She recalled the brutality Sir John had doled out to Edmund for the slightest misdemeanour. She remembered Edmund’s white rage and feared for what he might do if he found himself imprisoned. If he fought back he would be brutally restrained by the greater forces of Fitzjohn’s men-at-arms.
She thought of Bertram, so steady and sure with the practicality of a merchant’s son. Of little Elfric and his grief at his brother’s murder. Of Simon, the youngest, and his determination to keep up with the older boys. Of Peterkin. This was surely something he could not talk his way out of. She tried to reassure herself with the thought that they were not children. They would know how to behave to keep themselves safe. They were not ignorant striplings as Escrick imagined. They were apprentices for war.
King Richard was ten when he shouldered the burden of kingship, limited though the Council made his control. Richard’s own father had been fourteen when he commanded a battalion in the French war and led his men to victory against the odds at Crecy.
Richard himself had been fourteen when he led the rebels out to Mile End to avoid a massacre. A boy could marry at fifteen and take on the responsibilities of fatherhood, sign legal documents, own property. The guild was not made up of infants. They would find a way.
Her thoughts turned to Escrick again. He was the one who found Maurice in the treasury. Had killed him in cold blood. Had been forced to wait for Clement to view the body after the long night service and the end of lauds. Had been unable to take the knife from the fingers set in the grip of rigor mortis. It was Escrick who had gone to the mortuary a few hours later and when the hand relaxed had slipped the knife from Maurice’s dead grasp. His personal reward for a service rendered.
He was the stranger at le Coq d’or who had offered a jewelled dagger, in ignorance of its true secret, to the highest bidder. Taillefer had stolen it back and tried to make his escape and been killed under the bridge on the raft of debris that had built up against the bank and made a sort of fragile bridge of its own. He had not needed to go onto the bridge of St Benezet and had not fallen from it but tried to escape along the river bank onto the only refuge he could find.
And the Scottish nun? By then Escrick knew Hildegard was in Avignon and on his trail, tried to silence her and, in the darkness of the night, had made a dreadful blunder.
She wondered if, in fact, he realised that the jewelled dagger was more important to his master than the price of rubies. His heart would have stopped if he realised he had made another disastrous mistake by stealing it for merely personal gain.
She thought of the figure in white who had come out just now to say adieu to Fondi and his contingent.
It was Hubert de Courcy. Saying farewell to his ally, his fellow Clementist, the enemy of King Richard. Fondi. His job done. The supply of poison safely delivered. Now back on the road to Urbino.
Hubert. Her feelings got the better of her for a moment and tears flooded her eyes. Blinking them away she became more determined than ever to escape back to England. She would see Mr Medford. Show him the poison. Tell him every detail of what had taken place. The fight to save the king would continue. Woodstock must be defeated.
Night fell like a shroud over the palace. Hildegard felt colder than ever. A brief respite came when the wind dropped around midnight. Even so she could scarcely move by the time she decided to force her frozen limbs to life and risk climbing back inside the palace.
**
With her hood up and her dark cloak fastened by its usual silver pin, she looked like any other monastic coming from the night office in the chapel.
Conscious that her Cistercian habit of white stamyn might draw attention, she pushed its long sleeves out of sight and made herself less conspicuous by merging with the tail end of a group of black-robed Benedictines. When they filed along towards the guest wing she followed. Her first task was to find out what had happened to the guild of pages. Her second task would be to collect the phial of poison from her chamber. And her third task would be to find a horse and ride for England.
It was unfortunate that Hubert de Courcy and his two Cistercian brothers should be leaving the chapel at the same time as the Benedictines. They suddenly appeared from out of a side door and she could not avoid walking past them. Head down, she carried on after the others. When she came to the door leading into their dormitory she hesitated, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but when she turned to glance down the passage Hubert was standing at the end staring after her.
She swiftly bent down as if she had dropped something and when she stood up he had disappeared.
With a sideways glance into the dormitory she made her way to the end of the passage and descended a flight of steps. They led into one of the yards and keeping to the shadows she walked round the edge until she came to a door that seemed to lead back inside. Another flight of steps took her as she had hoped to the entrance to the wing where Sir Jack was staying.
All she had to do was to avoid coming face to face with him. With a vague idea that she might ask one of the kitcheners what had happened to the pages, on the assumption that the boys would have to be fed, she decided to try the kitchen first but before she could get inside she had to pass the porter in his lodge.
**
He was visible through the open door. A single cresset burned in a bracket on the wall behind him. He had a short sword lying on the bench where he was sitting but it was in a worn leather sheath and looked as if it had not been used for some time.
He was busily cleaning his nails with the tip of his meat knife. After a while he finished with that and began to sing a tune about a husband cheating on his wife. He thumped one fist on his knee to keep time. After a few verses he got bored with that and began to pick his teeth with the same knife he had used for his nails.
Eventually he flung the knife down and glanced round with a loud sigh. His chair creaked as he leaned back in it, yawning and stretching. Hildegard, hidden behind the door and observing his performance through the crack, willed him to go to sleep but, despite his yawns, he was as lively as a cricket. He stood up and began to pace about the entrance hall, stretching now and then, shuffling a little series of dance steps from the farandole that by and by brought him towards the open door. He leaned against the door post and gazed longingly out into the courtyard.
A lot of noise was coming from over the other side and he watched for a few minutes as if making up his mind whether to go out and join them. It was evident a hunt was going on.
Hildegard shrank back into the shadows. She wondered if she could say anything to the porter to bluff her way past but she was worried that the rumour of her escape from the clutches of Clement’s personal body guard would have been told in such a way as to make her capture an enticing prize.
She waited impatiently to see what he would do next. If he stepped outside she would be across the floor and down the stairs before he turned back.
To her chagrin he returned to his lodge, rubbing his hands against the cold and blowing out his cheeks. When he sat down he pulled some dice from his sleeve and began to throw, playing against himself. When he won he cheered audibly, other times he uttered a soft curse but whether it was the same ‘he’ each time or whether he changed sides to even the odds against himself she could not tell.
I certainly can’t stand here all night, she decided when his game began to bore her. With her hood well over her face she waited until he dropped one of the dice and had to bend down to search for it under the bench and then she stepped to the door of his lodge as if she had just walked across the yard.
‘Greetings, master. It’s a raw night,’ she announced boldly in French.
He looked surprised. ‘What are you doing out? Lost your way after matins?’
‘Not at all. I’m told Sir John was suffering from the gripe earlier. I’ve brought the potion he asked for.’
‘First I’ve heard.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing he broadcasts. The workings of his bowels he regards as private.�
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‘You’re right there. Butt of too much ribaldry already. Butt, get it?’ He stood up, slapping his backside and chortling at his own joke. ‘I’ll come with you, sister.’
Her heart sank. ‘I need to get water from the kitchen first.’
He pointed with his thumb. ‘Down there. I’ll wait here for you.’
‘My thanks, master.’
Before she could get away he told her, ‘There’s activity over the other side of the courtyard tonight, all right. You must have seen it. They’re ransacking every hole and corner for that witch. Reckon they’ll be starting over here next.’
‘Doubtless.’
She walked away, stiff-backed with fear in case he called her bluff. When she gained the stair that led downwards she let out a long breath.
With no time to waste, she hurried into the unlighted kitchen where the spit boy was a sprawled shape beside the glowing embers of the fire.
Crouching down beside him, she whispered, ‘Young master, wake up.’ She had to repeat it several times before he opened his eyes.
With her fingers softly on his lips she said, ‘Shush now…I have a question. For our lady’s sake, where is the esquire of Sir John being kept?’
In the firelight the boy looked half-asleep and was too drowsy to think clearly, but it worked in her favour because he muttered automatically, ‘Under lock and key in the store where the sacks of grain are kept. But here -’ he sat bolt upright. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘No-one. You have seen no-one. This is but a dream. Go back to sleep.’
After a glance to see if the person bending over him had a knife to stick in him, he sank back into his rags and covered his head to demonstrate agreement.
**
The store rooms were down a short adjoining passage. It was pitch black once she left the glow of the kitchen fire but out of the darkness she unexpectedly heard a voice.
It was Edmund and it came from a door on her right. She was about to knock softly upon it when she heard him say, ‘On the count of three. One, two, and -’ exactly on the count of three four voices broke into a raucous song. It was so loud and sung with such deliberation she guessed it was some kind of ploy. Its timing could not have been worse.
With a hurried glance behind her she was about to look for a hiding place when the sound abruptly stopped.
‘That’s not bad but we need something to drum with.’ Edmund’s voice.
Before the chorus could start up again she knocked on the door, louder than intended, and called, ‘Edmund?’
An uncanny silence fell on the other side.
She knocked again a little more quietly. ‘Edmund, it’s me, Hildegard of Meaux.’
He must have pressed his lips to the other side of the door because she heard a whisper of sound, then the question, ‘Are you alone? Answer only yes if you are.’
‘Yes.’
There was a scuffle. ‘Praise be! We heard what happened. You turned yourself into a witch and vanished. Are you all right?’
‘So far. What about yourselves?’
‘We’re about to break free. We have a plan to lure the guard down here. Our moves are planned the way we planned the game with the pig’s bladder. Simon, as smallest, will escape unnoticed in the turmoil and race to the stables where he’ll saddle horses. We’re going to storm the bridge and get across to Villeneuve.’
‘They’ll expect you to do that. You’d be better to escape along the bank towards Pont Saint Esprit where you can make a river crossing. You’ll be in the Kingdom of France almost as soon as you leave the palace.’
There was a silence. She thought she could hear a whispered discussion.
‘Is that where you’re headed?’
‘That’s my intention, yes, after I’ve attended to a little business.’
‘Then we’ll have a horse ready for you too.’
‘How are you going to lure the guard?’
‘Like sirens luring Ulysses,’ came the reply, ‘by the sweetness of our singing.’
The rest of his words were lost as a light blazed behind her. With a clutch of fear she saw a white shape gliding towards her on sandalled feet. A flaring cresset made shadows leap across the walls.
‘Hildegard? What in hell’s name are you doing here?’
She backed against the wall. It was Hubert de Courcy. Now all was lost. There was nowhere to run and he would hand her over to the guards unless she could get away.
Waiting until he was almost up to her, she suddenly reached out and dashed the cresset to the ground. He stumbled, taken by surprise, but, trained in combat as he was, he immediately blocked her escape with his body as she charged against him. Flames from the cresset leaped around their feet as they struggled. He kicked them to one side.
‘Stop, Hildegard! I’m here to help.’
‘Get out of my way!’
‘Listen to me! The guards are crossing over to this side of the courtyard -’ When she tried to speak he held one hand over her mouth and put his lips close to her ear. ‘Listen. They’ve scoured every inch on the other side of the palace. The fact that you’ve vanished without trace is making them talk about witches. There isn’t much time. We’ve got to leave now.’ He released her.
‘We?’
‘I’m coming with you to make sure you get safely back through France.’
‘Hubert, you’re a Clementist - ’
She could feel his astonishment as he jerked back. ‘Never!’ he snarled. ‘I’d rather make a pact with the devil. Now come on.’
‘Fitzjohn’s pages -’ she indicated the locked door of the store room. ‘They’re prisoners.’
‘I know. That’s why I came down. To see what I could do to release them. I didn’t expect to find you here - ’
Just then the sound of metal-shod boots rang on the floor above.
‘Too late!’ Hubert grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after him back along the passage. When they reached the kitchen, men were already clattering at the top of the steps, maybe tipped off by the porter. Hubert pulled her back as he swerved into the wine cellar next door.
‘Hide among the barrels. They can’t move every one. If they do we’ll take them by surprise and go down fighting.’
Without arguing she ran deeper into the cellar and began to climb up onto the stack of wine barrels, high enough to be out of sight of any arcing torchlight. She had to lie full length, her body almost touching the curved brick of the ceiling.
Then, suddenly, unaware of the approaching guards, the boys began to sing. It was very loud even from a distance. They were bellowing at the tops of their voices. The guards changed direction. A fist thumped on a door. The guards were shouting now as well.
How many were there? It was impossible to tell from the noise they made. It could have been three, it could have been ten.
Not ten, surely? No more than three, to be hoped. The boys could handle three.
Suddenly mayhem broke out. The door must have been pulled open. Something happened causing a loud thump. A loud yell followed, then the sound of lightly running feet. Simon. A confusing melee of shouts and crashes followed. Prepared to find a nun despite the noise of singing, the guards were clearly astonished at their reception. Hildegard heard their shouted arguments: follow them, don’t let them escape! And: keep on the trail of the bloody nun. And a more plaintive voice asking: has she changed into a pack of devils?
Escrick’s familiar voice growled above them all, silencing them. ‘Let Jack sort out his own problems. One of you go after the lads, to show willing.’ Receding footsteps hurried after the boys up the steps.
Escrick’s voice darkened. ‘We go after the nun. We find her. We kill her.’
Footsteps approached the wine cellar.
There must have been three of them. One despatched to pursue the boys. Two remaining to enter the wine cellar and begin their search.
**
Hildegard could hear the sounds getting closer. They were banging on the wine barrels with t
he hilts of their swords as they probed between them on both sides of the stacks.
A stranger’s voice muttered, ‘No sign of anybody, captain.’
Escrick shouted a curse. ‘She’s got to be in here.’
‘Bloody invisible, then.’
‘She can’t just vanish!’
‘Maybe she got out through the kitchen when we turned off to see what that racket was about?’
‘Mebbe you’re right.’
She heard them, still banging randomly on the wine casks, walk back towards the door.
And then a terrible thing happened. One of the barrels moved. Dislodged by the hammering of their sword hilts, it shifted on top of the stack. The sound brought them to a halt.
‘Hear that?’
‘She’s here. Somebody is.’
Heavy footsteps trod towards the wall of barrels close to where Hildegard was hiding.
The flaming torch one of them carried swung from side to side and in its sweeping glare she caught a glimpse of Hubert as the barrel he was lying on was dislodged and he was falling down between the toppling barrels to land with a thunderous crash on the cellar floor.
A dark shape loomed over him.
‘And who have we here?’ It was Escrick. His tone was gloating. ‘Is it a spy I see before me?’
**
Down below in the circle of light Hildegard saw Hubert rise to his feet but before he could do anything Escrick smashed one mailed fist into his face. Hubert staggered but came back with bunched fists but before he could return the blow the other man-at-arms grabbed him from behind. Once, twice, Escrick hit him in the face again until blood poured down his face. Hubert said not a word.
She watched as the guard jerked Hubert so hard back he nearly lost his footing. ‘A Cistercian?’ He spat. ‘You’re supposed to be one of us, brother. What are you skulking down here for?’
Escrick grabbed the front of Hubert’s robes and pulled him upright. ‘I know all about the Abbot of Meaux, don’t you worry, mate,’ he growled to his companion. ‘And where he is that bitch nun will be. Come on, abbot, you’d better tell us and save yourself from really getting hurt.’
The Butcher of Avignon (Hildegard of Meaux medieval crime series Book 6) Page 32