“Don’t shoulder all the blame yourself, Mariana. He was your superior, a man you were supposed to revere, and he seduced you, led you where he wanted you to go—”
“I thought he knew everything about godliness, understood everything, loved everything. Loved me.”
“When he was still lord bishop of the diocese—I mean still alive, available—then you might have asked him what had prompted him to forget his vows so completely, but even if he understood the darkest corners of his own mind, he still might have been unable or unwilling to explain. Everything comes down to speculation. It leads nowhere. It’s best not to tread that path. He simply and weakly succumbed to desire.”
Mariana nodded. She regained some vigour. Her eyes were beginning to clear. She leaned back on her heels. “Things must be arranged with gentleness. My…” She hesitated. “My son must be told the truth very carefully. And then a visit must be arranged.” She clasped her hands to her breast. “I’ll meet him! Hold him in my arms! A living, breathing creature! Is it a miracle? I cannot believe”—she held out one trembling hand—“I cannot believe that this blood flowing through my veins also flows through his. Flesh of my flesh, my beloved child.”
Hildegard’s first impression of Mariana had been of a fierce, cold woman, unbalanced by the harshness of the regimen at Handale, but now she saw a side that must have been hidden for years.
After some little time when they had knelt together and talked about her son, a three-year-old in the care of monks at Furness Abbey, her eyes shone with love for the little creature she had held once, briefly, after giving birth in the sordid conditions of a penitential cell.
She was already making plans when, rearranging her torn garments, they left the mortuary together.
Hildegard had promised to accompany Mariana to Basilda’s parlour. To be an advocate if she needed one. Already, Mariana had made the big decision to leave the Order. To regain custody of her child. To plan a future that would be free of lies and punishment.
The prioress was in her chair, as usual. Mariana told her what had changed. She uttered no words of recrimination against Basilda. None would have been appropriate, as what had happened had been under the rule of the previous prioress, the one now enjoying a comfortable life as a corrodian at St. Mary’s Abbey in York.
Basilda’s small, sharp eyes flickered towards Hildegard and she nodded once as she took in what Mariana was saying.
The hawk on its perch danced back and forth and the prioress took it onto her wrist and began to stroke the bird’s head with one finger. Hildegard was reminded of Archbishop Neville. In defeat, he had sought solace in the care bestowed on his hawk, too.
Eventually, Basilda gave a huge sigh that shook her jowls. “And you, Mistress York, with your useful facility in reading texts, will no doubt have read those other texts between Master Fulke and myself?” She rested a challenging glare on Hildegard, who nodded.
“But you have told no one?”
Hildegard shook her head.
“I trust this reticence will continue?” Basilda’s expression had something of pleading in it, which Hildegard was astonished to see.
Hildegard replied, “I have no desire to rake up matters that can only discomfort the living.”
Basilda turned to Mariana. “You may as well get out, then. Pack your things. Go to him. Praise God you have a son. There is no greater joy and duty than for a mother to care for her child.” She blinked rapidly, as if her eyes were filling up, then said sharply to Mariana, “I’ll write a letter to the abbot of Furness. You’ll find he’s a very different type than the man who fathered your child.” She beckoned to Hildegard. “As you’re so good with the pen, you can write what I dictate. Then we shall have only the matter of Northumberland to occupy us.”
“Is that so? I mean—” Hildegard faltered as she recalled how she had suspected the prioress of murdering the priest, her own son, and how now, unequivocally, that was unlikely to be so. And yet someone had made him a target, she was convinced. It could not have been accidental. “The death of”—she faltered again, glancing at Mariana, who was innocent of the truth—“The death of your priest,” she said tactfully, “is still unsolved.”
“You mean you believe there is some puzzle attached to it?”
“I do.”
“Was it not an accident?”
“Was it?”
“A careful boy. Difficult to believe he could ever be careless, the discipline of his upbringing—” Basilda looked confused. “And not death by his own hand, either. A great sin. Not to be countenanced. And he was looking forward to the fight over his inheritance.”
Hildegard said, “I believe the manner of his death is open to question.”
Basilda sent Mariana upstairs to fetch the writing implements. While she was out of hearing, the prioress turned to Hildegard.
“Tell me bluntly. You think he was murdered?”
“I believe it’s a possibility.”
“That’s what Josiana, my cellaress, believes, too.” Tears again came into her eyes and brimmed on the folds of flesh beneath. “He was harmless. He would never have won Kilton. He knew it. But he was looking forward to testing his mettle against the men of law. He thought to prove himself to delete the dishonour of his birth. He was no pawn in Northumberland’s power games, no use to Bolingbroke. Fulke was aware of that. So why would anybody have wanted him dead?”
A note of determination came into Basilda’s voice. “Do this one thing for me, Mistress York. Find his killer. And leave that person’s punishment to me.”
First impressions are often misleading, Hildegard thought, not for the first time, as she made her way outside after writing Mariana’s letter for her. Even when the plain logic of expediency led to an obvious conclusion, it often failed to take into account the ambivalent nature of the human heart. To see someone as black or white was no more than to regard them as characters in a morality play. It was not true to the light and dark of human nature.
To think she had secretly suspected Mariana and the prioress of harming the priest.
The matter concerning Northumberland was explained by Basilda before they left.
The earl had decided to visit Handale that very day. It was his own priory, one his family had endowed generations ago. Until now, he had taken no interest in it. With the roads free from snow, it was an opportunity, then, to pay a visit before returning north to his stronghold at Alnwick Castle.
At the same time, he would use the priory church for the blessing of the marriage between Harry Summers and the heiress of the Kilton lands. And dining this time, his chancellor and other relevant officials might as well give the accounts a casual once-over, nothing rigorous, of course, but an opportunity to get things straight should never be lost.
After Hildegard and Mariana left Basilda and crossed to the refectory, they found the place in ferment.
There was some merriment among the masons when the news about the earl was recounted by Hamo’s dairymaid, who had got it from the head kitchener shortly after the harbinger of the earl’s retinue had put in an appearance.
Apparently, he had announced, “A few demands will make his grace’s visit more tolerable,” and then produced a list of requirements as long as his arm. The earl, the conversi were relieved to discover, would not expect to be housed overnight. It would be a short visit only. Even so, it involved a wholesale scrubbing down of the kitchens. Conversi were seen on their hands and knees in all the places the earl was likely to set foot. The church shone. Incense was thick in the air.
The turmoil increased when, unheralded, bedraggled, and out of temper, the masons’ master, Sueno de Schockwynde, finally puffed in after his servant, leading a melancholy horse, and, not much later, was followed by his travel companions, the Durham coroner and his clerk.
They had set off a week ago, as soon as they had received the prioress’s message about Giles’s death, but then the snows had come and they had been halted halfway across the moors.
Schockwynde came across Hildegard in the warming room while everyone was at mass. He gave a double take. “Have you left the Order, domina—sister—I mean, mistress, is it?”
It showed how ruffled the master was after his journey, she thought, that he addressed her without the elaborate courtesies that so often brought him mockery from the rougher elements.
“My decision has not yet been made,” she admitted. “It’s a long story. For the time being, I’m known as Mistress York and would welcome your discretion.”
“It’s yours.” He bowed.
“But tell me, master, how did you fare over the moors in this weather? I hear you had to take refuge for a few days?”
“It was utterly and completely abominable,” he replied. “Not just because of the snow—that was trying enough—but also because of an event so vile that we are left with nerves shattered and our thoughts in disarray.” He turned to the coroner, who had just entered. “You would not disagree, Rodrick?”
The coroner, a rotund, cheerful-looking man, belying his gruesome calling, went over to the health, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth. “Mistress, I will not sully your sensibilities by detailing what befell us.”
“Suffice to say it will have ramifications for our dear beleaguered sovereign,” said Schockwynde, butting in.
“For King Richard!” exclaimed Hildegard with a sudden feeling of dread. “But what on earth’s happened? You can speak plainly to me. You know me of old, master. My sensibilities have been tried and tempered. Tell me what happened.”
“It’s this.” Schockwynde, eager to blurt it all out, lowered his voice. “A royal courier was sent from the king to his barons of the north, begging for assistance against the rebels, his uncle dukes. We know this from letters found in his bag. But”—he lowered his voice still further—“he did not reach the earl of Northumberland, King Richard’s main hope, and why not?” He drew back, the look of horror on his face arousing Hildegard’s impatience.
“Why? Tell us!”
“The courier left Archbishop Neville’s palace near York in good order, but he never reached his destination. He was murdered at an inn on the moors.”
“Murdered most horribly, though I say it myself,” the coroner interjected. “One of the most vicious and obscene injuries a man can receive.” His cheerful expression had become bleak. “I am continually surprised by the cruelty of one man to another, but this was particularly heinous.”
“Its symbolic intention is clear,” added Schockwynde. “Recall the rumours about the murder of the king’s great-grandfather at Berkeley Castle? With the sword inserted…” He gestured.
“It stands as a clear message to the king,” the coroner averred.
Hildegard stared in revulsion. “They’re warning that what will befall him if he does not bow to his uncles’ authority will be what happened to his great-grandfather, King Edward the Second?’
CHAPTER 33
The news stunned and alarmed the masons when they heard it. Their horrified response demonstrated, if proof were needed, their unshakable loyalty to the king. Hildegard saw the news as another piece in the puzzle. It explained Northumberland’s lack of support for King Richard. The truth was that he had never, in fact, received Richard’s request for help. Any one of the king’s many enemies could have put a price on the courier.
The big question remained, of course: If the courier had arrived safely with his message, would the earl have mobilised his army and marched south to the king’s aid or not?
By now, the defeat of the royal supporters at Radcot Bridge had also spread through the priory. It ran as fast as flames through thatch.
A mood of feverish uncertainty took hold. For the first time since the Rising in 1381, personal allegiance had again become a game of jeopardy. To be caught on the wrong side could be a serious business once more. It could mean the loss of rights and lands … and life.
Master Fulke was not forgotten in all this. The bailiffs had set a time for the charges to be read, after which, if everything went according to plan, Fulke would be escorted to a cell in Whitby jailhouse.
The bailiff’s men escorted him from his not-too-arduous imprisonment. Neatly attired in an expensive black cloak and velvet overmantle, with a jaunty capuchon tied into a stylish knot on his head, and his beard combed, he looked every inch the wealthy, respectable merchant he pretended to be. Signs of the ague had quite disappeared. By contrast, the masons looked a disreputable bunch in their work-stained leather jerkins and unkempt hair. The bailiff looked them over and Hildegard could tell where his natural sympathies lay at the start.
Fulke tried to take command of the situation at once. “Continue,” he said as soon as the bailiff read the charges. “Let’s get on with it. I need to see my attorney as soon as we leave here.”
“How do you answer?” asked the bailiff, refusing to be hurried.
“Not guilty, of course. What do you expect? I had those goods for sale legally and aboveboard.”
“Aboveboard? We have information that they were very much below board.” The bailiff gave a nasty chuckle. “You brought a quantity of war feathers and bow poles into the country from Norway without paying duty Where are your bills of lading?”
Fulke raised his shackled wrists. “If you’d release me, I’d show you.”
“Back in Ruswarp, I suppose?”
“You suppose right. Where else would I keep my records of trade?”
“The earl’s steward knows nothing about any records.”
“Is he the one lodging this charge?”
“He is.”
Fulke looked momentarily deflated; then he snarled, “And who informed him, I’d like to know.”
“You will. By and by.” The bailiff smirked. “We’re getting somewhere, then. You admit there was something to inform him about?”
“I admit nothing!”
The bailiff’s clerk was writing furiously. The bailiff had more to say. He gave Fulke a confident smile. “We’ll send someone to fetch your records, Master Fulke. But first, there’s another charge here. It concerns girls who have been passed on to a fellow in—”
“Save me!” Fulke raised his shackled wrists to heaven in a dramatic gesture of supplication. Then he turned to the bailiff. “This comes from that novice who absconded, doesn’t it? That raving fantasist. She said she’d do this to me, the vindictive little bitch. Where is she? You must have found her to be able to—”
“What had she got to be vindictive about, Master Fulke?” The bailiff suddenly seemed to be enjoying himself.
Fulke threw back his head and gave a worldly smile. “Ask the prioress. She knows what she was like.”
“We’ll do that, so we’ll soon have an answer to that one. We’ll also be asking questions in the Whitby stews. And there’s one lady Isabella, abducted and sold to the Earl Morcar as a prospective bride for a considerable sum, we’re told and—”
“This is insanity. You can’t tell me it’s against the law to act as a marriage broker?” Fulke gave a disgusted look and turned away. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m not saying another word until my law clerk gets here.”
“We’ll go to him, so you needn’t bother calling him yourself,” replied the bailiff, indicating to his own clerk to put his writing desk away. “That’s it for now—”
“Just a minute!” Dakin stepped forward. His fists were bunched. “I accuse this man of murder—”
Schockwynde pushed himself importantly forward. “Hold back, fella. There’s a due process.” He spoke to the bailiff as one professional man to another. “An apprentice of mine was done to death a week ago. Foul play is suspected. The coroner here has come to examine the body—”
“And you have evidence that it wasn’t a natural death?”
“I’ll say! The man’s throat was ripped out.” Dakin burst forward and had to be restrained by the guards.
The coroner spread his hands in a placating manner. “I must see the body first,
before we go any further. I take it it’s in the mortuary?” He turned to Dakin. “After that you, can accuse this fellow of murder if that’s what it looks like.”
“And you’ll have to lay before us the evidence for your accusation,” stated the bailiff sententiously; “otherwise, you’ll be in trouble, making false accusations against an innocent man. Let’s repair to the mortuary. Lead on!”
With a nod of the head, the bailiff indicated for the coroner and the master mason to follow him, but when Dakin infiltrated the group, he was not turned away. The rest of the masons trailed along a few yards behind, their faces grim. A muttered exchange between Hamo and Will was too quiet to be overheard.
It was clear they thought Fulke would wriggle out of the accusation if he could and, knowing that they had no evidence worth a tattle, they knew he would find it none too difficult. Dakin had also put himself in the wrong by making an accusation with nothing but blind grief to back it up.
Hildegard was frowning as she followed them.
They stood round the body in a silent group. The nun who had been keeping vigil pulled back the sheet. Even in the dim light, the sight of the wounds drew a gasp from everyone.
“He’s certainly dead,” observed the coroner, recovering first. “He’s suffered a particularly frenzied attack, by the look of things.” He bent closer to examine the striations of congealed blood in the wounds disfiguring the corpse. Everything was frozen by the snows, whose chill still lingered in the stone-built chamber.
Fulke was gazing in something like horror at the body. The bailiff stood eagerly at the coroner’s elbow. Schockwynde turned away and looked likely to vomit. Dakin had a face of stone, as did the other two masons. Carola went hurriedly to the door.
“And the story is that this beast of Handale attacked him while he was walking in the woods?” murmured the coroner as he placed the tip of his dagger into one of the wounds. “A good three inches,” he murmured, withdrawing the dagger and peering at the tip.
The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Page 28