‘It’s this casket he gave her,’ explained Sibilla. ‘Some sort of fiendish Italian construction. She can’t find a way into it.’
Hildegard went over to have a look. Philippa removed a coverlet to reveal an ornate wooden casket. It had a lion’s head carved on the front and the hind legs and tail were carved on the back. There was no key and no visible way of opening it, though it was clear there was a lid, as the line where it might open ran round the lion’s body.
‘It’s a poison casket!’ exclaimed Hildegard. Seeing their expressions she added, ‘That’s the name, but of course they’re used for transporting anything precious. The Lombardy men use such things to safeguard their documents and any gold they need to carry with them.’ She stared at it in consternation. After leaving the apothecary she had concluded that the poison used against Roger would have been hidden in a casket such as this one. Surely it couldn’t mean that Ludovico and Philippa were complicit after all?
Unaware of her alarm, Sibilla said, ‘She made such a fuss the other day about losing some ring or other. I told her, at least you’ve got that.’
‘Have you tried to open it?’
Philippa nodded. Sibilla reached out to take it but Philippa snatched it back. ‘Ludovico said I must open it myself in private. I believe he sees it as a test of my worthiness to—’ She gave a sob. ‘But that is all finished now Father is back.’ Her tears fell all over the gilded box. ‘I shall die an old maid and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Don’t cry,’ said Sibilla. ‘I’m the one who should be weeping. Look what’s happened to me in the last few days.’
‘Bring it with you,’ suggested Hildegard, ‘we can have a proper look at it on the way over to Hutton, if you like. But we should leave now if we want to arrive soon after the others.’
Philippa rewrapped the casket in its cloth. She treated it as if it was her most precious possession. Hildegard observed her with alarm. Her grief seemed genuine. But was Ludovico to be trusted? Was the poor girl being duped as Ulf had suggested?
As they walked down to where the wagon was waiting she suddenly remembered she had left a small breviary in her room. ‘Wait for me. I won’t be a moment,’ she told them.
The abbey was quiet at this time in the morning. The monks were all in chapel praying for St Martin. Hurriedly Hildegard ran up to her room and went inside. The breviary was where she had left it and, snatching it up, she was about to leave when she noticed something beside the bed.
She bent to pick it up. It was a piece of green weed. She stared at it with slowly mounting horror. It was the sort that grows underwater. It must have stuck to the sole of a shoe and fallen off and…
She held it between shaking fingers. Maybe it had fallen from the sole of one of her own boots, attaching itself when she waded on to the pontoon to climb into Thomas’s boat? But no, the planks were smooth, nothing grew on them. Later then, as they climbed the ladder up the side of the canal? But no, there was no weed above the waterline.
She jerked round as if at a sound outside and, heart thumping, peered into the corridor. It was empty.
This is ridiculous, she thought. He couldn’t have survived that wall of water. And even if he had, how could he have insinuated himself back inside the abbey? She recalled the canal path by which Agnetha had forced her way in to put her plea to Hubert over the heriot tax.
This is nonsense, she told herself again. A little piece of weed scarcely bigger than my thumb and I’m sent into a panic?
Heart still beating furiously, she made her way back down the short flight of stairs and out into the garth. From the chapel came the elysian singing of the monks. Everything was neat and clean and pure and looked as harmless as the day. One of the conversi greeted her with a cheerful shout as he hurried past on some errand or other. From the direction of the waiting wagon came the familiar jingle of the horses’ bridles as they shook their heads in eagerness to set out. The servants’ voices floated pleasantly across the grass as they chatted among themselves. It was all ordinary, a harmless scene where no phantoms risen from the watery depths of a canal could possibly be a threat. Still holding the piece of weed, Hildegard made her way to the wagon and climbed up. It started to move off as soon as she was seated.
As Ralph had taken only a handful of bodyguards with him that morning to escort Avice to Watton, they had a spare man to send as messenger when they passed the end of the lane that led to the priory. By this time the small piece of waterweed had been pushed into a pocket in Hildegard’s scrip. Ulf would no doubt put her fears into perspective with some merry quip as soon as he heard her tale, and they would agree that her imagination was running riot.
‘Let’s see if Ralph got away to Hutton or whether he’s been lured into staying with those women there,’ said Sibilla with a grim smile, sending one of her men off down the lane with a message for the nuns.
She had been mostly silent once the journey started. Philippa too had been sitting glumly in a corner of the wagon without speaking. The latter was wearing a rather smart green pelisse with a large, straight collar of fur that set off her features prettily. It hung in long, full folds over a surcoat of velvet and had enormous sleeves like those on a scholar’s gown, in which small articles might be kept. Despite her finery her expression could have been sculpted in marble.
The messenger caught up with them before they had gone much further. He cantered alongside the wagon and doffed his cap. ‘Sir Ralph has not visited the priory this two-year, my lady.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Elfric. He was there last night with Lady Avice.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’m, the nuns know nothing of him.’
‘What about the lady?’
‘Nor of her, neither.’ He held his cap defensively flat against his chest, as if to deflect her rage.
‘Oh, get away with you!’ Sibilla flared, and the messenger, no doubt pleased to have escaped without being mutilated, rode back up the line of riders until he could mix in without being noticed.
‘That’s worrying,’ said Hildegard. ‘Would Ralph change his mind and go elsewhere?’
‘He’ll have gone straight to Hutton. Though why the devil he’d take Avice with him is anybody’s guess.’
They jogged on for the rest of the way in silence. The thick woodland on both sides of the track seemed ever more threatening, and the men-at-arms, wearing Sibilla’s triple band argent on a ground vert, rode in close formation alongside the wagon of their lady. Soon they would all be safe within the castle again, where no one could enter without being seen.
Chapter Twenty
WITH TIME TO mull things over as they jogged along the woodland track to Castle Hutton, Hildegard dreaded what they might discover when they arrived. A picture of Melisen with her throat cut swam before her, but it was really Avice at risk, she reminded herself. She’s the one who stands in the way of William’s ambitions. Melisen is the stepping stone. Even so, she couldn’t imagine Melisen being talked into exchanging Roger, for all his faults, for a fiend like William. But then who had tried to poison Roger, if not Melisen? She must be the key to the mystery.
The day was grey to match her thoughts. Leafless branches arched overhead. A sea roke was fingering inland from the coast, making its way up the narrow dales of the North Riding. They were far from the flat marshlands of Sir William’s Holderness domain.
One event had almost been forgotten, the fact that it was now the feast of St Martin. The monks had been at their prayers for the saint right through the night, and along the route they now saw the shrines, candles alight, a priest or other cleric in attendance, the penitents murmuring with bowed heads. Out of respect the wagons slowed to a walk at each stage so that everyone could throw down what alms they had.
As they went deeper into the north they were reminded that it was also the feast of St Willibrod and the beginning of Samhain to boot. The stocks and whipping posts, built by edict of the old king in every place wanting the status of village, were decor
ated with symbols of the ancient faith, wreaths of ash, rowan and mistletoe, gewgaws and manikins hanging from the branches. Pyres had been erected on every green. To remain unlit until nightfall, they made ominous shapes, effigies in lifelike postures balanced in rough cages on top of the faggots. Some said that human victims were once burned alive to ensure plenty for the next harvest. Hildegard shivered. It was too barbaric to contemplate.
Swarms of villeins, chanting songs in their own dialect, were gathering from all the scattered manors round about. The lanes and thoroughfares were filled with the sound of drumming and the skirl of bagpipes. As the cavalcade of wagons approached with its escort of armed men, silence fell. There was a threat in this sudden lull, as if it would take just one word to unleash a terrible bloodletting. It’s as if they’re expecting a sign, thought Hildegard, or waiting for a leader to acclaim the white hart. But Wat Tyler, John Ball and their supporters were dead. No one new had appeared.
‘They’ll be as drunk as judges by nightfall,’ remarked Philippa, rousing herself for a moment. She sounded as if, rather than being afraid, she envied them. Perhaps she knows that her father’s private allegiance keeps his household safe, Hildegard told herself. Despite this, she could not shake off a feeling of impending dread.
By the time they found themselves rattling and bumping up the lane to the castle it was late afternoon and the day was drawing in. Lord Roger and his men had arrived some time before and were encamped in a meadow facing the south gate. Roger was sitting outside a field tent. He had his men-at-arms round him and Ulf was at his shoulder. It appeared to be a council of war. The stragglers from Meaux climbed down from the wagons and walked over.
‘Has anyone arrived from Rievaulx yet?’
‘Where’s Ralph?’
‘Why are you all sitting out here?’
‘Stay! I can’t answer ten questions at once.’ Roger was irascible.
In fact Hildegard’s question had been addressed to Ulf and he shrugged helplessly, nodding towards the castle as if that might give her a clue as to why they were out rather than in.
Roger turned an unctuous smile on Philippa. ‘Daughter, my dear daughter, come here.’ He still seemed to be smarting from her rejection of him earlier, and now he opened his arms. She, however, maintained a stiff demeanour and, at a distance, repeated her question in clipped tones.
‘No one has yet come from Rievaulx, my dear little one, but they will. I know they will. Now, what about some refreshment for you after your tedious journey all this way home?’
‘Stop it! I hate you. I’ll never forgive you.’ Philippa stalked off to the victualling tent and demanded a flask of wine.
‘I don’t see Ralph,’ said Sibilla pointedly. ‘Where is he?’
Roger was frosty. ‘I thought he’d gone to Watton with Avice?’
‘They never arrived.’ Sibilla blanched. ‘How many guards did he have? What if they were set upon by outlaws? What if—?’ Her glance took in Roger’s hostile demeanour. One hand went to her throat. ‘Oh no! Not your own brother?’
Roger’s glance was icy. ‘Ralph can take care of himself. He’s the best swordsman in the county. After me, that is. Now…’ He dismissed her and her unvoiced suspicion and gestured to his men to come closer to look at something he’d drawn.
It was a rough plan of the castle. He had sketched it out with a piece of chalk on the back of somebody’s shield. ‘I’m locked out of my own home,’ he commented when Hildegard bent over with the others to have a look at it. ‘Can you credit it? If Master Schockwynde hadn’t made such a good job of the new fortifications I’d have been in there as slippy as an eel. But he’s contrived such a devilish defence we’re stumped as to how to get round it.’
Ulf nudged Hildegard and whispered, ‘He’s certainly moderated his language since you ladies turned up.’
‘Who’s inside the castle keeping you out, Roger?’
‘Who d’you think? That he-devil with my wife. If he’s touched her I’ll personally open his guts and wrap them round his…head,’ he finished lamely.
Ulf nudged her. ‘That’s nothing to what he was going to do before you arrived.’
The men huddled over the plan of the castle and Hildegard looked across the meadow to where the real thing lay. It certainly looked impregnable. Schockwynde had seen fit to model the new defences on a French idea some fellows returning from the wars had told him about. He had explained this to her at some length one very long afternoon at Swyne.
The point of entry was defended by fortified bridge heads at the moat side and as well as the drawbridge leading into the barbican there was a system of not one but two portcullises, the second one, as far as she knew, hardly ever used. Now it was down, as could be plainly seen. Behind it was a strong oak door. On either side of the barbican were turrets, machicolated, the corbelling well forward so that the garrison could pour boiling oil on to the heads of the besiegers through holes in the floor without being exposed to attack themselves. It was fiendishly clever. As far as she knew this had never been put to the test either. The Scots, against whom it was mainly intended as a protection, hadn’t been down this way since the pestilence.
‘There’s simply no way into the damned place.’ Roger scratched his head.
‘How many men does William have in there?’ asked Hildegard, puzzled that he had been able to muster a force so quickly in territory that didn’t even belong to him.
‘We have no idea. There must be dozens. He’d never have the temerity to try to hold it without a strong force.’
‘Have you tried calling him out and talking to him?’ asked Hildegard. ‘Maybe you can trick him into letting you inside. Once in you can probably rout any of the forces he has in there.’ Hildegard couldn’t see anybody on the battlements and thought that surely if there was much of a force somebody would at least have been on lookout.
‘You expect me to stand outside my own castle shouting up to be let in? I’d rather burn the place to the ground before I did a thing like that.’ Roger looked at her as if she were mad.
‘Well, that won’t get you anywhere,’ she said impatiently. ‘Can’t Ulf go and attract his attention?’
‘Willingly.’ He was on his way already.
‘Tell him he’s a dead man!’ shouted Roger after his retreating steward.
‘That’s hardly likely to encourage him to come out.’ Hildegard sighed. ‘Does he know it’s you down here?’ she asked.
‘He nearly dropped dead when he clapped eyes on me. Must’ve thought he was looking at a ghost.’ He rocked with laughter. ‘I should have played it up. The sot wit!’
They all watched and waited while Ulf strode long-limbed and determined through the short winter grass of the south meadow. When he reached the drawbridge he stopped and, cupping both hands round his mouth, gave a yell. A head appeared on the battlement just above him. Despite the conical helmet the man wore, which was pulled well down, the nose-guard concealing most of his face, there was no mistaking the badge emblazoned on his surcoat when he came fully into view. It was the blue marsh dragon and proclaimed by its gold border that the wearer was Sir William of Holderness himself. And when he lifted his hands encased in their steel gauntlets and roared out an oath of defiance, they knew for sure.
‘Where’s the blackguard’s guards?’ muttered Roger.
‘Hear this!’ Ulf roared back. ‘Surrender, or know the worst!’
Hildegard, with another sigh, picked up her skirts and set off at a run down the meadow to where Ulf was waiting for a reply in the attitude of one fully expecting the armed man in the fortified castle to come meekly down to the gates and invite him in. ‘Ulf,’ she panted when she got within hailing distance, ‘Ask him if Melisen is all right. And if he says she is, ask him why he’s captured her. Then, when we know what he’s after, we can start to talk.’
‘He won’t think we’re soft, will he?’
‘What if he does? We know we’re not. It might even be good tactics to let him think we’
re easy meat. Put him off his guard. But for heaven’s sake, find out about Melisen.’
Ulf cupped his hands again and bellowed, ‘Where is the Lady Melisen?’
‘She’s here!’ came back the reply. William’s voice bounced around the moat. When the echoes eventually subsided he added, ‘She’s my hostage. He can have her back if he gives me what I want.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Ulf without prompting.
‘Not to have to abjure the realm for killing that yeoman. And some drained land.’
‘Is that all?’ The note of surprise in Ulf’s voice was obvious.
‘And a share in his wool trade.’
This was obviously an afterthought. Ulf trudged back up the meadow to where Roger was pacing back and forth, wearing a little path in the grass. He gave his steward an eager glance. ‘What did the bastard say?’
‘Melisen’s safe, by the sound of it. She’s his hostage, he says. And he says he wants no comeback from killing that yeoman, and some land, drained – oh, and he says he wants a share in your wool deals.’
‘With those Lombards? How did he know about that?’ Roger frowned but then his expression lightened. ‘At least Melisen’s safe. Unless he’s lying through his back teeth. Will he come down, then, so we can talk?’
‘I’ll go and ask him.’ Ulf trudged back down the meadow.
Hildegard sighed. It was going to be the usual charade. Roger hadn’t changed. Seven years had made little difference to his shambolic use of power. He liked nothing better than to frighten people with what he could do if he chose, then surprise them by his magnanimity. The trouble was there was nothing to restrain him. He had no need to take anything seriously – except for the family fortunes, of course – not even, it seemed, his wife’s safety. If there was trouble he would buy his way out of it – even buy another wife if this one didn’t please.
Looking at him now, smiling in that devilish way and stroking his beard, it was clear that he was enjoying the charade of being kept out of his own castle, knowing that eventually – inevitably – he would get back in. No doubt he would have his minstrels turn it into a topic for a song, and his wiliness would be sung up and down the country in one castle after another, and his fame would increase. She watched him now, playing the part of the injured husband. It was a sure thing that if Melisen proved unfit for the position bestowed on her, then, as Ulf had so succinctly phrased it, she would be out on her ear. And Roger, she was convinced, would shed few tears.
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