The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  They reached the corner that led into the stews. After that the lane was relatively empty as it went on only to the nunnery and the warehouses where the barges were moored. As they reached the lane end she pretended to stumble.

  Momentarily free of his grasp she pulled the knife right out of its sheath and got it in a good grip with both hands. Her captor’s small eyes probably caught sight of the blade as she thrust it upwards under his filthy cloak because he lurched to one side with a grunt of surprise. She felt something sticky on the backs of her hands. She had drawn blood. The knife remained stuck for a moment until she managed to twist it free. Matthias stared at her, a spark of red rage flaring in the depths of his eyes.

  By then she was off, running, running fast into the network of alleys that formed the stews, running in the knowledge that a mad-man was in hot pursuit.

  * * *

  She was deep in the labyrinthine alleys of the stews, not knowing which way to turn next. The doors of the houses stood open and spilling out onto the street was a raucous gathering of musicians, prostitutes, customers and hangers-on, people coming and going all the time. Without looking back she flung herself inside the first door she came to.

  No one noticed her. Panting, she glanced wildly round for somewhere to conceal herself, reaching for a stoup of ale from one of the foaming jugs that were going the rounds, burying her face in the flagon and quickly finding somewhere to sit. A couple of men flung themselves down on the bench next to her almost at once and tried to fix a price. She deflected their interest for a moment by pointing to a woman who was doing a seductive dance to the music of a couple of nackermen and a gittern player. Dancing for money, she encouraged the men to stuff coins into the partly unlaced opening of her bodice and had plenty of customers.

  One of the men, who only moments before had competed with his companion over Hildegard, took a fancy to the dancer, especially when she bestowed a flirtatious smile on him. He got up and she moved off out of his reach but kept looking back to encourage his interest and when the music changed he danced a few drunken steps in an attempt to copy her.

  Just then a woman accompanied by two armed men arrived and was conducted through the crowd to a room at the back. She was welcomed with some deference by the door man. Hildegard’s glance followed her in astonishment. It was Mistress Julitta, Baldwin’s wife.

  The entrance to a private chamber was briefly obscured when one of the pimps stepped up to the dancing drunk as he got too close to the girl, and he was hauled back into a corner with some commotion. By that time the door had closed and Julitta had disappeared inside.

  It was then that Matthias pushed his way into the building.

  His shaven head gleamed under the light of the cressets as he searched the faces of the crowd. Evidently he was well known and one of the women went over and put her garland round his neck. It was too noisy to hear what was said, but he pulled back his cloak and pointed to the blood on his chest and then lurched farther onto the dance floor. There were cries as people noticed the blood. He ignored them, and with a wild expression searched the faces of the onlookers for Hildegard. He had obviously seen her flee into the house and now lurched round the crowded chamber, peering into people’s faces, exciting a lot of attention and some hostility.

  “Get out of it, you drunken sot!” Somebody gave him a push and Matthias turned on his attacker with a snarl.

  Hildegard whispered to the man next to her, “Would you like to go outside, lover?”

  “Would I! Come on, sweet!” With a laugh he pulled her into his arms and leaning heavily against her staggered towards the exit.

  Matthias was approaching the dancer now, distracted by her naked breasts as she emptied the coins out of her bodice into a pouch held out by her pimp, and with an inane grin he took a step towards her with his hands outstretched. The blood on the front of his tunic made her recoil. The crowd jostled round to have a closer look.

  Hildegard didn’t linger to see what would happen next. As soon as they got outside she broke away.

  “Hey!” the man called, stumbling after her, “I thought you said—”

  She was already halfway up the street when her potential customer gave up. She heard him shout after her, “Come back if you change your mind!” When she risked a glance over her shoulder he was standing under the light over the door scratching his head and gazing up the street after her. Then, with a mystified shrug he went back inside.

  Confident that Matthias had not noticed her exit she didn’t look back again. The strident sounds of the stews gradually faded as she ran on up the hill to the more respectable part of town.

  * * *

  Once more she found herself outside the French priory near the church of the Holy Trinity. A last group of travellers were arriving at the postern at Micklegate Bar before it was closed for the night. One of them stood out from the rest. It was a pilgrim in a broad-brimmed hat, white robes and a stave in one hand. He paused at the top of the street to drink in the sight of the city glittering lower down as if it had been some time since he had last set eyes on it.

  Harpham’s house was on the opposite side of the street and she was about to cross over when Ulf and a dozen men-at-arms carrying flares came clattering out from the inner yard. She fled towards him and saw him check himself in mid-stride. Then he came towards her.

  “Hildegard!” he exclaimed, grasping hold of her as she fell into his arms. He held her tight as if unable to believe his eyes.

  The security of his rough mail-shirt pressing hard against her made her feel like fainting with relief. Safe at last. With his strong arms wrapped round her in an embrace she rested her head against his broad chest with a sob of relief.

  He held her until she was steady, murmuring, “Hildegard, Hildegard, my dear Hildegard, am I glad to see you!”

  He stroked her head, murmuring endearments then he started to tell her what had brought him and his men pouring out of their quarters just now. “Little Maud came running in, shrieking her head off, saying you’d both been pursued by a knight and two henchmen and then you’d been kidnapped by a servant from the Holy Wounds. And now look at you!” He gently fingered the side of her jaw where it was beginning to swell. “What did that animal do to you?”

  “He got the worst of it.” She tried to laugh but it was halfway to a sob. For a moment longer she clung to him in sheer relief at having reached safety. Then she told him what had happened and where he might find Matthias. “I’ve wounded him,” she admitted.

  “He deserves it. I’ll send men to turn the place inside out. He’s not getting away with this.” He stepped back. With a concerned look he turned and issued a few orders and a detachment of men set off with attitudes of grim purpose down the street

  Ulf led her towards the light of a cresset at the entrance to Harpham’s house so that it shone full on her face. He peered at her bruises. “He’ll suffer for this.”

  “It’s probably worse than it looks. I just need some arnica.”

  He lifted her chin. “The fiend,” he muttered. “I’ll see him in hell!” He held her face gently between his palms and gazed deeply into her eyes. “It’s useless to ask why you can’t stay safely in your priory, isn’t it?”

  She tried to smile but her face was already stiffening under the bruises. “It seems circumstances would rather I was outside.”

  His eyes, usually as vivid as a piece of cobalt medallion glass, were storm dark and he ran his hand gently over the top of her head, smoothing and comforting her, tucking a few stray wisps of hair back under her kerchief.

  She dropped her glance under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s a wonder I didn’t lose my kerchief.” She fingered the piece of linen and felt herself sway against him. Dear, capable Ulf. His kindness made her want to weep. “If you don’t mind,” she whispered after a long pause, “I’d like a drink and something for these bruises so I don’t look too monstrous tomorrow.”

  “I know all about bruises.” He became brisk. “But w
hat about broken bones … you don’t have any of those, do you?”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She straightened.

  “Come inside then.” He took her wrists in his broad and dependable hands. “We’ve plenty of cures for bruises if you haven’t any yourself. And you’ll be needing some of the Carthusians’ special distillation from France. That’ll fix you up in a trice.” He put an arm round her to assist her inside.

  For a moment, over his shoulder, she saw the pilgrim she had spotted earlier. He was watching intently from the other side of the street from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. As she turned towards the house he too turned away and began to walk slowly down the hill towards the town.

  * * *

  Melisen insisted that a tub be filled with hot, scented water and fresh garments laid out on a stool next to it. Now, lying back in the steam with the screen closed, Hildegard thought over what had happened.

  Ulf had already told her that he had given the knife Maud had shown him to Roger.

  Apparently Roger had stared at the emblem carved into the silver handle in astonishment and then pronounced, “Either he’s a member of the Poulterers’ Guild … or he’s a knight in the service of the de Bohun family.” He had paused. His expression darkened. “If the latter, then he’s my guest.”

  One of his famous rages had followed. A de Bohun heiress was married to Gaunt’s younger brother, the Duke of Gloucester. The other one was married to Gaunt’s son, Henry Bolingbroke.

  But the matter was now out of Hildegard’s hands. The knight, whichever de Bohun noble he served, was Roger’s responsibility.

  Something was resolved, however. Lord Roger de Hutton now knew who had destroyed his property at Deepdale. He also knew, as would everyone else, who had wrought such devastation on a group of ordinary labourers and their families on a far off manor in another Riding.

  Matthias was not her concern now either, Hildegard realised, as she luxuriated in the steaming tub. He would get his just desserts.

  The danger to the cross was over too, she realised. The knight in black had not been looking for it after all. Probably no one was looking for it. It must have been an opportunistic theft by the rebels. They had heard rumours of something valuable and taken their chance. Nobody was interested in it anymore. She would take it back to Swyne as soon as she felt rested enough to travel.

  Only one thing disturbed her thoughts but she was too befuddled by the combined effects of warm wine and the hot, scented water to work out what it was.

  * * *

  Hildegard was still in the tub when Ulf was announced. She heard him enter the chamber and pull up a stool on the other side of the screen.

  “The lads have arrested that knave,” came his voice. “You didn’t give him a deep wound. He had a hair shirt on under his outer garments along with various studs and leather bindings. It’s best not to ask for more detail. When the lads arrived at the brothel he was just about to get a whipping for both his own pleasure and that of the customers.”

  “I guessed they knew him,” she replied. She sank deeper into the warm water and allowed her limbs to float among the rose petals the maid had scattered. “But what about Mistress Julitta? What was she doing there? Did you find out?”

  “We did indeed. Apparently she was just coming out of the house next door when the men arrived. She’d been down there collecting her husband’s takings. I doubt he’ll ever see them.”

  “Takings?” She raised her head out of the water. So Gilbert had not been lying.

  Ulf’s voice came. “You don’t need to know all this, Hildegard.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  When she didn’t reply he confirmed what Gilbert had told her. “It’s like this. Baldwin has a financial interest in several houses down by the wharf. He supplies the girls. Dorelia was just one of those he abducted from the West Riding. The others were set to work in the stews where he extracted the maximum profit he could get from them. It was a regular deal. He had an understanding with a crooked serjeant-at-law over in Wakefield who tipped him off concerning unmarried heiresses coming onto the market. Baldwin then stepped in to obtain maintenance, which he sold on to whoever was willing to pay up. The girls, with no land and no fortune after all, and no kin who couldn’t be bought off, were forced to make the best of things. Once they started talking,” he added, “they couldn’t stop.”

  “Does Danby know what was going on?”

  “I doubt it. He’s on the level. He would never have condoned it.”

  “But he must have wondered where Baldwin got his money from? Even I wondered that. He never seemed to do any work.”

  “Remember what Danby told us? Baldwin had a long-standing commission at a church in Wakefield. I guess he can sound plausible enough when he wants to.”

  Hildegard let herself slide down under the water to have it lap over the bruises on her face and when she emerged in a swirl of rose petals there was no sound from the other side of the curtain.

  Ulf must have left. She sighed and closed her eyes. The Carthusian liquor sent as a cure for shock was doing its job. Her limbs relaxed, floating on the surface of the water as her pain and fear began to drain away.

  “Dearest Ulf,” she whispered, half to herself, “dear, sweet, beloved Ulf.”

  There was a soft movement from the other side of the screen.

  “I’m still here, Hildegard.” His voice was gruff.

  There was a pause and then he muttered, “Listen, there’s something I want to say.”

  There was another pause.

  “Hildegard, what I want to say is this: Give it up, all this. Buy your way out. Come back to a free life outside your Order.”

  There was another pause before he added, “We could have a life together, you and me. It’s not too late.…”

  She held her breath.

  There was silence.

  She put one hand into the water and let it sink, dragging a trail of rose petals after it. When she lifted it the water dripped off it as if nothing had changed.

  “Have you drowned?” he whispered.

  “I’m still here. I’m just—” She slid under the water again. Her hair, which was longer than it should be, floated round her face and when she emerged it flattened itself to her forehead and water drops coursed down her cheeks like tears. “Am I to take my vows so lightly, Ulf?”

  There was a brief silence, then the old Ulf spoke up. “I would never have dared say any of that to your face. It’s your choice to consider it unsaid, or not, when next we meet.”

  She heard a stool scrape back and footsteps swiftly moving towards the door. The door opened. The door closed.

  * * *

  Bathed, wearing fresh clothes lent by Melisen, and with a good meal inside her, Hildegard was summoned to a meeting in Robert Harpham’s hall.

  Lord Roger de Hutton was sitting in state. That is, he was in a comfortable chair in front of his cloth of honour on an elevated dais at one end of the raftered hall with his wife beside him, his chamberlain, his steward and his various yeoman in declining importance ranked along the walls and, just entering as Hildegard made her appearance, a man who, from the look of his over-mantle, was a serjeant-at-law. A chair was brought for him and placed below the dais.

  A maid entered with Maud, also freshly bathed and wearing a pretty gown of primrose yellow and for the first time since Hildegard had known her, without her cloak and hood. Her abundant red hair that had been such a surprise when Hildegard first saw it in the minster was caught up in a silver clasp.

  Petronilla took Hildegard by the hand as soon as she appeared at the door. “My lady wishes you to sit close by,” she whispered and led her down the hall where a vacant seat was found. Hildegard looked out at the sea of faces. It was either an audience or a showdown. There was no music only the murmur of voices in expectation of some unspecified event.

  The night was hot. The heat of the day lingered and the window s
creens were flung wide, allowing a breeze to ripple the tapestries along the walls and bring in the overheated scent of the nearby streets with their contradictory aromas of frying meats, honeyed fritters, incense, human excrement and flower water.

  Wine was handed round. The Chamberlain thumped his mace on the floor to engage everybody’s attention. “I announce Sir Alaric de Belfort.”

  There was a flurry of interest. Smiling with somewhat surprised pleasure, the knight in black entered. He was accompanied by two men-at-arms. With some ceremony he advanced down the hall to the foot of the dais. Lord Roger was at his most benign.

  “Greetings, sir knight. When your servant announced you earlier today I had no idea who sought my hospitality.”

  The knight made a flourish. “By chance in York for the Corpus Christi plays we had no expectations that we would find such a generous welcome.”

  “That’s the way we do things up here,” replied Roger with a bland expression. “And of course,” he added, “I do know your liege lord and his daughter, the wife of Henry Bolingbroke.”

  The knight shifted somewhat.

  “I know your lord’s entire family well,” Roger added with a smile. He stroked his beard, adding, “And now I know all about you. Tell me, sir, what do you know of a holy relic now said to be back on the market?”

  The knight looked startled. “I know nothing of holy relics,” he snorted. “I’m a knight not a priest.”

  Roger gave a thin smile.

  The knight was beginning to look round as if expecting to be invited to take his place on the dais and, appearing annoyed that it wasn’t immediately offered, failed to heed the harsh note in Roger’s voice when he sat back with the remark, “Your lord … somewhat misguided, you must agree?”

  Sir Alaric de Belfort gave him a blank look. “In what respect, my lord?”

  “In respect of his allegiance to those who would overthrow the king,” replied Roger with a genial smile. “As you might have realised, some of us are of a different persuasion north of the Trent.”