It’s this constant drumming, she told herself, trying to be sensible. It’s driving me mad. She got up and went outside with the intention of seeing her hounds.
The smoke from the field fires was beginning to seep inside the castle. A thin haze lay across the bailey. It was more than just an autumn mist, it was blue woodsmoke giving off a tang of beech and hawthorn. People were beginning to cough. If it’s not the rain it’s smoke and fog, Hildegard thought. How uncomfortable life is at this time of year. More uncomfortable for Roger, however, lying, sick, on his bed of logs. She would be on hot nails until the two escorts rode back into the yard with the news that he was safely ensconced at Meaux. Better still, Roger would perhaps send a message telling Ulf to call off this ridiculous charade and they would all be able to talk openly once again. Even at a fast clip, however, an impossible feat with that load on board, they wouldn’t reach Meaux before nightfall. And if they started back at first light tomorrow it would be after noon before they appeared again at Castle Hutton. By then the cortège might have set out for Meaux. She hated the thought of processing with a stone-filled coffin all the way back through the forest to her starting point. But so far it looked as if she had little choice.
She decided to ask Ulf to let her meet the self-styled Savoy Boys before the cortège set out. It might be useful to ask them a few questions. Her prioress would be interested in how far north the rebellion had crept. The monastics, whatever their views, would be first to come under attack should the worst come to the worst. Swyne was a peaceful part of the Riding, but once the rebels’ blood was up there would be no reasoning with them.
But first things first, she decided. We must winkle out the poisoner. Only then can we turn our thoughts to protecting ourselves.
Just as Hildegard made her way back from the kennels across the muddy slats of wood lining the kitchen yard, she was distracted by the screeching of a frightened bird.
When she went up to the yard gate she saw a couple of men on the other side. They were pitching stones at one of the hens that were running loose. The creature was already down on one side and struggling valiantly to remain on its feet in a confusion of mud and brown feathers. Every time it managed to scramble up, however, one of the men would pitch another stone at it and roar with delight when it went down again.
In a flash she was into the yard and standing between the men and their victim. ‘Stop it at once! If the creature’s destined for the pot put it out of its misery and stop taunting the poor thing!’
She glared at the two men.
One of them, a scruffy individual, wore a grubby, bloodstained tunic with, faintly visible, the blue marsh dragon of Sir William on it. The other man bore no such device and, indeed, was surprisingly well attired in a jacket of rich stuff with dancing scarlet tippets running down both sleeves. She had seen that decoration before somewhere.
He scowled and muttered something to his companion, then took two long strides to where the hen was floundering in a pool of blood, picked it up and, his eyes never leaving Hildegard’s, stretched its neck until it cracked. The hen gave a squawk and flapped its wings.
When it was dead he asked, ‘Does that satisfy you, Sister?’
She gave him a bleak look and began to retrace her steps, pausing only when she heard William’s man snigger, ‘I’ll wager that’s the only satisfaction she’ll ever get, poor sow.’
And the reply she was surely intended to hear: ‘I’ll give her satisfaction any time, make it her lucky day!’ Their guffaws followed her, as, seething, she carried on towards the gate.
The words echoed those grunted in the darkness of the undercroft and the memory made her turn her head. A black look was following her. It did not swerve when it met her own.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Melisen was lying down in her solar when Hildegard went in. In contrast to the mud and brutality of the kitchen yard here there were fresh rushes laced with dried flowers on the floor, giving off the heady scent of summer meadows. It seemed exotic at this time of year, making it a place apart. Thick tapestries on the walls kept out the cold, and there was a gauzy canopy over the bed through which Melisen’s recumbent form was visible. A fluttering of maids was in attendance about the chamber. As Hildegard was being ushered in one of them was bending over the bed, urging, ‘—for your own good, madam, please, I beg of you.’ The scent of roses mingled with the bitter aroma of a herbal tisane.
When Hildegard made her presence known by a little clearing of the throat the girls stopped what they were doing and turned like startled sheep. The one holding the tisane dropped it.
One of the other maids had already poked her head inside the veils and whispered something, and now Melisen flung one arm out across the pillows while the other, glittering with bangles, lay limply on her brow in the very image of despair. When Hildegard accepted the stool one of the maids offered and drew up her robes to sit, Melisen murmured in a reedy voice, ‘So good of you to come, Sister. So, so good.’
Eventually the arm was withdrawn to reveal two tear-stained eyes. ‘What am I to do?’ she whispered. ‘What am I to do without my darling Roger?’
‘Are you going to be up to the journey to Meaux for the funeral?’ asked Hildegard in a soft voice.
‘I must. Whatever happens I must attend. How could I not?’ She gave a grief-stricken sigh and closed her eyes.
Aware that she and Ulf could only bow to Roger’s wishes until they heard from him, Hildegard looked on the girl with compassion. Roger had ordered that nobody should be told the truth, but it seemed heartless to let Melisen suffer like this. Her grief seemed genuine: this child could not be guilty. Hildegard recalled the joy on her face the previous night as she held the mazer to her husband’s lips.
There was a sound at the door and Melisen’s young squire came bowling in. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw the visitor. Melisen, hearing his exclamation of surprise, quickly opened her eyes and sat up, running a hand over her face and pushing back her hair. Although she gave him only the briefest glance, it was enough to suggest something covert. Hildegard’s skin prickled and she turned her head to get a better look.
He was young and handsome and wearing a richly figured black velvet tunic that set off his poetic features. He could not be much older than Melisen herself. Hildegard remembered how Melisen had fallen back into his arms in a swoon as soon as she appeared to realise Roger was sick. Wouldn’t it be natural for them both to see her elderly husband as someone to be duped, an encumbrance to be got out of the way in the only manner the impetuous immorality of youth might suggest? Hildegard shivered and touched her cross.
But Melisen was lying back in a swanlike pose among her pillows again, and her voice when it came was wispy with something that sounded convincingly like grief. ‘When, dear sister, do they expect the cortège to set out?’
‘Tomorrow perhaps, or as soon as you’re ready to travel with it, my lady.’
‘Then I must rouse myself and not allow my weakness to betray the memory of my beloved lord,’ she whispered. ‘Tell the steward to prepare the household for departure. We will leave as soon as everything is ready.’ She glanced across at the young squire, who was standing by the door as if waiting for his orders. ‘Isn’t that the best thing, Charles?’ She pronounced his name in the Norman way. It sounded unexpectedly sensual. ‘We should leave for Meaux at once, don’t you think?’
He came swiftly across the chamber in response. ‘If my lady so commands.’ He bowed his head, pale, solemn and, thought Hildegard, quite unbelievable in his perfection, an immaculate youth, as fresh as the month of May. Now he was begging to be allowed to do something for his lady, anything, he was murmuring, anything at all.
She took her leave.
Often what the troubadours called jouissance was what the Church called lust. It didn’t bother Hildegard that Melisen delighted in twisting men round her little finger. What she got up to was not her concern. But what Hildegard did care about was the happiness and health of
her old friend Roger. She began to long for the ordered calm of the cloister.
‘Clear thinking, that’s the thing,’ she said to Ulf, throwing off her cloak and shaking her head free of its snood when they met up again in his private chamber off the Great Hall. It was late morning by now. The smell of baking bread from the nearby kitchens filled the air.
‘We’ve looked at motives,’ Hildegard went on. ‘I trust your superior knowledge on that score. Now let’s look at opportunity and consider in detail what happened after Roger came down to drink the baby’s health.’
‘Is that what he was doing? It seemed like business as usual to me,’ said Ulf.
‘Let’s clarify the picture,’ urged Hildegard. ‘First, do you remember who was sitting next to him when he fell?’
‘No, first,’ said Ulf, ‘where was he sitting?’
‘He was sitting in his usual place on the dais in front of the fire-screen.’
‘Some of the time, yes. But when the minstrels piped in the boar, then what?’
‘Then what?’
‘He got up.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He gave a turn or two in the dance with Melisen.’
‘So?’ She couldn’t fathom where this was leading.
‘Who was attending the food on his platter and the drink in his goblet when he was dancing?’
Knowing his opinion, she replied cautiously, ‘Your yeomen of the board?’
He let that go. ‘No, the problem is that nobody and everybody was attending him. He himself was up and down all evening. Dancing. Getting up to try his strength with the merchants. Flirting with the maids. He even had a quick game of thrayles. Anybody could have put something in his drink at any of those times.’
‘And Melisen certainly made sure he kept on drinking.’
‘I noticed that.’
‘Why was he so thirsty? He seemed insatiable.’
‘Always complaining of thirst these days is Lord Roger.’ Ulf laughed in an indulgent way at the capacity of his lord for drink.
‘But Melisen shared his cup. That’s what I can’t understand. They drank from the same cup. It has to have been poisoned after she took a drink from it.’
‘How long does that stuff take to work?’
‘A few minutes. She was sharing his cup all the time.’
‘Between the bringing in of the lombard leche and the scoffing of it,’ Ulf mused to himself, as if trying to summon up a picture of the whole scene.
‘Was that the last course your people brought in before he fell?’
‘It was.’ Lombard leche was adored by everyone. A cream of almonds and honey, only the foreign cooks knew how to bring it to perfection.
‘And what was going on while it was being carried in? Didn’t everybody get up to do the branle? It must have been then that somebody physicked his wine. But how?’
Ulf was frowning. ‘Was it the branle, though, everybody dancing together, or was it an estampie? If the former we’ve no way of knowing who wasn’t up, but if—’
‘Actually, when the leche came out it was the estampie,’ said Hildegard.
‘Are you sure? So everybody had a partner.’
Hildegard closed her eyes the better to summon the image forth. ‘Roger and Melisen together. Yes, I remember that. And then there was—’
‘Philippa and Ludovico,’ Ulf broke in, a look of relief on his face. ‘Yes, I remember now how they danced – you know…’ He blushed. ‘Sorry, a wild fancy—’
‘What?’
He mumbled, ‘As if, they were tied together with invisible love knots. The look on her little face. She’s growing up into such a beauty.’ The somewhat dreamy look left his face. ‘Let’s hope that bastard treats her well. Anyway, to go on, there must’ve been William and Avice. William loves to show off his fancy steps—’
‘Wait, that’s not right,’ Hildegard interrupted. ‘I definitely remember William was dancing with the red-haired maid, the one who I saw assisting the midwife.’
‘That’s strange. Sir William and a maid. Not like him to be so open about it. So where was Lady Avice?’
‘I believe,’ said Hildegard slowly, ‘she was talking to Master Sueno.’ They were certainly sitting at the table together. But for how long? Can’t you remember, Ulf? I wasn’t watching all that carefully.’ Indeed, she remembered, her thoughts had been dwelling somewhat on her recent experience in the undercroft. She shuddered. Forcing herself to continue she asked, ‘Are we sure it was during the estampie? Everything hinges on that.’
‘If Sir William had noticed a mere mason sitting with Lady Avice he would have broken his neck.’
‘The way I remember it,’ said Hildegard drily, ‘his attention was totally engaged by his partner.’
Ulf pursed his lips. ‘So, we can account for Melisen, with Roger all evening, and William in the thick of the dancing, Philippa and the Lombard likewise, and the only ones at the table: Sueno and Avice. Could either of them have slipped something into his drink?’
‘Getting rid of Roger would be the last thing Sueno wanted.’
‘Or so he hinted.’
They were both silent.
At length Hildegard gave a heavy sigh. ‘Anyway, they would have had to be in league because one couldn’t have doctored the wine without the other one noticing.’
‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘What is?’
‘The idea of those two forming a conspiracy.’
Feeling she was clutching at straws she said, ‘Of course, we’re forgetting the other guests. I wasn’t watching them, were you?’
‘It’s always the same at these events. Everybody’s up and down, back and forth—’
‘Just like the servants, in fact.’
‘The last thing they’d want is Roger dead. You’ve got quite the wrong idea about them. It’s because of the Saxon lads, isn’t it?’
‘Mostly. There are other reasons.’ She pictured the little phial, the reliquary, at present hidden in her scrip. ‘The crux of the matter is, Ulf, we don’t have anything to go on. This is all guesswork.’
‘Let’s go and sit out in the hall ourselves,’ he suggested. ‘I know it’s rowdy but we might pick up a few clues if we have another look at where it happened.’
‘I had a look round when everybody was in chapel,’ she told him as she got up, ‘that’s when I noticed the wine stain. Truly, Ulf, if we don’t get a lead soon I’m going to have to go back to Swyne and continue my search for a grange. I don’t have permission to stay away for ever.’
They made their way over to the Great Hall, crossing the bailey on the cordings. They were slippery with mud but at least they kept people’s feet dry. It was raining even now. The entire yard was like a quagmire.
Indoors, the servants had made an effort to clear up after the previous night. Ulf looked round with a critical eye but could find nothing much to complain about. He called for somebody to bring them a sample of a new brew that had just arrived from the lowlands, and they stood next to one of the wooden pillars to watch the servants coming in and out from behind the screens.
They were laying the board for the day’s eating, first a spoon, then a goblet, next a spoon, then another goblet. The napkins were brought out by the third yeoman, the one Roger had called forth only to send away again in order to see him go out backwards. He looked as morose now as he did then as he placed the folded napkins then went back and stuck spoons in them all. He had the air of a man who thought he was capable of better things.
After he had finished the two yeomen of the salt processed in. Judging by their expressions it had taken a fair amount of ambitious jostling to get the job, and they seemed mighty pleased with themselves. Together they hoisted the salt cellar on to the table. It was a massive object of solid silver, skilfully fashioned in the shape of a high-sided cog under sail.
‘That’s a fine piece,’ observed Hildegard. ‘It must have cost something.’
Ulf chuckled. ‘It impressed Melisen
no end when she first saw it. Roger had it modelled on one of his wine ships that come into Ravenser.’
They watched as it was heaved into a precise position according to some rigid rule known only to the yeomen and their mistress. Then the most senior man produced a small key and with great ceremony unlocked a lid on the deck and inspected the contents by dipping a finger inside and licking. Screwing up his face, he pronounced himself satisfied and, bowing to the salt, he and his assistant backed out.
‘The points on their poulaines are ridiculous,’ Hildegard remarked. ‘Do they have to follow court fashions so slavishly?’
Ulf snorted. ‘They’re daft, aren’t they? It’s a wonder they don’t trip over themselves. They shouldn’t be longer than two inches. That fellow’s are at least four. I’ll have a word.’
‘I didn’t remark on them to get him into trouble.’
As she spoke she observed that no guest places were laid below the salt. Everyone seemed to have fled, even Schockwynde, usually not one to miss an invitation to dine with his betters. She assumed he’d gone to eat in his chamber away from the poraille and the risk of the pestilence. Ralph’s place wasn’t set.
‘That baby still hasn’t been brought down, has he?’ Hildegard asked. ‘Maybe Sibilla thinks it’d be tactless with Roger gone.’
‘Nobody knows whether to celebrate a birth or mourn a death,’ Ulf said gloomily. They’re all at sixes and sevens. I feel tempted to tell them the truth. I’m having to bite my tongue.’
‘But we’d better abide by Roger’s decision for the moment until we know what he’s planning.’
‘You think there’s more to it?’ Ulf asked.
Hildegard didn’t answer but instead went over to look at the table again. Ulf followed and they sat down. The table had been cleaned and a fresh cloth put out. There was one goblet for William, one for Avice and one for Melisen. The latter was a delicate silver affair studded, of course, with gems. Roger’s goblet, a big, practical piece, was inverted.
It looked poignant like that, even though she knew Roger was probably faring well enough with Hubert de Courcy in the comfort of the abbey. ‘I wonder how the old devil is?’ she remarked. ‘I hope he’s taking that medicine I gave him.’ It was more than his health which worried her. The two escorts were never out of her mind. She was just thinking, ‘there’s no remedy for a slit throat,’ when there was a commotion outside.
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