The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  “Sister? Are you awake? Quickly!”

  Hildegard sat up in confusion. Her glance flew round the unfamiliar chamber and it was a moment before she remembered where she was.

  The widow’s voice came again. “There’s someone to see you.”

  Scrambling from under the thin sheet she pulled her habit over her night-shift, tied the belt in a firm knot and went to the door. When she opened it the widow was standing at the bottom of the stairs wringing her hands. “For you, sister. It’s the constables.”

  Turning back she pulled on her boots and returned to the stairs. Standing below were two men armed with staves. They wore the blazon of the City of York. They looked up as she appeared. “Sister Hildegard of Meaux?”

  “Not exactly,” she corrected as she made her way down the stairs. “I’m of the priory at Swyne.”

  “Near enough,” one of the constables said. “We want you to come with us to the Common Hall.”

  “Why? What’s happened.”

  “It’s to do with yesterday’s fire,” the second one told her. “Other than that you’ll have to come along to find out in person.”

  With a constable on either side of her Hildegard was escorted into the yard. She had a hazy impression of a group of people watching from outside the glazier’s workshop, Gilbert’s blond hair bright in the hot sun, Danby’s orange turban. It seemed it was already mid-morning. She must have slept like the dead last night.

  The men marched her one in front and one behind down the short alley into Stonegate and then proceeded to carve a way through the already busy streets towards the river. The Common Hall was where the mayor and aldermen had their council meetings and held hearings for those taken on suspicion.

  When they entered it was bustling with activity. The mild-looking man she had seen only the other day inspecting the pageant scaffold with Ulf was standing at the far end on a dais surrounded by several officials. She was led to the bottom of the steps and he broke off what he was saying and came to the edge. “Is this the one?” he asked the constables.

  “It is, sir.”

  Simon de Quixlay looked her up and down. “I’m told you were one of the first on the scene at yesterday’s fire?”

  “I was.”

  “We’d like a serjeant-at-arms to ask you a few questions.” He nodded to a man standing at a writing desk nearby. “The clerk will take down your statement. Carry on,” he said to the two constables. Job done they went off. A serjeant-at-arms beckoned her over.

  “Well now, sister,” he said in confiding tones. “Would you care to help us clarify events?” Without waiting for her assent he went straight on. “Maybe you’ll enlighten me as to how you came to be on the scene?”

  “I was walking up towards the booths when one of them burst into flames. I ran up to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  “Walking up, you say?”

  She nodded. “Past the shops.”

  He looked interested. “And then you ran towards the fire? That’s a strange thing to do, isn’t it? To run towards a fire? Surely it was obvious you were running towards danger? Most people would run the other way if they had any sense.”

  “I don’t know about other people,” she replied, irked by his tone. “I only thought to run towards it.”

  “To see if you could help,” he repeated.

  Again she nodded.

  “And where exactly did you run from?”

  “I told you, from the street.”

  He gave a chuckle that was meant to sound affable but his eyes were like gimlets. “From the street. So some way away then?”

  She agreed it was some way.

  “And exactly where in the street were you when you saw the flames?”

  She took a breath. “I was standing close to where the preacher was giving his talk.”

  “Ah, the preacher. This would be one of Wycliffe’s followers?”

  “It sounded like it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And you have witnesses, do you? I mean, you would have been noticed in such a crowd.”

  “I doubt it. Why should I be? There was a great press of people round him. I was just one among many.”

  “A Cistercian though,” he pointed out. “We don’t get many Cistercians listening to barefoot preachers, do we?”

  “I have no idea of the figures involved. It would need a proper survey before I could answer that.”

  He leaned forward. “I can assure you, sister, we believe there’s nothing wrong with listening to preachers in this town. We encourage it. I can even assure you that the preacher would have his license from Mayor de Quixlay. There is nothing wrong in listening to a licensed preacher. Not for us.”

  “I’m glad of it. He was making sense.”

  The serjeant looked sceptical that she should hold a view like that but he turned briskly to the clerk. “Did anybody mention seeing her in the street?”

  The clerk referred to his notes and then shook his head.

  The serjeant quirked an eyebrow at her.

  She responded with a comment that she had been looking at leather belts at a stall farther down and that maybe the vendor would remember her. “Unless I then sprinted up the street through the crowds to reach the booth to set it alight, as you seem to be suggesting, I could not have reached it any earlier than I did. More’s the pity,” she added, “as then I might have been able to prevent it happening in the first place.” How? she thought. How could anybody have prevented it? Unless they had prior notice.

  The clerk was scribbling furiously. He handed a note to a messenger standing by who in turn hurried off down the hall and handed it to the chief constable. From there it would presumably pass down the line until the vendor himself was hauled in to vouch for her, or not.

  “You’re at present lodging at the Widow Tabitha Roberts’s house in Danby’s yard?” asked the serjeant, abruptly.

  “That’s right.”

  “If you decide to change your abode you’ll let us know. My gratitude for your help.”

  She was surprised he was allowing her to go without asking what she had seen when she arrived at the booth. As she turned away a man came up to her. It was the one who had thrown himself on the burning stall-holder and then helped drag the second one from the booth. He walked along beside her to the doors.

  “I was the one told them you appeared from down the street. They’re only doing their job,” he said. “That poor devil they took to St. Leonard’s is still in a bad way. I thought I’d take a walk over there. Would you come with me?”

  They went out into the street under the cold eyes of the chief constable. It was a short distance along the path between the wall of St. Mary’s Abbey and the river. While they walked the stranger said, “I was wondering if you managed to notice anything I might have missed, given that you were one of the first on the scene and didn’t seem blinded by panic. The recollection of most of the bystanders is muddled because of their fear and their haste in trying to get away.”

  “I saw very little. The sound of the explosion followed by a whoosh of flame drew my glance. Then I saw the crowd scatter. Then that man emerged with his clothes and hair alight. And then you—” She gave him a swift glance. “That was a quick and courageous thing to do.” He was thick-set, built like a blacksmith, yet he walked with the sort of physical confidence that might come from time spent in the wars.

  He didn’t enlighten her. “I was in the right place at the right time. His lucky star was shining. But what I want to know is how it seemed to you, the way the fireball exploded. I didn’t really notice much after seeing that, being otherwise engaged.”

  “It seemed to set the awnings alight and that’s what caused the real damage. I don’t think it was such a big explosion. It was where it came from that did most harm. By the look of things the poor woman who died had been unrolling a bale of cloth for a customer. The flames must have run along her arm when the cloth caught fire and set light to her kirtle. Meanwhile the awning over the bo
oth was ablaze and must have descended like a hand of flame over her head. She didn’t have a chance.”

  “And which direction did it come from in your opinion, the explosion?” His eyes were sharp as he looked into her face.

  “From that little puppet tent next door. It was on the end of the row of booths next to the mercer’s booth.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but that’s what it looked like in the confusion of the moment.”

  “You know they went over the place with a fine-tooth comb and found something odd?”

  She shook her head. “What was it?”

  “A metal dish. When they asked the puppet man what it was he said he’d never seen it before in his life.” The man stopped at the gates of St. Leonard’s. “I’ve changed my mind about coming in. Sorry if I’ve dragged you away from your business.”

  With nothing more than a raised hand in farewell he slipped away along the river bank towards the town.

  * * *

  Hildegard enquired at the lodge after the man who had been brought in from the fire. The porter looked sorrowful. “He’s hanging on to life by a thread, that’s the best we can say. The poor fellow’s delirious.”

  “I know your brothers are doing everything possible. Does he know his wife has died?”

  The porter nodded. “He’s been sent quite mad with grief over her death, screaming imprecations against a crocodile, can you believe. He was conscious through the night and was begging to see her. We had to tell him the truth.”

  * * *

  There was an argument going on in the yard when she returned to her lodgings. It was fairly one-sided. Baldwin and his wife, Julitta, were haranguing Edric who was looking at them in a bewildered fashion as if he didn’t know them. Jankin was hanging out of the window and Gilbert stood in the doorway to the workshop with his hands by his sides.

  Danby rubbed a hand over his bald head. He had taken off the turban and was holding it in both hands, clearly undecided about something, his glance now and then returning to his brother.

  They all fell silent when Hildegard entered the yard. With a brief greeting she went over to the door of the widow’s house and let herself in. Widow Roberts was standing in the kitchen. It was obvious she had been listening to the argument in the yard and what she heard had distressed her.

  “It’s that Julitta, she causes dissension everywhere she goes.” She gave Hildegard a worried glance. “Baldwin is all for having them run out of town and she’s urging him on.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Anybody who sympathises with the rebels.” Widow Roberts went to the window and looked out. “He’s claiming the rebels are setting the fires to scare people away from celebrating Corpus Christi. Edric’s resisting. He knows they wouldn’t do any such thing.” She gave Hildegard a swift glance. “I don’t mind who knows I’m saying this.”

  “It’s all right with me. But what can Master Danby do about it?”

  “He’s on good terms with the mayor. Baldwin imagines a word from Edric and the whole gang of apprentices will be swept out of town. And then what? To live as outlaws for the rest of their days?” She glanced out of the window again. “They’re still arguing with him, poor fellow. Edric is such a peace-loving man. He doesn’t deserve those two.” She turned. “Baldwin was that jealous when they elected his brother guildmaster. Mistress Julitta’s just as bad. They make a good pair. She can never resist a dig at poor Edric, and Dorelia’s no use to him, she’s just a child. All she knows about is playing and buying new ribbons. I don’t know where it’s going to end.”

  “Have the brothers always been like this?” she asked

  The widow nodded. “Everybody’s always liked Edric. He was a good boy and now he’s a good man. Baldwin’s been jealous since he was knee-high. It’s not Edric’s fault if folk take to him. If Baldwin would put himself out to be pleasant they’d like him as well. He just doesn’t see it. He’d have to admit he was in the wrong. And that wouldn’t do. That wife eggs him on in his folly. I think she gets her pleasure from watching them at each other’s throats. Anyway, sister, you don’t want to involve yourself in all this. I’m a neighbour and I can’t help hearing them row. Can I get you anything?”

  “Do you have a supply of water here?”

  “I do.” She went to a wooden container on the side, lifting the lid and dipping a metal cup inside. “There now. Fresh spring water. We’re lucky we have the well.” She sat down and watched Hildegard drink. “I trust your business with the constables was no cause for alarm?”

  “They just wanted to know what I’d seen yesterday.”

  The widow nodded. “I heard you were one of the first on the scene. Who’d have thought the puppet would go up. He’s going round trying to convince everybody it wasn’t his fault. Not that anybody’s blaming him, but I suppose he feels bad, knowing it started there. It was empty, he says. He never leaves the puppets in there when he’s not using it in case of theft. They’re precious, those dolls of his.”

  Hildegard stretched out her legs. The ties of her boots, she noticed now, were crisscrossed unevenly; she had donned them in such haste when the constables arrived. She bent to retie them.

  News travelled fast in this town but the widow didn’t seem to know yet about the copper dish found in the puppet booth. Time would no doubt rectify matters. In the meantime it made no sense.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hildegard offered to do a few chores although, in truth, there was little that needed to be done in the widow’s small, spotless home. She lived, neat and tidy, in the tranquillity of her widowhood and barely left a trace of herself.

  After sweeping an already clean chamber, and with the problem of the missing cross nagging at her without respite, Hildegard told Widow Roberts she was going round the corner to St. Helen’s church to sit in quiet contemplation for a while.

  In a few minutes she had found a place against the back wall just inside the doorway.

  Grey pillars down the short nave. Yellow sunlight. Incense. A glint of gold on the altar. Light in many colours spattering the tiled floor.

  She closed her eyes. It was as cool as spring water in here. The day was the hottest yet. It multiplied the flies attracted to the street by the food stalls. They flew in through the open door before being attracted back to the heat and the smell of sizzling meats outside. Gradually the silence took over.

  She sat for some time. When she eventually opened her eyes there were as many unanswered questions as when she had closed them.

  The place had been filling up. She gave the newcomers a cursory glance. Some rich apparel was on show.

  A couple standing off to one side of the altar at the front were particularly well turned out. They did not greet anyone but stood as strangers, the woman stern-faced, wearing a white wimple, a large silver brooch pinning it tightly under her chin. Her escort was soberly dressed but the quality of his garments could not be disguised. Grey silk of the best. An under-tunic of deep purple, its sleeves slashed to reveal a crimson lining. The woman was also dressed in grey with an embroidered over-mantle in a pale, light weave suitable for hot weather.

  The rest of the congregation looked plain beside them, although, if they were members of the Glaziers’ Guild, they would be comfortably off these days. The man gave the woman beside him a quick glance, then, noticing that her eyes were closed, turned and cast a look over the people standing in the nave. Then he turned and gave his full attention to the priest.

  Hildegard shifted her attention to the stained glass in the east window glowing with blue, gold and scarlet. The priest stepped into the flood of coloured light and began to intone the liturgy in rapid Latin. An altar boy swung a heavy censer whose fumes had the unfortunate effect of reminding Hildegard of the smoke billowing from the remains of the booth yesterday afternoon. She forced herself to think of life as something eternal and to consider what the priest intended with his large claims about the truth.

  There was no one fro
m Master Danby’s workshop present.

  Unable to give the ritual proper attention she got up and slipped outside, leaving the drone of Latin and the scent of incense with a feeling of relief.

  Brother Thomas was at that moment walking along the street. “I was coming to find you. Widow Roberts said you’d gone to St. Helen’s.” His sharp eyes examined her expression. “Are you all right?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t sit there, knowing that that poor man is probably dying in St. Leonard’s. That Maud is still suffering. Those armed men are still at large. And that the cross is missing and we’re nowhere near finding who stole it.” She gave him a close look. “How’s your head? I forgot to ask in all the turmoil yesterday.”

  “It’s not so bad. Your bruise seems to have gone down.”

  “Arnica. I needed it after hitting that Sister Michael in the face.”

  They walked across the road to the place where the booths were once again doing brisk business as if nothing had happened. They were without awnings now and the stock was somewhat charred but there were plenty of buyers jostling to make their purchases at a discount. The place where the fire had broken out had been cleared and now a woman stood there, offering fortunes for a groat.

  “She’s got her predictions wrong. She should have been here yesterday morning,” Thomas said with a grimace. Just then a scuffle broke out. The first they knew about it was when there were angry shouts and a few encouraging cheers from a group of men standing nearby.

  The crowd scattered to make room then quickly re-formed around two apprentices. Thomas went over and Hildegard followed. When they reached the group they saw two lads squaring up to each other. It was no brief skirmish but was turning into a vicious bare-knuckle fight. Both had bloody noses already and the crowd began to cheer every time one of them landed a punch.

  Thomas shouldered his way through the onlookers and dragged both boys apart by the scruff of their necks. “Pack it in. Admit your differences and shake hands on it like gentlemen.”