Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Greetings, sister. Forgive us our idleness but our horses have been requisitioned at the abbot’s request by some high-handed Saxon fellow.’

  ‘High-handed, was he?’ Hildegard smiled at the thought and saw no reason to tell him that would be the steward from Castle Hutton.

  ‘More like a Norman than otherwise,’ said the second fellow, coming up. ‘You could tell which side of the fence he sits.’ He had a jovial red face and didn’t seem to mind Ulf’s behaviour. ‘We were speculating on the reason for wanting our old amblers,’ he told her. ‘Not another war, is there? Is it the Scots at it again?’

  ‘Something more local, I believe.’

  ‘So we’ll get our horses back in good time, will we?’

  ‘Quite soon, I would imagine.’

  He bent to pat Bermonda on the head and she permitted this fondling with a dignified silence. ‘Nobody seems to know a blessed thing,’ the man said. ‘You ask one of these monks and they pass you on to another and he passes you on to a third and on down the line till you’re back where you started. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added hastily, with a glance at her habit.

  ‘I expect they’re as much in the dark as you,’ she replied. ‘I understand the men had to be mustered in a hurry. I’m sure you’ll get your horses soon. Where are you heading for?’

  ‘We’re wool merchants from Doncaster en route to Hutton. Or were, till now. We heard there were some Lombardy loan-men up there recently. We thought we might get a cut ourselves.’

  She smiled. ‘No hurry, then, as there’s much disarray at Hutton and the Lombardy men have gone up to Fountains to do business and may be some time, unless they decide to come here on account of Lord Roger and his household.’

  ‘In that case we’ll wait and enjoy ourselves feasting on the good cheese and ale of Meaux,’ the second merchant said cheerfully. He wore a Flemish beaver hat and lifted it before turning back to the game with a jaunty, ‘Let’s go!’

  In the easy nature of their companionship they reminded her of someone she had forgotten in the confusion of recent events. Now it came back. It was the corrodian and his friend. They too had been travelling with a similar air of companionship and lack of haste.

  It was the first meal of the day, the least meagre, when the monks broke their fast. Understandably it was eagerly awaited. When Hildegard made her way towards the frater there was already a procession, freshly washed and carrying knives, approaching two by two along the north cloister. When they reached the doors they stood in silence waiting for somebody to open up. She could tell from the way they were looking at each other they were impatient to get inside, but she knew better than to try to get into conversation given the penalties they would incur, so she too stood in silence until at last the abbot made his appearance on the garth.

  For the occasion Hubert had thrown a silk stole over his shoulders. It was a silvery colour and reflected the winter sunshine as he walked. Hildegard recognised it as a piece made by her sisters in the priory at Swyne. It certainly added glamour to his plain Cistercian robes of undyed burnet but, of course, she thought, pride being such a snare, he would be unaware of that. Her lips curved.

  As the abbot approached the doors a servant on the other side flung them wide. With a sombre expression, Hubert made his way between the brothers and processed down the frater towards a dais set beneath the great Rood at the east end. Apart from Hubert and herself, the prior, the sub-prior and the precentor were also seated there. The run-of-the-mill brethren and the novices sat at tables ranged down both sides in the body of the hall, while the lay brothers, the conversi, hurried in and out with platters of food. Hubert, of course, had his own servants to perform this duty.

  Hildegard watched the food come out and remembered some of the thin fare dished up at the priory. But at least the nuns could talk all they liked. Here, it seemed, Hubert insisted on the rule of silence. Except for one of the monks reading aloud from a text, those on the dais were the only ones who talked. ‘The cellarer,’ explained Hubert in an aside, ‘is unfortunately on a visit to one of the granges.’ He told her this in a tone suggesting it was a cause for regret.

  While the first course of herrings in mustard sauce and a meat pudding were being eaten, talk ranged over everything but the rumours that were flying. They mentioned the weather and the state of the roads to and from Beverley, they mentioned the latest scandal among the burgesses, they discussed litigation over the lease on some fisheries down at Hornsea, they talked of falconry and how it had declined since the Norwegians started selling their best birds to the Flemings, and they talked of every blessed thing and did them all to death without once mentioning Roger de Hutton, his poisoning, the abduction of his wife and the murder of two servants within the precincts of his castle itself.

  Hubert allowed his brother monks to talk without interruption. He had a brooding look and Hildegard could tell his mind was as active as his tongue was silent.

  Eventually the second course was brought in and they helped themselves to a good selection of tarts and spiced vegetables, oysters, eggs and capon. The others down below were drinking the beer for which the abbey was famous, but the top table had a choice of imported wine from Burgundy and, remembering Ulf’s approval, she gratefully accepted what Hubert offered. Then building plans were mentioned.

  There was something of a flurry, she noticed, between the prior and the sub-prior as they turned to give Hubert a glance. He sighed. ‘This is somewhat tedious, sister. We have yet to decide on the ideas Master Schockwynde and his fellow masons are keen to execute. Indeed, their very urgency sends alarm bells ringing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the prior, nodding. ‘It’s not their own money they’d be squandering.’

  ‘I understand from Master Schockwynde that he inclines towards the demolition of the chapel?’ said Hildegard cautiously.

  ‘Imagine that!’ sniffed the sub-prior. ‘A place as imposing and powerful as Meaux! It’s unthinkable!’

  ‘I’m sure even Master Schockwynde wouldn’t want to go that far, even though there are those who might,’ she murmured somewhat provocatively.

  ‘Oh, we all know about the attacks on our namesake at Meaux in France. But that’s over there, where anything’s permitted these days. There’s no social control what with the dukes at each other’s throats and their Dauphin a mere child.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to see the plans yourself, sister, back in my chamber?’ Hubert interrupted. ‘A fresh view is often all that’s needed.’

  The prior and the sub-prior swapped glances again.

  ‘The sister has some knowledge of these matters,’ explained Hubert smoothly. ‘She was instrumental in the plans for the new building at Swyne. Master Schockwynde built a most pretty quire. It’s a shame neither of you are allowed to see it.’ There was a pause while everybody imagined under what circumstances their abbot had been allowed into the priory. Unruffled, he observed, ‘It will stand for a thousand years. Believe me, it is most effective.’

  Just then one of the servants came to the foot of the dais. ‘My lord abbot, forgive the intrusion, but there’s a woman outside wanting to speak to you. We tried ejecting her but she got back in along the river path and refuses to leave.’

  ‘Why does she not send her petition in the usual way? If necessary it can be discussed in chapter,’ suggested Hubert, mildly.

  ‘She claims it’s too urgent,’ the servant bowed his head. Hubert lifted a benevolent hand. ‘Send her in. Let’s have a look at her.’

  The servant left and in a few moments returned with a strong-looking woman of about thirty. Contrary to what he had told them she was no peasant, as such, but wore townswoman’s garb with a white kerchief on her head – and she was in a towering rage.

  ‘My lord,’ she began in a loud voice without any preamble. The monks in the hall turned to stone. The young lector fell silent. ‘Your abbey through the mouthpiece of your sub-prior here is demanding heriot tax. Fair and fine. It’s an unjust tax b
ut it’s the law. However,’ she went on when Hubert opened his lips to say something, ‘he is demanding I hand over my husband’s horse, cow and pig. What will that leave me with? Nothing. So? What do you suggest I do in order to feed myself? Wear a striped bonnet like a harlot and ply for trade in Beverley market?’

  There was a gasp and the prior, a sugary fellow with silver hair and a skin like a York rose, began to fan himself with a corner of his sleeve. The sub-prior, more stalwart, got to his feet but Hubert restrained him. ‘If what she says is true it does seem rather harsh.’

  Feathers ruffled, the sub-prior said, ‘But it’s the law, my lord. Are we to break the law just because a woman with a loud voice requires us to?’

  ‘And that’s also a fair point,’ observed Hubert, giving the woman a measuring glance.

  ‘Fair to you, sitting up there in your luxury of fine eating! Not fair to me with my scraps and bones and even less when you take my means of subsistence from me! How fair is that? I’m a widow now, so what am I supposed to do? Curl up and die?’ She seemed about to go on but stopped when she heard the gasps of horror from the novices sitting behind her. Hildegard felt herself warming to the woman. She certainly had courage.

  ‘What happened to your husband?’ Hubert asked in a gentle voice.

  ‘Killed by falling limestone at the North Cave quarry,’ replied the woman. She looked fiercer still, and Hildegard could see she was fighting tears.

  ‘And the animals, you say, were his?’

  ‘That’s right. As was I and everything I possess according to the Norman law.’

  Hildegard’s heart went out to her. It must have taken a lot of nerve to bring her to the source of the power that oppressed her and speak up so strongly against it. This was the sort of strength she was looking for in her recruits for the priory. She wondered how Hubert would resolve the matter. It would be instructive. It would also demonstrate what manner of man he really was underneath his smooth exterior and the glamorous silk stole.

  He surprised her by addressing her directly, saying, ‘Sister, we are only men. Maybe as woman to woman you can find a way of resolving the issue to the benefit of all? Why not talk to the supplicant in private?’

  The prior and the sub-prior bristled. Thinking it diplomatic as well as true Hildegard replied, ‘I understand the desire to uphold the law. On the other hand no one would wish to force a widow into either harlotry or starvation. Perhaps, as you suggest, there is a way to untangle this knot without undue loss on either side.’

  So saying, she stepped down from the dais in the profound silence that followed this exchange and asked the woman to follow her into the cloister. This she did sullenly, with a backward glance at the men high up on the dais which made Hildegard feel that, if her mere glance could have brought them tumbling into the straw, all three would have been picking wisps out of their clothes for some time to come.

  The cloister seemed too busy a place, too public, for a conversation of the sort Hildegard expected, so she led the way into the nearby slype, not caring whether this broke some abbey rule or not.

  ‘Well then,’ she said, when they were inside and the door was closed. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I told you in front of the abbot and his henchmen. There’s nothing more. They want my best cow. And how can I get milk without a cow and how without milk can I make cheese?’

  ‘Is this your occupation?’

  ‘I’m a regrator at Wednesday market, adding to what my husband got for hewing stone in the quarry. He was killed and I’m thrown into penury because of laws these men invent to suit themselves.’

  ‘So if you kept the cow you could continue to market your cheese?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve only me to keep now. My son’s apprenticed since past Lady Day.’

  ‘No doubt they expect you to remarry?’

  ‘I don’t want that.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Why should I remarry and become a house slave again? I know no man I want to set my cap at. He wasn’t bad, him, but I’d rather keep my freedom now I’ve got it.’

  ‘It’s hard for women outside the conventional bounds,’ Hildegard pointed out.

  The woman gave her a derisory glance. ‘Hard outside. Hard inside. That’s life. Though you nuns seem to have it easy enough.’

  Unruffled by this observation which, anyway, she had heard many times before, Hildegard said, ‘Widows often live contentedly inside the priory walls. We have a power we wouldn’t have, alone, on the outside.’ She gave the woman a close look to judge how she took the hint.

  She understood at once. ‘What, me? You must be joking. With all the rejected heiresses and the old maids?’ She gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Go into lauds, have a bit of a sing, come out. Go into matins, have a bit of a sing, come out. And so forth ad infinitum? Oh, aye!’ Her laughter was full of derision. ‘Now there’s a life and a half for a woman with spirit. My language alone would make their hair curl!’

  Suddenly she threw her shawl over her head. ‘Oh, mercy me! What have I gone and said now? And you here to listen to my side of it! Well, that’s me finished, isn’t it? No disrespect to you, sister, it’s just my way. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time. I’ll manage somehow. I always have and I always will.’ There were tears in her eyes. They appeared in a sudden welling that made them glitter in a way that might have been mistaken for rage.

  She went to the door at once and put two hands to the ring to tug it open.

  ‘Stop just there!’ said Hildegard in a scolding voice. ‘Are you off already to put on your striped bonnet? God help you if you’re always so hasty.’

  The woman looked at her in astonishment. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not one of those fellows sitting up on a dais with pursed lips. I welcome frankness.’

  A look of puzzlement crept over her face and her mouth fell open.

  ‘First,’ said Hildegard briskly, ‘I’d like to put you straight on the matter of living in a nunnery. If you think it’s a soft life you’re wrong. It’s definitely not all wine and roses when you’ve got the lord abbot as well as the chapter of the mother house to contend with. You’ve no idea how carefully we have to tiptoe around them. Which is why,’ she found herself saying, ‘I’m setting up my own house. Seven of us. Living off our own produce. Teaching the basics, healing the sick. So come back here and start talking sense, will you?’

  The woman, having been defeated by the door-ring and intrigued by what Hildegard was saying, came back, still gaping in astonishment. ‘You’re not sending me packing, then?’

  Ignoring that she asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Agnetha, Sister.’ She let her shawl slip from her head and settle humbly round her shoulders.

  ‘Let’s see if the prior will accept the loss of a cow. You will, of course, have to hand over the other beasts.’

  ‘He’ll never say yes.’

  ‘He may not, but the abbot will.’

  Telling Agnetha to stay where she was Hildegard went out just as the monks were leaving the frater and beginning to process into the cloister. Guessing that Hubert had already gone to his chambers, she made her way there at once. His servant, an elderly one-legged fellow, ushered her into an anteroom then left her to make her own way to the inner sanctum. The door was already open so she approached, soft footed, ready to announce herself.

  To her astonishment, sitting with their feet up, were the whole crew, the abbot himself, his prior, the sub-prior, the precentor and an elderly strong-faced monk Hildegard had not seen before.

  As if they had just come in from the fields, their cowls were thrown back and they were lolling round a well-stoked fire. There were goblets of wine in their hands and the sub-prior even had his sandals off, feet on the rail, wriggling his toes with pleasure. As silver filigree as always, his companion the prior was holding forth in a delicate voice, and when Hildegard reached the doorway he was in mid-sentence. Whether she wanted to or not she could not help but overhear.

  ‘—and then I
saw it was that great lanky Saxon steward of Lord Roger’s, you know the fellow – wild man, always goes armed, a real villain if ever I saw one—’

  ‘Ulf,’ interjected Hubert.

  ‘That’s the man. And on top of that,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I cannot help but notice how he speaks most freely with Sister Hildegard. Have any of you noticed that?’ He glanced round the group and there were murmurs of agreement. She saw Hubert narrow his eyes.

  The sub-prior chuckled. ‘I, for one, wouldn’t cross swords with the likes of him. Not for all the gold in Christendom. Would you, Gilbert?’ At this they all roared with laughter at the incongruity of such an image and because of their uproar they did not hear Hildegard’s voice when she tried to announce herself.

  Before she could try again, more audibly, Hubert himself added in a tone of mock reproof, ‘And I hope for your sake, Theobald, it will never come to swords!’ At which they all roared again at the image of their fragile brother prior in a tussle with a hulking Saxon roughneck.

  At this point Hubert caught sight of Hildegard standing in the doorway. As soon as he indicated to the others that they had a visitor they all scrambled to their feet. The prior smoothed a hand through his silvery strands and picked up a book. The older monk flipped his cowl back over his head to obscure his face. And the sub-prior thrust his feet back into his sandals and gave Hildegard an innocent smile. The precentor came forward. ‘Please, sister, do come in.’

  In their white habits they were most convincing as seraphim, she thought as she returned their glances. Beaming faces, twinkling eyes, serene and untouchable grace. But for holiness melting with compassion, Hubert, with his large, dark eyes, outdazzled them all. What cutting cheekbones, she observed, as if for the first time. That haughty Norman nose did not detract from his look of piety one whit – in fact it seemed to add a dimension that was most singular.

  Hildegard’s observations faltered as he strode towards her in sandalled feet across the chamber. As he came closer he seemed to tower over her, which was nonsense as they were both of a height. It was the effect of the way he moved, suggesting rugged strength and a disconcerting physical power, she decided in confusion. She became aware of a honeyed scent with an undertone of mint that obliterated all other senses until she managed to regain control, but just then, as his lips moved, she noticed the edge of his linen undershirt. It was scarcely visible, nothing more than a hint of white at the opening of his habit, and the thought flowed through her mind that it was unusual to see him rumpled and that it did not detract from his look of holiness but enhanced it. Somehow it were suggested that he was as much a victim of human frailty as they all were. By contrast his spiritual strength seemed the more formidable.