The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  Here the streets were filled with peddlers and entertainers. Musicians played on every corner, some good, some painful to the ear, and working in among them were jugglers and magicians, fortune-tellers and pardoners, pilgrims visiting St. William’s shrine in the minster, itinerant healers and quacks, craft masters and apprentice boys in the distinctive colours of their guilds, as well as labourers out of bond, carriers, messengers, mendicant friars, servants and merchants with their retinues. The town was bursting at the seams.

  She bought the girls some hot pasties from a booth and then they made their way through the cacophony of sound to the nunnery on the other side of the river.

  * * *

  The Benedictine nun who watched the door was apologetic. “I’m sorry, sister. We haven’t an inch of spare room. People started turning up in droves in the middle of last week. We’re going to be full until the celebrations are over.” She gave a glance at the two girls standing on either side of Hildegard. “All I can suggest is that you try the Sisters of the Holy Wounds. They rarely open their doors to anyone, but I believe even they have decided to allow outsiders in for the duration of the feast.”

  She explained how they could find their convent and before Hildegard turned to go she called after her. “I’m not recommending them, you understand? But it’s the only place where you’re likely to find room to rest your heads just now.”

  With thanks Hildegard led the way back down to the bank of the river. Following the nun’s instructions they stayed on the same side and walked on for a good distance while remaining within the walls. Apparently the convent was near the staithe where the barges discharged their cargo before returning to the Humber ports they serviced.

  Before they reached the warehouses lining the quay, however, they came to a tall, windowless building with a large wooden crucified Christ dripping red paint set above a porch. There was a grille next to it. When Hildegard tapped on it a nun peered suspiciously through the bars.

  “Greetings, sister. We’re travellers looking for accommodation—” Hildegard began.

  Cold eyes sized her up, took in the two girls then glared at the hounds. “No animals.” The door on the other side of the grille snapped shut. Before they could turn away they heard bolts being worked loose and the big double doors ground open.

  A crabbed nun appeared from the lodge, ringing a hand bell. At its summons a shaven-headed man appeared from an inner recess. He wore the cheap woollen tunic of a convent servant. Hildegard was astonished to find a man within the precincts and wondered if he was a eunuch.

  The nun indicated that the hounds should be left in the lodge and then she snapped, “Follow Matthias. He’ll show you to your accommodation.” She retreated to her lodge.

  Without a word he led them up a narrow staircase into a stone corridor at the back of the building. Some way along he thrust open a door into a grim-looking dormitory crowded with chattering black-robed nuns. They fell silent when the strangers entered and as one turned their backs. As soon as Hildegard and the girls reached the end of the chamber a susurration of whispers started up behind them.

  Matthias lifted a wooden beam from its socket and pushed open a farther door. A small, square, stone chamber met their gaze. He stepped aside so they could enter.

  Piled in a corner on the bare boards was a heap of straw-filled sacks. One small window high up near the rafters let in a trickle of light.

  “Is this it?” Petronilla asked in astonishment. She remained in the doorway.

  Matthias gave her a dark look and went out.

  “I thought he was going to lock us in.” She giggled, coming into the middle of the cell to stand beside Hildegard. Maud stayed where she was.

  “We’ll make the best of it,” Hildegard told her in a firm voice. “As soon as we’ve laid matters before the serjeant-at-law and heard from the prioress we’ll be away from here. It shouldn’t be more than a couple of nights at most. We can surely survive that!”

  “I hope the prioress won’t consider sending me back to my guardian.”

  “She’ll no doubt try to arrange a meeting for you both, but she won’t force you to leave the priory unless you choose to go. She’ll have to wait for a reply from him, of course. Let’s hope the courier finds him at home.”

  Petronilla looked thoughtful.

  * * *

  After finding their way down to an equally forbidding refectory where they were grudgingly offered thin gruel slopped into wooden bowls, Hildegard settled the girls back in their quarters. Both of them seemed exhausted after their night’s walk. They dragged the straw pallets out and at once curled up ready to catch up on the sleep they had missed. Hildegard told them she was going into the town to find quarters for her hounds and to send a courier to Castle Hutton informing Lord Roger de Hutton of the destruction of his property. They were asleep almost before she finished speaking.

  The first two errands were soon done. Her hounds looked mournful at being left behind in the town kennels but she was forced to harden her heart. Then a courier was dispatched to Castle Hutton. Next she made her way to the office of a serjeant-at-law known to the nuns of Swyne over many years of litigation. He worked from a warren of chambers off Petergate attended by a couple of clerks. They were scratching away at a pile of documents as she was ushered in. There was a strong smell of sealing wax.

  The serjeant listened without comment until she finished speaking. His frown had deepened when she told him about the attack on Deepdale, and his brow furrowed even more when she told him about Maud and her terrible experience at the hands of the same marauding men-at-arms.

  “I have to tell you straight off there’s little chance of bringing the malefactors to book if they’re from outside our jurisdiction. It’s beyond my remit.” He avoided her glance.

  She understood at once. What he meant was that the men were probably maintained by Gaunt or some other wealthy magnate and it wouldn’t be worth trying to get redress if that were the case.

  He went on. “It’s best if you leave matters to the lord of the manor the little serf belongs to. It’s not our concern what goes on there. He might not want to take the risk of making a complaint, of course.” Maud had either not known or would not tell the name of the landlord, merely saying that he rarely visited the place, leaving everything in the hands of his steward and a reeve, the latter being one of the murdered men.

  When Hildegard made it known how unsatisfactory she found this response he agreed. “The best I can do is send a man to make enquiries. But you can understand the difficulty, sister. If these devils are maintained by somebody with power in Westminster, or even by one of his followers, it won’t be worth your neck to try to get them to court. What was the name of the manor again?”

  “Pentleby.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Nor me. It’s said to be near Doncaster.”

  The man folded his hands on top of his desk. “The owner of your grange at Deepdale might think the same way about pursuing these fellows, regarding it as the safer option to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. For all we know the attack might have been the result of a long-running dispute between local families, spilling over into our territory by ill luck.” He paused and frowned. “You’re sure it was the same bunch of malcontents who destroyed your grange?”

  “They must be, they said they were looking for Maud.”

  “So why on earth should they pursue a bonded maid unless she was one of their own?”

  “Exactly my own question.”

  “And what reason does the maid herself give?”

  “She’s still in a state of shock. She merely shakes her head.”

  “Manor lords go to extremes when a bonded servant absconds. It’s a loss of property. But we need names.” After a pause, he said, “Whatever the reason for their actions it’ll be down to Lord Roger de Hutton to deal with the havoc they’ve caused at Deepdale. It’s his property.”

  “I’ve already sent a messenger to Castle Hutton,” s
he told him. “I just wondered if you’d heard anything that could identify them.”

  He sighed. “Too many fellas are being forced to live rough in the wildwood these days. They might be rebels. They might be anybody.” If he had heard rumours of a band on the prowl he was not admitting it.

  “And about the runaway ward, Petronilla?” she asked

  “I’ll send one of my men to make enquiries about this guardian she mentions, then we can look into her rights. I can’t think straight off where it might be she claims to come from. Beyond Galtres, you say? I’ve not heard tell of any recent deaths out that way, not ones that would lead to a dispute about inheritance, any road. But don’t worry. We’ll get on to it. How old is she?”

  “She claims to be seventeen.”

  “Claims?” He raised his eyebrows. “If she’s not of age she’ll remain the property of her guardian and he can do with her what he wills.”

  “Even marry her against her inclinations.” Hildegard pursed her lips.

  The serjeant nodded. “We can understand, sister, why these girls become runaways. Their wilfulness isn’t always to blame.” He gave a sympathetic smile. “I have a daughter of my own so I can understand it from both sides. She would certainly object if I was fool enough to insist she marry some old fella twice her age. We’ll tread carefully and see how the land lies before we go barging in with both feet.”

  Thanking him for this cold comfort, Hildegard took her leave.

  She emerged onto the main thoroughfare deep in thought.

  With nothing to do now but wait for events to fall into place—the prioress would surely send instructions as soon as Marianne and Cecilia told her what had occurred—she decided it was time to pay a visit to the chandler who had received delivery of their beeswax the previous week.

  People filled the streets as busily as ever, but winding her way through the lanes she eventually found herself outside Master Stapylton’s chandlery. It lay in one of the many craftsmen’s yards off Petergate. She rapped on the door for admittance.

  Chapter Six

  After the disastrous events of yesterday it was a relief to be standing in the well-ordered workshop where the chandler exercised his craft. His premises consisted of a comfortable two-storey building, chandlery on the ground floor, living quarters above, wedged between a huddle of similar buildings not far from the minster gates.

  The honey scent of beeswax swamped the air. It was heady after the unpleasant odour of burning timbers. Hildegard breathed in with a feeling of pleasure. On all sides of the workshop were graded candles hanging in rows; long, paired tapers, joined at the wick and fresh out of the vat, slung over wooden pegs along the walls to harden; thick stumps of what the Normans called bougies, ranged on the trestles alongside squat altar candles covered in carving and destined for the guild churches.

  ‘I want them to have a beam of light,’ she read on one of them as she peered to make out the careful lettering that spiralled round the stem.

  Some candles were enormous, long and slender as flag poles, and darkened to deep amber, richly honey-scented. Others were the colour and texture of toffee. Yet others were white and odourless, new wax, not left long in the honey.

  Labels were attached to the groups. Bakers, she read. Coopers. Cordwainers. Glaziers. Lorimers. Guild candles ready to be carried by the members in procession on the eve of the vigil before the Feast of Corpus Christi.

  At that moment the chandler came breezing into the workshop from an upper chamber, his arms outstretched in greeting, an apprentice at his heels.

  “Sister! Well met! I didn’t intend to keep you waiting. Do forgive me.” He was all smiles. “Your beeswax has saved our lives, hasn’t it, Stephen!” he exclaimed, cuffing his apprentice on the shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for sending that consignment, sister. If I’d failed to supply the guilds my name would have been mud.” He gave her a narrower glance. “Let me offer you a beaker of wine while we talk business?”

  Prepared for a hard bargain, but feeling that she had the upper hand given his desperate straits, Hildegard was glad of the chance to sit down for a moment before the bargaining began.

  “You’ll be staying for the pageant then?” Master Stapylton asked as the boy returned with the promised wine.

  “Not unless I’m suddenly given dispensation from my prioress. I’m here on another matter.”

  He made a sad face. “You’re missing something remarkable. It’ll be a good one this year. Lots of special effects. Everybody line perfect or I’ll know the reason why! I’m sharing pageant-master duties with Master Danby of the Glaziers’ Guild,” he explained with a certain amount of pride. “In fact,” he added in a confidential tone, “he’ll be coming over himself to inspect my candles for his guild’s church any time now. Maybe he’ll whet your appetite and you’ll find a reason to stay?”

  “I wish I could, but it’s unlikely. At any rate, I’m pleased things are going smoothly for you.” She took a sip of what turned out to be an excellent Rhenish and probably came direct from the shipman with no intercession from the toll keeper. “I heard you had problems last year with a few rowdies?” she continued in order to make conversation before they got down to business.

  Master Stapylton frowned. “With the feast falling on the anniversary of the Great Rebellion people were a bit edgy last summer. Some of ’em see Corpus Christi as a rallying point in the calendar. But memories are short and this year I believe everybody’s set to enjoy themselves in the proper manner.” He chuckled. “Of course, the archbishop has had his nose put out of joint as usual, but that’s the only unpleasantness we’ve had so far!”

  Hildegard raised her eyebrows to encourage him to go on.

  “Too secular, not celebrating in the proper manner! There was talk,” he continued, settling himself, “to keep the church procession on the day itself, as now, and shift the pageant to the day afterwards, but we’re resisting that with all our might. It just wouldn’t be the same. It would take the shine off things in our opinion.”

  “I expect you’re right. Maybe you can persuade Archbishop Neville to hold the procession the evening before, on the vigil of the feast?”

  “That’s been mooted, but the church isn’t happy either. Nor are we. That’s when the guilds hold a vigil in their own churches. It brings the members together. Good for our sense of fellowship. Good for the candle trade as well!”

  “I expect the church feels as you do about moving?”

  “The truth is we’ll just have to jog along in the old way, procession and pageant all ram-bang together. It shouldn’t be a problem with a bit of goodwill on both sides.”

  “I’m sorry I shan’t be here to see it. I never have seen the pageant. It was not much of an event when I was a child.”

  “It’s all the thing now and quite a sight, what with the lighted torches just before dawn, the first wagon setting up outside Holy Trinity for the Creation, and all the rest coming down to the twelve stations round the town. Near on fifty guild wagons are taking part this time. Each with their own play to perform. Finishing at midnight with the greatest spectacle of all, the Last Judgement. Magnificent. And to set the seal on it the Host under its golden canopy emerges out of the minster in a blaze of light and processes round the streets. You can imagine what state the actors are in by the time it all comes to an end!”

  “And the audience as well, I should imagine. Do they follow the wagons round or stay in one place to watch?”

  “Some follow their own guilds. The wealthier merchants usually stay put in their stands. They don’t want to be pushed about in all the hurly-burly, obviously. The mayor and his aldermen are having a stand erected near Common Hall up past Ouse Bridge.” He leaned forward. “There was talk of young King Richard putting in an appearance this year. We’ve heard nothing to confirm it, though.” He pulled a face. “It might be all that trouble in April with the plot against his life that’s put him off travelling up here. I heard he sobbed his heart out when he heard
what they’d done to that Carmelite who tried to warn him of Gaunt’s plotting.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. It was a mysterious and terrible business all round. Quite heinous whoever the perpetrators were.”

  “Rumour has it that it was Gaunt’s way of warning the king to do as he’s told.” He sat back and gave an odd smile. “Maybe it’ll be Gaunt himself to grace us with his presence—if he dare show his face!” He broke off and rumbled somewhat in his throat. “Well, no disrespect to the duke, of course.” A worried look crossed his face as if suddenly aware that his words might have fallen on the wrong ears.

  Hildegard hastened to reassure him. “They’re trying to say that Duke John put down the rebellion in the north less brutally than Justice Tresillian in the south.” There was a raised inflection in her tone to show that she understood this to be a mere rumour.

  “That’s what they tell us,” he agreed neutrally. He threw back the last of his wine. “But this isn’t what you’re here for, sister, and I’m keeping you from the rest of your business. As far as I’m concerned the pageant is an excuse to enjoy ourselves and celebrate the sharing of bread and wine.” He gave a jovial if forced smile and refilled their cups. “Now, to the matter of a price for your beeswax.”

  * * *

  Hildegard was unsurprised by the views the chandler had carelessly revealed. After the Rising three years ago the rebels had been brutally punished, here in Yorkshire as well as in the south. It wasn’t just Chief Justice Tresillian who had presided over the bloody retribution—hanging and quartering the rebels when they were dragged before him—the Justiciars in the north had put down the rebels with equal brutality, although individual killings had not been so assiduously recorded. Many people had simply disappeared.

  As for the unfortunate Carmelite friar who, this April past, had warned King Richard of a plot against his life allegedly being hatched by the Duke of Lancaster—the king’s uncle, John of Gaunt—he had suffered a hideous death as a reward for his warning. Abducted as he left the king’s presence, he had been tortured by his captors in an obscene way too terrible to speak of, and the poor fellow had died several agonising days later as a result. His abductors were known but were too powerful to be brought to account.