Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  An hour or so later, the mill was nothing more than a pile of glowing timbers. No one had come to claim the pony. ‘If the midwife’s still alive, poor soul, she might have continued on foot. Though why she would walk and not ride I can’t imagine. I confess I fear for her.’ Hildegard felt close to tears at the thought of the victims trapped inside the mill.

  Sobered, all three made their way back to where the horses were tethered and, with Burthred astride the pony, set off towards the distant manor.

  ‘We’ll have to inform the reeve as soon as we can,’ Edberg pointed out.

  ‘Assuming he’s blind and hasn’t noticed,’ Burthred said, hushing himself but unable to refrain from adding, ‘I do hope the villeins round here won’t be without bread for long. It’s a bad thing to starve to death.’

  Edberg caught Hildegard’s eye at the child’s insight. But she could see he was as grim in his heart as she was herself. He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Mebbe nobody’s noticed. Their drinking’s likely taken their minds off things. But they’ve got their Samhain fires now, by George.’

  It was possible, thought Hildegard, whistling up her hounds, that the fire had started accidentally, but the destruction was so complete it looked deliberate. The midwife, dead or alive, seemed to leave nothing but devastation in her wake.

  They had gone no more than a mile along a narrow defile between a bluff at the head of the dale when the thunder of approaching hooves alerted them. Drawing to a halt in a stand of pines by the side of the track, they waited to see who would appear. They saw the outlines of a dozen horses approaching through the trees.

  ‘Let’s declare ourselves,’ Hildegard suggested. ‘If they’re looters they won’t want to be bothered with us.’

  Indeed, they had little choice as the defile held no hiding place, so when the horsemen came within hailing distance Edberg rode forward with his hand raised. ‘Hold!’ he called.

  The man in the lead pulled his horse to a halt. He was accompanied by a band of rough-clad riders, faces hidden under fustian hoods. ‘Declare yourself!’ he demanded in an accent marking him out as a stranger to the locality.

  ‘Declare yourself, sir!’ retorted Edberg stoutly, refusing to budge.

  The rider said something in a dialect to his men. He must have noted the one man against many, the child on the pony and Hildegard, her nun’s habit visible beneath her riding cloak, accompanied by two elderly hounds. The sight evidently struck him as comical because he threw his head back with a roar of delight, his own hood falling off to reveal a straggle of straw-coloured hair. He pulled his hood back with an easy gesture and asked, ‘So what’s this? The Church already sifting through the remains? There’ll be no bones for you to pick here, sister. The wealth of the mill must be ash by now.’

  She felt Edberg bristle.

  ‘We were on our way to inform you of its destruction,’ she said with no sign of rancour, ‘if you come from the manor at Driffield.’

  ‘And if we do not?’

  As I know you do not, she thought, still trying to place his accent. ‘Then what has happened is as much our business as yours,’ she said.

  The man frowned. ‘You’re on the road late, sister. And with only a man and a child for protection. Have you no care for your safety?’

  ‘I trust in God. Besides, why should anyone wish to harm us? We are on a mission of mercy.’

  There were sidelong glances around the group which now encircled them. Those who were not carrying broadswords carried cudgels. Hardly the sort of implement to help put out a fire, Hildegard judged.

  The leader circled them insolently, aware he held their fate in his hands. In the watery light something glinted on his cloak. It was a small pewter badge. But it wasn’t a pilgrim badge. Hildegard’s eyes fixed on it. It was the sign of the hart. The ruffian held his horse still enough so he could lean down and ask, ‘And what mission of mercy might that be, Sister? Enlighten us, if you will.’

  Avoiding a direct answer she replied, ‘I see you knew about the fire. We ourselves came across it by chance while seeking a midwife we were told was attending someone here.’

  There were guffaws at this. ‘You nuns,’ said the leader, shaking his head in mock admonishment, ‘so you need a midwife, do you?’ He said something to his men in their own language and they roared with laughter. It was a coastal dialect, with something Danish in it, if she was not mistaken. It was a long time since she had heard it spoken, and she blushed with anger when she realised what he had said.

  She held her tongue, however. Despite their amusement, the appearance of three travellers on the road at this hour seemed to have thrown the men into confusion and they milled about, unsure whether to offer threat or safe passage. Several options were suggested, none offering much to improve the health of either Edberg, herself or the boy, but before any of these ideas could be put into practice, she noticed Edberg’s hand shifting towards the knife beneath his cloak and she heard him say, tight lipped, ‘I should think you’d show the sister more respect than this. Move aside and let her through.’

  The leader drove his horse forward so his spurs scraped Edberg’s boots and, leaning down, said into his face, ‘And if I won’t, my little man?’

  Hildegard interrupted, one hand resting discreetly on Edberg’s wrist. ‘Let me describe this woman we seek, good sir. Maybe you’ve seen her on the road and can help us. She’s short of stature, somewhat advanced in years, and will no doubt be carrying a bag containing the instruments of her calling. It’s most important we find her.’

  ‘And the miller is a red-faced scoundrel, his wife a termagant, the brats are brattish, his serving wenches comely. And we have found them. That makes us the victors in finding. We did not, however, find a midwife, nor anyone of that description. So?’

  ‘So, sadly, you can be of no help to us. Praise be that the miller and his family are safe.’ She made as if to turn the head of her horse to ride back the way they had come and then stopped, as if a sudden thought had entered her head. ‘I wonder, sir, as your knowledge of the miller is more complete than ours, what information you have on how the fire started? No doubt he divulged the cause?’

  ‘Nothing to worry your head about,’ the spokesman replied. ‘He and his wife and his six brats came straggling up the track a short while since. The walk will have done him a power of good though it did little for his temper. I reckon these millers, like your churchmen, do well to get off their fat arses now and then. What do you think?’

  ‘I bow to your superior knowledge, sir,’ she replied. ‘But I wonder, were there any fatalities?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Every soul is something to me,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, rest assured, the miller’s as safe as he ever will be. I won’t vouch for anyone else.’

  The conversation ended there with some abruptness but the men did not move to let them go. Instead, the leader urged his horse closer. ‘And now, as it’s home time, my weary travellers, we shall escort you as far as the mill then watch you ride back the way you came.’ And the men, forming a tight group, began to carry them along in the press like captives.

  Hildegard leaned towards Edberg and whispered, ‘Best keep our tempers. I don’t doubt your courage, but it would be stupid to provoke them.’ Even Duchess and Bermonda would be no help in a predicament like this, although they crouched on the edge of the group, eyes alert, poised to obey her slightest command.

  She could see Edberg was furious at the way they were being treated, but it was equally clear they could do nothing and they allowed themselves to be taken back as far as the mill.

  The fire still sputtered and glowed and the scent of burning rye grass from the thatch that had once roofed the building filled the air. If the strangers had been seeking booty they must have been disappointed. They circled in the uncanny glow as if in the light of a million candles lit by day.

  Hildegard rode alongside the leader. ‘Our quest has been futile. We’ll ride
back to Hutton at once if you permit.’

  At the name Hutton his manner changed. He gave her a long, slow look. Yet all he said was, ‘Safe journey, then, and to your escort and the lad.’ He suddenly reached down and grabbed the pony’s bridle. ‘Or would the little serf like to ride with us? What do you say to making your fortune with your Saxon brothers?’

  ‘I’m happy where I am, sir.’ Burthred glanced hurriedly at Hildegard as if he expected her to shoo him away into the keeping of the strangers, but she smiled reassuringly and he wheeled the borrowed pony, digging his heels hard into its flanks as if to be sure not to be turned into an outlaw, and Hildegard swept up the ends of her cloak, knotted them on top of the saddle and set off after him. Edberg, in silent fury, followed. The hounds came on like shadows through the trees.

  When they were at a safe distance and could slow to a trot Hildegard said, ‘I’m surprised they let us go so easily. Who do you think they were?’

  Edberg wore a murderous look. ‘If I’m not mistaken they’re a notorious band of villeins who fled their manor over Barmston way last Lady Day. They’ve plagued the lands round here ever since. Nobody’s sent a big enough force to give them their just desserts. Lord Roger deemed it not his concern—’ He broke off as if having said too much. They rode on while Hildegard pondered his words.

  It was, she decided, in Roger’s interest to have his neighbour’s lands in disarray as they could then be nibbled at without restraint. It was a fertile, grain-growing region, the mill itself an important part of the wealth accruing to the lord of the manor in whose title it was held. If, as Edberg had already told her, the old lord had died a year ago and his lands were disputed, it was obvious that rogues and villains would range the country and take what they wanted without hindrance. There was that badge too. Did Roger know it was the Company of the White Hart who ran here?

  All the way to Castle Hutton Edberg raged. It was a poison, he said, that affected those required by law to work the land. Their resentment was a blight, he said. Somebody had to work, he said, or their hatred would bring down the whole country in a bloody conflagration that would make the burning of the corn mill a mere spark, mighty though the flames seemed as they watched the roof fall and the timbers flare.

  ‘We haven’t seen the end of it,’ he went on. ‘No one is safe in their beds. Hutton can fall as easily as anywhere now that Lord Roger is dead and Sir Edwin banished. Who is strong enough to hold his lands? No one. The rebels will turn them to waste. Doom will overtake us, bringing back famine and the Death.’

  Chapter Ten

  MIST LAY IN wreaths over the fields and cottages of Low Hutton as they arrived back later that afternoon. Black pennants fluttered on top of the battlements. Hildegard was astonished to see above the keep Roger’s personal banner raised halfway up its staff as a sign of mourning.

  They emerged from the trees on to the lane through the village. Here and there smouldering tar barrels littered the walkways as evidence of the previous night’s excesses but otherwise the place seemed quiet except for a hardy group singing lustily round one of the fires. Hildegard recognised the song. Translated from the Saxon, it went something like: ‘This is the rebel’s riot feast, humanity will be king, there is no lord but the one true prince…’, and then a line or two about the King of Stamford, followed by three sharp cheers.

  After that they sang it all over again.

  It was a song from the old days when King Harald fought his great battle not far away at Stamford Bridge, defeating the traitor Tostig and the Norwegian king, then marching his wounded and weary army down the entire length of England in only three days to face Norman invaders from across the Channel. It was the second battle, the defeat by William at Hastings, that changed for ever the fortunes of the English.

  Desperate days, she thought, now long gone. The battle lost. Nobody knew what life would have been like had the Saxons continued in their peaceful farming communities instead of being overrun by the Normans and forced to submit to their hierarchy, their laws, their taxes.

  In this part of the country it was still remembered that all three Ridings with their hundreds of farming villages had been laid waste by the Conqueror’s Harrowing of the North. Entire communities had been wiped out. Houses and farms were burned to the ground. Crops destroyed. Women, children and the old were slaughtered without mercy or left to die from starvation. The few survivors were forced into serfdom, their lives riven by the ambitions of their Norman overlords. Since then the country had been dragged unwillingly into endless wars against the kings of Scotland and of France in order to bolster the power of the Norman usurpers. It was no surprise the village folk still sang the old songs, still dreamed the dream of freedom.

  They reached the foregate and proceeded alongside the moat in the shadow of the walls. Edberg hailed the lookout in the tower. The drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. Hildegard was overcome with relief as they clipped across the bridge into the bailey. Her fear of the outlaws had been checked with an effort. She knew her nun’s habit was regarded with hostility. Only caution seemed to have held the men from violence.

  As the portcullis crashed shut she slipped from the saddle. Safe at last, she thought. Then she saw a group of men with the sign of the blue marsh dragon on their tunics.

  She turned away.

  Edberg took hold of her horse’s bridle. ‘We’ll see to the horses and your hounds, sister. You’ll want to speak to the steward.’

  I certainly will, she thought, as she stamped her feet to bring some life back. Her cloak smelled strongly of smoke as she went to find Ulf.

  In the bailey, they were already preparing the wagons for the cortège. Several carts were draped in black. One of them, a char, was more elaborate than the rest. The sides were made of decorated wood panels. Black dyed canvas was stretched over wooden hoops fixed across the vehicle itself. At the head of the cortège, covered by a cloth of scarlet and gold, was the coffin containing its secret cargo of stones.

  This is madness, Hildegard thought as she began to make her way through the crowd of servants loading the sumpter carts. Why on earth was Ulf allowing the funeral to go ahead? She found the steward on the steps of the hall overseeing everything with a frown of concentration. When he saw her he said, ‘So you didn’t find her?’

  ‘No, but we found her pony, a burning mill and a band of looters.’ She briefly explained.

  ‘Let’s talk more fully later. I want you to come and meet the moot-folk in the village. Then that’s one line of enquiry we can put to rest at least. Do you mind coming with me now?’

  The self-styled Savoy Boys met in the village that lay close to the castle’s outer defences. When it wasn’t in the throes of St. Willibrod’s feast it was a thriving community of serfs and freemen called Low Hutton. The reeve’s house was a convenient meeting place for those who worked inside the castle and for those who worked the fields.

  The village itself was a higgledy-piggledy group of something like fifty wattle-and-daub dwellings thatched with rye grass and linked by a meandering network of narrow lanes and what the locals called laups. Surrounding these one-storey habitations were the strips for beans, peas, turnips and grain and then the Lammas lands and the orchards. Enclosing all of it was the Royal Forest. Apart from scutage, sending men-at-arms to serve the king, Lord Roger’s main responsibility to the Crown was his stewardship of this vast tract of country and the preservation of game for the king’s own table. There was a lodge in the forest for the use of hunting parties, halfway between the castle and York.

  As they made their way into the village the moss-covered roofs and slanting lintels were half hidden under a fog of lung-wrenching smoke that lay like a pall above the ground. Usually well ordered, today hooded villeins loomed out of this roke as they prepared for the feast that would begin when night fell. Meanwhile the lanes were filled with screaming swine and the pungent stench of fresh blood. In the poor light the fires burned out of the November fret as if through breach
es in the walls of hell, while soot-faced stokers turned from their task to watch as Ulf and Hildegard walked by. The stench of death was everywhere.

  The reeve’s dwelling was a little bigger than the rest, as befitted his status. The hurdles set round it to keep in the pig and poultry were made with skill.

  They stooped under the lintel, a chorus of gruff voices rising and falling in the heat of argument, but when the steward followed by a nun came in, a chilling silence descended. Hildegard peered into the gloom. By the sound of it there must be at least half a dozen villagers already present, she guessed, cottars, bordars, villeins and the like. She could just make out a few shapes hidden behind the smoke from an open fire that sputtered in the middle of the floor. The only other light was a rush lamp on a pole by the door. Hildegard’s nostrils twitched at the rank smell of damp wool, fresh manure and sweat that pervaded the place. The smoke from the fire pit was sucked up by the draught towards a hole in the roof but owing to the direction of the wind it continually spiralled back again into the cottage. Everybody, it seemed, was taking turns to cough. Before long, Hildegard found herself joining in.

  A spokesman distinguished himself from the group, introducing himself as the reeve. ‘I’m Dagobert, son of Dagobart.’

  A Saxon then, of course. Hildegard gave him a straight look. ‘Honoured to be here.’

  He was a big man, with a dignified manner, and he peered at Hildegard with a certain genial curiosity. ‘You’re the first Cistercian we’ve had visiting down this way,’ he told her. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘There was that pardoner last week,’ a voice corrected from the gloom.

  ‘Different kettle of fish, Caedwin,’ replied the reeve without turning his head. ‘He was a Fleming, trying to fob us off with fake relics, and his assailant was a sot-wit southerner in the same game. I think we can tell the difference between a Cistercian and a pardoner.’ He returned Hildegard’s straight look. ‘The lord steward tells me you’ve been frettin’ about where we stand on certain matters – given the unrest at the present time?’