They clustered round—closer than necessary, she felt. In her palm was a silver emblem. It was the one Ulf’s page had so adroitly prized off the bridle of the coxcomb’s horse in Handale Woods.
The captain of the guard picked it up and held it out to give it a good look. “Discretion the game, eh? By he’s a lucky one.” He turned to his companions. “The night before his wedding an’ all!” He gave Hildegard an admiring up-and-down look that came to rest somewhere in the vee of her undershift. He smiled, as if he would like nothing more than to rip it aside. “What’s he done to get you?” he asked. “Swart fellow like ’im.”
The rest of them chuckled. One quipped, “Stay with us, mistress. We’ll give you a better time of it than that squat toad could do in his wildest dreams.”
“I can believe that, sir. Sadly for me, I have no choice in the matter. Is he within?”
“Third level up yon tower steps.” The captain pointed across the inner courtyard to the opposite side. “When he’s finished with you, come and see us.” He handed back the emblem and deliberately entwined his fingers in hers. “Is it a promise, mistress?”
Agreeing to nothing and offering only a smile in reply, Hildegard allowed herself to be waved through.
She wished they had been indiscreet enough to mention the man’s name. Squat toad. Swart. Wedding night. Maybe his purchase had been a costly wedding gift for his lucky bride, on which the duty would have been so punitive, it had been worth breaking the law to avoid it.
A couple of pages were lounging in green and blue at the top of the steps. They were about ten or eleven years old. Very smartly turned out.
“Your lord, is he in?” She pointed up the steps.
“In the feast hall, mistress,” one of them piped up.
She dropped a small silver coin into his palm. “Then I’ll just go up and deliver this gift.” She indicated her cloak, as if there was something hidden in it.
“We’ll take it up for you, mistress.”
“That’s kind, but I must take it myself. It’s a secret for his wedding,” she added mysteriously.
One of the pages was about to object. They clearly had their orders. But his friend, the silver coin in his little paw, gave him a dig in the ribs. Smiling, Hildegard distributed a coin to the objector. “I shall be no more two minutes,” she told them, walking briskly up the stairs before they could say anything else.
She reached a bend in the stairs, then picked up her skirts and hurried up to the third floor. A door opened onto a wide reception chamber looking onto the courtyard. A host of servants was scurrying back and forth. She whisked past them before she was noticed and climbed up another flight. She had no idea what she was looking for.
At the top, she came to other doors. One opened into a bedchamber with a four-poster draped in velvet. The other was locked. Some instinct told her that this was where the secret lay.
A sound below made her swivel. A man in the garments of a household steward was following her up. He had a small, well-kempt beard and wore a cold expression. “If you’re looking for Earl Morcar, he’s in the feast hall. Didn’t they tell you that?”
“I’m at fault, sir. I misheard. I shall try there.” She sidled past him on the narrow stair. As she did so, his hand lightly skimmed her breasts. She drew back in shock.
The steward gazed mournfully into her eyes. “He gets the cream. I often ask myself why that is.” He squeezed one of her breasts before she could stop him. “Just a little feel, mistress. What do you lose?”
“What do I gain, more like,” she replied cheekily, then took the stairs downwards two at a time before he could reply.
Breathlessly, she hurried past the two pages. She saw them gape at her hasty exit, and she slowed down as soon as she reached the yard so as not to draw attention to herself. It was the feast hall, then, but it would be a hazard too far if the licentiousness of those within matched that of their servants.
The Earl Morcar.
Piece by piece, the picture was beginning to take shape.
A pushing mob of servants obstructed the doors. Using her elbows, Hildegard forced her way through until she could grip the sleeve of a serving man in Morcar’s colours of green and blue. “His grace, where is he sitting?”
The man looked at her strangely. “Something wrong with your eyesight, woman?” As he spoke, he automatically glanced over his shoulder. Hildegard followed his gaze to where a black-bearded fellow with a dark cloak over one shoulder was just beginning to get up from the table. He stood and tipped the contents of a wine goblet down his throat, then turned to one of his companions.
She heard him say, “I’ll go up and get her.” He began to stalk towards the doors.
The servant she had accosted stepped back to allow her through, but she did her best to melt out of sight and did not attempt to detain the earl. Better to find out how the land lay before she drew attention to herself. If he was marrying on the morrow, he might be off to fetch his betrothed.
He was uninterested in the mob round the doors and called for his path to be cleared. “Two or three attend me!” he barked, pushing his way through. A handful of servants in his colours scurried out in his wake.
Hildegard trailed along behind them. She had a head scarf over her hair now, to draw least attention to herself, and when Morcar disappeared inside the tower, she waited on the far side of the courtyard to see him reappear.
Her patience was rewarded. Not much later, he reappeared, not with his betrothed on his arm, but with a hooded hawk perched there. She. His hawk.
Accompanied by a small troop of attendants, he made off towards a corner of the yard and disappeared.
Following at a discrete pace, she found herself in the stable block. By now, Morcar and his companions were down at the far end, where the mews were situated. In a few moments, he reappeared with a couple of companions whose hawks must have been kept under the care of the Kilton falconer. In a determined bunch, they went out through a wooden door in the castle wall that she thought must lead into the ravine. She guessed that if they climbed to the other side, they would soon reach good hunting terrain.
This was the opportunity she wanted. He would be off for some time. She would risk getting up inside the tower to see for herself what treasure he was hiding in the locked chamber.
She hesitated. It might mean confronting the steward again. For the time being, she could think of no acceptable way of cozening the truth from him, even if he did know what was in there, which might not be the case at all.
First, there was something else to do. She would have a quick look for Petronel and bring a spark of joy to Ulf’s heart.
The stables in this inner court were the place where the most important guests kept their mounts, expensive horses that cost a couple of years of an average freeman’s wages. Petronel would not be out of place here, not because Ulf had paid through the nose for him, but because he had bred him and trained him, having noted the lineage of his dam and sire, and he was one of the best. Now was the opportunity to find him.
She began a casual stroll through the first open door into the stalls. A score or so of very fine horses were attended by a host of stable hands. In a haze of dust motes and sweetly smelling hay, she was making her way along the line of stalls and finding nothing like Ulf’s favourite, when she was stopped by what was evidently the stable master.
He was rapping a whip against his boots in a hostile manner, and noting that she was not attired to go out riding, he looked at her with suspicion.
“Earl Morcar’s horse,” she began. “I’ve heard it’s quite impressive.”
“No idea where you heard that. It’s nothing. What’s it to do with you? Who are you?”
“Just a friend,” she replied.
He picked up a broom and barked an order to one of the lads. The gesture was a clear threat to get out.
Thoughtfully, she made her way back outside. When she slipped through the inner gatehouse into the common yard again, the guard
nodded and reminded her of the available delight of future assignations.
“I don’t know how to get inside,” she told Ulf. “It’s a stout door. Oak. A heavy lock. Its on the side of the tower that looks over the ravine. There’s no way in from that direction, as it’s perched right up on top of the crag. I believe there’s something important inside. Otherwise, why lock it?”
“I can get in anywhere you ask, mistress,” said Ulf’s page eagerly, turning to his master.
“Keep out of this, Pippin. I’ve told you already: Get along to the kitchens and fatten yourself up.”
The boy bowed. “Very well, master.” The grin in his voice belied his apparent disappointment. “I’ll go and find Petronel for you when I’ve dined.” He ran off.
“I”m sorry about Petronel, by the way. If he’s anywhere, he’ll be stabled in the inner court. I only had time to look at the horses nearest the door.”
“I’ll get in there and find him, if Pippin doesn’t beat me to it,” Ulf vowed.
Matt and Hamo had been told part of the story. The importance of Fulke’s activities at the tower was not lost on them.
“Giles must have guessed something was up,” Matt admitted somewhat evasively when he was asked. “He turned silent after being out in the woods one day. There was something on his mind. We used to trap rabbits there, until he was killed. I asked him what was up, but he just shook his head.”
“Did he see something being taken into the tower, do you think?”
Matt frowned. “He mentioned the way—” He bit his lip.
Remembering that thoughtless salute Matt had given her one day, she aimed a shot in the dark. “If Giles or any others were sympathetic to the White Hart rebels, they would naturally be interested in the sale of arms, just in case it meant there was going to be a drive against any rebels from the Rising of ’81 who are still at large. Many fled to the safety of the north when they were outlawed, as we all know. It would be worth warning them in advance so they could find somewhere safer to live—”
Matt was white-lipped. “What’s that got to do with anything? It’s a capital offence to belong to the White Hart Brotherhood.”
“It may well be. It doesn’t mean that people’s sympathies cannot be with their cause.”
She noticed him give a start of surprise and stare at her more keenly.
She continued. “There are many folk left who believe the rebels had a just cause and that they should be protected from the law. On the other hand, it would be useful for them to obtain arms, wouldn’t it?”
He made no reply.
She went on, “Not only for the money that can be made from selling them on—which would ease the lot of anyone living outside the law—but also for the purpose of arming themselves against an attack by their enemies. It simply occurs to me,” she continued when he still didn’t say anything, “that they may be hiding arms in Handale Woods. It’s private enough. Especially now there’s supposed to be a dragon at large, keeping everybody away.” That’s spelling it out, she thought.
Matt considered the ramifications of what she was saying, weighed against the danger of admitting any knowledge about the rebels. But he was an apprentice. Even if he did not sympathise with them, he was of an age to be well informed of their activities.
Hamo looked away as if he could hear nothing of any of it.
Ulf eased his shoulders inside his mail shirt and stared at the ground.
She knew she was going too far. “Look,” she said brusquely. “This is dangerous talk, but it won’t go any further, Matt. You can trust me, and you can trust Ulf. Was Giles involved with the rebels?”
“He might have been. How would I know?” He gave Ulf a sulky stare.
Understanding the meaning of that look, Hildegard lowered her voice. “Ulf is no Norman overlord. You have only to look at him to see that. Nor am I unsympathetic to their cause. My own opinion is that the White Hart Brotherhood are loyal to the king. They have many reasonable demands, which will in time be met. The rebellion might be all but played out in the south. Up here, the remit of their enemies does not reach with any certainty. Their hopes and desires still flourish. Northumberland is against them, naturally, as he has a lot to lose. If their demands for a set price for land are met, for instance, he’ll not be pleased. On the other hand, he’s a pragmatist and would find a way of balancing his own demands with their own. If Giles thought he saw arms being taken to the tower, then somebody might have thought it necessary to silence him. We already know a little about what was stored there. There was heavy lifting tackle in one of the top rooms. It must surely have been used to hoist armaments up there for storage until they could be moved on.” She gave Ulf a quick glance. “We saw something ourselves being moved on by Northumberland’s men. Fulke was present. He’s in it up to his neck. What interests us now is what else he had in that tower. Maybe Giles found out?”
Matt had tears in his eyes. “So was it Fulke who had him killed? I knew it was.”
Hildegard shrugged. “It’s beginning to look that way. He’s certainly the chief suspect. Not that we can prove it.”
“Giles was such a dear soul. He didn’t deserve to die. All he lived for was his work. Of course he agreed with what the rebels wanted. Who wouldn’t? But he never did anything about it. He hated violence.”
“Let’s find his murderer, then. Maybe we can do it by showing that Morcar is involved in Fulke’s illicit trade.”
He gave a slight nod.
“So, back to the main question: How are we to find out exactly what Earl Morcar bought from Fulke and now keeps in a locked chamber?”
“It can only be arms,” said Ulf.
Hamo spoke up. “If it is, isn’t it likely he’s hoping to sell them to this earl of Northumberland?”
It was Hildegard’s fear, too. But it was an assumption only and they had to take a risk. So far, too much depended on guesswork.
CHAPTER 26
Ulf had been all for marching in and demanding to have the door opened. “They’ll respect a sword.” He grimaced, touching the one on his belt. She knew he would not be so foolhardy and so willing to court certain failure. It needed something more subtle, and he knew it.
“What happens in the feast hall at night? Is there entertainment?”
He nodded. “Last night we could hear them out here. The monks at Whitby could no doubt hear them, too.”
“It should be just as noisy tonight if Morcar has the intention of getting married tomorrow. He’ll be celebrating, surely?”
Ulf twisted his lips in a humourless smile. “On his knees praying to find a way out, if he’s any sense. But yes, you’re right. It should be quite a night. Can you work your charm on the guards again and get us all inside while they’re enjoying themselves?”
While they waited for night to fall, they split up. The intention was to find out what they could about Earl Morcar. He was new to all of them. They soon discovered the reason. His land was far up in the border country. Because of the continual war of attrition between the Scots and the English, he had lost his castle, regained it, lost it again, and then had his lands laid waste. He had taken it as a sign to get out and move south. The earl of Northumberland, who was his liege lord, had been unable or unwilling to find any other holding for him.
A rumour, corroborated by Matt in conversation with a couple of the earl’s servants over several stoups of ale, was that he was a ruined man and was desperate to find a way of living in the manner he believed was his by right.
“Not that we minded his running arms across the border, but he’s not going to be doing that down here, so where are we going to bed down? On the move from one man’s kitchen to the next, the pauper guest and his retinue. It’s degrading to us. But where can we go? What can we do with a landless lord?” The servants became ever more resentful at the ill fruits of their devotion the more they explained the situation to the mason.
Matt came back saying he was pleased he was his own man and had a trade t
hat would always be needed.
“Did they give a clue about his bride?” asked Hildegard.
“Closed as oysters the moment I mentioned her.”
“I wonder if she’s arrived yet. Maybe she’s travelling with Northumberland.”
“Not our concern,” remarked Ulf. “If he’s dealing in arms, then this convocation here will be a convenient place to find a buyer. We know Northumberland is supplying his fletchers. Maybe this Morcar hopes to get a jump ahead of the earl with other armaments.” He scowled.
“What is it?” asked Hildegard.
“Does it mean they’re arming for King Richard? Or for his enemies?”
Snow was falling heavily again. It was what was causing Northumberland’s delay. A rider managed to get through with the news that the cavalcade, having already set out from Alnwick Castle, was caught in a blizzard. Until the road was cleared in front of them, they intended to bed down along the route. No one was to leave Kilton before they arrived.
The fact that they had official news of the delay meant that as there was nothing to do but wait, they might as well enjoy themselves. It brought a festive mood to those trapped by the weather in a castle that was not their own.
The kitcheners were working over time to feed everybody. Pippin attended Ulf now and then, always with his hands wrapped round a pasty or a hunk of cheese. Barrels of ale were rolled out into the outer court and wine casks were untapped for those fortunate enough to be lodged in the inner court.
Cressets flamed in every sconce. Music echoed within the walls. Servants threw snowballs at each other. They danced a farandole.
It was late by the time Hildegard made her approach to the guards at the inner gate. Even though their captain reminded Hildegard of his promise to give her a good time, he, like his subordinates, was too reeling drunk to have made good any promise in that line, and the presence of her three strapping escorts—Morcar’s men, she affirmed—was enough to make them wave them all through with much ribaldry.
The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Page 23