The Butcher of Avignon (Hildegard of Meaux medieval crime series Book 6)

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Retinue?’ He gave her a considering look then leaned closer. ‘Is this Prague?’

  ‘What?’ Now she was the one with her mouth dropping open. ‘Don’t you know where you are?’

  ‘It is Prague, isn’t it?’ the more silent one insisted.

  Just then there was a shout.

  The two northerners rose as one and made off down the passage without looking back but a guard was already blocking the exit that way. Heavily armed, he was a big, bruising type.

  Undeterred, the northerners launched themselves against him and if another posse of guards had not at that moment turned up behind him they would have no doubt made their escape into the next courtyard. It was their bad luck that a vicious brawl was inevitable. Hildegard shouted ineffectually for them to calm down but neither side was listening.

  The northerners, the beginnings of black eyes and one bloodied nose evident, were soon beaten down then they were trussed and marched roughly off between the guards down the slype and into the main courtyard. Hildegard followed in their wake. The guards ignored her when she tried to find out where they were being taken.

  One of the Englishmen shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Where the hell are we then if it’s not Prague?’

  ‘You’re in Avignon,’ she called after him, ‘at the Palace of Pope Clement.’

  Strong oaths expressing disbelief followed this news. Her last glimpse of them were as they were hustled through a door into one of the towers. The door slammed shut behind them with unequivocal finality. A guard took up a belligerent stance in front of it with folded arms. How on earth could the men imagine they were in Prague?

  **

  Making a detour past the guard house door she noticed the same fellow who had been on duty earlier standing outside again. He gave her a non-committal grunt as she passed.

  Two octagonal towers flanked the gate where the English contingent of Sir John Fitzjohn had driven in. Armed men were going in and out.

  A third tower defending the corner of the palace overlooked the river. It would have a view over the roofs of the town cathedral at the top of wide and substantial open steps leading up from the town’s main thoroughfare. With little chance of getting inside the tower itself, she turned back across the Great Courtyard and strolled towards the main building.

  It was bustling with the activities of servants and administrators going about the daily business of the palace. The sprawling empire of the pope employed an army of scribes, clerks, messengers, advisors, ambassadors and lawmen. A constant stream of petitioners, often with their own large retinues of servants and attendants, increased the numbers of inhabitants in the enclave. From the top of the steps she could see out over the entire yard.

  To add to the constant bustle of activity, beside the gate house was the stone chamber where the couriers sent and delivered messages from every part of the papal empire.

  Horses champed in their harness outside while messengers came and went. Not all couriers travelled long distances. A lot of palace correspondence was conducted locally with merchants and suppliers in the town. Provisioning, for instance, made up a huge part of activities here with a large permanent, as well as itinerant, number of mouths to feed. Even so, riders who had obviously travelled from distant parts clattered constantly in and out of the courtyard to register their documents.

  A babble of foreign voices surrounded her when she entered this hub of communication. Over behind a trestle stacked with parchments stood a smart looking lay clerk wearing a yellow capuchon. He was writing in a ledger and when she handed over her own letter he took it without a word, glanced at the intended destination, copied the details onto a roll, placed it on a pile of other correspondence, and nodded his dismissal.

  ‘Do I get a receipt?’ she asked in French.

  Pursing his lips at being checked, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over. As she slipped the receipt into her sleeve she was aware of the suspicion in his glance.

  She did not doubt that within moments of leaving the premises he would tear off her seal and read the contents. Much good will it do him, she thought. If he can read English, good for him, but he won’t be able to make head nor tail of the cipher. Her private message to the prioress was safe, unless, of course, he considered it important enough to hand over to the official code-breaker employed by the pope.

  A vast army of administrators worked here and somewhere in the papal fortress would be a back office with a few clerks sitting among the rolls, making and breaking the codes and ciphers in use.

  Frowning, she ran through the contents of her letter. There was nothing in it that could possibly give rise to suspicion about her allegiance to an enemy pope.

  **

  The plight of the two northerners preyed on her mind. She could not help but be interested in them. Who had brought them here, and why? And how had they been so fooled as to imagine they were in another country entirely? Reluctantly she had to admit that they had probably been abducted.

  She went up to see Athanasius. Little by little she was beginning to realise he was probably just an inquisitive and crusty old corrodian, living out his last years under the protection of the papal court. He might have some ideas about the two northerners. She would find out.

  He was sitting on his bed when he invited her to enter. She was shocked to see that his face was flushed, burning with some kind of fever. A concoction of herbs was held in a cup between his palms and now and then, he took a sip and grimaced.

  ‘Any news to take my mind off this infernal fever?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.

  ‘I do have news, magister, but not about the cardinal’s acolyte.’

  He peered up inquisitively through the steam rising from the cup. ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘I’ve just had an unexpected encounter with two young Englishmen recently arrived in Avignon. The astonishing thing is, they imagine they’re in Prague.’ She went on to tell him the rest of it without mentioning the word kidnapping.

  ‘And you feel concern for these two dolts, do you?’

  ‘I’m not sure they are dolts.’

  He gave her an ambiguous smile. ‘How forgiving of you, domina. In that case, why don’t you go and offer consolation to them? I’m sure they’re in need of it and their guards will look on you as fitted to the task of reconciling them to their confinement.’

  ‘As easy as that? But what about the guards?’

  He smiled. ‘They all know you come from me.’

  **

  Before she could put this plan to the test she had to break her night fast. The first meal of the day was served after tierce and continued in several sitting until shortly before noon in order to satisfy so many people. The enormous banqueting hall where it was eaten was known as the Tinel and was an echoing chamber with a coffered ceiling and imposing Sienese frescoes on the walls.

  Designed to seat over five hundred diners at a time it was a daunting endeavour to find an empty seat among the crowd. As Hildegard threaded her way towards the long table where the women dined she was conscious of the babble of voices of the many guests from outside the monastic orders here on business.

  Merchants with their wives and daughters to question the legality of their papal taxes, knights in attendance on behalf of their lords. Pilgrims. Artisans. Musicians and entertainers. Hangers-on of every kind. They filled the benches and added to the hubbub. Eventually she found a quiet corner at the end of the table and, when her portion was set before her, chewed thoughtfully while she looked around.

  The friars occupied one of the long trestles and a group of Benedictines another. Different colours denoting the different orders made it easy to pick out the separate groups. Her glance searched for a particular distinctive colour and soon alighted upon it.

  Bleached robes drew the eye even without the fanciful urge to find one particular face among them. He could not be here, of course, it was wishful thinking. He was too much on her mind, as always. Earlier this morning she had even
imagined a glimpse of Abbot Hubert de Courcy among the crowd milling about in the Great Courtyard. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairway, of course, he had disappeared into the crowd. It could not have been him. She knew that. He was leagues away in London. When she left Meaux he had been engaged on some business at the Cistercian headquarters at St Mary Graces near the Tower of London.

  Now, when she glanced across at the two Cistercians who might be the English ones Athanasius had mentioned, she was unsurprised when they turned out to be strangers.

  She looked round the rest of the hall again. Men everywhere. What she noticed apart from the tonsures and the scarlet hats was a confusion of beards of different lengths among the clean-shaven faces. There were young and old, smooth faces with the bloom of youth, others with skin wrinkled with the passing years, some faces among the crowd outstandingly handsome, some tightly pious, or red-faced gluttons, shovelling food into their mouths as fast as they could.

  A group of angelic looking choristers sat giggling together over some private naughtiness.

  A few cardinals, drawing glances by the glamour of expensive robes, were dining here before going onto more spiritual matters. Elegantly attired esquires darted in and out of the crowd on errands for their lords, and pages too, everywhere.

  As she had already noticed there was a great display of wealth on show, exotic, often foreign, a group from Byzantium, for instance, in shimmering gold court dress, but Westerners no less adorned with flashing rings and sumptuous robes. Others more austerely kept their vow of poverty, wearing rags with nonchalance or pride, or looking genuinely unaware of their tatters and lice. Her glance slid back towards the group in white.

  The two she assumed were English were deep in conversation and had not looked up for some time. Others in the same Cistercian habits talked and ate, finished, rose from the bench and left, or sat for a few moments, at ease before the duties of the day. Three of them had entered the Great Audience chamber just before Clement gave out his astonishing news. The third man might be fasting, praying, or otherwise involved in duties to his Order. Vaguely she wondered where they were from. It wouldn’t be done to approach them first.

  Rising to her feet she happened to glance across the hall then sat down as her knees gave way. She couldn’t believe her eyes. There, at the farthest corner near the entrance doors, was the third man.

  In his white robes with his cowl thrown back he was unmistakable. She blinked. It could not be. She stared. It was.

  It was Hubert de Courcy. Weeks ago he had ridden out from the Abbey of Meaux to take the road to London on official business. She looked again.

  He had his back to her now and she waited for him to turn again to speak to the person beside him. That profile was unmistakable. It was Hubert. No doubt about it. Hubert de Courcy. As large as life.

  Her mind in turmoil, she gripped the edge of the table. She had wanted him to be here, or at least to be near, but now he was all the old suspicions about his allegiance came flooding back. Had the Prioress known he intended to travel down to Avignon? Not a murmur had reached her own ears about it. The decision must have been made when he reached St Mary Graces, the Cistercian headquarters in London.

  She watched him now, half expecting him to turn into somebody quite different and her mistake would be laughable. But he turned his head again and she saw him clearly. There was no doubt of it. He was here.

  Sitting opposite, at a table apparently reserved for lay visitors, was a wealthy merchant’s wife by the look of her. Oblivious to the noise around them, she and Hubert were conducting an animated private conversation.

  In confusion all Hildegard wanted was to get out without being seen. Her only hope was that Hubert would leave first. What was she to say to him that wouldn’t sound like an accusation? What are you doing here? What are you doing here? She could not meet him just yet. What would she say? It suddenly dawned on her why the prioress had sent her to Avignon. It was to keep an eye on him. To find out what he was up to, attending Pope Clement, indeed. Is that where his allegiance truly lay? Was this what the prioress had secretly intended? Because his loyalty was still in doubt?

  Her glance dragged back and forth. She must leave. She had to. He was still talking to the merchant’s wife, if that was what she was, with no apparent sign of wanting to leave.

  Hildegard tried to convince herself that it could not be him. It must be his double.

  She forced herself to her feet and began to push her way through the crowd until she was close enough to see him clearly between the servers with their loaded trays, close enough to hear the familiar voice.

  He was speaking French. The sound of his voice, like velvet, like silk, was still capable of sending a thrill through her. Used to seeing him around the abbey at Meaux, conversing in English to the inhabitants, she had learned to forget his origins, about his father, a French ambassador at the court of Edward III, the love affair with an English lady-in-waiting, and how Hubert was their eldest son, half French therefore, her prioress had warned. Never forget that.

  As she stared the words of the prioress echoed over and over in her mind.

  We must always ask ourselves, Hildegard, where does our abbot’s allegiance truly lie? With Pope Urban and we English, or with the anti-pope and the French, our sworn enemies?

  It seemed that, over the last year or two, Hubert had shown that his allegiance lay with King Richard, but why had she assumed that it was so? Where was the hard evidence for it? His presence here could surely mean only one thing. He had accepted Clement’s illegal rule.

  He must have been sent by the Prior of St Mary Graces, she realised. The mother-house of the Cistercian Order was in Meaux in northern France, close to Paris, and he would be expected to attend the French pope on behalf of the English Chapter. He could not have been sent, as she had been sent, to bring back information useful to King Richard. Quite the contrary.

  And his conversation with the merchant’s wife? She reminded herself that the English abbey at Meaux owed its existence to the wool trade. Wool quotas were essential for the upkeep of the abbey. Here was the perfect place to meet French importers wishing to do business. Natural to meet the wife. Natural that he would not want to slight her, would want to give her his undivided attention. As he was now doing.

  But her thoughts were in turmoil. She knew she was making excuses. It didn’t look as if he was talking about wool quotas, anything but, especially when the woman, in reply to something he said, threw her head back and with a languid smile ran her bejewelled fingers down her long, white throat as if by chance drawing attention to her cleavage.

  I should get out, thought Hildegard, aghast at a sudden heat of feeling against him. But she could not move. She was immobilised by conflicting emotions.

  ‘Excuse me, domina, may I - ?’ A servant was trying to get past and she stepped hurriedly to one side. ‘My pardon, m’sieur.’

  With an effort she forced herself towards the door, to escape to safety as it seemed, until, at the last minute, she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder just as Hubert turned his head and caught sight of her. His dark eyes seemed to turn to needles. He did not move. His expression froze. He did not greet her. He merely stared.

  Someone came between them and blocked her view. She took it as a reprieve and a chance to escape. She was not ready yet. Not ready to counter his cool manner and find she was right for being suspicious.

  He would dash her suspicions aside, of course, cleverly, forensically choosing his words, but he could not deny his presence here. And Pope Clement was the enemy of the English. Hubert’s presence was all the evidence against him she needed.

  **

  The sentry on duty at the door of the tower steps was impassive. ‘What makes you think there’s any prisoners like that in here?’ he growled in a thick regional dialect.

  ‘Because I was present when you guards arrested them in the slype passage.’

  He looked uncertain.

  She pr
essed her advantage. ‘I believe they would be less inclined to try another escape if I could talk to them and bring the spiritual consolation that might resign them to their present condition.’

  This persuaded him to kick open the door behind him and call to someone inside.

  A second guard appeared with a mug of ale in his paw. ‘What?’

  ‘She wants to pray with the prisoners.’

  ‘Let her then.’ This only after a brief, critical look that assumed a complete knowledge of Hildegard and everything she stood for. ‘Let her quieten them down with tales of hell fire. That’ll do us.’

  The first guard, responsibility safely taken off his shoulders, stepped aside, asking for form’s sake, ‘No knives, swords or other weapons about your person?’

  Shaking her head, Hildegard entered the tower.

  **

  It was dank inside. A spiral wound all the way to a holding cell at the top. When she pushed open the door the two Englishmen were sitting on a pile of straw playing dice.

  ‘Oh it’s you again. How did you cozen your way in here?’ It was not an unfriendly greeting, merely northern bluntness.

  She took it as such and explained that as their countrywoman she was worried about them and had an interest in their predicament.

  ‘By, you’ve got some neck, stepping in here. Have you come to get us out?’

  ‘I might have. Why were you brought to Avignon anyway?’

  ‘It is Avignon, then?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘That’s what that sotwit guard tried to tell us in his devilish lingo.’

  ‘It’s like this, we’re miners, see?’ the other one interrupted.

  ‘All right.’ She staunched her puzzlement for the moment.

  ‘We work underground. Specialists, like.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘We have the knowledge. They want the knowledge. Ergo, as you nuns might say, we are valuable assets to them what wants to make profit.’

  ‘What do you mine?’ she asked.

  ‘Anything that lies a way underground. We’re not your open-cast fellas. We dig deep. No point in having the roof cascade in on your head burying your men and your silver, is there?’