The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  With a last urgent glance, she turned and hurried off, merging with the other goodwives and burgesses crossing by at the end of the street. As soon as she left a man stepped out from the porch of the convent and gazed after her. Then he turned and, giving Hildegard a glance, went back inside the building. It was the servant Matthias.

  * * *

  Agnetha’s warning was troubling. Hildegard went up to the convent entrance, was stopped by the locked door as before and waited impatiently until the portress pushed open her peephole to see who was there. After a pause, locks were scraped back and Hildegard stepped out of the heat into the icy gloom of the convent. Matthias was nowhere to be seen.

  The portress poked her head out of her cubbyhole. “Missive in my office,” she announced without preamble.

  Emerging long enough to heave the bolts back across the doors again, she scurried into her cell and returned with something in her hand. She made no attempt to hide her interest in its contents as she handed it over, and she continued to hover as Hildegard inspected the seal.

  With an abrupt thank-you she pushed the letter into her sleeve. The last thing she was going to do was open it in front of prying eyes. The contents would be round the convent in no time. Leaving the porteress with her curiosity unsatisfied, she hurried into the cloister to find a corner where she could open it unobserved.

  The seal was that of the prioress. It was the letter from Swyne she had been waiting for. Cecilia and Marianne must have arrived safely and told her what had befallen the grange at Deepdale. The prioress could move fast when she had to.

  Desperately hoping that she was being recalled to the priory and that there would be welcome instructions regarding the two runaways, she prised the seal away and opened out a single piece of vellum. It was much scraped, having clearly been used many times over, but it now bore a clear message in the prioress’s familiar style.

  She had written:

  Sister, greetings. Unfortunate news regarding Deepdale. You will find a lesson can be learned from such events. Meanwhile, remain in York with our guests until enquiries yield results. Soon something shall be brought to you. Take it to our mutual friend. Do not under any circumstance leave it with him. Allow only sight of it, as requested. Understand me.

  The angular swoop of a signature and the familiar seal pressed into the green wax confirmed the missive’s authenticity.

  It took no more than a moment to understand what was being given into her care.

  Last year she had been sent on an errand to Tuscany to bring back the famous Cross of Constantine at the wish of his grace the Archbishop of York, Alexander Neville. Hildegard had given it as instructed to the prioress. She, however, for some reason of her own, had been reluctant to hand it over to the archbishop. Hildegard surmised that because it was thought to be so powerful, possession of it was seen to confer on the owner more authority than that of the Holy Roman Emperor and the pope combined.

  Hildegard had experienced at firsthand to what lengths the unscrupulous would go to obtain the cross.

  In Italy the Gran Contessa’s ambition to rule over the wealthy city-state of Florence had led her to risk her immortal soul in pursuit of it. She had seen it as a means of gaining the earthly powers she craved. Hildegard had been abducted and almost lost her life in a plot to steal it. Escaping, however, and surviving many other dangers, she had eventually brought it back home to England where it had since remained in secret custody at Swyne.

  Now it was to be brought here to York. She would be its custodian yet again.

  She shuddered at the thought of it. If there had been a way of circumventing the prioress’s orders she would have welcomed it. But she had to obey.

  Puzzling over the matter, she couldn’t imagine why it had to be taken to the archbishop himself. He could easily have gone to Swyne to have a look at it while on one of his visitations at nearby Meaux. Clearly there was more to the story than she was being told.

  Suddenly remembering Brother Thomas’s promise to escort her if ever she should need him again, she made her way to the upper floor of the convent where there was a small chamber that served as a scriptorium. After writing a short note, she signed it, pressed her own seal to the hot wax then went down to the domestic quarters to find a messenger from among the many servants working there.

  The maze of kitchens and storerooms was confusing. Eventually, spying a reliable-looking boy loitering near the buttery, she offered him a penny with the promise of further reward if he took the letter to the courier and returned promptly with a receipt. He sped off with alacrity.

  Then she joined everyone in the chapel for the last office of the day.

  Unfortunate news indeed, she thought with some bitterness as she closed her eyes and pondered the prioress’s instructions.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the disappointment of finding they were not being recalled to Swyne that kept Hildegard awake that night. Nor was it the fleas nor the discomfort of the straw pallet on which they were forced to lie. It wasn’t the singing of the nuns at the nightly office either. She could have joined them.

  It was something else. Something more personal for which she could find no resolution.

  She tossed and turned, afraid lest her rustling should disturb the girls. Next morning she rose without waking them and set off for the minster.

  Already thronged with visitors from outside the town, it was a sanctuary of beauty and tranquillity after the punishing austerity of the nunnery. It embodied what she longed for most: peace—peace in the realm, of course, but peace in her own heart as well.

  The catastrophe at Deepdale, as she well knew, was not the source of her unrest. It was something that had started long before that event. She knelt in front of the altar in a side chapel, away from the sound of passing visitors, and bowed her head. Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember thee. Forgive me, oh Lord, she prayed. Forgive this sinful misdirecting of your words.

  It had been in a place like this, the minster at Beverley, where a truth had been revealed to her, and it offered a choice between two paths. According to orthodox belief one led heavenwards, the other to eternal damnation in the fires of hell.

  Recently his absence had afflicted her with a deeper melancholy. Time had changed nothing. The path they both believed would lead to hell opened as invitingly as before.

  Not that she had a choice whether to take that path. He was on pilgrimage. Might never return. Or if returning, might be changed beyond knowing, cleansed of his lustful folly as she should be cleansed of hers.

  A year at Deepdale, however, had done nothing to make her forget him. Some days the battle was easier, some days she was overwhelmed with longing. Today for some reason she could not understand the sanctuary of his presence was all she desired.

  Once he had felt the same. “My soul be damned,” he had said.

  Impatiently she rose to her feet. If it was not Hubert de Courcy she desired would it be some other man?

  Finding her prayers to be useless, she walked savagely down the long nave towards the west doors but hesitated, reluctant to go out into the streets of the town. She ran her fingers over the leather bag hanging from her belt. It contained a gift he had sent her. A gift that meant that she possessed something of him no matter how far away he was.

  Agnetha knew she had risked her life to enter the burning grange to retrieve it.

  Six months ago, in the dead of winter, a messenger had arrived at Deepdale with it.

  Hoar frost on the bare branches. Ice in the water butt. A sky so low with unshed snow it seemed to touch the tops of the hills enclosing the grange in its hidden valley. Sheep bleated in the fold. Thin cries of newborn lambs. Chilblains and sleepless nights. Winter, hard as it is in the north. Then the messenger appeared.

  He stood at the kitchen door and refused to come in, merely giving her a muttered “From the abbot,” to inform her of the provenance of the parcel he thrust towards her. After he left she had unwrapped
it and gazed at it in wonder, caught first by the fact of the gift and second by the beauty of the little book. It was a missal. She had turned the pages and read the words.

  Later she wrapped it in the strip of embroidered silk that had belonged to Hubert’s Knight Templar great-uncle. She remembered how it had been given to her anonymously last year and how she had held it out, intending to return it as soon as she knew who owned it, but he had refused to take it back. His hand had enfolded her own, the silk held close within her palm. “Keep it,” he urged. “Take it as a pledge of everything in my heart.”

  When she eventually forced herself out through the great west doors into the minster yard it was already teeming with the worldly comings and goings of a throng of visitors. She took a deep breath and set out.

  Another hot day looked likely. The sun was again beating down out of a cloudless sky. The wells would be further depleted. More ruined crops, she thought. More deaths.

  She crossed the river by Ouse Bridge where St. William was reputed to have saved the lives of the people who fell in when the bridge collapsed as they swarmed to greet him. A story, she judged, with no truth in it, but it was a kind one. At least St. William had been strong enough to keep his vows.

  As she climbed the steep rise of Micklegate towards the church of the Holy Trinity at the French priory she had the idea of trying to walk off the turmoil of longing and confusion, but she noticed one of the convent servants, the one they called Matthias, unmistakable with that shaven-head, trailing along behind her.

  He was an overweight, somewhat odd-looking fellow.

  She did not know what had made her turn her head to look back, but as soon as he noticed that she had seen him he sloped off onto a side street. As unfriendly as the rest of them, she thought. The Benedictine nun who had suggested the convent had warned her that the Sisters of the Sacred Wounds disliked outsiders. Of course, it was nonsense to imagine he had been following her.

  * * *

  When she reached the priory at the top of Micklegate hill a team of labourers were building a scaffolding across the length of the facade of their church of the Holy Trinity. Surmising that it must be intended as the first station for the pageant, she started to cross over to have a look. A sturdy construction, with a wide platform where benches were being installed, it seemed elaborate enough for someone of importance.

  The crowds were denser than ever just here. Micklegate Bar was one of the major gateways and there was a constant stream of people entering the city through the Bar as well as folk going about their everyday business within the walls. Combined with the constant teams of pack animals taking produce to the outlying neighbourhoods, it was difficult to find a way forward.

  A group of burgesses were strolling over from one of the merchant’s houses on the other side of the street. Yet as she threaded her way through the crowds she noticed that this expensively attired group was having no difficulty at all. As soon as they approached people stepped out of their way, doffed their caps and made deferential little bows, while a servant with a mace sauntered in front wearing a smug smile as he effortlessly carved a path for his masters.

  To her astonishment Hildegard recognised Ulf in the middle of this group.

  As far as she could make out he was carrying out an inspection of the stand. Then she remembered what he had told her at Danby’s workshop.

  Dear Ulf, she thought now, her heart softening. She had known him almost all her life. They had played as children in the bailey at Castle Hutton, gone tadpoling in spring, built snowmen in winter and searched for beechnuts among the autumn leaves. It was Ulf who had taught her how to use a bow and arrow and wield a knife in self-defence.

  Now it was apparent he had become a major figure in Lord Roger de Hutton’s household. She watched him make some comment to a mild-looking fellow wearing a chain of office.

  Seeing that he was busy she would have turned away then but for the fact that a couple of constables were beginning to round up a little gang of beggar children close by.

  The constables had the intention of putting the gang outside the gates, but the children apparently had other ideas and refused to go.

  A hollow-cheeked man with a flea-bitten hood looked on without emotion. He might have been their master, keeping out of things, or he might have merely been an onlooker like herself.

  Meanwhile the protesting children were beaten roughly towards the Bar. There was nothing Hildegard could do but call out to the constables to treat them more kindly.

  Ulf heard this exchange and it sent him over to add his protests to her own, but his presence made little difference. The children were forcibly herded through the postern and thrown outside the city walls.

  “We’re well shut of them,” said a passerby. “We don’t pay our taxes for nothing, bloody little scavengers.”

  Hildegard was about to give the stranger a homily on charity when Ulf caught sight of her and came over.

  “Hildegard! I didn’t realise it was you!”

  “Sir Ulf,” she responded with a rueful glance after the children. “Your support was welcome but it seems there’s little to be done with so many people swarming into town.”

  “It’s a new city ordinance. The constables are only doing their job, albeit with more vigour than necessary.” The steward’s expression was worried as he bent his head close to her own. “I’ve been thinking about you, Hildegard. Have there been any developments?”

  She told him that the serjeant-at-arms had had nothing new to tell her when she last saw him. “I noticed you inspecting the scaffolding just now. Who’s it being built for?”

  “Roger and his guests.” He introduced the man beside him as the mayor and addressing him said, “My lord arrives later this morning. Can you ensure the carpenters make those adjustments?”

  “No problem, sir. Lord de Hutton will find nothing on which to censure them.” Bowing he moved off with his men. Ulf turned back to Hildegard. “That’s Mayor Simon de Quixlay with a some of his aldermen. Roger’s going to station himself at the number one spot all day so it had better be right in every blessed detail or my head’s at risk.” His eyes flashed with humour but he immediately became serious again. “So is there nothing new to tell me?”

  “Aren’t events at Deepdale enough of a novelty to see you through the week?” She grimaced.

  His blue eyes clouded. “Roger’s already sent men over to find this manor near Pentleby and another posse have gone to Deepdale to see what we can save. You still don’t remember seeing any badges or livery?”

  She shook her head. “They made sure they weren’t wearing any.”

  “Roger went crazy when I told him. He sees it as a personal insult. If the fools had known it was his property they’d have kept well away.”

  “They were determined to find Maud. I don’t think even Roger could have put them off.”

  Ulf looked puzzled. “Is she betrothed to one of them, or what? It doesn’t make sense. All that trouble for a runaway serf.”

  “Betrothal was the last thing on their minds.”

  Ulf shook his head. “Has she said anything else?”

  “Only what I told you.” She had confided that the men had raped the women and the other young girls like Maud. “The poor child is still rigid with shock. The last thing to do is to rush her. She needs time to recover. Only then will she be able to unburden herself and tell us the full story.”

  “You believe there’s more?”

  Hildegard bit her lip. “I pray not, but she’ll need to talk when the time’s right.”

  “So what’s your plan now—are you going back to Swyne?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got instructions to stay here.”

  Surprised, he exclaimed, “You’ve already heard from her?” He meant the prioress as Hildegard understood at once.

  She nodded. “Her instructions arrived just before compline yesterday.”

  “She doesn’t let the grass grow, does she? Did she tell you when she wants
you to escort the girls back?”

  “She doesn’t want them back just yet. If at all. Petronilla’s guardian may arrive and insist on taking her home with him. It’s his right. And given what happened at Deepdale those murderers would presumably think nothing of trying to snatch Maud from the priory. She’s safer here. They wouldn’t stop at slitting everybody’s throats either, given the chance. We had a lucky escape, thanks to Dunstan’s quick wits. The prioress is right if she thinks they’re both safer in the town than at Swyne.”

  Whether Ulf suspected there was another reason keeping her here or not, he did not pursue the topic but instead told her about Roger and Melisen’s plans. Apparently they had already arrived at the manor in Naburn farther downriver, where they intended to lodge throughout the festivities.

  “We have the matter of the chantry window to discuss with Danby as well as the pageant to endure.” He pulled a face. “I’d prefer a joust myself but we can’t choose what we do in Corpus Christi week, can we? A crowd of guests have been invited and Roger’s keen to put in an appearance at the pageant. He’s heard that someone of great eminence may be present.”

  “You don’t mean King Richard?”

  “That’s one of the rumours, but we’ve heard nothing to confirm it—to my mind that discounts the presence of our young king.” He raised his eyebrows.

  She understood at once. “Heavens! A stand-in? Let’s hope you’re wrong and he doesn’t put in an appearance. Master Stapylton hinted as much. I’ve got the impression the town won’t tolerate it. On the anniversary of Tyler’s murder? He’d be mad to show his face.”

  “And we all know Gaunt isn’t mad, except with ambition.” He gave a grim smile. “So what makes you say the town won’t put up with it?”

  “A little fire that flared up.”

  “I heard about that. Was it arson? That’s the rumour. It’s being blamed on the White Hart lads. If you hear anything find the—”