Hangman Blind

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘What’s happened to make it look so…well, unkempt?’

  ‘Poor Brother Selso has always run the gardens but now he’s too crippled with rheumatics to deal with it. To preserve his feeling of usefulness in his old age I can’t appoint anybody else to take over just yet. I wonder, you wouldn’t put Selso’s nose out of joint if you—’

  ‘Offered a little help now and then?’

  ‘My very hope.’ His face broke into a smile and he lifted one hand as if about to take one of hers but then let it drop. Hildegard was mystified when he fumbled for his cloak and rearranged it rather unnecessarily.

  When he suggested a look round the rest of the garden she rose to her feet with relief. As she did so the abbot broke off one of the rosebuds that grew around the arbour then stood with it in his hand as if not sure how he came to be holding it. Hildegard watched to see what he would do next. He came to himself and, using it to gesture towards the path, suggested, ‘Let me be your guide.’

  His words reminded her of the phrase at the beginning of Dante’s long poem. ‘Take my hand and let me guide you…’ And together, so it went, they ascended to the gates of paradise. She felt her cheeks burn.

  Inhabitants of the real world with the ever-present threat of damnation in the next, they strolled together under the stippled shadows of the pear-tree walk. Aware that they were bound by the strict Rule of their Order and the wisdom of having a care for the perils of the times, their conversation skirted any issue that might lead to controversy. Instead, in the fading light, they touched on abstract matters of mutual interest: the difference between belief and superstition, the ethics of the mendicants, the value of contrition, until, eventually, Hildegard raised the subject of the grange she had been to see the previous day.

  It brought a frown to Hubert’s face. ‘Did someone escort you? I expect it was that rough Saxon fellow, was it?’

  ‘If you mean Lord Roger’s steward, yes.’

  His frown deepened. ‘So this grange he recommends, I suppose it’s up near Castle Hutton?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Far from here, though?’

  ‘Not very.’

  When she explained that it was no more than ten miles away his mood seemed to lighten. ‘It sounds quite suitable. If your heart’s set on it I trust your prioress will say the same.’

  She was astonished at such words after his hostility when she had first approached him. Then even distant Yedingham had seemed too close. Now her feelings were mixed. It looked as if the prioress was going to get her way. Meaux was about to be squeezed.

  But it was what she wanted too: permission to inspect the buildings more thoroughly and if she still deemed them suitable to take the necessary steps to procure the lease from Roger. And then the real work could begin.

  They reached the bounds of the garden and stood looking out across the now placid waters of the canal to the trees on the other side. Night creatures were beginning to call to each other in the echoing shadows. The sky behind the branches turned to pearl.

  Hubert gazed into the darkening woodland. ‘Hildegard—’ he began. It was the first time he had used her name. But then inexplicably his voice fell away to silence.

  Next morning she made her way to the stables carrying her leather travelling bag, a wedge of wastel and a flask of wine. Already mounted and waiting was a small group of pilgrims, merchants from the north. They were visiting several shrines on a leisurely journey to London and had invited her to ride with them as far as Swyne. In the continuing dry weather they could expect to reach the priory shortly after noon.

  The sharp scent of manure and horseflesh met her as she stepped inside the stable to take her mount. One of the lads, his sleeves rolled, was wiping down a steaming grey that looked as if it had just that moment been brought in. He glanced up when he heard her at the door. ‘I’ll be with you in a trice, sister. Just got this poor brute to see to.’

  She stepped closer. Gouts of blood stood out where spurs had raked the horse’s flanks. The animal quivered and steamed. ‘Surely one of the monks hasn’t been riding her so hard?’ she demanded, outraged at such treatment.

  ‘No. It was some foreign gentleman. Thrashed her all the way from Ravenser. Spoke not a word when he got in except “prenai” or some such. Then threw the reins at me and dived in to see the abbot.’

  Shaking his head, he finished his task quickly and saddled up a horse for her. In the freshness of the morning, she set out safely with the group of pilgrims for home.

  Epilogue

  THE PRIORESS WAS in the chapel when Hildegard arrived. She was standing in a blaze of light that came flooding through the south window. Her strong-boned face seemed lit from within. She glowed with purity and strength. ‘Don’t waste time telling me about Roger de Hutton. I’ve heard all about it!’ She smiled. ‘I want to know about that other matter, sister. What news there?’

  ‘He plays a close hand, Mother.’

  ‘And forswears outward splendour. Yes, I know.’

  ‘He wore the silk stole you sent him.’

  The prioress looked gratified.

  ‘He has a spy whom he sent to York.’

  ‘He has?’

  ‘An elderly Yorkshireman wearing the habit of a Cistercian. He was sitting in the abbot’s chamber with the rest of them when I went in one day.’

  ‘That’s news to me. Find out more when you go back. What else?’

  ‘The abbot cares greatly for the poor and has several schemes for helping them. He’s making a garden where he can grow medicinal cures and has asked for my help.’

  ‘Cures for fighting men, that’s what that’s about. Don’t be fooled. I hope you said “yes”. Easier to keep an eye on things if you have a bona fide function.’ She gave her an appraising glance that took Hildegard by surprise. ‘Let me tell you about the letter you delivered to the archbishop.’ She beckoned Hildegard to follow her into a small cell attached to the chapel. The prioress’s table, chair and cabinet of books were all it contained. There was a wooden stool in a niche and she told her to sit.

  ‘That was a missive from the papal spies in Burgundy. As we suspected this Philip they call the Bold is heading an invasion against us, instigated by their anti-pope Clement down in Avignon. Pope Urban’s people have been aware of this ambition for some time. Now they have proof. As Duke of Burgundy, Philip controls the government of France. Taxes are being raised to extortionate levels. Why? To finance their invasion of England. This little sideshow in Flanders is only a beginning, though it won’t seem like that to the Flemings. I’m told he’s intending to pay over a thousand foot soldiers six months in advance. That’s how seriously he’s taking it. But we’ll soon see how bold he is when he comes face to face with our men forewarned and forearmed.’

  ‘And the archbishop?’

  ‘He is firm for Richard. But what about the other one in Canterbury? I wouldn’t trust Milord Courtney further than I could throw him. Of course, if they decide to come in over the Channel again it’ll be up to Kent and Essex to show their mettle. They’ll not be bought by Courtney. But there is another way into the kingdom. Through the back door.’

  ‘The back door?’ Hildegard was stunned. ‘Do I understand…? Do you mean…? Surely not? Through Ravenser?’ Suddenly it began to make sense. ‘So this is why Avignon have put one of their own men into Meaux?’ It was startling. Terrifying. ‘If he uses the abbeys as he might, being Cistercian with allegiance to the French pope, they would have a string of safe houses for their spies all the way up to Scotland!’

  ‘Not only safe houses. They would have unlimited supplies from the rich granges of the abbeys to feed their entire army. Six months would be as nothing. They could support a war indefinitely. After that they could become centres of repression and hold the country in a strangle-hold for generations.’

  Hildegard shivered in a confusion of emotions. ‘And you believe Hubert is aware of all this?’

  ‘Hubert, is it?’ The prioress gave her
a piercing glance. ‘He preaches well, so I hear?’

  Remembering the excited crowd of women when she first arrived at Meaux, she nodded. ‘Whether his words are taken as he intends is somewhat doubtful.’

  The prioress gave a grim smile. ‘Don’t forget he was sent by Avignon. He is their chosen man. He was put in as abbot for a purpose. He can have no affection for us English. His father was a diplomat sent over to discuss terms with King Edward in the fifties. His pleasure happened to be one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. They were married. But when the mission eventually came to an end he returned to France, leaving his wife and son behind.’

  ‘Maybe Hubert rather feels for his English mother in that case?’

  ‘We cannot know. One thing we can know, however, is how to turn him to our view and against that of the anti-pope he now serves.’ She gave Hildegard a compassionate glance. ‘Never forget, sister, it is more than heart and head at stake. It’s a question of life itself, of everything we know. It’s a question of who we are and who we wish to remain. Our Church, our king, our people. These are the stakes we play for. The feelings of one man or one woman and their earthly desires aren’t worth a bale of straw.’

  ‘I believe he is unaware of the strategic importance of Meaux.’ An image of Hubert holding the rose stem in his hand, his kind glance, the compassion in his eyes when he spoke of the poor…and his linen undershirt that time she had walked in on him and the way his expression had softened when he wished her God speed and—

  She received a harsh glance, as if her thoughts could be heard. Her superior said, ‘You came across the bodies of those lads from the Company of the White Hart. This is the reality that faces us: murder, anarchy, another violent bloodletting. Many in high places are aware that the supporters of Tyler are plotting to continue the rebellion. Next time they won’t confine themselves to London and the South-East. They’ll seek support for their cause in every part of the country.’ The prioress’s face was full of sorrow. ‘They’ve shown themselves to be stout lads, they’ve been treated badly, they deserve justice. But those deaths are nothing compared to the slaughter that could follow an invasion.’

  She gave Hildegard a piercing glance.

  ‘What we must never forget is that the real enemy is Avignon, the Duke of Burgundy, this young king they’ve got in Paris, and the conniving of all three with the Scots. They know as well as we do: if the North is taken the rest of England falls.’

  Hildegard remembered the arrival of the foreign horseman from the port of Ravenser before she left the abbey that very morning. Now it had a darker significance. She told the prioress about it.

  Her strong face hardened. ‘So, the enemy is within the gates. It begins here.’

  The interview seemed to be at an end and Hildegard got up to leave, but when she reached the door the prioress stopped her. ‘I believe you have something for me?’ she asked.

  It took a moment before she realised what she meant. Fumbling in her sleeve, she brought out the glass phial, the relic with a fragment of the bloodied banner in it.

  The prioress held it between reverential fingers. ‘When the twelve fragments are brought together it will be a sign. The humble will be raised up. The people of this nation will achieve their destiny. All else will come to nothing.’

  Hildegard left the holy cell with a thoughtful frown. How had the prioress known about the relic? Someone must have told her. But no one else knew about it except Hubert, and it was unthinkable that he would pass on the information, especially in view of his suspected allegiance to Avignon.

  It could mean only one thing: her bag had been searched either at Meaux or at Hutton. But who would do a thing like that? She remembered the strip of water weed, evidence enough of a prowler in her private chamber, but it couldn’t have been Escrick either because she had been carrying her bag with her when she discovered that token of his visit.

  The fields have eyes. None escape notice.

  She shuddered. There were spies on all sides. It had been safer in her hermitage than living out here in the wild world. Now she was out she would have to brush the cobwebs from her eyes and let nothing slip past unobserved. If, as her prioress believed, the invasion had already begun by stealth, it would not continue that way for long. Soon it would be out in the open. Choices would have to be made, oaths of fealty sworn, traitors called to account. And blood would flow.

  She summoned an image of Hubert standing in the calm beauty of his private chapel where she had left him that morning. The memory made her think about earthly desires. They were a small thing when set against the great affairs of nations and yet a great thing within the solitude of the human heart. Whatever might happen, and whatever stood between them, all fear fell away in the certainty that they would meet again.

  V

  The envoy from Avignon was sitting in Hubert de Courcy’s inner sanctum. The documents he had carried all the way through France in such haste and secrecy were spread out on the table under the window. He spoke French to the abbot who understood it as well as the spy himself. At his ease after his recent hard ride from Ravenser, he raised his cup of wine in a toast, quoting the motto of his master, the Duke of Burgundy. ‘Il me tarde – I long for victory!’ Hubert remembered the rest of the phrase differently: il me tarde…tant que tu reviennes. Translating it into English, he thought: I long for your return. And he too raised his cup.

  Acknowledgements

  My starting point for writing the Abbess of Meaux series is the chronicle written by its abbot in the 1390s. Although Hangman Blind is fiction, the abbey, with its wealth and power based on the wool trade and the business acumen of its abbots, really did exist. Abbot William describes the day-to-day concerns of the monks and even mentions a predecessor, who, like Hubert, had a liking for beauty and precious artefacts and, to the disapproval of his order, greatly augmented the abbey’s collection of gold chalices and jewel-studded crosses. The Talking Crucifix existed too, and was a big draw to pilgrims at this time. Like the abbey itself, it has disappeared without trace. The abbot also mentions a priory at Swyne – a place usually given a different spelling that fails to reflect the charm and tranquillity of the building as it is today, nestling among tall trees in a landscape that has long been drained by more than the abbot’s ditch. A certain prioress held sway in the fourteenth century. A redoubtable woman, she was caught up in an incessant round of litigation with the monks at Meaux but fought back splendidly, being excommunicated by the pope no less than three times for her temerity in standing up for herself and her nuns – an early example of the feminist spirit coupled with Anglo-Saxon bloody-mindedness. If you go to the East Riding you can still see the choir built in her time. As for Roger’s stronghold at Hutton, it exists only as an amalgam of several once-grim castles built to subdue the natives in that turbulent period after the Conquest.

  Hildegard, Hubert de Courcy, Ulf, Lord Roger de Hutton and the others exist in fiction but some of the minor characters have had walk-on parts in history as revealed in manorial rolls and town records. Sueno de Schockwynde is one of these, although whether he ever worked as master mason on either Beverly Minister or St Mary’s is unknown. Records show him working in the Midlands but then, masons were mobile and went where the work dictated and he may easily have had a part in building the magnificent minster at the shrine of St John in Beverley. Of course that great Yorkshireman, John Wyclif, existed. Even though he doesn’t appear in the series, he defines the thoughts of those who do just as his influence shines down the years and shaped the Reformation to which we owe so much. I see him as a rallying point for the dispossessed and can still grieve for the ruthless way in which Gaunt and his fellow barons exterminated the opponents of their rule and nearly succeeded in erasing Wyclif himself from the records.

  My view on the period is my own but a valuable resource has been Dr William’s Library in London. My gratitude to the librarians there is unbounded. They have the happy knack of being able to summon long unread texts from
the archive as if by magic. Still in the thanking vein, I must mention the Institute of Historical Research and the Society of the Medieval Studies in the University of London with their excellent seminars on the period; also Dr Ian Mortimer for a long and interesting conversation about Gaunt, his son Bolingbroke and King Richard, for although we sit on opposite sides of the fence, his defence of the usurper in his book The Fears of Henry IV has helped consolidate my understanding of the ambitions that informed Bolingbroke’s actions and fuelled a lifelong animosity that would eventually lead to the death of Richard and the long and bloody conflict between the houses of York and Lancaster.

  Other sources I found helpful are: Yorkshire Monasteries by Bernard Jennings, The Evolution of British Justice by Anthony Musson, The Hound and the Hawk by John Cummins, Medieval Costume and Fashion by Herbert Norris, Shoes and Pattens by Grew & de Neergaard, Medieval Women by H. Leyser, Wyclif and Huss by J. Broome, Wyclif and the Beginnings of Noncorformism by K. B. McFarlane, Richard II by Nigel Saul, The English Rising of 1381 edited by Hilton and Aston, and The Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 ed. R. B. Dobson. Many conversations with the custodians of churches and museums on diverse topics relevant to the period are too numerous to mention individually, but have my gratitude nevertheless.

  Finally I would like to thank the people of Rosa Mundi in North Yorkshire for their detailed practical knowledge of daily life in medieval times and their generosity in sharing this with me. One wet Sunday afternoon learning to dance the farnadole will stay pleasantly in my memory for some time. Others generously winkling out sometimes obscure facts which have played an essential part in building the story of Hangman Blind are Larry Bruce at the Middlesborough reference library, Mike and Trevor Silkstone, Silvester Mazzarella, the nuns of Ladywell, and finally Liz and BIll Hinchley for their Ango-Saxon belief in the value of good cheer. Ge be!