**
‘My dear lady,’ he sighed, as she finished her careful report of the previous night’s events. She had told him only enough to include what would be generally known and no more.
He tutted and fussed with some beads for a moment then, unexpectedly, mentioned the wide and uninterrupted view from one of the towers. ‘If you mention my name the guard will allow you up the final, private flight of stairs onto the roof. From there you might be able to observe the movements of Sir John’s search party. You will be able to make out whether they have prisoners with them as they return.’
‘Before I do that, magiser, may I ask if you have had further thoughts about the missing dagger?’
‘None. Only that it must be found.’
‘An impossible task I would imagine. Where would one even start?’
‘It will show itself before long.’ He gave his catlike smile and she imagined him sitting patiently outside a mousehole waiting for his supper.
‘How is the cardinal today, magister? Is he any nearer finding the murderer of that poor boy?’
Athanasius shook his head. ‘He is over at Villeneuve on his estate. He won’t find any clues there, that’s for sure. I think the poor fellow is quite overwhelmed with grief. He has had a sad life, one way or another.’
‘Oh?’
Athanasius smiled. ‘He has the misfortune of being the younger brother of the old Pope, Urban V, second-fiddle all his life to his illustrious elder brother. He then had the misfortune not only to fail in his attempt to bring Cesena and Forli back within the jurisdiction of the papacy - but to have Clement, when he was merely Robert of Geneva, achieve the laurels of success. To add to this, his expectation of being elected pope were doomed when his fellow cardinals chose Robert instead. Jealousy has been his constant companion from the day he was born.’
‘He does not seem bitter.’
‘He feigns, dear lady, he feigns.’
**
The panorama from the top of the tower was, as Athanasius had hinted, spectacular. Despite the torrential rain she managed to find a sheltered spot behind the battlements where she had a clear view of the River Rhone. Now it was surging down more powerfully than ever past the outer walls of the city. From this height it seemed to coil round them like a living creature.
Cutting across the water was the long and graceful bridge of St Benezet, the bridge of Avignon, with its many arches, linking the peninsula where the cardinals’ private estates lay. The grey walls of the abbey were visible behind a curtain of rain with the garden of the old pope below.
With a slight turn of her head she could even see far downstream where the Rhone met two smaller rivers, the Sorgue and the Durance with a litter of small craft moored against the walls of the quays. She realised that the city was in an ideal location for trade through the Mediterranean and to the Lombard city states. Good connections. John and Peter would surely find a way to safety.
Lifting her glance she could see right across the wide plain to where innumerable small farms glimmered in the harsh light, milch cows sheltered under thatch in the water-logged meadows, and the cross-hatched fields of the arable strips, bare now, glinting with puddles, lay in what would be the Kingdom of France. Closer, on the bank of the peninsula, guarding the frontier, was the gaunt watch tower built by Philippe le Bel.
By leaning over the parapet she was able to peer down to the foot of the tower. It was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. A frisson ran through her. Heights did not usually bother her. It was its uninterrupted fall that was alarming.
Back again, over the walls of the city, she could clearly see the traffic passing over the narrow, many-spanned bridge. It would slow at the chapel half way along, then speed up until it reached the sentry posts at each end, slowing again as an unwieldy convoy of goods wagons, and people, looking like insects, jostled to get through the check points. There was no sight of Fitzjohn and the pope’s militia in all this.
She decided that it was a good sign. If the ferryman had refused to take the miners across in such a dangerous flood, they might have decided to cross by the bridge instead. They would have had to devise a way of getting past the sentries but with so much rain making the river treacherous it might have been their best chance. With no evidence of Fitzjohn and his man hunters they must have got right away.
She peered out into open country again. Once deep in the campagne, armed militia, whether carrying the papal banners or not, would meet with hostility and delays that two men travelling alone and looking like mendicants might avoid.
With the wind ruffling through her wet cloak she reluctantly left her watch tower and made the winding descent to the lower level. The guard had given her no problems when she mentioned the name Athanasius and now he didn’t even look up.
**
Bertram beside her. ‘No sign of him, domina. I think I should tell someone.’
She guessed at once whom he meant. ‘Who retains him?’
‘The Duc de Berry but he’s absent.’
‘Who does he answer to when his lord is away?’
‘A house steward.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t know. Jacques something.’
‘Do you want me to speak to him?’
Despite his earlier words he looked indecisive. ‘Maybe we should wait a while. If his absence hasn’t been noticed it might be better not to draw attention to it?’
‘You think he might be amusing himself in the town?’
‘It’s very likely from what I’ve heard of him.’
**
Still no sign of Edmund either, nor Sir John Fitzjohn.
Hildegard braved the rain to go to the couriers’ office to see if there was news from England.
‘Nothing yet, domina.’
Momentous events were taking place in London and she felt frustrated at this absence of information. It must surely be the case that Sir Simon Burley, his grace the Archbishop of York, the Chief Justiciar and the mayor of the City of London had put their case to the king’s council and been released. Common sense dictated that loyal men such as they could not be accused of treason. It was madness to think it.
Back indoors she noticed three Cistercians strolling down the wide steps of the Stairs of Honour. Their white habits were visible through the arching loops in the wall. She could choose to retreat in a hurry before they saw her or continue to make her way steadily upwards on her original course. She chose the latter and came face to face with the three men half way up the stairs.
If she hoped Hubert would move aside to let her pass she was disappointed. He came to a standstill, blocking her ascent.
She looked up at him in silence. His dark eyes seemed to bore into her. His face was like chiselled alabaster. There was a pause as if he was choosing between several available comments. Then to her surprise he gave a small inclination of the head, murmuring, ‘Salve, domina.’
She replied with similar formality, dropping to her knees awkwardly on the stair, murmuring, ‘My lord abbot.’
One hand came out to raise her to standing. He held her arm for what seemed like an eternity while a puddle of rain formed round her feet. ‘I believe you have not met my supporters?’
The two monks accompanying him were from separate monasteries in England, strangers to her, greeting her with the innocence of those who do not imagine any past events colouring the present encounter. One of them, as she had noticed earlier, was thick-set, with a shaven head. His companion was lanky and looked as if he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
They seemed interested enough to hear about the priory at Swyne and invited her comments on Hubert’s plan to extend the gatehouse at Meaux. Then one of them mentioned that he had noticed her in the company of Cardinal Grizac the other day and she had to explain about the murder and that she had been present when the youth was identified as an acolyte of the cardinal.
And then Hubert said, in an astonished tone, ‘But is this the same Grizac who was Dean at the York Chap
ter some years ago?’
She said she understood it was so, as his acolyte came from York.
Then one of the monks said he had heard some music the cardinal had composed and how impressive it was and what a good rendering the choristers had made of it and was he still composing? To which she had to admit ignorance.
And then, politely, they parted, with only Hubert’s glance somehow lingering after her as she ascended the stairway and hinting at words unspoken beneath a smouldering look.
**
Fitzjohn returned. If he had been in a rage before he left he was ten times worse now. A fruitless ride in the teeth of a storm into the hostile territory of the King of France was bad enough. To return without their quarry made it insupportable. Edmund had a black eye.
‘At least you’re safe,’ whispered Hildegard when she saw him in the passage outside the Tinel.
‘Yes, I’m looking on the bright side. And at least the others have got right away.’
‘Fitzjohn returned sooner than expected.’
‘Yes, the weather got the better of us and the French armies were harassing us and the pope’s commander decided the miners could not have travelled so far on foot in weather like that and that he would follow other lines of pursuit.’ He grimaced. ‘You know what that means. The pope has spies everywhere and anyone suspicious will soon be picked up - or so he believes.’ His face clouded. ‘Bertram told me about Taillefer. It’s irresponsible of him not to come back and let us know which way the men escaped. We might easily have come across them accidentally on the road.’
‘Taillefer’s probably sheltering from the storm.’
‘Even so, he should stick to our plan. What do you think the miners did when they left here?’
‘It’s anybody’s guess. Maybe they went by boat as far as they could, if they could get anyone to take them in all this. They might even have changed their minds and decided to travel right up to Calais by barge and miss out Aquitaine altogether.’
‘Too risky, surely? River traffic moves so slowly. And barges can easily be stopped and searched.’
Hildegard nodded. That was her view as well but with no news they could only second-guess the movements of the two miners. At least they had not been arrested by Fitzjohn’s search party.
**
Just as she could not second guess the escape route the miners had chosen so neither could she second guess what Fitzjohn’s reaction would be to his loss. Rage, yes. Enough flames to light the Avignon market place bonfire from ten miles away. But what would he do?
His mission to the pope was a disastrous failure.
Woodstock’s gift, whatever its purpose, had vanished into the morning mist. Woodstock himself was not noted for his peaceful and reasonable nature. Anything but. He was known as a vile brute of a man, a bully, loaded with resentments, never willing to relinquish past slights whether real or imaginary.
And Fitzjohn would have to face him at some point. He would have a lot of explaining to do. It was difficult to see how he could talk his way out of a thorough thrashing, real and metaphorical. His lands would be confiscated. He could finish up as a beggar with a doubly broken nose.
The pope too, in expectation of some augmentation to his personal wealth - by whatever strange plan had been devised by means of such a gift - would be less than pleased at receiving nothing for his trouble.
Hildegard would not be in John Fitzjohn’s shoes at any price.
‘Keep out of his way,’ she advised Edmund.
‘It’s impossible, domina. Would that I could. I have the duties of an esquire to fulfil. But fear not, I grow in rage every day and rage makes giants of us all and giants have the strength and fortitude of ten.’
‘You cannot strike your lord without facing a grisly punishment.’
Edmund gazed steadily into her face for a moment but did not respond to her warning.
**
The rain let up at last but the river was twice as wide as usual except where it was forced like a mill race through the arches of St Benezet’s bridge. A crowd had gathered and everybody was staring down into the water.
By the time Hildegard reached the brow of the slope that led down to the half- submerged landing stage she noticed that they were pointing excitedly at something below the parapet and one or two men were beginning to scramble down the bank. Even from a distance she could make out the familiar faces of palace servants, a handful of retainers in the colours of Thomas Woodstock, several friars and a nun or two. Three burly servants from the kitchens were just now walking up onto the bridge to join the group further along and were obviously expected. They carried grappling hooks.
The onlookers stepped aside to let them have a look into the water and a discussion ensued.
With her morning walk interrupted Hildegard changed direction and started towards the crowd that was gathering.
As she drew near the onlookers were clustering against the parapet, staring down into the water. Several started to shout instructions to somebody below. She went up onto the bridge past the sentry but, unable to get much closer because of the press of onlookers, leaned over where she was to see what they were staring at.
Further along, near the bank, a mound of debris had become jammed between one of the arches. Made up of broken saplings, torn out by the flood waters, a tangle of branches, a log or two, and other flotsam from upstream it formed a temporary dam and with the water surging against it more debris was being piled up as they watched.
The river was runnning in spate in the deep channels between the many arches in mid river but closer to the bank the current was weaker and was unable to dislodge the fragile platform of flotsam that had become stuck. What everybody was pointing at was what looked like a heap of old clothes on this log-jam. They were half hidden by the rubbish that was continually being dragged along and cast onto it by the current.
A man she recognised as the ferryman was standing on the bank under the first arch of the bridge with a line attached to his boat. He was trying to drag it closer to the dam, pulling hard against the force of the current, the craft straining against the water as the river threw its full force against it. His muscles bulged as he pitted his strength on holding the line so as not to lose it altogether. The river made a din like a herd of bolting horses, above it his shouts to the men standing on the bridge were intensified by the echo underneath the stone arch. She watched him haul on the line without result. It looked as if he was trying to drag the boat close enough to the bank to use it as a bridge so he could step across to the log-jam. But it was held fast in the grip of the current.
Hildegard turned her attention to the thing that was lying on the raft of flotsam, the aim of his efforts and with a jolt she realised that what looked like a pile of rags was, in fact, a body lying askew among the wreckage.
She glimpsed a hand as it rose, lifted by the waves. It looked like a sign of life. Next minute she saw that it was just the surge of water causing an involuntary movement as the waves bubbled under the raft. Eventually she managed to make out the edge of a cloak, ballooning in the swirl of the current. It was definitely someone lying there, no doubt of that.
The ferryman was still straining on the line. He glanced up at the people on the bridge then shouted for one or two men to help him. ‘More beef!’ he yelled above the roar of the river. ‘I can’t hold her!’
Several men, already sliding down the muddy bank, rushed to grab the line. The ones with the grappling hooks slithered after them. Some of those leaning over the parapet ran back along the bridge as well and began to scramble down to add their own strength to the task.
‘That line’ll break if he’s not careful,’ somebody murmured next to Hildegard.
‘Gently does it!’ his companion muttered as the added muscle slowly began to haul the boat closer.
Little by little the men managed to draw it into a position such that it was broadside on to the river with the tail end of the line looped through a metal ring on the path and throw
n to somebody standing on the bridge. They managed to steady it enough to enable a couple of volunteers to climb across to the raft where the body lay. The force of the current was forcing a continual overfall of white water to lick at the twisted debris and the men were soaked to the waists by the time they managed to risk their weight on it and jump across. All eyes were fixed on them as they tried to disentangle the body from the net of branches that held it.
‘Drowned,’ a fellow standing next to Hildegard exclaimed. ‘Must’ve fell in upstream. What do you make of that?’
‘Poor sod.’ His companion crossed himself.
A palace official stood at the top of the bank, discussing the matter with the people standing nearest. The men were still struggling with the lines and one of them, balancing on the swaying raft, was already in water up to his knees as the log jam began to break up under his weight. There were shouts from the bridge to save himself but he ignored them and began to reach out towards the body. Everybody saw him grasp hold of a bundle of fabric and begin to drag it towards the boat. Somehow, with the help of willing hands, he managed to lift the body into the boat.
A cheer went up from the onlookers. Then the men inside the boat had to steady themselves as it was pulled, pitching and yawing, back towards the bank.
Another cheer went up as it reached safety and the men scrambled ashore.
The crowd began to break into groups while some ran back along the bridge to get a better view of what had been snatched from the jaws of the river.
From her vantage point on the bridge Hildegard could make out that it was someone in a blue cloak. It looked like a young woman. A tangle of wild, dark hair. White hands. A ring.
She hovered on the edge of the crowd. That movement of the hand in the water might mean there was a life to be saved. She began to make her way down the muddy slope to the water margin.
Edmund was standing with a subdued group of Fitzjohn’s household servants in the shadow underneath the bridge. He caught sight of her and came over.
With a gulp of emotion, he said, ‘Domina, we cannot find out what has happened. Can you demand an explanation?’
The Butcher of Avignon (Hildegard of Meaux medieval crime series Book 6) Page 16