The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  Remembering this now and praying that they were still within earshot, she stamped hard on her assailant’s foot and when his grasp momentarily slackened she managed to slip down, away from the immediate danger of the knife blade. His surprise lasted long enough to give her time to throw herself in under the wooden scaffolding outside the building. Her assailant lunged after her with a furious roar but she dodged into the maze of posts and, being thinner than he was, managed to squeeze into a narrow gap between two supports and run out onto the street.

  She erupted into the middle of the group of players. They scattered with cries of surprise followed by rapturous greetings when they took in the fact that she was a woman and in distress.

  “May I join you, my lords?” Hildegard cried, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

  They must have caught sight of her assailant even though he had retreated at once into the shadow of the church wall, and clearly taking it to be a domestic tiff one of them gave a deep flourish and said, “Knight errant at your service, my lady!” He raised his voice. “Yours to command! Beware ye who mean this damsel harm!”

  His friends cheered. They were dressed as cardinals, in wide-brimmed hats, red robes, the figure at their head wearing a triple crown in the guise of a pope. Instead of carrying a sceptre, however, he wielded a quart flagon.

  He offered it now with the words, “Lady, pray join us and partake of the wine of life.”

  Jovial, not at all menacing, they insisted on escorting her to safety, chaffing each other, laughing and declaiming the lines of their play, the noise bringing curses from the upper windows of houses lining the street. This roused them to a tempest of shushing, loud enough to wake everybody else within a hundred yards. Hildegard was carried along with this jovial mob over the bridge and on into the safety of the town. Her assailant was nowhere to be seen.

  They reached Pavement and straggled to a halt. One of her escorts knelt at her feet. “And this is where we part in sorrow, to meet again upon the morrow! Good night, fair friend!”

  The pope kissed the backs of both her hands. “Good night, dear lady!” he declaimed.

  “See you on the green, you pious pontiff!” One of them waived goodbye and took his leave. A general scene of hugging and bowing followed and they began to disperse in ones and twos to different quarters of the town.

  “Which play are you in?” asked the pope as he kissed the backs of her hands again for good measure.

  Realising that they had mistaken her habit for pageant garb she thought quickly for a play that might have a nun in it and replied, “The Last Judgement.”

  He roared with laughter. “Then I’ll see you in hell, dear lady.”

  The street rang for some time with their farewell cries.

  Hildegard was escorted to the corner of Stonegate by a couple of cardinals and, whispering her thanks, slipped quickly into the glazier’s yard and on into the house. She was shaking. Saved by the pope and a school of cardinals, she thought. Thomas would never believe it.

  * * *

  “I think he was that big, slow, stupid brute who does all the heavy work for the sisters of the Holy Wounds. I got a good glimpse of his face in the light from the cressets when the cardinals arrived.”

  “Do you think it was by chance he saw you?” Thomas asked now.

  The monk had turned up that morning with a worried look on his face that had vanished as soon as he set eyes on her. Now they were sitting outside in the yard. It was another scorcher.

  “I have a feeling he’s been watching me.” She told him about other occasions when he had appeared as if from nowhere.

  “On the other hand,” she said, considering the matter, “it might have been chance. Maybe he thought he could take the opportunity to try to force me into telling him where Maud is. I had to go a little way down the lane towards the convent and he could have seen me then, near the stews,” she added. She remembered coming across the pardoner in the same locality and thought, not for the first time, how a religious calling seemed to make little difference to the way some men behaved.

  “I was worried when you didn’t appear last night. You said you would but I convinced myself you simply hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to the journeyman.”

  “I would never not turn up once I’d said I would,” she told him. “But I’m puzzled. Why would Matthias attack me? What would he hope to gain? Or did that mother superior of theirs put him up to it? She surely can’t think she’ll get Maud back by abducting me?”

  “If she does she certainly doesn’t know you,” said Thomas.

  “Anyway, even Matthias won’t be stupid enough to try anything in broad daylight. In future I’ll take extra care at night. It was probably just bad luck that our paths crossed.”

  Privately she wondered how Matthias had known it was her when she had worn her hood up. She felt a moment’s disquiet at the thought that he might have been watching the yard that night and followed her just as she had followed the others. It hadn’t occurred to her to look behind her. By now it was common knowledge that she was staying in Danby’s yard.

  Keeping her fear to herself she said, “This morning something had arrived by the time I came down.”

  She pushed a piece of paper across to him. “It was under the door. Widow Roberts was still in bed. I didn’t sleep much and was up first.”

  It was a note. Thomas read it with a furrowed brow. “So they have something to tell you. And they’re going to send somebody to take you to a meeting as you requested.” He turned the scrap of vellum over. It was blank. He held it up. “From the rebels? But anybody could have written it. It’s unsigned. Are you going to accept?”

  “Having come this far it would be irrational to refuse.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  * * *

  The morning had started hot again and as the day progressed the temperature shot up. There was talk of water from the town wells being rationed. They sat in the shade of the overhanging roof, wearing straw hats, fanning themselves with rhubarb leaves from Danby’s vegetable plot and sipping beakers of well-water laced with wine. Widow Roberts remained indoors, singing as she went about her chores and eventually coming outside with a basket saying she was off to market.

  After she left the yard fell silent.

  Gilbert could be seen inside the inner workshop. He appeared to be marking out the vidimus on the whitewashed table. Edric went in and out. They heard the murmur of voices. Then the master was seen at an upstairs window and there was a flash of white as Dorelia briefly appeared. When Edric came down again he was smiling and his shirt was awry.

  Gilbert, hair tied back like a pirate, was still bending silently over his work. Neither he nor Danby gave a single glance across the yard.

  Jankin came whistling outside to fetch water and made some comment about the weather as he let the bucket down. After he wound it to the top again he staggered back inside with it. The splashes on the paved yard dried instantly.

  Of Baldwin there was no sign. The shutters of the house at the top of the yard remained closed, maybe to keep out the heat. The crowds along Stonegate could be heard shuffling past the end of the passage in a constant slow stream. A hurdy-gurdy struck up in the middle distance. A few accompanying voices were heard. Mainly it was just the soporific sound of the crowds passing by as softly irregular as waves breaking on a distant shore. A bell began a slow toll from a nearby tower.

  Hildegard daren’t set foot outside the yard in case she missed the promised messenger. It was a charade, not mentioning anything to Danby. Was she supposed to pretend that she didn’t know how the message had reached her? She said this to Thomas. With sweat trickling down his forehead he recommended patience.

  “We are told you wish to meet us. We may have information of interest to you. A guide will be sent to fetch you.” That’s what the message said. It had been written in a graceful hand.

  Apologising, Thomas went off to lady mass. He returned, reeking of incense, straight
afterwards.

  And then, sometime before sext with the sun at its height, when they had retreated to the cool of Widow Roberts’s kitchen, a figure boldly entered the yard and began pacing about, looking at the cottages as if unsure which one to approach first. Hildegard went outside and Thomas followed.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  The man came towards her. He looked like a cleric but after seeing the actor-cardinals on the previous night and the town filling with fantastical figures as most of the members of the forty-eight guilds plied in ever increasing frequency to their rehearsals, she was unwilling to take him at face value. As well as the vestments of a chantry priest he wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, obscuring his face.

  He was fishing something out of his leather bag as he approached. “I said I would do it!” He held out a piece of parchment with a green wax seal on it.

  She took it. “What’s this?”

  Looking over her shoulder Thomas said in an awed voice, “It’s the seal of the Archbishop of York!”

  “I would have brought you the seal itself but I thought this would suffice. I deemed it the best way of showing I had kept my word.”

  “Theophilus?” Hildegard peered at the messenger.

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Greetings, sister. Now,” he went on briskly, “do you have a drink to offer me? It’s a long walk from Bishopthorpe Palace.”

  * * *

  They sat in the cool of the kitchen drinking watered wine. “It was like this,” said the mage. “When I managed to get inside the palace last night there was a great feast. Some important personage—?” He cocked a glance.

  “We know,” said Hildegard quickly.

  “While that was going on I had a good look round in every chamber.”

  “But how did you get inside?”

  “Ask not of the mage,” he reproved. “Suffice to say I made no forced entry but was invited in with as much ceremony as if I’d been a visiting prelate.” He chuckled. “Which as far as they were concerned, I was. However, that’s not the point of the story. I kept my ears and eyes open as I said. I drew a blank. No mention of any theft in any quarter. Unless they’re unwontedly loyal they’re as innocent as newborn babes.”

  “Discretion is probably one of their strengths,” muttered Thomas.

  “I can tell you, they were as loose-tongued as anybody else in their master’s absence. I adopted the dress of a retainer, at one point, the better to hear the truth.” His eyes gleamed at the memory. “I can tell you emphatically: They know no more than I do of any theft!”

  “We can guess the truth then, can’t we?” Thomas said. He avoided looking across the yard towards Danby’s workshop.

  “But,” continued the mage, “I did hear talk of a sum of money. I heard of an offer to purchase something of great value from your priory at Swyne, sister. Something worth more gold than any Lombardy banker has ever dreamed of. I heard talk of local matters too. I heard a name. I saw guests. And I heard the old king’s minstrel play.” His cat’s eyes alighted on Hildegard.

  “Master Gyles?” she asked quickly.

  “Ah,” said the mage, “I thought you’d know him.”

  “I have met him,” Hildegard replied cautiously.

  The king’s minstrel, Master Pierrekyn Gyles, had retired from court and come to live as a corrodian in York. He had passed on information to supporters of John of Gaunt last year as she had discovered almost too late. She suspected that his usefulness as the eyes and ears of Duke John was the reason he had been granted a corrodiary at St. Mary’s Abbey by the King’s Council, which of course was headed by Gaunt himself. St. Mary’s, in fact, was an establishment that owed much of its wealth to Gaunt’s generosity. A well-placed spy in York would always be useful to a man like the duke.

  But Pierrekyn Gyles though! A guest at Bishopthorpe Palace! A dangerous man. She shivered. “He’s an exceptional musician” was all she said.

  “As he would have to be in order to be employed by the royal court,” said Theophilus carelessly. He got up. “The name Gisburne came up.”

  He went to the door and looked out. The yard was empty.

  When he returned he said, “I would question the loyalty of everyone you meet. It is not always apparent who to trust in these walled towns where antagonisms run deeper than one would imagine.”

  He lowered his voice. “There’s schism in the ranks of the brotherhood. Much discontent with King Richard’s behaviour since the Rising. Going back on his word as he did after Smithfield is seen as unkingly and not worth the allegiance of good men.”

  He lowered his voice still further. “He’s seen as a betrayer of his people. It has led some to a desire to follow a preacher instead, one of those who has lately been hounded from Oxford by Archbishop Courtney.”

  “Do you have a name?” asked Hildegard.

  “It’s a barefoot preacher by the name of Magister Will Thorpe. He’s been outlawed for his beliefs and, so my informant told me, has fled north. Whether the Archbishop of Canterbury is acting on Gaunt’s orders or merely carrying out Pope Urban’s recent edict to root out heretics is open to question. Master Gyles,” he tapped the side of his nose to indicate that this was confidential, “is of the opinion that certain members in the rebel faction want to break their traditional links with clerics of all kinds—and ally themselves with a temporal lord.”

  “Which one?” asked Hildegard at once.

  “That, dear sister, is open to conjecture. It seems to me,” he said in a sombre tone, “that the wish in some quarters is to involve King Robert of Scotland.”

  “Traitors to their own country!” exclaimed Thomas. “They surely can’t be serious?”

  “You’re talking of treason,” added Hildegard. So it wasn’t the French then. It was nothing to do with the Abbey of Meaux.

  “Maybe loyalty has diminished so far in importance,” said the mage, “that only personal profit remains? But tell me, sister,” his tone lightened, “is my debt settled?”

  “I never thought of you as being in my debt.”

  He bowed, happening to glance out of the window. Then he replaced his straw hat and turned briskly towards the yard and left.

  Hildegard gazed after him in astonishment. “No farewell? Did I offend him?”

  The monk rose and went over to the window. Hildegard joined him. They watched the mage, so-called, with face concealed under the brim of his hat, striding off down the passage that led into the street. Baldwin was standing outside Danby’s window, gazing after him with a puzzled frown.

  He may have been lurking out there for a while, thought Hildegard, noticing a stoup of ale in his hand.

  As soon as Theophilus was out of sight, Baldwin made his way into Danby’s house and went straight into the back workshop. They could see him through the window at Gilbert’s shoulder where the journeyman was continuing to mark out the scale drawing of Roger’s chantry window. Baldwin’s lips were moving but his words were inaudible across the yard.

  * * *

  Still no messenger turned up. Thomas went off to the next office of the day and returned. Meanwhile, Gilbert came out with a hunk of bread and cheese and gnawed his way through that. Baldwin had disappeared into his own cottage. Hildegard wondered when he did any work. Jankin had been mixing colours in several little pots which he stood in a row on the sill, and the master himself had been busy writing up what looked like accounts at a table in front of the open shutters in the front workshop. It was like a beehive, buzzing with industry.

  Apart from that brief appearance at an upstairs window Danby had been working all morning without a break. He came outside now and sat down next to Gilbert on the bench. Jankin disappeared and was doubtless busy in the back room where the cook and the kitchen lad lived.

  Hildegard went to stand on the doorstep, fanning herself with her straw hat and wondering just how much any of them had noticed or heard. “Another fine day, master,” she called across.

  Danby waved to her. “Join us, siste
r.” Evidently he didn’t realise Brother Thomas was in the house with her. He made room for her on the bench. “You can tell Lord Roger we’re making progress with his glass,” he told her. “Gilbert here has nearly finished measuring out the final drawing. No doubt we’ll be seeing him round here to have a look at it before the pageant makes passage through town impossible.”

  “His steward is keeping an eye on the castle at the first station,” she told him. The stands were called “castles” locally.

  “So he mentioned,” Danby replied. “I’ll send somebody up there later on.”

  The heat seemed to make everyone drowsy and the master fell silent. Someone had caused that cryptic note to be written. It could only be him and Gilbert.

  The latter made no sign of acknowledgement when she sat down but was staring into space as if seeing something at a distance. Edric gave him a nudge. “Stop work, you young devil. I can hear your brain whirring. Take a break.” He turned to Hildegard. “He’d work all day and all night if I let him.”

  Gilbert’s eyelids flickered and then he turned his gaze briefly on his master’s face. “Work is in the gift of the Lord,” he said. “We should honour it.”

  It sounded like a pious quotation but in the light of dissenter opinion it could have been a criticism of bonded labour. Without further comment he stuffed the last of his bread into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his tunic and went back inside.

  Edric shook his head. “He’ll work himself into the ground.” No remark of any significance followed.

  Hildegard’s thoughts roamed without purpose over the information the mage had passed on until they snagged on the question of whether Archbishop Neville had sent a messenger to the prioress at Swyne, putting Bolingbroke’s wishes before her. According to Theophilus there was a rumour that “a precious object” was for sale and although wild estimates of its possible value seem to have been made none of them had come anywhere near its true worth.