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

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘A waste of time, domina. You will not take anything from him yet. The rigor of death still holds him tight. Soon you’ll be able to retrieve what is of value to you.’

  Hildegard straightened a crease in one of his cuffs. ‘It is not for myself. It is my errand to retrieve the dagger for its owner.’

  The woman gave her a derisory smile. ‘If you say so, sister.’

  She lowered her head in a gesture that told Hildegard she was an interloper.

  Cardinal Grizac could reclaim the dagger later, if it was his, she decided. She supposed she had been sent to get it to save him the bother. He looked in no fit state to do anything in his present state of grief. But something had seemed wrong about the request.

  She withdrew her hand. The jewels on the hilt glittered. There was no sign of blood on the blade. It seemed to have significance for its decoration - and for the value the cardinal attached to it..

  **

  While on her errand to the apothecary, with the plight of the two miners on her mind, Hildegard had briefly entered the kitchen wing. Now she returned to have a proper look.

  The wine store must be somewhere close by. The unloading bay where supplies were transferred from the sumpter wagons into the storehouses would also be close to where they were needed.

  First, the kitchen. It was a circular stone built chamber with a high conical roof through which the smoke from the enormous fire could escape. It seethed with heat and noise. When she looked in earlier a whole hog was being manhandled onto a spit and now it had been roasting for an hour or so. The little barefoot spit boy, sweating and cursing, was turning the great iron handle, and fat was dripping out of the carcase into a pan underneath to be later left to set before being spread on hunks of bread. The logs roared and spat sparks and another boy went around sweeping them up with a besom and now and then beating out the flames with the back of an old black skillet.

  Across the middle of the chamber several long trestles were lined up and on both sides kitcheners were standing up at the endless task of preparing the food to be served later that day. Some cleaned, some chopped, some scraped, some sliced and yet others grated ingredients onto the board. Utensils flashed. Sharp knives sliced. Wielded with deadly skill.

  No-one spoke. The master of this seething cavern sat on a wooden dais so he could oversee the activities of his minions, while a clerk at his side checked off ingredients and cooking methods on parchment rolls stacked on a lectern.

  One or two overseers seemed to control the work of the more menial staff, the cutters and parers. Others, boys mostly, came in and out with fresh provisions. She watched a puny boy stagger in with a pole swinging with dead geese. Others followed carrying birds from the morning’s shoot, snipe, teal, duck, larks from the nets and many other birds which they threw down in a heap onto the trestles. Someone else hefted a wide reed platter loaded with duck eggs. A hen, still squawking, was dumped on a table, its neck wrung, and almost before it had stopped struggling, its feathers were being plucked by someone else. Fish, wriggling and glistening with life, were brought in from the town ponds. The innards of wild boar slithered over the chopping board.

  On a back wall were ranged the ovens, massive things, large enough to bake the enormous amount of bread that was eaten, their suddenly opened wooden doors blasting heat into the already sweltering kitchen.

  Baskets of vegetables - beans, cabbages, onions, carrots - were carried in by pairs of staggering lads who gripped the looped handles of the baskets and thumped the loads onto the flagstones only to be shouted at by a servant who stepped back and nearly tripped over one.

  Honey was poured in a golden viscid stream from massive stone jars. A mound of almonds were burned on a skillet, a servant pounded more in a pestle and mortar. Dried fruits, dates and raisins were emptied onto a huge set of scales while two scullions lifted the heavy weights to balance them.

  It was quieter next door but not much. A few stolid fellows moved knowledgeably between the wine casks in the semi-darkness while one of the monks followed, a tasting cup in one hand, pointing with the other to the different casks he wanted to taste. A servant opened a spigot and filled up a flagon with a wine that lit up like an arc of rubies as it caught the light from the open door.

  Two men were rolling a barrel of ale into a nearby alcove. Beyond them, steps led down into the cellar where wine was allowed to settle. She watched as a barrel, obviously empty, was brought out and hoisted onto one of the men’s shoulders and taken out.

  She had seen enough.

  Out in the main yard she made her way past the tower where the two miners were imprisoned and turned the corner into another smaller yard. It was where the wagon had disappeared in the thin light before dawn the previous day, when John Fitzjohn, flaunting the arms of Thomas of Woodstock had arrived in such triumph.

  Now a few wagons were lined up, shafts propped on the ground, and further into the yard a stone archway gave onto the stables. A row of horses leaned their heads over the tops of their doors and snuffled for the stable lads’ attentions. If she craned her neck she could see into the yard from where she stood. As she watched, one of the horses was led out under the arch into the wagon yard where it was backed up between the shafts of a cart. The servant she had seen in the ale cellar appeared at a door and wedged an empty barrel against the wall, glanced round, then ducked back inside.

  The brewhouse, she decided, might be inside the palace walls or outside in the town. It would not matter. The brewer might be missing two of his barrels again if the plan hinted at by Athanasius was carried out.

  She considered how she could persuade any of the dray masters to help smuggle two prisoners onto the first stage of their journey back to England, and reluctantly concluded it could not be done without a hefty bribe. Had Athanasius thought of that?

  **

  The little jewelled dagger. One such as you or I might carry.

  Really?

  Finding the bed chamber empty for once, she sat on her mattress and considered the purpose of daggers.

  Why would an old monk confined to his cell need to carry a dagger? Why would a cardinal need one?

  Hildegard’s attention moved to the cardinal.

  Clearly the pope’s man. It would be almost impossible to be appointed to his position without convincing the Conclave that he was loyal to Pope Urban’s opponent.

  She considered the interesting fact of his residence in England. Specifically in York, not far from Meaux. His apparent affection for the dead acolyte seemed unequivocal. To see him, nevermore. She had little reason to believe he had been referring to the murdered youth, it was merely supposition and the bewildered grief on his face that made her think so.

  As for a dagger again. Such were the times, men of every description and most women carried such things concealed in their clothes. She carried a dagger herself. Why should Athanasius and Grizac be an exception?

  Thankful she was alone in the bed chamber, she went over to her leather travel bag and rummaged inside. Here it was, nicely honed, more or less unused except for skinning the odd rabbit now and then and hacking through the meat she rarely ate. It had got her out of one or two difficult situations, more by the surprise of its appearance than her skill in using it in self-defence. That had yet to be tested. She wondered if many nuns thought to carry such weapons these days. Maybe her cell sister had one. Morose, she had barely managed to exchange a single word with Hildegard since her arrival. Now she glanced over at the scrip lying on the mattress on the other side of the chamber.

  There might well be a knife concealed in there. She gave it a distant though careful look.

  **

  ‘Hildegard!’

  At the sound of her name she swivelled in surprise. ‘My lord abbot.’ Suddenly cold, she dropped to her knees.

  ‘Get up. We need to talk. Come to me in the little garden with the fountain before vespers.’

  ‘The garden with - ?’

  ‘You know the one. Why didn’t you
speak to me in the Tinel earlier? I thought I was dreaming.’

  ‘I – ’ Unable to finish, she merely shrugged.

  ‘Just a glimpse, then you vanished. I also thought I saw you in the audience chamber soon after we arrived but put it down to an hallucination caused by exhaustion after the journey.’ When she was still unable to speak he said, ‘I heard you might be down here but I must say I’m amazed you arrived first. I can scarcely believe it. You made very good time.’

  ‘From England?’

  ‘Of course from England.’ He gave her a searching glance. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Avignon.’ She was in a daze but pulled herself together. ‘If I’d known it was a race I’d have put on a little more speed.’ She couldn't help smiling.

  He peered into her face again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’re very pale.’

  ‘I’m tired from the journey I expect – and from everything that’s happened since.’

  ‘We had hellish problems with Burgundy’s militia.’ He gave that sudden boyish smile she knew that showed whatever the problems a skirmish with the enemy presented he had relished every moment.

  Now his gaze had lifted from her face and was fixed on something behind her. She saw him make a sign of greeting then turn abruptly, pacing away along the corridor with a measured tread unlike his usual brisk walk.

  When she turned she found the cardinal whose little daughter had nearly lost her pet squirrel standing behind her. It was difficult to tell how long he had been there. Hubert’s attention had not shifted from her face until just before he turned away.

  ‘Domina, we meet again,’ the cardinal now said. He was affable and full of smiles.

  ‘And how is the squirrel today?’ she asked.

  ‘As beloved as yesterday.’

  He stood contemplating her for a moment then bowed and passed on.

  For some reason Hildegard felt a chill strike through her.

  **

  After helping the nuns to prepare Maurice’s body for burial Hildegard went to keep her assignation with Hubert.

  They met in a corner of the walled garden underneath the battlements. Faintly the sounds of water striking the sides of a marble fountain intensified the silence that precedes vespers. Sunset, later here than in England, slanted a pale, frigid shaft onto the path but the wall close to where they were standing was already deep in mauve shadow.

  Hubert greeted her warmly but then straightaway started to question her about Athanasius.

  Surprised that he even knew of him she admitted, ‘He sees me as a pair of useful hands. Someone to run errands for him. Going into places he cannot enter. The prioress merely told me to inform the guest master if my arrival and it was he who assigned me to him. What can you tell me about him?’

  It was a test. Hubert’s answer would reveal as much about himself and his allegiance as it would about Athanasius.

  Hubert took both her hands in his. ‘I am glad to see you safe. When we didn’t catch up with you on the journey I feared the worst. Then after we arrived and I caught sight of you, a sight so fleeting - ’ His voice thickened. ‘I was relieved to find you safe and well. Hildegard -’ he tightened his grip, ‘you saw me once or twice in the crowd, I’m sure of it, but you looked straight through me.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Soon after we arrived. We entered the audience chamber shortly before Woodstock’s man.’

  ‘So it was you.’

  ‘You were standing near a pillar.’

  ‘And you were near the door.’

  He smiled with something like satisfaction. ‘We recognised each other in all that sea of people.’

  ‘You know about Fitzjohn then? That he’s Woodstock’s vassal.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  He looked at her in silence to allow her to come to the right conclusion. She felt cornered. Like a stag being forced into the killing zone. So far, he had failed to answer her question about Athanasius.

  Scarcely able to frame the words, she forced herself to ask, ‘What have you to do with Woodstock’s faction?’

  Hubert answered promptly but she noticed that he did not meet her eye when he said, ‘Some say he may not be such an enemy to King Richard as we are led to believe.’

  ‘I can’t believe you can say such a thing!’ Her heart began to thump.

  ‘They have a point,’ he continued, looking into her face. ‘What do we know about the intentions of other people, least of all a member of the King’s Council?’

  ‘Is this a philosophical question?’

  His lips quivered in a smile. ‘Maybe we’ll have time to tease it out later?’

  ‘I notice you haven’t attempted to answer either of my questions.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘As you say, we cannot know the intentions of others.’

  ‘You think I’m trying to fob you off?’ He still held her hands but his tone had sharpened to match her own.

  This time she did not bother to answer.

  He said, ‘To return to your question. I probably know less about Athanasius than you do. What else can I say?’

  She avoided his glance. ‘I hate you when you’re like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know!’

  ‘I swear, I don’t!’

  ‘Evasive, Hubert. Answering a question with a question or in such a way that it does not quite constitute an outright lie.’

  She wanted desperately to know why he was here and if it had anything to do with the Cistercian silver mines in Bohemia and whether he was complicit in the kidnapping of the miners. Above all she longed to know what his feelings were about Holy Clement. Instead all she could say was, ‘What are you hiding, Hubert?’

  Abruptly he let her hands drop. His voice was tight and he spoke rapidly. ‘You know that’s a pointless question and it’s unworthy of you. If I were hiding anything I would hardly be likely to tell you. And if I were not then you’re unlikely to believe me, given that you’ve thought to ask such a question of me in the first place. Why this sudden distrust? I assume it’s sudden,’ his expression hardened, ‘or have you always mistrusted me?’

  ‘We live in dangerous times. I’m sure you’ll be the first to agree that a little healthy scepticism is no bad thing in a place like this?’

  ‘Now you’re doing what you’ve accused me of, answering a question with a question.’

  ‘This place is seething with secrets, Hubert. Everyone jostling for preferment, working only for their own advantage -’

  ‘This is how the world turns.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with our true purpose! It’s pure politics. The motives of most of those who come here are based on blatant self-interest. Greed tops the list, followed by pride, love of luxury, lust, exploitation of the poor - Is there ever an open and honest intention from sun rise to sun set in this entire place?’

  ‘And at night?’ His eyes, darkening, looked deep into her own.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the night. Even more swinish, no doubt, given the activities of the day. These men bring their concubines here. To the heart of the papal palace! What does Clement do about it? Nothing. And then, of course, there’s the murder which is being hushed up. Why was that boy inside the treasury? Who persuaded him to break in? Who killed him in cold blood?’

  Hubert looked bewildered.

  ‘You heard the pope make his announcement?’ she questiond.

  He slowly nodded his head. ‘Obviously I heard what Clement said and later the story seemed to be about a thief and how he’d resisted arrest by the guards. It happened just before we arrived and was one of the first things we heard. A thief. After gold. Motivated by the greed you were just talking about.’

  ‘So that’s it? End of story? But who sent him there, Hubert? Why is nobody asking that question?
Athanasius showed a little interest, on the level of a provoking conundrum as he called it. But now he’s losing interest. The boy was from York, Hubert. You might even know his family. The cardinal whose acolyte he was is only interested in retrieving a dagger the boy was holding. And nobody else seems to give a jot. I went to help lay out the body in the mortuary before meeting you here - ’

  ‘You’re still shaken, I see that. It’s understandable. It must be distressing to see - to see a human body with its wounds - ’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Hubert.’

  He drew back. ‘It seems I can’t say anything that doesn’t displease you.’

  They looked at each other with open antagonism. Hildegard felt her secret self dissolve in tears. She wanted to reach out across the chasm that had suddenly opened between them but Hubert’s expression was cold. And anyway, she could not trust him. The realisation was unbearable.

  ‘You’re here as part of Fitzjohn’s contingent, then?’ Her words seemed to creak forth. It was a shot in the dark and Hubert did not deny any involvement with Fitzjohn, vassal of King Richard’s most vociferous and dangerous enemy.

  Instead, he offered what Hildegard saw as an excuse, when he said, ‘I am here because I was recently called to our headquarters in London, as you know. While there I was instructed to attend his Holiness. Like you, I have no choice but to obey my superior. I’m obliged to carry out the commands of our Order.’ He paused before adding heavily, ‘Which so happens to owe allegiance to Pope Clement.’

  ‘The Butcher of Cesena?’ she blurted, unable to stop herself.

  Hubert’s lips tightened. ‘If you were heard to utter a phrase like that by anyone else you’d be excommunicated.’

  ‘There are worse punishments meted out to those who stand against Clement. I suppose you didn’t have time to notice the place in the town square where they burn heretics?’