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

by Cassandra Clark

  Hubert got up. ‘Night office soon. I must get some sleep.’

  When they left the Tinel they walked up the wide stairs towards the guest wing. At the top before they turned their separate ways into the darkness a moment of stillness drew them close.

  Hubert reached out to touch Hildegard on the lips but let his hand drop without doing so. ‘The wrong time, the wrong place,’ he murmured. ‘Will it always be so?’

  Turning swiftly on his heel and with a suddenly strong, ‘Vale, domina!’ he was soon swallowed up in the shadows between the intermittent lights along the passage.

  His complex character was what she loved about him, it was what intrigued her, it was what drew her to him despite all the warnings that he was not as he seemed.

  Now, against all expectations, he had brought her information that she could not have obtained herself. She did not know his motive. She knew now, however, that Taillefer’s killer might very well be within the palace itself.

  Somewhere here. Maybe close. Maybe far. She gazed down the long shadowy passage that led to her cell. Somewhere here. A man with a scar.

  **

  In the events concerning the theft of the dagger she had nearly lost sight of the mystery of who had murdered Maurice. That was a puzzle no nearer being solved. She went through a list of those she considered to be suspect.

  First was the glum little page of the bedchamber with his secret complicity in Maurice’s game and his undisguised penchant for gold. She dismissed him as he was such a puny little thing and she doubted whether his greed was so great it would drive him to slit a companion’s throat when his back was turned.

  Everyone suspected the guards. But she could find no reason for it. They would have had a reward if they had been able to produce a prisoner. As it was, a miasma of doubt now followed them wherever they went, a response that even the most obtuse murderer might have expected.

  The only other men known to have been in the vicinity were the pope himself and the attendants at the midnight office, none of whom would have been able to leave without drawing attention to themselves. Was there such a one? How on earth could she find out? When she tried to speak to the pope’s serjeants-at-arms they had been less than helpful and plainly saw her as an interfering foreigner.

  Despite Athanasius’s apparent protection it was strange, if he was supposed to be influential, that he had been unable to smooth her path in that respect. But that was by the way. Whoever was present that night in the chapel must have remained in the company of the others and presumably everyone had left the small private chapel together once the two consecutive night offices were over. Stairs led from the chapel directly to the pope’s private chamber where he slept, screened from the presence of his chamberlains, his cubiculaires, above his treasure vault.

  By the time he went back to bed the deed had been done. Maurice was dead and his body had been discovered.

  The rest of them would have returned to their chambers in different parts of the palace. Would anyone have had time to get to the treasury before the pope entered his bed chamber? It would have been a dangerous rush and then they would have had to escape before the guards came on duty. This assumed a prior knowledge of Maurice’s break-in, to be there at the right time. The idea that churchmen would involve themselves in such a matter was also a preposterous idea, wasn’t it? She scowled. A residual respect for them - even now, after all she had witnessed - almost persuaded her to make allowances for them. Surrounded by the casual, daily corruption that prevailed throughout the ecclesiastical world it was irrational. There was no escaping the conclusion: as outside the cloister, so within.

  It most likely came down to nothing more than petty theft. When the truth was discovered she would find it had not warranted so many hours spent trying to untangle a very simple knot. It would be a crime a humble retainer might commit and regard himself as rich beyond his dreams. That was one view.

  On the other hand was the fact that it might not be so petty after all that made her refuse to give up. What if it wasn’t the worth of the dagger itself, great though it was, but the contents in the secret compartment that made it an object of desire?

  If it had been poison, something, say, with no antidote, it could have a cataclysmic effect in the wrong hands. Had Maurice known this? Is that what made it worth risking his life for?

  The idea of a master mind seemed more compelling from this point of view. He might have been instructed to obtain the dagger, the poison, for just this reason.

  In all the fabulous wealth stored in the vault this was the one thing Maurice had been hanging onto.

  And yet his killer had left it behind.

  Could it mean he did not understand its significance? Or had he been disturbed by a sound from above - guards walking in the chamber above the vault and audible to anyone hiding underneath? Might it have been necessary to make a quick escape, leaving behind the one thing he had been seeking? And again, did it presuppose prior knowledge of Maurice’s quest?

  There was nothing for it. She would have to return to the first guard she had spoken to and go over old ground. He had seemed keen to help and would no doubt be pleased to tell her anything if it kept the finger of suspicion from pointing in his direction. Repetition might show the discrepancies in an invented story.

  **

  The guard-room. Rain.

  ‘Me again.’

  The guard glanced from left to right, saw his colleagues were busy, then stepped outside into the yard. He pulled up his hood. ‘I don’t like you coming here, domina. No offence. It looks as if - well, it looks bad.’

  ‘What if I’m asking about the time the gates are shut for the night?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Simple question, who was in the pope’s private chapel the night Maurice was murdered?’

  ‘Apart from his Holiness, you mean?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ll take his presence for granted.’

  ‘There was his priest, an old fellow of eighty. His personal servant, a child of seven. The sacristan and his assistant. And a handful of cardinals.’

  ‘Names?’

  He frowned. ‘Let’s think. There was Grizac, Montjoie, Fondi and Bellefort.’

  **

  It was known everywhere that some new cardinals were to be elected. Hubert had avoided any mention of it. He was aware of her loyalty to King Richard. His supporters would have been invited to put in a word for him. He would leave them to it. That’s how it was done.

  The couriers’ office was nearby and she called in, as she did every day, hoping for news from the prioress.

  Again there was nothing. It was to be expected that mail would take longer to travel from Yorkshire than from London. The fate of Alexander Neville was constantly in her thoughts. She curbed her anxiety and prayed that he had been reprieved or at least escaped to safety until the king’s council had been brought to its senses.

  She was worried about the king too, recalling the beautiful ten year old dressed in pure white silk and wearing the crown of state on his golden curls as he left Westminster Abbey after his coronation. He had ridden through cheering crowds on a little white pony caparisoned in red and gold and the citizens of London had sighed with love for him. Now he was a tall, fair, nineteen year old and fighting for his throne.

  **

  The attack by the unseen assailants outside the inn on the previous night had left Hildegard with one or two bruises that she only found as she sponged herself down in the communal wash house later that morning. Purple finger marks showed clearly on her hips and breasts. She hoped the man she hit had a black eye. Then the sound of that voice outside the inn came back to her. She was sure she had heard it before. But where? Whoever he was he had spoken in French, but badly, like somebody who had learned from an ill-educated tutor.

  The guild of pages were sombre when she met them in the yard. They were trailing in to the mid-morning service, Fitzjohn striding ahead, expecting them to run to keep up. She supposed he was sti
ll in a rage over the escape of the two miners and what it meant for his own future prospects. The return of the dagger to the pope would hardly be of interest to him. Edmund caught her eye and stopped for a brief instant.

  ‘Have you heard any more?’

  ‘Only a little about Taillefer’s night time activities.’

  Edmund blushed. He knew what she meant.

  ‘May we meet?’ she asked.

  ‘Same place?’

  When she nodded he hurried off in Fitzjohn’s wake.

  **

  The boys were half hidden among the straw under the buttress when she ducked her head under the stone arch later on. Simon, posted on guard duty, followed her inside as the others began to emerge from the straw. They reminded her of wild cats, concealing themselves until it was safe to come out.

  Edmund was first. ‘Any nearer the truth, domina?’

  She told them briefly what she had found out as they brushed straw from off their court clothes.

  When she finished, Bertram was tight with fury. ‘It must have been one of the cardinals. He’s going to get away with it!’

  There was a murmur of protest but it was half-hearted and Peterkin asked, ‘Do you think Maurice’s murderer is the same man who stole the dagger?’

  ‘He must be,’ Bertram gritted.

  ‘He might escape us but he’ll never escape the wrath of God,’ Peterkin asserted.

  ‘Listen,’ said Hildegard. ‘This is how it seems to have been. Maurice was ordered to fetch the dagger secretly from the treasury by someone but was stopped before he could hand it over. It quite likely contained poison despite what the pope’s clerk tried to insinuate. It was similar to ones I saw in Florence when I was there a couple of years ago. Whoever instructed Maurice must have wanted it for that reason.’

  Peterkin asked tentatively, ‘Could it have been Cardinal Grizac?’

  ‘If so it was a monstrous thing for a lord to ask of a retainer,’ said Bertram. ‘But why would the cardinal want to obtain poison in such a roundabout way?’

  ‘Does the cardinal have an enemy in the palace?’ Peterkin was looking thoughtful. ‘He’s the most pleasant of men. Devout and one of the few not given to lewdness. I can’t see him wanting to poison anyone. And how could it turn out that Maurice was killed on such a mission? Someone must have known he was going to break in.’

  ‘Who is the cardinal on close terms with here?’ Edmund looked at Hildegard. ‘Could he have let slip a word to someone about his desire to obtain it?’

  Hildegard thought immediately of Athanasius. He and Grizac had a strange relationship. It was based on power with Athanasius’s quick, cynical wit often making the more tender-hearted Grizac wince. She couldn’t see him confessing anything to Athanasius.

  ‘What about Taillefer?’ she asked. ‘Where do you think he fits in?’

  ‘Obviously he was stabbed for stealing the dagger from the stranger in le Coq d’or.’

  The boys fell silent at Edmund’s words until Peterkin made the observation that if Taillefer was stabbed when he was on the bridge, the sentry must have seen him run past, followed by the man who stabbed him. ‘But you say he did not mention seeing them?’

  Hildegard shook her head. ‘In fact he said he saw no-one. The inn keeper also says he saw no blood on the stranger’s hands - although of course he could have easily washed it off in the river.’

  ‘You mean Taillefer could have been stabbed by someone else - someone already up there?’

  ‘It would have to be somebody in authority,’ broke in Peterkin, ‘those sentries are particular about who they allow to cross at night, for fear of French militia mounting an attack, or smugglers cheating on taxes.’

  ‘Someone in authority? Like the cardinals?’ broke in Edmund.

  ‘The cardinals?’ exclaimed Peterkin in a horrified voice.

  A brief silence followed.

  ‘Maybe we have to ask ourselves who would have as strong a motive to kill Taillefer as the victim of the theft,’ Bertram pointed out.

  ‘But let’s suppose that if the dagger was stolen the first time round on Cardinal Grizac’s orders - for whatever reason - it was he who was the true victim of the theft. He would want it back as much as the stranger at le Coq d’or,’ Hildegard pointed out. ‘We know he passed over the bridge that night because the sentries at both ends said so - even though the timing doesn’t work out properly,’ she amended weakly.

  ‘Grizac? Surely impossible? I feel guilty even for thinking it,’ Peterkin admitted.

  They were silent for a few moments, struck by the enormity of the idea, until Bertram tried another tack. ‘Do we know if Taillefer got on the wrong side of anybody recently?’

  Hildegard remembered Elfric throwing down the gauntlet to Taillefer in the tilt yard the other day. ‘Elfric?’ She turned.

  ‘Not me. He was my sword partner.’ He seemed disinclined to say more.

  ‘There was that fellow in the Great Courtyard the other day. The one we thought was trying to frighten him,’ Bertram reminded.

  ‘We still have no idea why he issued such a threat,’ Edmund added.

  ‘We must find out more from this cursed sentry.’ It was Bertram again. ‘We’ve got to know exactly who went onto the bridge that night. Don’t you agree, domina?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘We need to know who was involved in the argument the ferryman heard. It must have been Taillefer and his murderer. The sentry must be lying about the cardinals being the only ones to go across. There must have been someone else.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the sentry,’ Edmund interrupted. ‘I told Taillefer about the dagger in the first place. It’s my fault he went looking for it and got himself into trouble.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Edmund. He was as eager to find Maurice’s killer as we all are and thought, as we did, that the dagger might be a clue to the mystery.’

  Edmund gave her a grateful glance but was not entirely reassured. ‘I’ll go and speak to him, nevertheless.’

  ‘We only asked Taillefer to escort the miners to the ferry,’ Bertram pointed out. He placed his hand on Edmund’s arm. ‘We wanted nothing more from him. He’s the one who got himself into this mess by choosing to visit his girl at the inn -’ he broke off with a swift glance at Hildegard.

  ‘I know about her,’ she said.

  ‘Well, just don’t go blaming yourself, Edmund,’ he mumbled.

  ‘So what now?’ Edmund asked in a tone that showed he was still shouldering the blame.

  ‘I’ll talk to the priest of the bridge again,’ Hildegard told them. ‘I feel he knows more than he’s willing to admit.’ She moved towards the arch into the passage.

  ‘We could go and lark around near the ferryman’s cottage and maybe get him to tell us if he saw anything else. His cottage is so close to the bridge I can’t believe he didn’t have a good look when he heard voices. Despite the storm he must have seen something.’

  ‘He’s a liar. I wouldn’t trust him, Edmund.’ Peterkin gave a toss of his head.

  ‘Let’s hope he remains careful with the truth in regard to the payment he received from Taillefer,’ Hildegard admonished. ‘A more honest man would have refused to take the miners across.’

  ‘It’s called being pragmatic.’ Peterkin gave a cynical shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘The last thing we want is for him to start blabbing and setting Fitzjohn on their trail,’ observed Edmund testily.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Hildegard looked round the circle of earnest faces. ‘I shall be honoured if you will give me your solemn promise that you will on no account put yourselves in danger. If there is anything that strikes you as at all suspicious I want you to come to me to discuss it before taking hasty action. Do I have your word?’

  ‘You have, domina,’ they chorused.

  The boys replied with such alacrity her fears were unassuaged.

  **

  The sentry’s face reminded Hildegard of a slab of beef, red, raw, unexpressive. Now h
e stared at her as if she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘It’s a simple question, Emil,’ she insisted. ‘Did the fellow from the inn follow the thief onto the bridge? Remember, he had just discovered that his dagger was stolen, a weapon he hoped to sell for a large sum. He was angry. He gave chase. Did he, or did he not, chase the thief onto the bridge?’

  ‘I told you no.’

  ‘Not in so many words, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I am doing now. Nobody came onto the bridge except for the ones I told you about.’ Again he counted them off on his fingers. ‘Cardinals Bellefort, Fondi, Grizac, Montjoie, the foreign abbot. They all went over in a bunch.’

  ‘And an esquire could have crossed with them, passing himself off as one of their personal servants in the dark?’

  ‘Could have.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  **

  The priest was polishing the altar brass when she entered.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion.’

  He put down the paten and replaced the cloth under the altar. ‘Salve, domina. I guessed you’d be back.’

  ‘The murdered youth stole a dagger from a guest at le Coq d’or. It seems his victim pursued him as far as the bridge. The sentry denies that he allowed him access.’

  ‘Therefore your suspicions have alighted on the unlikely suspects of four cardinals and an abbot.’

  ‘The sentry tells me they all crossed over in a group. Is that so?’

  The priest turned away and went to the window and gazed downstream with a faraway expression. Eventually he murmured, ‘You know it is not.’

  ‘Can you tell me more?’

  ‘They came onto the bridge in a group straight after lauds. That so far is true. But they did not cross in a group.’

  He indicated a bench against the wall. ‘It’s a long story. Sit.’ He lowered himself beside her.

  ‘You will not know of me,’ he began. ‘I am before your time, domina. These latter years are a gift I had not expected.’ He paused and a look of reminiscence came over his face.

  ‘Once upon a time I was a famous counter tenor - but not, I hasten to add, with the physical interference that creates such voices in Byzantium. Mine was a natural gift from God.’ He exchanged a smile with her.