The Dragon of Handale A Mystery

by Cassandra Clark

  “Greetings. Still no message from the outside world?”

  Carola glanced up from a drawing she was making on a piece of stretched vellum. “The moors will be impassable in this weather. We’re stuck for the time being.”

  “Which means we’re forced to the arduous task of dicing,” Hamo cut in. He got up and stretched like a cat. He was a very muscular, barrel-chested young man, well suited to the hard physical work he did, maybe honed by it, too. “Come and join us, mistress. Give us chance to take some money off you.”

  Aware of what was concealed under her cloak, she shook her head. “I don’t want to try the patience of the guard,” she said, using this as her excuse. “How is he treating you, Dakin?”

  Dakin lifted his chained wrists. “He took your dragon story to heart. Now he reckons he may have to rely on us if it shows up. He’s turning as smooth as butter. Next thing, he’ll be inviting himself in to play dice.”

  “And drinking us dry.” Matt concentrated on his throw. It was a one and a three, and he gave a groan under his breath and pushed some coins across the floor with the toe of his boot. “Here, Carola.” He held out the dice and cup. She shook her head.

  “Is the cellarer keeping you supplied with vittels?” Hildegard asked.

  “She is and she had better keep on doing so.” Hamo sounded tough.

  “Who brings it to you?”

  “That cellaress and her shadow. The one we believe came up with those lies about the theft of the chalice from the mortuary.”

  “Not afraid of the dragon themselves, then?”

  “She’d scare any dragon, that cellaress.”

  When Hildegard ducked out under the eaves into the pelting rain, there was a lull from inside, followed by the rattle of the dice in the cup before the rushing of the rain on the frozen ground drowned everything else out.

  So the cellaress was keeping an eye on the masons, as well. Handale was full of spying eyes. She shivered and looked up into the trees. Nobody was watching from the branches. Not even a little cowherd hanging upside down.

  The endless vista of tree trunks went on as far as the eye could see. Hildegard splashed her way back towards the enclosure.

  Night fell, early at this time of year, sending the sacristan and her assistant round the cloisters to light the cressets well before compline. For a short time, the long northern night was kept at bay.

  By the time the service was done, the frail light from the cressets scarcely penetrated the shadows. Fluttering in and out of the shadows like black crows, the nuns went from the candlelit church into the deepest night. They became indistinguishable from the shadows except when the door to the dortoir opened and the light from within bathed them briefly in its radiance.

  Hildegard crossed to the guest house. Prioress Basilda was confined to her chamber by the weather, they were told. The cellarer had taken her place and, grim as usual, had afterwards appointed one of the nuns to go and read to her in her chamber. Desiderata had been chosen.

  Cursing again at another missed opportunity to speak to her, Hildegard let herself into her shadowy chamber and sat to one side of the window, where she could observe the garth from between the slats of the shutter. For a long time, no one appeared, nor did Desiderata come out of Basilda’s chamber. The entire place lay in silence. One by one, the lighted windows of the nuns’ cells went dark.

  After a time, Hildegard was alerted by a change in the shadows across the garth as someone passed along the cloister. A light briefly appeared and was snuffed out. Desiderata, chore completed? She considered going out after her but stopped herself. It might be the cellaress or the subprioress or any one of Basilda’s inner circle, fulfilling the role of circator. The garth, the cloisters, the entire priory fell back into silence.

  When she was confident she would be unobserved, she let herself out, inched her way to the corner of the building, then turned and hurried across towards the mortuary chapel. The thin light of a vigil candle trickled round the edges of the door, enough to guide her in the right direction

  When she reached the enclosure wall, she felt her way along it until she found the door to the woods. Earlier she had taken the precaution of wedging a stone in the opening, no more than a finger’s breadth, but enough to avoid the giveaway sound as she pushed it open.

  There was a weird stillness on the other side. The trees seemed frozen. Not a branch stirred. The lodge lay in a black silence.

  From where she stood, she could sense rather than see the guard, a frail wisp of light captured by the steel links of his mail shirt revealing where he slouched at his post under the eaves. A snore broke the silence and there was a creak as he shifted position.

  Treading as softly as she could, she glided into the thicket. Thoughts of the so-called dragon flooded her mind. It was a stag, obviously, rutting out of season. Common sense told her that. No such thing as a dragon haunted the woods. Even so, she found herself starting at every cracking twig, at the sudden flapping of a bird overhead, at the scuttering of nocturnal creatures under foot.

  As she broke through the undergrowth into the clearing where Giles’s body had been found, there was a distant rush of sound. It approached rapidly, shaking the treetops, until she was drenched as a shower of sleet passed overhead. The sound drowned out the sounds she made as she pushed on, and then, brushing the last screen of branches aside, she came out at last near the foot of the tower.

  It was a ghostly shape rising up against the black trees. It contained a secret. And she was going to find out what it was.

  She took the leather bag from under her cloak, where what she had borrowed from the masons was concealed. Then she started to work on the padlock with Dakin’s claw chisel.

  The shower stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving only the sound of metal scraping on metal. It rang out for a moment, loud enough to wake the devil. She stopped abruptly and cast a hasty glance behind her, but nothing moved. With a final twist of the gouge, the padlock came off in her hands. The door groaned open on its hinges.

  When she stepped into the darkness, the air trapped within the stone walls slapped like ice. There wasn’t a glimmer of light from anywhere. Darkness deeper than the moonless woods outside seemed to have a physical weight. She brushed a hand across her face and shut the door.

  Fumbling around in her bag for tinder, she managed to locate and light a taper. She blinked through the sudden dazzle of light. The inside of the tower swarmed into view.

  Directly ahead was a spiral staircase ascending into the darkness of the upper floor. More interesting was what was piled on every side.

  About fifty or so linen bales were stacked against the walls.

  She went over to have a look and pressed one, expecting to hear the clink of steel. She was surprised when it turned to be soft to the touch. Her fingers sank into it. Inside the bale was something with an almost fleshy resilience.

  Hildegard considered things for a moment, then took out her knife.

  Carefully, the shaky yellow light in one hand, she dug the knife into one of the bales. When a hole had been ripped in the fabric, she replaced her knife in her belt and pushed her fingers in through the slit.

  She felt around inside. Astonished, she fingered something soft. Under that she felt a thing that was hard, like bone. She drew out her fingers, and as she did so, the taper light picked out something that came out at the same time.

  She caught it as it floated to the floor. A tuft from the quill of a feather.

  She lifted it to the taper to have a better look. Inserting her fingers into the bale again, she searched around for more and pulled them out. They were long and white. Goose feathers. She reached inside again. More feathers.

  She made slits in the rest of the bales. They all contained the same thing.

  They were all packed with feathers. What on earth was Fulke’s game?

  More than ever curious to know what he kept in the rest of the tower, she went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up into
the darkness. Guided by the wavering light from the taper, she began to make her ascent.

  CHAPTER 17

  At the top, two doors. One was locked in the same manner as the main door to the outside—with a padlock and chain. The other stood ajar. Holding her breath, she stepped silently to the threshold and looked inside.

  Empty. On the outer wall was one of the window slits she had noticed when first having a look round outside. What she had not been able to see, now illuminated in the pool of light, was the lifting tackle attached to the inside ledge. She went over to have a closer look.

  It was what was called a lewis, a shackle and wedge contraption, able to lift loads of several tons. It was arranged with workmanlike care, as if recently used and prepared for use again. It explained why the chamber had a swept-clean look. Something had been hauled up here for storage and then removed by the same method.

  She peered out at the black woods below but then narrowed her eyes in alarm. The woods were not black, not entirely. She looked more closely. Alarmed, she realised a pinprick of light was glinting in the undergrowth. As she watched, it grew in size. Something was approaching the tower.

  It was soon close enough for her to see that it was a lantern swinging from side to side as it was carried along by a shadowy form. Only the cuff of one arm was visible. Before she could think of escape, the figure emerged from the path into the clearing. The light continued to swing back and forth on its pole, and in the swaying, lurid glow she saw the man who carried it: Fulke.

  He was not alone.

  In addition to his usual three or four bodyguards, he was accompanied by a stranger. They stood for a moment in the cone of light. It gave Hildegard time to observe the newcomer. He was dressed in velvet, with a thick cloak over his shoulders and an elaborate capuchon on his head.

  The capuchon overshadowed his face, but she could hear him saying something to Fulke and glancing nervously back into the woods. Fulke muttered something in reply and the group headed for the gaping door of the tower.

  An enraged exclamation followed as Fulke realised the padlock had been smashed. She saw him turn to the man beside him. He was not a military man by the look of him and his capuchon made him look like a cockerel with its comb erect. His shadow danced grotesquely in the light from the lantern as they two men conferred then, drawing their swords, entered the tower.

  In moments, she would be discovered.

  Metal boots ascended the stone stair, the sound growing louder with every second. One small knife would be nothing against so many.

  The sound increased until they were at the door. Hildegard swung up on to the roof beam and lay that along it then waited for them to come inside.

  The light from the approaching lantern burst like the sun over the horizon. It flooded into every corner of the chamber. Fulke stood directly beneath her, his velvet-clad companion by his side, the guards clattering in behind him. The shadows leaped.

  She watched Fulke glower round, his features distorted by the light. With a roar, he went to the door and yanked it back on its hinges, then gave a curse when he discovered no one hiding behind it.

  “Gone!” he shouted. “Who the devil was it? Is it that godshite mason? What in God’s balls is he after?”

  The man with the coxcomb hood said in a querulous tone, “I hope you haven’t dragged me out to this godforsaken place on a wild-goose chase, Fulke.”

  “Rest easy. Your goods are in the other chamber, with the lock intact. I checked that as we came up.”

  “For your sake, I pray it is so.”

  With a snarl, Fulke shouldered his way past his guards and crossed to the other side. Everyone crushed out after him, taking the lantern with them.

  In the blessed darkness that followed, Hildegard kept still in her hiding place. She heard the sound of the padlock being unlocked, the door flying back, the sound of the men as they jostled inside.

  For a few moments, she had chance to decide what to do next. Make a run for it? Best to stay where she was until she knew what Fulke was going to do.

  She heard him snarl at his men to get out and search the woods in case the would-be thief was still lurking around. He must have turned to his companion then, because she heard him mutter, “I’m getting rid of them so we can talk. Nothing’s been touched. We’ll find the culprit. He’ll rue his prying.”

  The echo of the men leaving the tower faded. Fulke raised his voice now they were out of earshot, and it came hollowly from the other side. “This makes no difference to our agreement, my lord. What do you think to the goods?”

  A pause followed, as if the man being addressed was inspecting something. After a moment, he replied, “I’m well pleased, Fulke. This is more than I dreamed of.”

  “You know I only handle the best.”

  “I see that now. Forgive my doubts. When can I take possession?”

  “As soon as I feel the weight of your gold in my hands.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Can’t wait, eh?” Fulke chuckled.

  “I can’t. I tell you the honest truth.” A gloating tone entered the stranger’s voice. “What about a little taster?”

  “Get away with you! Gold first, bliss to follow.”

  “You’re a hard man, Fulke.”

  “That’s why I’m successful.”

  “I shall return tomorrow after dark. That’s my promise.”

  Hildegard heard the door slam, the key turn in the lock.

  “And you’ll be at Kilton Castle, where I can find you?” asked Fulke as the two men began to descend.

  “Certainly, for my sins. Don’t keep me waiting. The big day is coming up. I want to be ready for it with all my weapons in place.”

  “I’ll send men to escort you back through the woods.”

  Their voices faded and the light went with them.

  For Hildegard, the immediate danger was over. She could scarcely believe her luck. No one had thought to shine the light above their heads onto the crossbeams that held up the roof. She gave silent thanks to Dakin for prompting such a hiding place, when he found a hiding place for Alys.

  Swinging easily down to the floor, she went to the door. It was all very well to have escaped notice for now, but there would be a guard set, and she would probably find she was trapped.

  As she passed the locked door at the top of the stairs, she wondered what kind of goods Fulke had in there. It must be worth a lot. If she could find a way out without being seen, and keep her tryst with Ulf tomorrow at the ford, they could return and catch Fulke and his purchaser in the act and get a haul of contraband in the process. Weapons, the coxcomb had said. He wanted to get all his weapons in place.

  Soft-footed, she was descending the spiral staircase when she heard shouts from outside. There was the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn right outside the door. Then came a throat-wrenching roar of pain. A clash of steel followed—the grind of a blade slithering down a shirt of chain mail.

  Then came the full-blooded shouts of man against man in a sudden ambush.

  She ran to the door and peered through a crack. The clearing was alive with turbulent figures, swords thrusting, bellows of rage, a mayhem of bloodlust, with helmets ringing to the battering of steel. Of Fulke and his companion, there was nothing to be seen. They had melted into the darkness of the woods, leaving the men to their work.

  To Hildegard, the two sides seemed equally matched. Who the attackers were was a mystery. She waited for an opportunity to escape. The fight raged this way and that, staying close to the tower. One of Fulke’s guards fell against the door. He was so close, she could see the glistening of his eyes as he stared up at the swordsman looming over him, arm raised to strike. The guard kicked him in the balls and scrambled free.

  In the moment when his opponent raised his own arm to bring his sword down, a blazon was revealed on his surcoat. She blinked. It was the lion of the Percy family, the Marcher lords, the emblem of the earl of Northumberland.

  The two men
locked and began grappling at each other’s throats. They rolled on the ground until one of them managed to free himself. It was Fulke’s man. He made off towards the woods with the earl’s henchman in pursuit.

  Hildegard took the opportunity to slip out of the tower and throw herself into the safety of the thicket. From there, she watched the fight until Fulke’s guards were chased off in the direction of the priory.

  “Leave them to scarper. Let’s get this stuff out and down to the boats.” Wiping blood from his nose, the captain pushed his men hurriedly towards the tower.

  By the light of half a dozen cressets, the entire scene was illuminated in brilliant detail: men dragging the bales of feathers into the open, loading them one by one onto stretchers already concealed in the woods, hauling them away.

  When she judged it safe to follow, Hildegard was guided by the lighted torches down the path forced through the undergrowth by the convoy. She guessed they were heading towards the landing stage on the beck side. Sure enough, they soon dipped out of sight down the slope and were shortly assembled on the bank below.

  From her vantage point at the top of the cliff, she watched them load the bales onto two barges and eventually, torches still shedding a fitful light over the scene, push out onto the water and disappear downstream.

  Their lights faded. Silence fell.

  The moon appeared. It was ovoid. Not quite yet at the full. Nature silently regained her dominion.

  But for the trampled and bloodied grass, there was no sign that a fight between two violent opponents had taken place. No one remained. The wounded had been carried away by their comrades.

  Hildegard made her way cautiously onto the path to the priory. As she went, she picked up a stray feather from the grass.

  Of course.

  Now she knew what it meant: arrows.

  She put the feather inside her leather bag, along with the mason’s claw chisel.