Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘He believes you dead, sire, and is intent on ousting the one he thinks has usurped your castle.’

  Roger’s rage turned to laughter. When he could eventually bring himself to speak he said, ‘Go and tell his herald that the usurper challenges Sir Edwin to a man-to-man combat within the bailey. Now we’ll see what the milksop’s made of!’ He turned on his heel then swivelled back. ‘On second thoughts, tell him to meet me in the jousting yard at midnight. That’ll give him something to think about!’

  They all watched as the challenge was carried back along the line up to the top of the meadow until it reached the commander. There was a brief pause. Then they saw the reply carried back by a runner with a flaming torch. He had a word with the sentry who turned, paused for a moment, then put two fingers up at the Hutton crowd. Everybody gasped.

  Ulf returned the salute with a jubilant, ‘We’re on!’

  Hildegard was appalled. ‘You can’t do this, Roger. What if you kill your own son?’

  ‘What if Edwin kills his father?’ cried Melisen.

  Hildegard caught Ulf by the hilt of his sword. ‘You must stop them, Ulf. It’s madness.’

  ‘If it starts to look nasty I’ll get some of the men to break it up.’

  She was still doubtful. She knew what they were like, these men, once they started to fight.

  There is nothing more sure to arouse the pain of remembered grief than the yearning wail of rebecs and the deep surge of shawms and gitterns. Hildegard tried to fortify herself against the sudden surfeit of memories their music aroused. Uppermost was an image of Hugh and how they had walked together that last night before he left for the wars in France. She found the chamberlain. He was wearing his long black fur again but looked pinched with cold despite the roaring heat in the hall.

  ‘Would you mind asking the minstrels to play something less melancholy, chamberlain? This isn’t a wake.’

  He gazed at her as if she were a figure in the distance. ‘Oh well,’ he replied at last with a deep sign ‘I like the old tunes. I requested this one myself.’ But, noticing her steely expression, he rapped on the floor with his staff and, when he had silence, ordered the musicians to play a dance.

  In a moment or two the floor was thick with people from the highest to the lowest linking hands in a branle. Hildegard smiled as she watched the dancers move round the circle in step, looking as graceful as you could wish. As the music speeded up it became more and more frenetic until finally, amid great guffaws of delight, it finished up like the brawl of its name.

  Loosening his jerkin, Ulf flopped down on a bench beside her when it was over. He wiped his glistening brow. ‘That was good! Don’t they allow you to take to the floor?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose not. The question never arises.’

  He nudged her arm and murmured, ‘Ah, Hildegard, Hildegard,’ in an unexpectedly gruff voice that suddenly suggested the opening of new worlds.

  Picking up on the way his thoughts were wending, she said, ‘I shall have much to tell my confessor about the trials I am put through in this world of men when I eventually get back to Swyne.’

  ‘You tell him everything?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘As for what I said about you being like my mother,’ he went on in the same tone, and apparently heedless of her warning. ‘For one thing she’s five foot flat and as wide as a flour barrel. Whereas you—’ He stopped and put both hands over his eyes and gave them a rub as if to blot out his sight.

  In an attempt to divert the conversation on to safer ground she said, ‘I’m still rather puzzled by the singe on the red chaperon. How would you explain it?’

  ‘As your lord abbot said the other day: the world is full of mysteries.’ He turned to look at her. She noticed, not for the first time, how disturbingly blue his eyes were.

  ‘I suppose the yeoman must have been standing too close to the fire behind the screen,’ she continued, hurriedly. ‘His clothes would get scorched and, being prone to the sin of vanity, he must have decided to get rid of the chaperon at the same time as the shoes.’ Ulf’s eyes were fixed on her lips as she said all this. The intensity of his gaze made her voice waver. ‘Imagine how he must have felt, standing there for hours, trying to bring himself to slip some henbane or whatever it was into Roger’s wine while everybody else laughed and danced the night away. His mind must have been in turmoil. And then to believe he had actually killed Roger when all he wanted to do was teach him a lesson.’

  Ulf’s glance remained on her lips and he murmured, ‘I do believe you feel sorrow for the blackguard.’

  ‘I’m sad that he should have felt driven to such extremity,’ she agreed, trying to release her gaze.

  Just then one of the serving women came laughing towards them, her arms outstretched, but Ulf, curt, refused her invitation to dance.

  Hildegard looked at him sidelong. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t married by now, steward. You must be very well set up. Have you never found anybody to take your fancy?’

  After a pause he said, ‘There was somebody—’ He gave a quick grimace. ‘I suppose I’m still in mourning for what’s been lost.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Nobody breathed a word.’

  ‘I’ll tell you the full story one of these days. Meanwhile, sister, life goes on. But come, let’s follow the crowd to the tilt yard.’

  She looked up and realised that people were beginning to drift outside. She had wanted to tell him about the river weed found in her chamber at Meaux and her subsequent fears, but now the opportunity had gone. Besides, in the safety of the castle, it seemed overwrought and nonsensical. Gathering her skirts and with a deft adjustment to her coif, she accompanied Ulf to the trial of arms between Lord Roger and his son.

  The yard was situated beyond the kitchen court near the stables. It was about fifty yards long with a tough oak fence down the middle to stop the horses running in to each other and strengthened at intervals by posts set in the ground to prevent it collapsing if a horse fell on to it. A small stand was placed at one end with an awning under which the members of the family and any guests favoured by Roger could sit and watch.

  One of the ushers handed Hildegard to a seat beside Melisen, Philippa and Sibilla. They were watching the preparations with varying degrees of anxiety. Some officials of the household sat behind them, among them a surprisingly animated chamberlain, but Ralph was standing down in the yard with one of his pages.

  Hildegard thought he looked worried. Roger had still not meted out a punishment and he must be in terror at what awaited him. He would realise that his deception over the baby and the dreadful events that followed could not be excused. Unless, she thought, his swordsmanship and his resulting popularity among the men has made Roger think twice.

  Because it was night-time, braziers burned at both ends of the yard and their light was supplemented by flaming rush lights strung at intervals beside the track. At opposite ends the two chargers snorted and tossed their heads with a brace of grooms apiece clinging to their halters. Both horses were richly caparisoned but under all the silk and show they wore body armour as protection against an accidental thrust of a lance. Their saddles gleamed in the light from the flares. Even their hooves were polished, flashing like mirrors as they pawed the ground in their eagerness for battle.

  The contenders had already entered on foot to the chamade of nakers and the piercing squeal of clarion. Now both men stood at opposite ends, adjusting their armour. There was a palpable air of excitement in the yard. Lord Roger made the most of it, now and then raising his sword high in the air to draw roars of approval from those behind the wooden fence. He was wearing a breastplate over his gambeson, with a hauberk of mail over that, and, as were his opponent’s, his legs were encased in jambeaux made from cuir-bouilli. They made him walk straddle-legged but there was no doubting his physical power. He wore his visor down to conceal his identity, and to aid the deception his surcoat bore a simple cross of St George. As a veteran of the battle of Navarette he
had a right to it.

  His opponent, visor up, looked disarmingly young. As he waited for his page to make some minor adjustment to his gear he surveyed the gathering crowd with a handsome scowl. He was heard to refer to them as disloyal dogs who needed a good whipping. He evidently believed they had simply transferred their allegiance to the usurper without a backward glance.

  Ulf was in his element and kept explaining the finer points to Hildegard, as if she hadn’t once been married to a knight herself. ‘He’s fallen for his old man’s ploy and hasn’t guessed who he’s pitted against,’ he observed. ‘But what a contest, eh? Son against sire, youth versus age, raw energy against the cunning of the seasoned fighter.’

  Roger was hoisted into the saddle by a couple of brawny grooms to a roar of applause. He shortened his reins and his horse danced on the spot, eager to be off.

  His supporters were going wild. The pretence that he was some usurper from elsewhere was being maintained by a lot of ham acting from his household staff which, if Edwin had been more watchful, might have given the game away. But it was night. He was angry. And he was, as Hildegard had to keep reminding herself, in mourning, when his judgement might be expected to be impaired.

  Apart from the scowl aimed at the crowd, he looked surprisingly cheerful for one who has just lost a beloved father. He strode up and down, swapping banter with his men, chaffing his opponent’s supporters and flexing his biceps to the delight of the women, then he strolled over to have another look at his lance, a twelve-foot pole of lovingly planed cypress which he caressed most sensually.

  At last the herald trotted out on a little pony and put a horn to his lips. The crowd hushed itself. Edwin was hoisted swiftly into the saddle. The banner was raised, the horn sounded, the herald’s pony skittered off to the side, the banner was dropped. From both ends of the yard came the sudden hammer-beat of hooves as the two massive horses careered full tilt towards each other.

  The crowd couldn’t help itself. It roared like a single beast. Then there was a sigh as the riders passed each other with no more than a slithering crack of their lances which didn’t even make a dint in the round shields both men carried.

  They turned at the end of the lists and, when the sign came, set off again. It was the best of three. This time they made contact. Edwin’s lance was sliced down to the hilt but Roger fared no better. He had taken a blow full in the chest and was visibly shaken. He looked as if he was about to fall but somehow managed to regain his balance. Hildegard shot a glance at Ulf but he was totally absorbed in the contest.

  The third tilt was different. Edwin seemed to have got the measure of his opponent and this time gave him such a crack he almost lifted him out of the saddle. Melisen stifled a gasp. Somehow Roger managed to hold on until, as if by design, he was able to collapse to the ground when he reached home and let his grooms take his mount’s bridle. Attempting to conceal a wince or two, he strode over to where the women were watching and reached for the cup Melisen held out. He lifted his visor enough to down the contents in one gulp then turned, ready to embark on the second set.

  But now there was a surprised buzzing from the crowd. Sir Edwin, still mounted, had taken his helmet off and, crooking it under one arm, was trotting back down the tilt yard to where his opponent stood. When he got close enough he saluted then slid down from his horse. There was a surprised muttering from the crowd. Looking as fresh as when he started, he walked over and threw himself at Roger’s feet.

  There was a gasp as they all heard him say, ‘I beg leave to submit!’ then, before pandemonium could break out, added for everyone to hear, ‘I submit only to you, my lord and father!’

  The onlookers went wild.

  When they had quietened down it was Roger’s turn. He yanked his helmet off. ‘How the devil did you know it was me?’

  Edwin still knelt at his sire’s feet. But he looked up, smiling. ‘Only one man would try that feint with his lance then come in under the shield. You taught me how to counter it when I was eight and still tilting at the quintaine.’

  Roger looked proud. ‘You nearly unseated me with it, you tricky little beggar.’

  ‘And I shall do yet if you don’t accept my submission.’

  ‘Of all the cocky devils! I’ve a mind to try you!’

  ‘Oh, Roger, sweetness, please. Won’t you stop now? Accept his submission. We ladies are ready for bed.’

  Roger’s face flushed with more than the heat of battle at Melisen’s words. But he turned back to his son and prodded him with the point of his sword until he forced him to his feet. ‘So what the hell are you doing showing your face round here? I thought I threw you out?’

  ‘And I thought you might be having second thoughts, for surely now you don’t believe those rumours about the Lady Melisen and me?’ Jaws dropped. Ignoring the effect he was having Edwin said, ‘She’s enough to pierce any man’s heart but, alas, I’m betrothed to another.’

  Roger rumbled deep in his chest and gripped his sword. ‘Not following in your uncle’s footsteps and tupping some serving wench, are you, you young dog?’

  There was the rasp of a sword being drawn swiftly from its sheath and a man, walking with a familiar military swagger, pushed himself forward. ‘Take that back, sir, or by God I’ll make you rue it!’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ asked Roger with a bland smile, well aware of the proximity of his men-at-arms, not to say his swordsman of a brother.

  ‘The lady he refers to is my sister, sir. She is Lady Eleanor of Teesdale.’

  ‘And my son’s betrothed to her? By St George! But she’s the daughter of one of my oldest enemies!’

  ‘Not any longer, father. The breach is healed by our betrothal.’

  ‘Why, you canny devil.’ After that Roger seemed lost for words.

  Melisen rose to her feet. ‘Come now, my lord, let’s within. This has ended most happily. Welcome home, Edwin, and welcome also to your friend. We are all well met.’ With the grace of a duchess she allowed her maid to fling a fur-lined cape around her shoulders, then she stepped down from the stand and led the party firmly back towards the Great Hall. Without argument everyone followed.

  Too astonished to say much at first, the onlookers pressing against the rails gradually spread the news to those at the back. When it was clear who was who and what was what the whole crowd started to clap and cheer. Caps were thrown into the air. Lord Roger was alive. His son and heir had returned.

  Then somebody started an impromptu farandole. Soon everybody was linking hands, groom with page, cook with scullion, ale-master with priest, and even the chamberlain picked up the hem of his cloak and joined hands with two servants. Laughing and singing, they followed the leader back inside, where, moving faster and in ever more complicated patterns, he led the human chain snaking round the Great Hall. Hildegard followed them in. It was clear that the celebrations would continue throughout the night.

  Time to make myself scarce, she thought with a twinge of regret for all that her vows denied her. Ulf noticed her leave and followed her out.

  ‘That was a turn-up and no mistake! I knew he’d welcome him back into the fold before long. And it was all over nothing…I suppose you’re going back to your chamber now?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Don’t forget tomorrow. I meant what I said. I’ll clear it with Roger afterwards. Once you get your grange and some land the novices will come pouring in.’

  ‘Just six will do, nuns or novices both.’

  ‘I thought you wanted seven?’

  ‘I found one, a dairy-woman called Agnetha living down in Beverley.’

  Ulf skimmed the edge of her coif with the backs of his fingers. The smile he gave her was a sad one, full of regret at what might have been. Then he left to join the dance.

  During the night something woke Hildegard up. It was more than the continued sounds of celebration coming distantly from outside. It was like the rumble of the drawbridge being let down, followed by the clatter of several horsemen ent
ering the gatehouse. Guessing the Lombards had just ridden down from the north, she smiled and turned over. But sleep would not come now she was awake. She lay for some time, ticking off the minutes, listening to the faint sounds of merriment from below, then to an owl that hooted out in the bailey, and after that to the sound of the timbers creaking as the wind got up.

  She had almost managed to trick herself back to sleep when a different sound brought her awake again. It was its stealthy nature which alerted her. Her ears pricked. It was like the sound of a door being pressed open along the passage and then a moment later and just as quietly being pressed shut. She held her breath the better to listen.

  Footsteps dragged along the creaking boards outside. They came to another stop. She waited. There was no sound, not even the husk of someone’s breath. Convinced that she was mistaken, she was just about to pull the blanket over her head when it came again.

  This time it was nearer. She heard the door to the neighbouring chamber open. Again a pause. Again the door closed. The footsteps were closer now and she held her breath when they halted outside her own door.

  Stealthily she sat up. The hair on her scalp prickled. There was someone standing outside. She was sure of it. She waited for the door to open. When nothing happened, she was about to ask who was there when some instinct made her reach for the knife on her belt instead.

  The door creaked as it opened. On the threshold stood a hooded figure. She could hear him breathing as if it was a difficult thing to do. There was a pause then out of the darkness a hoarse voice whispered, ‘So I’ve found you at last, sister. And without those hounds to protect you.’

  She realised she must be visible in the strip of moonlight that lay across the room but she could only peer through the darkness in a vain attempt to see who was looking in at her. Full of dread, she managed to croak, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Never you mind. You’ll know me soon enough.’ He gave a suggestive snigger. ‘I think you’re going to regret not joining the dance.’