A cart containing nothing but kindling was unloaded; logs were tossed from another one into the open space between the walls. Fires were started. Cooking pots filled with already prepared pottage were positioned over the flames and the alemaster directed the manhandling of the barrels before ordering the spigots opened.
The snow-blasted travellers began to hang out whatever they could to dry on makeshift lines over the fires. Lastly, the provisions were unloaded and carried off into the castle kitchens.
Most of the household would be bedding down under the wagons tonight, despite the snow, and there was a lot of hurrying about to claim the best places.
In the middle of all this, descending from his gold-covered char, appeared the earl, to be greeted by his chamberlain, already wielding his white stick of office and moving forth in a cloud of servants.
“Ordered chaos,” remarked Ulf as he stood with the others on the wall and looked down. “And in all this there should be young Harry Summers, the earl’s secretary.”
Turning to Isabella, Hildegard said, “With Harry’s help, it should be easier to get an audience. We believe Northumberland’s here for important matters of state, but if anyone can persuade him to take time to consider your predicament, Harry can.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be sent back to Morcar,” Isabella said, burying herself even deeper into Ulf’s thick cloak.
“Did you make a legal promise to him?” asked Hildegard.
Isabella shook her head. “I met him only when I woke up here. After I was abducted, they kept me drugged. I was slipping in and out of nightmares all the time. I think they kept me in a tower somewhere deep in a wood, but I have only the most hazy memory of what happened. My warder was a stranger, a rough fellow, though he tried to put on airs. He had food sent up to me. I’d find it on the floor beside my mattress whenever the drug wore off.”
“Did you ever see who brought it?”
“A girl brought it sometimes, but she seemed too frightened to come into the chamber and used to leave it outside the door. I caught sight of her once or twice as she scurried back down the stairs. I found it too much to go up and down the stairs. I felt so weak all the time. I doubt whether the girl ever saw me. Sometimes,” she added, “the rough fellow brought food. Mostly, it simply appeared while I was sleeping.”
Hildegard turned to Ulf. “Was the girl Alys?”
He nodded. “She told me she was ordered to go into the woods on errands, leaving bread and cheese for the men, she was told, although she said she hardly ever saw anybody. It was only when the scare over the dragon occurred that she was told not to go anymore. It was Fulke who always sent her.”
“Thank heavens for the dragon, then.” Hildegard gave a quick glance at the masons, but their faces gave nothing away. “Would they have abducted her as well, in time?”
“She’s not a pawn in the game between the barons. This manor in dispute is unimportant in the greater battle for power. She was probably going to a different sort of buyer, like other novices who have passed through Handale.”
The two masons were listening intently but added nothing. Hildegard felt they were holding something back.
Before she could say anything, Ulf turned to Isabella. “When did Morcar come into the picture, my lady?”
“I don’t know. One day I was in the tower; the next I woke up here. Was that yesterday? I’m not sure. All I know is that filthy fellow was leering over me, touching me, and I scratched his face and then”—she frowned—“I’m not sure what happened next. I felt drowsy again and”—her frown deepened—“I feel bruised all over, as if—” She dipped her face out of sight inside the cloak and her shoulders began to shake.
Hildegard and Ulf exchanged glances.
“He’ll pay,” muttered Ulf through tight lips.
Northumberland had decided it was time to make his entrance by the time they descended from the battlements. The herald blew a fanfarade on his horn. The earl climbed down with great ceremony from his gleaming char. Snow was cleared to make a path through the crowd. Guards stood on both sides, holding aloft lighted torches, and, down this avenue of fire, the king of the north made his stately entrance into the inner court.
His men followed in order of precedence. It was somewhere in this crowd that Hildegard spotted Harry Summers.
Smarter than when she had last seen him—pulled from a game of skittles to answer to Mr. Medford, head of the king’s Signet Office—it had been a year ago in the earl’s London mansion. Harry had been the innocent key to unravelling a murder.
Now here he was, wrapped in a red cloak, his fair hair hanging in damp ringlets, his merry glance taking everything in with evident good humour.
Ulf waded through the throng, brushing aside one of the guards wielding a smoky torch, and gripped Harry by the arm.
Not so innocent these days, judged Hildegard when she saw the young man’s hand go swiftly to his dagger.
As soon as he realised it was Ulf at his side, he threw his arms round him with a yell of delight.
“You old devil, Sir Ulf, of all people. Are you here with Earl Roger de Hutton?”
She saw Ulf shake his head and mutter something, and Harry clapped him on the back and gave him several rib-shaking thumps. “Lord of the manor of Langbrough and well deserved,” he shouted. “And is your lady present?” He looked round, caught sight of Hildegard, did a double take, recognised her despite the absence of her white Cistercian habit, and exclaimed with further expressions of delight before going through the whole rigmarole of greeting again, although this time with less thumping and more close hugging.
As they began to drift towards the inner court with the rest of the household, Ulf told Harry about the boon they wanted to ask and the best way of going about it.
He turned to reach out for Isabella, who had been ushered along by the masons and now stood half-hidden under her cloak behind him. As he stepped aside to reveal her, her hood fell back. Hildegard was close enough to observe Harry’s change of colour. Isabella simply stood in the falling snow, staring at him, without speaking.
The silence lengthened as the crowd flowed around them.
Ulf looked nonplussed at Harry’s reaction. None of them had seen him tongue-tied before. “It’s an urgent matter, Harry,” he prompted. “I wouldn’t presume to ask a favour of you otherwise.”
“No. That’s quite all right,” Harry responded. He stared at Isabella for another moment or two, then suddenly spun on his heel and marched into the thick of the crowd still surging in Northumberland’s wake.
“Well, I hope he means it,” remarked Ulf, gazing after him in dismay.
“I think he may well mean it,” replied Hildegard slowly.
The two masons were silent.
Isabella had a look of alarm on her face. “What’s going to happen to me if I come face-to-face with Morcar? I must get away!”
With a little cry, she slipped past Ulf and pushed on into the crowd. In a moment, she had vanished from sight.
“Go after her!” Hildegard exclaimed.
“Which way did she go?” Matt was peering over the heads of the crowd.
Ulf looked worried when, almost an hour later, Isabella had still not been found. “What the devil made her run off like that? Was it something to do with Harry Summers? They looked at each other as if they’d met before.”
Hildegard could not work it out. “Here’s Harry now,” she said. Not waiting for Ulf, she went over to the earl’s secretary as he left the feast hall and, taking him by the arm, pulled him to one side. “Have you seen Isabella?”
He turned scarlet. “What do you mean?”
“Simply that. Have you seen her? Shortly after meeting you, she ran off. We’ve no idea where she went.”
“Ran off? But where to?”
“I had the feeling you already knew each other.”
Harry shook his head. “Never seen her before in my life.” He bit his bottom lip. It was as if he’d been felled by some catastrophe, and he stood gazing
into the crowd, unseeing, with a dazed, desperate expression.
“Harry?” Ulf came up and put his arm round the young man’s shoulders. “Is there something we can do? Are you all right? You look as if you’re suffering in some way. It’s not the ague from all this bad weather, is it?”
“Suffering, did you say? I surely am. You have no idea.” He rubbed the back of a hand across his face, then raked his fingers through his tangled curls in a distracted fashion. “Earl Morcar’s boasting that she’s the heiress of Kilton Castle. Ownership has been in dispute for many years.” He looked round at the soaring battlements and the three tall towers. “He intends to get his hands on this place for the balance of power it’ll give him in the current battle between Gloucester and King Richard. Morcar doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss about her.” Then he shook his hair back and said more alertly, “We have to find her. Where can she be?”
“Anywhere Morcar is not.” Hildegard explained as much as she thought fit, but Harry was already ahead of her and filled in the details himself. His eyes hardened. She saw his fists clench. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Matt was standing by watching all this and he made a perfunctory and somewhat hostile bow to the earl’s secretary. “If I may be permitted to speak?”
“Speak, then. Go on!” Harry was unusually irritable.
“I know we’ve already had a look on the battlements, but I still reckon she must have gone back there. It’s the only place she knows that’s far from where that old goat was keeping her.” He gestured towards the steps. “Let’s try up there again before that fiend gets to her.”
Harry Summers was already moving off. “Show me!” he commanded in much the same tone as the earl would use to a vassal.
Matt was already at his heels, and after a moment the two older men, Hamo and Ulf, with Hildegard trailing behind, began to retrace their steps up to the high battlements.
They did manage to find her before Morcar did. It was not without some difficulty, as she must have heard footsteps and decided it was the earl and his men in pursuit. She had wedged herself between a stack of tiles left to repair the roof of one of the lookout towers, and it was only Matt’s sharp eyes that managed to pick out her shape from the shadows.
“It’s us,” he whispered, talking softly, as if to a small animal. “Don’t be scared. It’s only us. Come out, Isabella. Come out.”
Harry Summers pushed him aside. He extended his hand. “My lady,” he said in a strong voice, “I beg you to come forth. You’ll be safe with me. I give you my oath.”
Shaking with her recent fright, Isabella was persuaded to get to her feet and, with the help of the two young men, was helped over the tiles. When she jumped to the ground, she turned at once to Harry Summers. She said nothing, merely looked up at him with large, clear eyes through the snow that mantled them.
Matt turned away.
Harry extended his hand. “My lady? Allow me to escort you to his grace, my lord Percy, earl of Northumberland.” He led her back along the wall, the two of them looking at each other as if nobody else existed.
Left to follow, everyone trudged back, too. Hildegard noticed that Matt had held back. When the procession reached the step leading down into the courtyard, he gave Isabella a long, defeated stare, then bowed his head as he began to descend.
Hamo put his arms round the apprentice’s shoulders when they reached ground level. “You’re time will come, bonny lad. You’re scarcely out of swaddling bands.”
“That’s that, then,” remarked Hildegard with satisfaction as she and Ulf descended the steps into the bailey. “I suddenly feel very old.”
He put an arm round her. “Mistress York, you’ll never be old.” He squeezed her against him and, with his arm round her waist, led her back towards the inner gate. “We need to have a talk ourselves,” he murmured in her ear when they came to a stop.
“We do?” She met his glance. “Oh, I see.”
“Don’t look so alarmed,” he teased, reading her expression as quickly as ever.
“I was just thinking about Fulke and whether he’ll have gone to ground by the time we get back to Handale Priory.”
CHAPTER 29
Events at Kilton were not yet concluded, however. A lavish feast was laid on for all the magnates summoned by Northumberland for the purpose of discussing the extent of their commitment to the king’s personal quarrel with his uncles, Gloucester and Warwick.
“Personal quarrel? Is that how he wants us to see it?” asked Hildegard when she heard this from the earl’s own lips.
Ulf looked disgusted. “He’s a slippery customer. I’ve always thought so. Now he’s wriggling out of his oath of fealty to King Richard. He’s waiting to see which way the dice will fall.” He told her had spoken earlier to Roger de Hutton, a strong supporter of the king. “He’s the only friend Richard has in the north. I can’t see him wanting to stick his neck out if there’s no one to follow him.”
“The Lancasters hold every major castle and town in Yorkshire,” she remarked worriedly. “It’s difficult for him. Gaunt and Bolingbroke are in accord. The only buffer between Northumberland’s territory and Lancaster’s is this swath held by the inheritor of Kilton Castle. While it’s in dispute, Northumberland’s dilemma is plain to see.” She turned to him. “Northumberland must feel he needs to tread with caution.”
“Damn him to hell!” exclaimed Ulf. “He should support his king without demur. What does an oath mean if it can be forgotten when it suits?”
“What do you think will happen next?”
“The king has the support of the City of London—”
“But the present mayor is in Gloucester’s pocket. Everybody knows the elections were rigged. How long will the City think it worth their while to support poor Richard?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
They turned their attention back to Northumberland, who was still on his feet.
“And now,” he bellowed in his northern accent, all flat vowels and ironstone consonants, “we deserve meat, drink, and merriment! Bring on the fool!”
His own fool came tumbling out of a box onto the table and proceeded to go through his repertoire of somersaults and cartwheels, along with some other ribald accomplishments that had the hall in an uproar of joy.
Things were rowdy when Hildegard tugged at Ulf’s sleeve. “Look over there. It’s Morcar. That steward must have let him out.”
With a black velvet cloak over one shoulder, his elaborate wine-coloured capuchon, and a greying clipped beard, he looked languidly confident, a noble among northern peasants, and people automatically made way for him. Two henchmen in blue and green got up on either side as he rose from the long table where they had been eating. A way was cleared as he made his way to the foot of the dais.
To Hildegard’s astonishment, he breached all the rules of etiquette and stepped up onto it and stalked over to accost Northumberland himself. It was obvious he had something urgent to say.
Northumberland’s mouth dropped open as the earl tugged at his sleeve. He was holding a piece of dripping venison between his fingers and the grease ran down inside his cuff as he paused with it halfway to his mouth. They watched as Morcar said something and the earl cupped his free hand round his ear, the better to hear what was being said.
Northumberland glanced round the table. His guests were leaning forward to catch Morcar’s words. His lips moved as he seemed to ask a question.
Hildegard said, “I wish I could lip-read.”
Morcar bowed deeply. Northumberland’s small, piggy eyes looked him over. His lips, just visible in his nest of red beard, were set in a grim line.
“It must be about Isabella.”
Ulf put his hand on her arm. “Wait.”
The earl said something to his chamberlain, who rose, grasped his stick, and managed to establish a modicum of silence among the revellers while the earl rose to his feet. He leaned heavily against the table with the piece of venison still clutched in
one hand. He waved it to include everyone in his orbit.
“Not making a long speech, so stop you’re groaning, lads,” he called affably to one or two knights who had started to give him a slow hand clap. “It seems we have two lovers among us.” There were cheers at this and one or two slanderous remarks about people known to everyone else. “They are,” bellowed Northumberland, his voice rising in exaggerated disbelief, “so much in love, I’m told, that they wish to marry! Can you believe it!” He flapped the back of one pudgy hand at Morcar. “Be seated, man.”
Looking mystified, Earl Morcar went back to his place and turned expectantly to listen to the rest of what the earl had to say.
“Harry Summers!” shouted the earl. “Call Harry Summers! Where are you, you dice-playing young wastrel?”
There was little refinement in the earl’s manner. Harry emerged amid a sea of backslapping and a few cheers from those at the back of the hall who must have had little idea what was going on. No one does, for that matter, thought Hildegard, giving Ulf a glance.
“This,”—the earl put an arm round Harry’s shoulders and squeezed the breath from him—“is the young devil who pretends to be my secretary! Isn’t that so, Harry?”
“It is, Your Grace. To my great honour.”
“And are you married yet, Harry?”
“No, I’m not, Your Grace.”
“No, he’s not!” came a roar from those who knew him. They began to bang their ale mugs on the table, chanting the name Summers until the chamberlain fussed forward to quiet them.
“No, you’re not married, you lucky young devil. But we’ve decided to rectify matters and put you in chains. Harry Summers, everybody!” The earl pushed him forward, to increasing cheers. “Your turn. Speak up,” he shouted over the noise. The earl plumped down with a satisfied smile and the ale mugs clattered again.
Harry looked nervous. He was flushed. He stared out over the heads of the combined retinues of several households. Everyone fell silent. He took a deep breath.
The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Page 25