The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  “Is there something wrong?”

  He looked bemused. “Only that she was betrothed to a handsome young devil without any fortune of his own when I knew her. I’m surprised she gave him up, especially after inheriting her uncle’s fortune. They could have been comfortable together.”

  “They must be two different people,” said Hildegard. “This one is poor. According to gossip she arrived without a dowry and practically with nothing but the clothes she stood up in.”

  “Is that so.” He frowned. “And I am attacked by men I know nothing of—for what? Glancing at a beautiful woman?” He got up. A skinny man, skeletal almost without the swirling folds of his mage’s cloak, he moved towards the door. “Dorelia,” he murmured half to himself. “A beauty beyond compare. Once seen, as they say, never forgotten. I was not mistaken.” He turned with his hand on the latch. “Thank you, sister. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  He left.

  * * *

  Hildegard’s mind was in turmoil. Intriguing though the mage’s response had been it was to the loss of the Cross of Constantine that her thoughts returned again and again through what remained of the night.

  The theft had been so well organised, so quickly executed after they left the archbishop, that it was difficult to believe that Bolingbroke could have organised it with such speed. He would scarcely have had time to issue the orders to his men. But would he stoop to common theft to get what he desired? Yet it had to be him. There was nobody else who could make use of a talisman with such a potent reputation.

  * * *

  A hard, cold rage had slowly crept over her. She couldn’t believe she was so stupid as to lose the cross, not after everything she had suffered in Tuscany to get hold of it last year. It was as if she had already forgotten the lengths people will go to achieve their ambition … as if she thought things would be different here in England. She was a total fool. It was humiliating … enraging … and also, she was forced to admit, frightening. If the Gran Contessa could commit those heinous crimes of which she was guilty in order to grab the cross to enable her to rule a city, the depths to which someone might descend in order to gain the Crown of England could lead them to the very mouth of hell itself.

  This might only be the start. But she would not let them win—whoever they were. She could not let them win.

  All this she said as she paced the floor in front of the three men. Roger wore a ferocious scowl and was pulling at his red beard. “The last thing I want is that bastard Gaunt putting either himself or his son on the throne,” he growled. “What do the rebels say? ‘We want no king called John.’ I second that.”

  Ulf was gazing out of the window, his eyes like ice. His fingers played up and down the hilt of his sword as if he couldn’t wait to use it.

  Brother Thomas had his hands folded and his head lowered as if he were meditating. In fact, he was, but not on any religious theme. He looked up after Roger spoke. “I think you’re right. Bolingbroke must be behind it. We should report the theft to Archbishop Neville and let him deal with it. It happened within the purlieus of his palace. That makes it a church matter and canon law must be applied.”

  “Tell Neville his guest’s a thieving bastard?” Roger threw his head back in a mirthless laugh. “He’d deny it to hell and back. He’s clearly in on the whole thing.”

  “Oh now, surely—” Thomas remonstrated.

  Ulf turned from the window. His voice was cold. “The men are just about to beach the boat. Let’s see what Lord Malbas has to tell us.”

  * * *

  Roger’s tenant, a mild, middle-aged knight with a rather bossy, buxom wife, had already descended from his gatehouse by the time Roger had led the rest of them down the stairs and across the yard. They all went together to the landing stage where four of Roger’s men were alighting along with a couple of strangers in the Malbas livery—a red water bouget on a white ground. They saluted Roger and nodded pleasantly in the direction of his steward.

  “No go, my lord. They must have got clean away along the bank back towards York.”

  The leader of the two men they had brought over stepped forward. “He’s right. We’ve had men out most of the night keeping a look-out for sheep-rustlers our side of the river. We lost near twenty or so night before last.”

  “Haven’t you got them down to the summer feeding ground yet?” asked Roger, looking smug.

  The man lowered his head.

  “Still, that’s neither here nor there. Could a gang of ruffians have slipped through your cordon?”

  “Only with a dozen arrows in their backs.”

  “My thanks to your lord,” Roger replied after he took this in.

  “He has a further message, my lord, which is why he thought fit to send us over.”

  “And?”

  “He offers any help you require in bringing them to justice. He says he’s sick and tired of divisions. It simply allows the villeins to run riot.”

  “Thank him. I may yet call on him. Meanwhile go and get yourselves something to eat and drink.” Having sent them off he turned to his own men. “Is he on the level?”

  They nodded. “We caught them sitting out in the fields with lighted torches. They’re really in trouble for letting their sheep be stolen. Malbas is dancing with rage, they said.”

  “Silly fool should have got his flocks down by now. Anyway, where does that leave us?” He turned to Ulf. “What would you do if you’d just committed a robbery in the grounds of the archbishop’s palace?”

  “I’d either get back inside the palace where I’d come from and put my feet up. Or,” he went on, “I’d try to get out on the road to my ultimate destination. That’s if,” he added, “I was somebody who’d like to possess a sacred relic.”

  “Is that what this is about?” asked one of Roger’s men. “What’s it reckoned to be worth?”

  “More than the entire wealth of Rome,” replied Roger, shortly. “Why do you ask? Do you want to put in an offer?”

  “I was just wondering,” the man muttered.

  “Wonder about who’s got it. That’d be more use. Do you know?”

  “If I did, my lord, I’d be out after him and then be coming back asking for a goodly ransom.”

  “There’s no way anybody could have got out onto the York road,” another of Roger’s men remarked. “They’ve set guards at intervals all the way back towards the city walls because of all them folk pouring in for the feast. The only way you’d get out of the archbishop’s park is along the river bank. It’s thick woodland there and you’d have to ferret through. I used to play in there as a lad,” he added to give value to his opinion.

  Ulf looked at Roger and said, “I’ll give instructions for a search party to go over and have a scout round. They might pick up a trail. You,” he turned to the man who had just spoken, “get some of the lads together. And you lot,” he nodded to the others, “get back in that boat and row alongside as they search the woods. You never know, they may just flush someone out and force them into the water. If they do, drown ’em.” He turned but swiftly turned back. “Make sure you get hold of the relic first.”

  That seemed the best that could be done. It was agreed that it would be foolish to go to Alexander Neville at this stage, just in case he was more deeply involved than Thomas wanted to believe. They decided to keep matters to themselves until they had a clue as to what and whom they were dealing with.

  Hildegard and Thomas prepared to leave for York. “I must inform the prioress what has happened. Doubtless she’ll want me to remain here until the thieves are discovered.” She did not relish the thought of the response she would get when the prioress heard of the theft. To lose the cross! Excommunication would be uppermost in the prioress’s mind. Penance for a thousand days the most lenient.

  With fixed expressions they prepared to leave.

  It was another scorching day. Even now, in early morning, the sun smote down like molten brass. Hildegard did not envy the men ordered to
scour the woods in their heavy mail shirts and bassinets.

  * * *

  They rode for some way along the track in the direction of Fulford. Their horses were kicking up clouds of dust all the way. Thomas had his hood held over the lower part of his face with one hand. Hildegard had unpinned her gorget, fresh after its second laundering in as many days, and repinned it to cover most of her face, arranging the tip of her kerchief to shield her eyes.

  One or two labourers were working the distance, moving like snails in the heat-haze shimmering on the horizon. One of them leaned wearily on his hoe to watch them pass.

  After they had gone some way she turned to look back down the lane. There was no mistake. A rider on a dusty-looking palfrey was keeping his distance but undoubtedly following them. When they came to the junction that linked the Selby road with York, she and Thomas turned left and continued towards the city by way of Fulford Cross. She swivelled again and this time noticed that the rider had lengthened the distance between them as if reluctant to draw attention to himself. When they had turned, he had turned as well.

  They reached the Cross. Women sat outside their cottage doors, dazed by the heat, their spindles lying unused in their laps. A few dogs were sprawled, panting, in the shade of a wall. Children played at the village spring, the water they splashed sinking quickly into the ground, drying at once. When they were through the village she asked Thomas to cast a discreet glance over his shoulder. “Is that rider still following us?” she asked.

  After a moment Thomas said, “There is a rider. Who is it?”

  “At this distance it’s difficult to tell. He’s making every attempt not to get too close.”

  “Maybe he’s simply on the same route as us.”

  “If that’s the case where did he come from? There’s only the one road leading in and out from Naburn Manor. If he comes from there, why doesn’t he catch up and ride along with us?”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him,” vowed Thomas.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The forbidding sight of the nunnery of the Holy Wounds was visible from the end of the lane. Hildegard guessed she would have to go on bended knee to the mother superior to beg another few nights’ board. Thomas had returned to his lodgings with the Franciscans and the horses had been left at the town stables. The rider, if he had been following them, had disappeared as soon as they came within sight of the city walls.

  The first person to greet Hildegard when she was admitted into the lodge was Petronilla. She had her sleeves rolled and her small hands were red raw. She gripped Hildegard by the sleeve and whispered urgently, “I was hoping you’d come back and rescue us, sister. We can’t stay here.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?” She led the girl into a corner off the main corridor.

  “These sisters are not like those at Swyne,” Petronilla told her in a distressed whisper. “They expect me to scrub floors, morning, noon and night. My knees ache with crouching on stone floors and scrubbing, and look at my hands!” She held them out.

  “They do look sore. Perhaps I have some ointment for them.”

  “I can put up with the pain for a while but when will it end? Do you see this corridor?”

  Hildegard glanced down the long length of gleaming terracotta tiles where they stretched from the portress’s lodge to the far end wall of the nunnery. She knew they turned at right angles for another stretch and then again, to form an enclosing passage to the whole building.

  “I,” announced Petronilla, “have scrubbed this entire corridor for two days. And frankly, sister, I’ve had enough. And that’s not all,” she went on. “In fact, that’s the least of it. What’s really outrageous is what they’re doing to poor Maud.”

  Hildegard’s eyes sharpened. “What are they doing?”

  “They’re only trying to turn her into a martyr saint, that’s all.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  She led Hildegard on tiptoe into the inner courtyard and crossed to the door of the chapel. “Now, don’t make a sound,” she whispered. Cautiously she pulled open the door and stepped inside. Hildegard followed.

  At first it took time for her eyes to get used to the gloom. When they did so she peered in astonishment. Someone was lying facedown in front of the altar. There was a muffled sound as if she was either crying or repeating in a rapid undertone an endless series of Hail Marys.

  Petronilla glanced up at Hildegard. “What do you think to that?”

  “Is that Maud? But what has she done?”

  “Nobody will say. But what can she have done? Come on, I’ll get her to show you something.” Petronilla walked noisily down the aisle. “Maud, get to your feet. There’s someone to see you.”

  Maud took no notice. She was barefoot, the soles of her feet black with dirt. Her hood covered her head as she lay facedown on the stone pavers below the altar step.

  “Maud?” Hildegard knelt beside her. The child had her arms outstretched as if reaching for something she had no hope of attaining. “Maud, it’s me, Sister Hildegard.” She put a hand on her arm with the intention of turning her over but the girl flinched away. “How long has she been lying here?” she asked over her shoulder to Petronilla.

  “Since yesterday. No food, no drink and the sisters coming in every now and then and praising her for her devotion.”

  “Did they tell her to do this?”

  “Who knows. They don’t talk to me. I’m a child of the devil, apparently. Scrubbing floors is supposed to make me good.”

  Hildegard reached out and touched the back of Maud’s hands. Her skin was like ice. “You must get up now, my dear. You’ve done enough. Let me help you.”

  She took hold of her by the shoulders and Maud rolled over, turning her tear-stained face upwards. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were glazed with misery. But it wasn’t that that startled Hildegard into an exclamation of disbelief. It was the series of knife wounds covering the insides of both her arms. They were deep cuts, freshly made, the blood bubbling where the incisions opened as she moved.

  Underneath her was a knife, still bloody. As she opened her palms she revealed two deep crosses etched into the soft flesh.

  “Do the sisters know about this?” Hildegard demanded.

  “Of course they do. They encourage her. They say, ‘How devout you are, Maud, you’ll be a saint one day. St. Maud,’ they keep saying. They stand round her with candles and sing while she cuts herself.”

  Petronilla knelt down beside Hildegard and shook Maud gently by the shoulder. “Come with us, you goose, please, I beg of you. We’re going to get away from here. Let Sister Hildegard help you. She’s closer to being a saint than any of these horrible women.”

  Maud was unresisting when they sat her up and she leaned back against Hildegard as if she had no idea what she was doing nor the strength to help herself.

  “I can’t leave,” she whispered when Hildegard tried to encourage her to her feet. “Let me be. I have to stay. I’m evil and have to finish my penance or I’ll go to hell.” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her blood-soaked palms curled helplessly in her lap.

  Petronilla clasped her by the wrists and her own eyes filled with tears. “Of course you’re not evil, you silly goose. Who told you that? Some mad old women who should know better. Isn’t that right, sister?”

  “I know Maud is a good child. She has done enough praying for imaginary sins. Come on, let’s see if you can rise to your feet.”

  “I’m bad!” Maud cried out. “You don’t know! I have to stay! God will strike me down for my great sin! I shall suffer in hell-flames for eternity. Please, let me be!” She struggled but was too weak to put up much resistance.

  “There is a way of assuaging all sin,” replied Hildegard more calmly than she felt. “And that is, as you well know, to make a full and honest confession to a priest. Have you done that?”

  Maud shook her head. “There is no priest who would hear me. And if he did
he’d put me in prison and I should rot in hell just the same.”

  “There is a priest I know who will hear your confession and never think of putting you in prison. I’m going to take you to him if you’ll permit me?”

  Maud didn’t answer but she didn’t resist when they helped her to her feet. She had been lying on the floor so long she could only move stiffly like someone stricken in years and the wounds on her wrists started weeping blood again.

  “And you did this to yourself?” asked Hildegard lifting her wrists to have a proper look at them. Maud nodded.

  “I shall bathe them for you and then we’ll leave.” She knew the girl had no possessions she could take with her other than the small bundle she always carried. She turned to Petronilla. “Is there anything you need to fetch before we go?”

  “Nothing.” Petronilla began to cry. She held her head erect however, as if the tears belonged to someone else, and she kept pace with Hildegard and Maud in their slow and painful progress towards the open door of the chapel.

  They were halfway across the yard near the fountain when a loud voice demanded, “And where might you three think you’re going?”

  Hildegard lifted her head and saw a figure in black standing in the doorway between them and the lodge. Without replying she led the wounded child forward until they were at the foot of the steps. She felt Petronilla clutching tightly onto her robe. The black-gowned nun didn’t move from the doorway and they were forced to a standstill.

  “I’m taking this poor child to an apothecary,” Hildegard said in a firm voice. “As you can see she has several deep cuts which need urgent attention.” She raised Maud’s hands palms upwards to display the bloody incisions.

  “Nonsense! They’re only wounds of the flesh. They’re as nothing to the wounds of Christ. She is merely making amends for her sins.”

  “And what sins would a child have committed that cannot be pardoned without inflicting this barbaric penance?” asked Hildegard.

  “Child? She’s fourteen years old or so we’re told. Let me remind you, sister, I am the superior of this nunnery,” the nun proclaimed. “And I will not relinquish souls given into my keeping.”