Edric eventually rose to his feet, saying, “Come and have a look at what we’ve done so far.”
* * *
It was cooler inside the workshop. The windows ran along the north wall letting in a constant, grey light. The pleasant temperature made it easier to understand why Gilbert was content to remain at work. The other reason was obvious—it was his joy in what he did.
The full-scale drawing was impressive. It was designed in several sections, three roundels at the top, the long expanse of the main image of the Virgin and child with the sun’s rays behind them, and along the bottom edge the figures of the two donors, one on each side and between them a small scene she had not seen before. Gilbert was just marking it out. There was not much detail. He had drawn the outlines of a few shapes, one a figure stretched out on a bier or maybe a bed, another one seeming to hover above and a third inside an arch, presumably meant to represent a doorway. Underneath was a roundel that overlapped the frame, neither in the scene nor outside it. It was blank.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“We finish cutting the glass to size, lay it in place—see the colours marked on each segment? And then comes the clever part.”
“What’s that?”
“Painting in the detail on the coloured glass.” He looked pleased at the prospect of starting on it.
Gilbert lifted his head and gave them both a silvery glance. “Maybe this time he’ll let me get my hands on one or two sections myself, eh, master?”
Edric put his thumbs in his jerkin and looked delighted at the mettle of his journeyman. “All in good time,” he said, but it was clear he was agreeable and Gilbert nodded, looking well pleased with things himself.
* * *
Hildegard roamed impatiently about the yard. Widow Roberts made a brief appearance and then went out again. Having lived in the town all her life she had many friends nearby.
Thomas was sitting in the kitchen reading a well-thumbed breviary when she went back in. It made her remember her missal, the one she had saved from the Deepdale fire. Although she carried it with her she hadn’t opened it since they arrived. It struck her how matter-of-fact was Thomas’s belief. It was a fundamental part of his identity. To have such certainty amazed her. She had felt the same when confronted by Sister Marianne’s unquestioning faith.
Now he closed the book and looked up. “Maybe they’ll wait until nightfall?” he suggested. “Why don’t we take a stroll? You’re on tenterhooks.”
“Just to the end of the street and back,” she agreed. “We don’t want to miss them.”
Thomas slipped his breviary into his sleeve. Donning her straw hat she followed him outside.
The sun was merciless. When they left the shadow of the little alleyway it struck them with its full force. The smell of the crowd mingled with the wafted aroma from an open brazier on the corner where a man was frying fritters and selling them as fast as he could produce them. A mixture of scents from the apothecary’s sweetened the sour smell of too many sweating people pressed together in one place. The explosions had put no one off. The street was as crowded as before it happened. Everybody seemed determined to make the most of the festivities to come.
“I ought to go to the kennels and look in on my hounds,” she said. “I’ve neglected them shamefully. I’ll take them with us when we go.” She felt Thomas’s sleeve brush the back of her hand. “We’re not going to get far in this crowd,” she added.
A voice whispered, “You’ll get as far as you want to go, sister. Follow me.” With a start she glanced aside at the unfamiliar voice. A stranger held her sleeve. “I’ve got a horse waiting for you. I’m told you wish to speak to someone?”
“Now?”
He gazed at her without answering. She glanced over her shoulder. Thomas was right behind her.
Without another word the man slid into the crowd. He wore a leather hat and had a wide belt slung over one shoulder like a peddler, and his dun-coloured jerkin merged in with what everyone else was wearing. She hurried to keep up in case she lost sight of him, trusting that Thomas would follow.
Chapter Nineteen
The stranger led them away from the main thoroughfare and into Goodramgate and out towards Monk Bar, the east entrance into the city. There was a handful of guards at the postern and they checked them through with little interest, probably at this time of day glad to see people leaving rather than arriving to jam-pack the town even more.
Outside the walls, a little way into the Jewish quarter, their guide came to a stop. A couple of horses were hitched to a rail with a lad standing by. The man tossed him a coin.
Turning to Hildegard he said, “Let’s go.” He held a stirrup for her but she ignored it and mounted in the usual way.
They were short-legged ponies, tough and hardy enough to travel long distances without effort. To her surprise he mounted the second one and took up the reins as if about to set off.
“What about the brother?” she asked.
“I have no instructions to take a monk with me.”
Before she could object he brought his whip hard down on the rump of her pony and it leaped forward from standing into a full gallop. Her hat fell off. The second pony raced alongside and she could tell that they were used to trying to best each other. The animal’s mouth was hard. Hauling on the reins did no good. The spirit of competition invaded its being.
A snatched glance back through the cloud of dust they were kicking up showed a blur of people where Thomas was standing. For a moment she thought of slipping from the saddle and throwing herself clear but only for a moment. The urgency of the mission drove her on.
* * *
They rode at speed until they reached the woodland and the guide hurled his mount through the trees onto a snaking path that, contrary to her expectations, seemed to take them back alongside the walls, although of course these were not visible.
The sun was an indication that they were now riding in a more northerly direction. They rode for some time. The man did not let up. He kept glancing back to make sure she was following. Eventually, when she was beginning to wonder if he was lost, he slowed and allowed her to draw alongside.
“We wait here until nightfall,” he told her. He got down and set about gathering a few sticks. She sat on a fallen tree and watched.
He came back and threw the branches into some sort of mound then bent to set the spark from his tinderbox to it. Going to the saddlebags he brought out a tin mug and sprinkled some herbs into it. He set it over the flames. When it was hot he drank from it, then offered her some. Her throat dry from the amount of dust their horses had kicked up, she swallowed it gratefully enough. It was mint.
“Who are we going to meet?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t you know?” she asked in a provoking tone.
“I do. And you’ll find out for yourself in good time.” He finished the rest of the boiled water and kicked the fire to pieces.
It was dark in the woods. A slash of blue sky was visible between the treetops, but they were in the wildwood, maybe even on the edge of the royal chase, and the light was filtered at best. They walked their horses for a while; only when the sky started to turn mauve did her guide remount his pony. This time he led at a more leisurely pace, ducking under branches, forcing a way through the undergrowth with a certainty that made Hildegard sceptical. They were lost. They must be. And yet he moved with confidence as if the way was secretly marked.
* * *
It was nightfall when they came to a rise that took them above the tops of the trees. There was a good view over the surrounding woodland. No landmarks broke the dark sway of beeches in full leaf. Not a prick of light shone anywhere. The only illumination was from the glimmer of the summer sky.
They continued on their way.
Some way ahead chalk cliffs no higher than the height of an average man appeared out of the gloom. Her escort set off between them through a gap that appeared as they approached an
d then he continued down a long slope that curved away at the bottom. The smell of woodsmoke floated faintly on the night air.
As they turned the corner of the cliff Hildegard felt a shudder of alarm.
In the middle of a natural bowl hollowed out of the chalk was an encampment. Hidden like this it might have existed for some time. It certainly looked well established.
There was only one way in, or out, that she could see. Beside a wicket across the approach was a line of horses tethered to a rail. There must have been thirty or forty she guessed. Visible in the light of a few flares many men were moving about attending to their chores.
In the middle of the camp blazed a large fire with a hind slung between poles over the flames. That’s one thing at least the king’s sheriff would have their heads for, she thought.
A man came out of the shadows to take her pony as she dismounted. Someone else indicated that she should follow and, leaving her guide, who melted at once into the background, she found herself being led towards a makeshift awning on the other side of the fire. Several men were sitting on rough-hewn logs in its shelter.
One of them, a big red-haired fellow who seemed to be in charge, indicated that she should come forward into the light. “I’m told you wanted to speak to us?” he invited. “Do you have information for us?”
“No. I’m here because I believe you have information for me.”
“It’s a roundabout way to have your doubts resolved, sister. Did you not think to ask a priest?” There were a few chuckles.
“My main reason for wanting to meet you is because I believe you stole something from me.”
There was a ripple of interest. The leader pulled at his beard. “I’ve been accused many times of stealing from women, both in the day and in the night, but I usually find that they themselves give willingly and regard it as no theft. And now you’re complaining?”
There was open laughter. Hildegard bit back a retort. It would be prudent to see how things lay before saying too much. All she said was, “The object stolen was a cross.”
“What would I be doing with a cross? Do I look like a pope?”
“The cross was stolen from my keeping three nights ago in the grounds of the archbishop’s palace. I wish to negotiate for its return.”
“Ah, another deal on the table,” he said to his companions. “Valuable objects, crosses, it seems. Is it gold, set with jewels?”
“I’m sure you know it’s nothing more than a piece of wood. It has only a symbolic value.”
“Symbolic!” one of the men hissed. “The whole system’s symbolic … of the common man’s bondage! How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, sister?”
“I have no opinion on angels or their ability to dance,” she replied, lifting her chin.
As she did so she recognised one of the men sitting under the awning. It was the scholarly-looking fellow she had glimpsed in the pageant warehouse. If she had wanted evidence that Gilbert and his master were involved with the dissenters, here it was. He was sitting on a tree stump, a little apart from the others, a quizzical smile on his face.
When she caught his glance he spoke up. “Are you one of these monastics who claim to expound the word according to the truth of allegory?”
“I believe Hugo of St. Victor does so, and Walter Hilton, and one or two others of that kind.”
“But not you?” He looked genuinely interested at her reference to some of those who assumed that only the priesthood could understand the Bible. Hugo was a theologian popular in Paris for many years and he was often quoted by those who wanted to seem fashionable as well as orthodox.
“I believe most things should be explained as straightforwardly as possible,” she said after a pause. “Nobody should be prevented from finding the truth. Expert knowledge is often used to keep the people in their place. If a person can read then they can read the truth and should be allowed to do so.”
“She could fit in well here,” he observed, his dark eyes turning to the red-haired fellow.
“Let’s get to the point. This cross—if we have it and I’m not saying we have—is being offered to the highest bidder.”
“My bid is my right to it. There can be none higher. I was the one who brought it back across the Alps.”
“A fair right. But it’s not for us to make decisions without consulting every man. We don’t organise ourselves in the old way, with a leader dictating to the rest. I’ll put your request to my brothers. We’ll see what they have to say. You may leave.” He nodded to one of the men standing by who stepped forward with alacrity and attempted to grip her by the arm.
“Just a moment.” She brushed his hand aside. “I’ve come a long way. Is that all you’re going to say? I wonder if you realise the importance this relic has for certain factions?”
The chief spokesman lifted his head. “For your faction, sister?” He raised his eyebrows in an invitation to admit who had sent her. When she failed to reply he asked, “Maybe you can match its importance with gold?”
“I doubt whether anyone could raise enough to equal its imagined value.”
“In that case I offer my gratitude for taking the trouble to speak to us.”
Before she could protest further she was being escorted away whether she liked it or not. The firm grip of the man delegated to show her towards the horses did not slacken, but before they reached them the man she took to be Will Thorpe walked up. He was followed by a lad carrying the same heavy bag she had noticed before.
“I was on the point of leaving when you arrived,” he explained. “Let’s ride together.”
With a grunt of indifference the saddler unroped two horses, then looked along the line until he found a small pony for the boy. When they were on the move the bookish fellow said, “I’m heading up to Durham. I can guide you through the woods as far as the highway where you’ll find a clear road back to York.”
They rode out of the camp. She felt uneasy. There was something going on beyond what the leader had told her. The situation made no sense. When they were away from the camp and riding through woodland she turned to her companion. “They treat you with respect, magister.”
“Respect for learning isn’t quite extinguished,” he said, adding, “despite Archbishop Courtney and Pope Urban’s efforts.” She saw him turn to her in the pale moonlight that filtered through the trees and there was a flash of a smile out of the darkness “I trust you find my words neither treasonable nor heretical?”
“I’m not a justiciar nor a pope. You’re only saying what many people think. At least we can still think freely.”
“Though plain and forthright speaking is becoming somewhat restricted by our lawmakers? We live in sad times.” He rode on beside her, the boy taking up the rear on a little prancing pony with white socks.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation while trying to find a way through such dense woodland. The stranger pointed out the occasional blaze cut into the bark of a tree, which, if she had not been looking for it, she would have taken as natural, but they were way-marks, he explained, and made the path easier to follow.
Soon they reached the king’s highway. They rode from under the trees and came to a halt on the wide verge where the brushwood had been cut back by order of the king to assist travellers against surprise attack by outlaws.
“I go north now.” The magister pointed up the road with his riding whip. When he turned he was looking serious. “There are differences of opinion in the brotherhood as you might have noticed, but I trust I’ve been able to shepherd the flock back to its true purpose.”
He hesitated then told her, “They have the cross, of course. And there are those who wish to sell it to the King of Scotland in return for arms.”
“That was the rumour,” she admitted.
He leaned forward. “Do not despair. There are others who want to trade it for gold in order to pay the scriveners to write their pamphlets.”
“That’s no help to me.”
“Ther
e’s a trader.” He peered at her through the darkness. “You may have heard of him. He’s called Robert Acclom and sails out of Scarborough?”
“Trader, you call him? He’s one of the most notorious pirates sailing the northern ocean.”
“I believe it. Whatever the case, he’s bringing arms up the coast in the next few days to sell to the Scots. I don’t need to tell you with what desire some rebels regard the weapons of war. It leads them to madness. They hope to do a deal with Acclom and cut out the Scots as well as their own brothers of the White Hart, but I fear Acclom will not give up one iota of his trade with King Robert. It’s steady trade and far too lucrative for a man like him to relinquish.”
“But you’re saying they hope to sell the cross to him?”
He gazed sadly into her eyes. “Sister, unlike us, they are ignorant of the power of ideas. They do not see that ideas last when iron has turned to rust.”
He lifted his whip in farewell and with the words “God assist you in the true way,” urged his horse on. She watched them both, the man she assumed was the outlawed theologian and the silent boy carrying his bag of books. After they vanished into the night she turned her horse’s head in the opposite direction and set off towards York.
* * *
After less than a mile she slowed and eventually pulled to a complete halt. Magister Thorpe and his boy were long gone. Bright moonlight shed its reflected rays all around. It was like daylight but for its ghostly hue. Every stick and stone was visible, as was the highway curving away to York … and the road leading back to the rebel camp.
With a sense of the inevitable, she turned her horse’s head north. She made sure she kept within the fringe of trees where the cleared ground stopped. Now that she knew how to decipher the path, she could find her way through the woods to the camp. The cross was there. She could not allow it to be bartered for arms.
With no clear idea how she was going to get it back she continued towards the junction where she had turned onto the highway with the magister. Apart from the sound of her horse moving through the dry grass nothing stirred. The woods were cloaked in silence. She reached the turn-off. Where the grass had been flattened by their horses’ hooves as they stopped to talk it shone like silver, a clear sign of their presence.
The Law of Angels Page 20