sibilla and Ralph both turned to look at her.

  Hildegard felt a sudden tension in the air.

  ‘Why are any of us here?’ she replied.

  ‘I suppose your answer is: to do God’s will,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Indeed. I’m also here to ask Roger if he can help me out with a spare grange or out-of-the-way manor house if there’s one going begging.’

  ‘You are?’

  Hildegard didn’t elaborate on the Vision, merely saying, ‘I thought I might use Hugh’s money to set up a house of my own with a few like-minded women.’ It seemed an age since she’d been able to give her purpose for coming to Hutton any thought at all.

  ‘Shrewd idea!’ said Ralph. He turned to his wife. ‘I told you she was a sharp one.’

  ‘Better than remarrying and letting your fortune fall into the hands of some penniless knight.’ Sibilla sounded waspish, but her glance trailed past Ralph.

  They discussed Hildegard’s project for a while, Sibilla now and then cooing over the baby, Ralph stroking the cat, but neither with anything practical to suggest. The conversation soon petered out.

  Hildegard got up to go when the wet-nurse arrived. Ralph’s an odd one, she thought as she left. He paid more attention to his cat than to his own flesh and blood. And ‘gatto’? It wasn’t Latin at all. How did it come about that was he was picking up dialect from the Lombards?

  Still pondering, she came across Ulf, in his mourning apparel of black velvet, although he still wore his wide belt hung with keys to all the locks in the castle. He teasingly put his stick of office across the door when she tried to enter the Great Hall. ‘Satisfied yourself it’s not Ralph?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so. He and Sibilla seem very settled. I left when the wet-nurse arrived. Who is she, do you know?’

  ‘Somebody they brought with them,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen her.’ Then his eyes gleamed. ‘You’re homing in on someone, I can tell from your face.’

  ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’ Then she met his glance. ‘There’s only one person so far who seems to gain anything by Roger’s death but you won’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  She gave him a level stare. ‘Philippa.’

  He gave an exclamation of disbelief. ‘Philippa? Are you mad?’

  ‘I knew you’d protest. But with her father out of the way, she can marry Ludovico.’


  ‘I don’t know what’s come over you.’ He stared down at her for an age, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Philippa? Of all people!’ Then, ‘’Struth, Hildegard, tighten the reins, do.’

  They went in to break their fast. Considering the events of the previous night, the place was surprisingly busy. There was a buzz of conversation that lessened momentarily as Ulf proceeded between the trestles, but resumed with equal fervour when he was out of earshot.

  ‘They’re making a meal of all this. Looking at each other for signs of the plague. I’m surprised they’ve come down to mingle.’

  The kitchen staff hurried in and out with pies and ingeniously reconstituted leftovers and Hildegard picked at something set down in front of her with a thoughtful expression. ‘I’ve had another idea,’ she said, gazing after the servant who had just placed an enormous platter of something not immediately identifiable in front of Roger’s empty space. ‘Your yeomen of the board. Have you realised they’re the only ones who could have poisoned Roger without anybody looking twice?’

  ‘Come on, not my lads,’ Ulf scoffed.

  ‘None of them bear a grudge?’

  He shook his head. ‘Happy as crows.’

  She shivered at his choice of words, recalling the cloud of carrion feasting on the entrails of the hanged men in the woods near Meaux. But when she glanced up Ulf was frowning too.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He pulled at his beard.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s just the revolt last year. It unsettled them.’

  ‘I would have thought what happened to Wat Tyler and John Ball would have settled them right back again.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me they’re disloyal to Roger?’ Hildegard asked in an undertone.

  Ulf didn’t reply.

  ‘The way people are feeling, what with the disappearances and the repression of any preachings the archbishops don’t like, it’s not going to take much to stir things into outright revolt again. All they want is a sign.’ She kept her voice low. How much did Ulf know? she wondered, watching him.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m aware of the unrest. But Lord Roger treats his bondmen fairly. We’ve never had trouble up here in the shire. It was down south, with the Essex men, Kentish freemen, Londoners.’

  ‘So why are you worried?’

  He stabbed at the remains of the pie in front of him. ‘The village does have a kind of unofficial moot.’

  ‘What sort of moot?’

  ‘A society of like-minded folk, rather like the burgesses with their guilds. I turn a blind eye.’

  ‘But the burgesses are in town. They organise themselves for trade purposes, to keep up standards and, to be honest, to keep everybody else out. Your men have a monopoly. What do they talk about?’

  ‘The usual matters, I expect. They’re beginning to feel they should negotiate their wages rather than having a figure thrust upon them by Roger, take it or leave it. Something to be said for it. They’re in a strong position. There’s demand for labour these days.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As I said, it’s nothing. They talk, that’s all. I agree, they’re restive, but they’d never support an insurrection.’ Despite his words, Ulf looked uncomfortable.

  An image of the pewter badge she had glimpsed when she found the body of the youth – plus the relic in his hand – seemed to burn in Hildegard’s mind. She felt as if her complicity were branded on her face. But she could not betray a dead man. She wondered whether she could trust Ulf enough to tell him what she had found. He might not oppose the aims of the Company of the White Hart so long as they acted peacefully. He had always been keen for justice in the old days. But now? She glanced at him. In his velvet and miniver, with the keys of the castle on his belt, he might conceivably find it more convenient to be pragmatic. Deciding it was too risky to confess her own feelings at present, she said as lightly as she could, ‘Your villagers – they’re not like the ones who wrecked the Savoy down in London, then?’

  Instead of smiling, he looked shocked. John of Gaunt’s palace on the Strand had been thoroughly destroyed during the people’s rising, the previous summer. Fortunately for Gaunt himself, he’d been on campaign in Scotland at the time. Archbishop Sudbury had been less fortunate.

  Ulf muttered, ‘I’ll never believe they nailed the archbishop’s mitre to his head when they killed him.’ He looked around. ‘Come on, let’s get outside if you’ve finished here. I’ve something I want to say to you in private.’ He jerked to his feet.

  Together they went out into the damp air of the courtyard, shrugging their winter cloaks round themselves and pulling up their hoods. Ulf walked beside her for a moment, kicking a stone ahead of him. Eventually he stopped.

  ‘That’s what the villagers call themselves, the Savoy Boys,’ he said. ‘It’s just their little joke,’ he defended, jutting out his lower lip. ‘It’s probably more to do with the fact that it rhymes. They’re not the sort to do anything wild.’

  ‘Hm.’ But we can’t count them out, she thought to herself, feeling a chasm of uncertainty opening up all around her.

  Ulf paced ahead, nibbling the corners of his beard, but after awhile he slowed to look back at her. ‘They’re good lads, Hildegard, believe me. Sudbury was a politician first and foremost. He was chancellor as well as archbishop. He supported Gaunt’s incessant taxation. He had no heart. His treatment of the poor was a scandal. We felt the burden in every corner of the kingdom. There’s only so much folk can bear before they break. But that’s nothing to do with Roger, is it? What would the Hutton lads have against him? He’s always tried to be fair.’

  ‘We have to suspect everyone,’ she told him unhappily. ‘Servants, family, guests. Even Philippa, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you think it breaks my heart to say this? So far she’s the only one with a motive and the opportunity. It’s well to believe in people’s goodness. It’s your great virtue, Ulf. Heaven will open its arms to you when the time comes. Even so, there’s a line between loving your fellow man and being a gullible fool. I’m afraid we’re on the wrong side of the line. Someone made that treacherous attempt on Roger’s life and it’s only by God’s grace that he survived.’ She took the plunge and lowered her voice. ‘I’m not saying the villeins don’t have a case. It’s just that I believe in right and wrong. And violence is wrong.’

  ‘Do you think they’re planning another rebellion?’ He gave her a searching glance, as if to find out how much she knew, and she realised she couldn’t see into him at all. The sensation of blindness passed, leaving only an uncomfortable residue of disquiet.

  ‘We’ll soon find out if it’s going to go that way,’ she managed. ‘Meanwhile we can only wait and see.’

  Feeling a sudden chill deep within her, she pulled her cloak more tightly round her shoulders and followed him. Ulf was her old friend, but the times in which they lived had made him a stranger to her. Rain was beginning to fall. The day had turned sour.

  Before they parted she said, ‘I came here to ascertain whether Roger could help me find a suitable home for my nuns.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And now I’m caught up in other people’s problems. My task is to find six good women to join me. It’s not easy, setting up a nunnery. Especially when somebody with the power of the lord abbot is praying for our failure. I can’t stay here indefinitely.’

  ‘Don’t leave, we’ve got to find this poisoner. He might strike again.’ He added quietly. ‘There’s no one else I can trust.’

  Surprised that he should be the one to voice the issue of trust after her own doubts, Hildegard turned to look directly into his eyes. ‘You must know where my loyalties lie.’

  He took her by the arm. ‘Then stay. I beg you. For Roger’s sake. For everybody’s sake.’ Releasing his grip, he turned abruptly and made his way to his office.

  Chapter Six

  HILDEGARD WENT BACK to her chamber and stretched out, the better to thin
k. As the porter had mentioned when she had arrived at Hutton, the village would choose a mock mayor today to be burned in effigy. Then they would elect a Saxon port-reeve in his place, just as they did in the old days before the Conquest. The sounds of drumming that accompanied this were reaching a frenzied pitch already. Everything seemed to be turning into a riot. Often on these occasions there were random killings and mutilations. Scores were settled. New quarrels invented. Feuds continued. If Roger’s ‘death’ might be expected to put a damper on events there was no sign of it, judging from the noise outside.

  The question was: who hated him so much they would want to kill him? Was it somebody inside the castle, avid for wealth and power, or someone outside, down in the villages, fighting poverty and injustice and yearning for a better life for all? And why poison, when these days a knifing in some dark corner would do? It suggested someone without physical strength or courage. A woman.

  She thought of the family: Philippa. Sibilla. She pondered the question of Melisen.

  Her thoughts tossed and turned and she recalled a surreptitiously clenched fist and a murmured ‘Long live Wat!’ when she was standing unnoticed within the bailey the previous day, watching the servants unload the packhorses. She had taken it as high spirits, a sort of ironic humour. But now, as she recalled one of the fellows involved trying to clamp a hand over the mouth of his companion, the incident leaped out like a warning sign of the trouble that lay just under the normality of everyday events. The two villeins had noticed her watching them and sloped off pretty quickly. This made her think of the two men Ulf had sent off with Roger in the logging cart. They had seemed jovial enough, but what was that raised fist? She shuddered at what they might do – might, indeed, have already done – once they got Roger alone in the woods. It seemed that everywhere her thoughts turned, they saw only betrayal.