The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  “She’s trying to work out which of her sins it’ll wipe from the slate,” the mage decided. “And look, he must be telling the husband a dirty joke. Look at his face! Maybe he’s guessed one of his little sins. See, the fella’s already digging into his money bag to pay for the sale to his wife … and now he’s buying another for himself! Two strikes in one!” Theophilus glanced at Hildegard. “It’s good to watch a cozener at work. I told you he was a master! We can always learn from observation, don’t you agree?”

  Hildegard was amazed at the mage’s open admiration of such deceit and decided she could not trust him. All she said was, “I’m surprised they can sell pardons in the street. Why are people still being hoodwinked into paying?”

  “They want to be hoodwinked,” he said at once. “They long for it. That’s why they like magic and falling in love and talk of miracles. It turns them into children—full of helpless wonder, with no responsibility for their own destiny.” He gave her a feline glance. “Isn’t that the case with all belief, sister? Aren’t we encouraged in it? Making us feel helpless in the face of the Almighty? Isn’t it then the priests can step in and take over? For a price,” he slyly added.

  “It’s a view,” she replied, taken aback by his cynicism.

  “And you…” he murmured. He didn’t bat an eyelid. “He will return to you. And soon. Believe me.”

  “He?” She felt her colour rise before she could stop it.

  “Your earthly love.”

  They walked on. Hildegard could not trust herself to speak.

  They reached the end of their circuit. Only then could she say anything. Her tone was somewhat frosty. “Now Dorelia’s identity is confirmed, I trust you’ll use the knowledge for good.”

  “I’ll not let the matter drop. Trust me.”

  Trust him? That will be the last thing I do, she thought. That little speech about the pardoner had been a neat ploy that would make most people forget a question about brotherhood. Why would he want to avoid answering? That was the interesting part.

  She was about to take her leave when he offered her a seat on the stone parapet that ran along the wall on one side of the yard.

  “One thing before you leave, sister. If there’s anything I can do about that earlier matter with the two girls and their escape—the whole town’s buzzing with it, by the way, as I expect you realise?—then let me know.”

  She shook her head. “That’s in hand now.” She wondered what he thought he could do.

  “But there is something else?” He bent his head closer and she could smell the oil he wore. It was resinous, foreign, and she couldn’t name it.

  “What else?” She smiled.

  “I couldn’t help hearing talk of a theft when I was at Naburn Manor.”

  “There is a difficulty.” She might as well admit it. “The suspect has every advantage over us.”

  “It would be no difficulty for me to get inside the palace to try to pick up a little information. I would do that for you. I’m still in your debt.”

  “I doubt whether anyone could get inside there and get out again without documents in triplicate!”

  “May I try? There will be no danger to your own involvement. As I know nothing of the theft if they apprehended me—unlikely, believe me—I would be unable to tell them anything even under duress.”

  She laughed. “I look forward to your report in that case!”

  After she had told him where to find Dorelia and where she herself could be contacted, should he have news of the theft, she said jokingly, because it was only a boast, they parted, she to the friary to leave a message of her whereabouts for Thomas, and the mage off on some secret mission of his own.

  Of course there was no possibility of anyone getting inside the archbishop’s palace. It was well-guarded because of the crowds still pouring into the city and spilling out into a disorganised rabble over the fields and meadows outside the walls.

  It was also said that Archbishop Neville had massively increased his guard since the Rising. Afraid of losing his head to a rebel sword, he had even sought refuge for a time in the castle at Scarborough. As reward for his treacherous slaying of Wat Tyler, Ralph Standish had immediately been made constable of the castle as well as being knighted at Smithfield with Mayor Walworth and the other murderers. The archbishop had presumably used the occasion to cement their alliance. But whatever the truth of the matter, the mage would find it impossible to get inside the palace now.

  She reached the friary and hesitated. As for that remark about her earthly love … it had shaken her, coming at her like a bolt out of the dark, but it wasn’t much of a shot. The mage probably assumed that every woman had a lover, particularly nuns, such was their reputation these days and such his cynicism. She had changed colour before recovering her composure. That would have confirmed what was no more than a lucky guess.

  His skill wasn’t in magic, she decided now, it was in the power of his observation.

  Perhaps, though, there was a kind of magic in that.

  * * *

  A band of pipes and tabors struck up at the end of the street. Following behind it was an excited gaggle of children in fancy costume. Evidently they were cherubim, for they all carried wings furled neatly under their arms. A couple of devils stalked along beside them, quipping with the passersby and making teasing feints into the crowd. They disappeared into one of the guild houses nearby. A water seller was doing a brisk trade and the shop fronts were still down to allow the merchants to profit from the influx of visitors.

  Hildegard lingered on the way back to Widow Robert’s house beside a belt-maker and wondered about making a purchase. Although early evening, it was still hot, and the press of people in the narrow street made it hotter still. She fingered one or two belts but wasn’t in the mood for haggling. A crowd was gathered round someone farther up the street so she put the matter of a new belt behind her and allowed herself to be swept along.

  They were gathered round a man standing on a wooden crate so he could look round the ring of people that formed his audience. His russet gown and bare feet if not his scholarly tones made it clear what he was. He was one of the free preachers, a Lollard.

  He was disparaging a belief in the sacraments in a calm and measured voice.

  “Who are these pope-appointed churchmen?” he was asking. “I can tell you, they are the very men who grind the poor underfoot. They preach poverty and live like kings. Preach humility and have the arrogance of emperors. Preach truth and practise deceit. Do they expect us to believe in miracles against all the laws of rational thought? Yes, they do. And if we point out their errors they hound us from our homes, throw us into prison and burn our books.”

  There was a buzz of agreement and one or two muttered objections and she noticed a woman cross herself and walk hurriedly away, but for the most part he had his audience in the palm of his hand.

  She was about to settle to listen to what more he would say on the subject of rational discourse when her head jerked up at the sound of an explosion.

  As the reverberations died away a terrific ball of fire erupted from the direction of the booths at the top of the street. The crowd was equally dense up there. Even so, after the initial shock, a uncanny silence descended. Everything seemed frozen in time except for a single scream that went on and on as if it would never end. The sound brought the scene into motion. As one, the crowd scattered. Some, like Hildegard, ran towards the fire. Others fought to get away from it. The scream continued at the same unearthly pitch.

  In the middle of all this a man emerged from the thick of the crowd with his clothes ablaze. There was more scuffling to get out of his way. Women cried out. Men cursed and shouted instructions. Someone, however, stepped forward and threw the burning figure to the ground and with his bare hands and the force of his body weight managed to stifle the flames. From the direction of the booths the scream that had seemed endless came to a stop.

  Hildegard was halfway up the street by now. A panicked cr
owd was rushing towards her. She flattened herself against a shop front to let them pass then set off at a run until she came to the scene of the fire.

  Flames were billowing from one booth to the next. Vendors feverishly pulled their goods out of harms way. Apples, pears, quinces, cheese, fabrics, embroideries, leatherware, pewters, pots, metal goods—all were being dragged out of the burning booths. A man selling fowl in cages tossed them one by one with their squawking contents onto the cobbles.

  Hildegard ran up to a couple of men dragging a blackened body from the wreckage of the booths. “Is there anyone else in there?”

  “Fuck knows. There was a shoot of flame then the awnings caught fire,” one of them replied.

  She knelt beside the man who had been dragged out. His face was blackened with smoke. He clutched Hildegard’s sleeve. “My wife’s in there—” He started coughing, overcome by the smoke that was still pouring from the booth where, it appeared, he had been selling fabrics. Bales of burning cloth plumed acrid smoke into the air.

  She ran towards the booth. It was the first one in the row and must have been the one that had gone up in a ball of flame and, as with any instant flare, had died as quickly but not before it had set alight the rolls of cloth inside. Now, as well, it was the smoke billowing out in a suffocating pall that made it difficult to approach the source of the fire.

  A line of people were already handing buckets of water from a nearby house. There were complaints about the dry well in the square and a confused moment when nobody knew what to do with the emptied buckets. Then another source was found and the human chain quickly re-formed. The need to cope with fire among the clustered buildings within the city’s walls had instilled the habit of cooperation in the town-dwellers.

  Inside the first booth among the wreckage of her merchandise lay the body of a woman. It was only recognisable as such by the embroidered slippers she wore. Hildegard knelt beside her. It might have been her death cry that had continued in such prolonged anguish. A constable came to kneel at her side.

  After a moment he said, “Come away, sister. There’s nowt we can do for her.” He offered her his hand to help her to her feet. “Her man’s in a bad way. Will you go with him to St. Leonard’s?”

  * * *

  It was nearly three hours later when Hildegard eventually left the hospital. It was dark now. She paced from under the archway and walked along the bank of the river towards her lodgings. The monks running St. Leonard’s had attended to the man’s burned skin with speed and efficiency, and when it was clear there was nothing more anyone could do but to assuage his pain she came away.

  Widow Roberts was standing outside her door when she turned into the glazier’s yard.

  “Come in,” she said. “I heard what happened.”

  Hildegard sank down onto a chair in the comfortable kitchen and allowed the widow to bring her a drink and a slab of bread and cheese. She felt exhausted although she had done very little. It was the sight of the charred body of the young woman that affected her most. One minute she had been selling fabrics to the holiday crowd and the next she was dying in that ghastly way.

  “What made the booth burst into flames like that?” she wondered aloud.

  Widow Roberts came to sit at the table with her. “They say it came out of nothing. It’s Holy Fire. To warn us of the approach of the Antichrist. The beginning of the End Days.”

  What was unarguable was that it was the second such explosion in as many days.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I heard about it on my way back through Fulford. They were all talking of nothing else. Some people are already leaving the city. They say it’s not worth celebrating Corpus Christi if they’re going to burn for it. There’s a perverse logic to their reasoning. I’m just relieved to see you’re unharmed.”

  “And the girls, Thomas?” Hildegard asked him.

  “Melisen has taken them both under her wing.” Thomas was sitting in the widow’s chair by the window later that night, the widow already having gone up to bed.

  It was a warm night. The casement was open to let in some cool air. Out in the streets normal life continued unchanged. Revellers could be heard with the occasional sudden run of footsteps as the constables gave chase. Curfew was impossible to maintain at a time like this. The whole town was jittery. Extra constables had joined the watch. Mayor de Quixlay had acted at once. A proclamation had already been read out at several strategic points in the streets, announcing that information leading to the arrest of those who had caused the explosions would be rewarded.

  There was little doubt in the civic mind at least that it was by human agency that the mercer’s booth had been set on fire. The general view was that fabric just didn’t explode of its own accord. Apocalypse or not.

  “And now for that other matter.” Thomas leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Lord Roger’s men scoured the woodland all the way to the city walls and found no one. What they did find was evidence of horses having been tethered among the trees not far from the palace walls and the passage they had forced along the river bank through the undergrowth.”

  “Are they sure about that?”

  Thomas nodded. “That man of Sir Ulf’s was positive. He’s something of a woodsman and claimed the path had been forced only hours before.”

  “It may mean nothing more than poachers,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t necessarily let Bolingbroke off the hook.”

  “And then there’s this.” He delved into his scrip and produced a small, dull object and handed it to her.

  She thought it was a belt buckle at first but then realised after a closer look that it was a pilgrim badge. At least, it was like the badges made from pewter or lead peddled to the pilgrims at the shrines. They were mass-produced in moulds and usually showed a variety of images associated with the particular saint of the shrine, the three arrows crossed through a crown for St. Edmund martyr, the wheel of St. Catherine for instance.

  This one, however, was in the shape of a hart with a small chain round its neck. The sign worn by King Richard’s followers. She turned it over in her fingers.

  “It could have been dropped by anybody,” she said after a pause. “A lot of people wear them. It’s not a crime. It’s a sign of loyalty. Somebody might have been living rough along that stretch of woodland.”

  “Nobody would be so foolish as to live outside the law so close to its remit.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “The evidence of riders forcing a path away from the palace could suggest that Bolingbroke may not be involved. And this, if dropped by one of the riders, might mean another allegiance entirely.”

  She knew what he was getting at. “If,” she repeated. “If.”

  She turned the badge over again. There was nothing else to observe, not even a thread of cloth to show what sort of garment it might have been torn from.

  “Many people wear these,” she remarked at last, handing it back. “King Richard’s supporters, sometimes the rebels who fled to the countryside after the Rising, of course, but let’s suppose there were recent horsemen in the woods and let’s suppose they stole the cross. Let’s also suppose the company of the White Hart are responsible—heaven knows, they’re rife around here—but then ask yourself: How would they know about the cross? And, aware of its existence, the question remains: Why would they go to the bother of stealing it?”

  “For the same reason Bolingbroke might want it. To seal the validity of a claim on the Crown.”

  “But this is Richard’s sign and he already wears the Crown.”

  “To possess the cross would strengthen his hold.” Thomas looked certain. “We all know he’s threatened by Gaunt—by prophecies warning that he’ll lose his crown and that Gaunt has a better claim. Many are beginning to mutter that there’s something in it. A sign to appeal to the superstitious would swing the people more firmly in Richard’s favour.”

  “You see the king’s popularity on the wane?”

  “Don’t yo
u?”

  “I was somewhat out of touch in Deepdale. Even so, it’s true I’ve heard grumbling against him since I got to town. Some sound like justifiable criticism of the broken promises after Smithfield. But he is the rightful king … to claim otherwise is treason. Gaunt knows that.”

  “But does his son accept it?”

  “Back to Bolingbroke.” She sighed then added, “It’s unlikely that the White Hart would steal the cross when the king could simply demand to have it handed over.”

  “Good point. But would your prioress comply, even if the request came from the king himself?”

  It was late. The sky was streaked with lurid purple even though sunrise was still a few hours away. Thomas stood up. It was clear talking would get them no further at present. “I’d better be getting along. These speculations are leading us into a quagmire of confusion. And I mustn’t miss matins.” His expression was sombre. “Have they any suspicions about who would set the booths on fire?”

  She shook her head. “Only rumours. The general view is that it’s somebody who wants to spoil the festivities, but if that’s the aim it’s failed. Apart from those few who were queuing to leave soon afterwards, everybody else is standing firm.”

  “‘They’re not going to frighten us off with a bit of fire,’ yes I’ve heard that line.”

  Thomas went to the door with a solemn good night. As he crossed the yard Hildegard thought she saw the door to Master Danby’s workshop snick shut. There were no lights on over there. She went back into the kitchen and stood to one side of the window but everything remained in darkness. Assuming the events of the past few days were getting the better of her nerves, she closed the shutters over the kitchen window and made her way at last to bed.

  The Feast of Corpus Christi was three days off. Time enough for the murderer to continue his random acts of arson if he chose.

  * * *

  The gates swung back with a bang to release the heat and roar of the raging furnace within, it was the mouth of hell, tongues of flame licking towards her, pulling her into the devouring heart of the fire. The banging came again. A voice called.