The Law of Angels

by Cassandra Clark

  “So?” he prompted when she failed to speak.

  She tried to gather her wits. When at last she raised her head she was surprised at how calm she sounded. “I understood you were still on pilgrimage, my lord abbot.”

  “As you see: I have returned.”

  His eyes flickered over her face as if searching for something.

  In a secret confusion of astonishment and joy she said, “It gives me chance to thank you for the gift you sent—” and, unable to leave matters like that, she heard herself add, “from Avignon.”

  The expression in the remote depths of his eyes was unfathomable. “It reached you safely then.”

  “I admit I was surprised,” she continued, with the feeling that she was suddenly unable to hold back the words, “I understood your destination was Jerusalem?”

  “And so it was. I returned by ship to Aigues Mortes and it seemed sensible to pay a visit to the papal palace—”

  “To the palace of Pope Clement,” she added, to establish the fact beyond doubt.

  “Indeed.” He gave a faint smile at her emphasis, but at the same time seemed to draw back.

  To compound her folly even further, she remarked, “I trust your career has been enhanced by your visit to Avignon?”

  It was cheap and she was immediately dismayed at allowing the words to fall from her lips, but they were out and, indeed, they expressed her confusion when the messenger told her where Hubert had purchased the missal he had sent.

  His expression did not alter. The ambivalent manner with which he had greeted her was more confusing still. For a moment they stood without speaking as the crowd pushed them on all sides. It seemed as if the silence would go on forever. Hildegard felt bereft of every word she had ever learned. There was nothing. Just a gaping silence like the void in the beginning, before the first word was uttered.

  Someone barged between them. She took a step back. More people followed, a long line of jigging fools with a hurdy-gurdy man egging them on. Hubert’s face seemed to burn in the very air, like a ghost cast out from his nocturnal realm. The strangeness of seeing him again without warning and in this place, on this day, was beyond reason.

  They were at the top of Stonegate and suddenly from the far end came a sound like many hundreds of birds taking flight.

  The soft flapping of wings was multiplied until it was a drowning wave, washing over them. The hurdy-gurdy fell silent in mid-phrase. Stillness prevailed all the length of the narrow street. She saw the abbot sink to his knees and those around him were dropping to their knees in that soft sound of fabric brushing on stone, of hats being removed. And then she understood that the Host was approaching.

  Turning, she saw the glitter of the canopy first, and, because she could see unimpeded down the length of the street over the heads of all the kneeling people, where only one or two men stood with arms folded in defiance, she could see the Host itself, borne aloft by two acolytes in its glittering gold pyx amid the shimmer of beryl and pearls and rubies and countless other precious stones adorning the chased silver and gold monstrance. The whole thing seemed to burn with an unearthly fire as the scarlet silk canopy embroidered in gold thread swayed and fluttered its tassels as it approached.

  Slowly she sank down at Hubert’s side.

  The hems of their robes lay folded together, touching.

  They stayed until the procession had gone past and then, as everyone around them rose to their feet and brushed themselves down and re-covered their heads, the abbot stretched out his hand to her.

  Feeling his touch for the first time in over a year, she froze in shock. Then she allowed him to raise her to her feet. They stood face-to-face, his lips, his mouth on a level with her own. She could feel the heat radiating from him. It carried the exotic scent of the east, suggesting distant places, the regions he had visited, the foreign lives that had touched his in the long year of his absence.

  Her tears the previous night in the tub of rose-scented water had been for this moment—for the sense of loss she knew it would bring. It had been a forewarning of finding and losing in the same moment.

  With an effort, to retain a shred of common sense—he could not know the impact of his sudden appearance—she forced herself to speak. “Brother Thomas was wounded yesterday. He’s in St. Leonard’s hospital.”

  “Are you on your way to see him?”

  She nodded.

  Hubert looked grim. “I heard about the attack. It’s all over the archbishop’s palace.”

  “Are you staying there?” she asked. It was amazing how matter-of-fact she sounded.

  “Last night and tonight only. Then it’s back to Meaux to see what havoc they’ve created while I’ve been away.” For a moment there was something dancing in his expression. She put it down to his pleasure at taking up his duties again, well purged of all the sins of the past by his pilgrimage.

  “I’m sure things have gone smoothly—though not,” she hastened to add, “as smoothly as if you’d been there yourself.”

  It was with a kind of private joy, fragile, not quite formed, with which she accompanied him through the crowds towards the river. He said nothing more to her. When they reached St. Leonard’s she felt regret that this silent communion was about to be curtailed with no further indication of how things stood between them.

  * * *

  When they went inside and walked down the aisle between the cubicles they found Thomas lying on a bed. He was going through his beads. When he realised that his abbot had taken the time and trouble to visit him he was overwhelmed with gratitude.

  He kept saying, “I’m fine, my lord. I really am. It was nothing. It was scarcely a scratch. A wonderful old leech-woman stepped out of the crowd and put me to rights. And best of all, Sister Hildegard took little Maud to safety.”

  In the expectation that his Order would be footing the bill for his treatment, the monks had given Thomas the sole use of one of the double cubicles in the main ward of the hospital. It was private enough for him to explain to the abbot the circumstances that had brought him here. The story had to be told in all its detail.

  “So,” Hubert summed up when Thomas finished, “all’s well that ends well?”

  Hildegard reserved any comment and merely made a fuss of Thomas and insisted on inspecting the bandages they had applied. “I see they know their job, brother. Thank heavens for that. I hated leaving you.”

  “If you’d lingered that knight—one of de Bohun’s men, you say?—would have snatched Maud again. He had guards posted close by. You would never have got away if you hadn’t left so quickly.” He looked serious. “I hope I’ve made up for that other time when I behaved so cravenly?”

  “Dear Thomas,” she said softly, “your behaviour is never craven.”

  Afterwards he insisted he was well enough to get up, gathered his few belongings and went to inform the almoner that he was leaving.

  When he was out of earshot Hubert turned to Hildegard. “I may as well tell you and get it over with. I saw you last night. I’d just arrived after the last day’s long walk. You were crossing the street near a merchant’s house. Is that where you’re staying?”

  “Only until I return to Swyne. There was some difficulty in getting Maud back to safety.”

  “I didn’t see her with you.”

  “I had to send her back across the river by boat. Her pursuer had a guard posted on the bridge.”

  Thomas had said nothing about what had happened to Hildegard afterwards, of course, as he knew nothing about it. Now she made no mention of it. Hubert would never drag that part of the story from her.

  His tone was abrupt. “No doubt it’s pleasant to stay in a town house with your old friends.”

  Thomas was still at the far end of the ward and Hubert went on. “As abbot I will have to make a representation to your prioress on a question of discipline. It will be a matter for the Chapter at Meaux. Your conduct is scandalous. It goes beyond any bounds of decency. Frankly, you horrify me.”


  Before she could ask what on earth he meant he turned with a sweep of his robes and headed towards the door. She stared after him in anger and astonishment. Thomas reappeared. He looked surprised at the haste of his abbot’s departure but Hubert was already outside, striding along the path towards nearby St. Mary’s Abbey, and he hurried after him with a delighted glance at Hildegard, exclaiming, “So our abbot is back! Praise the saints!”

  “He’s back all right.” She turned away, blinking at a sudden smarting sensation in her eyes.

  When she looked again Thomas had caught up with Hubert and she watched them continue along the path, apparently chatting amiably, until they were out of sight within the precincts of St. Mary’s.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  As she reached the street a few minutes later the Host reappeared on its meandering journey through the town. This time she stood in a doorway so she didn’t have to kneel.

  Other people were doing the same. Even a few who were at the front of the crowd remained standing despite objections from those behind. Harsh words were exchanged between spectators of different persuasions. Several people crossed themselves and looked askance. Others joined in the dispute.

  “It’s a free country,” somebody retorted. “We can think what we like. We don’t have to believe your popish lies.” More argument followed until the crowd, through sheer force of numbers, pushed the disputants apart.

  Hildegard meandered back along the route of the pageant and eventually found a niche on a window ledge within earshot of the stand at Jubbergate. She didn’t hear a word. All she could do was go over everything that had passed between herself and Hubert since she had handed him alms by mistake.

  Every word he said burned in her mind. She realised that she should not have spoken so critically. He was the abbot after all. But surely that wasn’t a reason to be forced to stand trial in front of the Chapter of monks at Meaux?

  She went over her words again and again and could find no real fault in them. How could he take exception to the truth?

  If they dare cross-question her she would stick by every word. He could not take offence at the truth. How could it horrify him to discover her shock at his visit to Avignon? He made no apology for his allegiance with the anti-pope.

  This was England.

  Clement was the French pope, known for his avarice and duplicity. And the king of France was again rumoured to be massing forces on the other side of the Channel ready to invade. The mother house of the Abbey of Meaux, what’s more, was itself French. By putting a detour to Avignon above his immediate return to Meaux he had clearly shown where his loyalty lay.

  How could Hubert defend that? It must be true what the prioress had hinted: He was in the pay of France. He was a spy.

  Miserably she watched the plays from the street until the sun was nothing but a burning disk overhead.

  * * *

  Still no sign of the mage. Above the rooves the sky acquired a molten look. A strange light tinted with copper the underbelly of a single large cloud.

  During the next half-dozen plays the cloud expanded and darkened and dropped lower. A deceptive breeze suddenly sprang up. It refreshed the air for a moment and then abated. The banners looped from balcony to balcony across the street had fluttered briefly to life and now fell still once more. People took off their straw hats and used them as fans then replaced them for fear of sunstroke. An enterprising gardener brought out sheaves of rhubarb leaves and sold them for a farthing each. The water-sellers did a roaring trade.

  Hildegard realised that she could be sitting in more comfort under the awning with the de Huttons—the old friends Hubert had referred to in such a scathing manner—so, heavy-hearted, with no idea whether the rumour of explosion was to be trusted or not, and with a headache just beginning, she made her way back across the river to Micklegate.

  * * *

  The sequence of plays was continuing as she took her place on the stand. Petronilla turned to her in excitement. “You’ve just missed the glaziers’ play, sister. That beautiful man you know called Gilbert was the Archangel Michael. He was magnificent even though they hardly allowed him to speak more than a couple of lines. I am so enamoured of him.”

  Melisen broke in. “Don’t be such a ridiculous child. He must be at least twenty-six, even older than I am!”

  Hildegard scarcely heard them chatter on. She was wondering if Danby had told Ulf of his suspicions regarding Gilbert.

  As far as she understood him, he and Stapylton had merely agreed to mention the apprentices in general. There was the performance to consider, the humiliation of failing to provide a play to the necessary standard and the severe fine if they failed. No doubt Danby felt that as long as he could keep an eye on his journeyman, retribution could wait and the honour of the guild be maintained.

  It was impossible to believe that Gilbert had planned to set an explosive in the crowd. Poor Danby, she thought. He looks on Gilbert as his son.

  Unable to sit still she got up with a muttered explanation saying that she needed something for her headache and, trailing back towards Harpham’s, had just reached the gates into the courtyard when a stranger stepped from out of the porter’s lodge and planted himself directly in her path.

  “Sister Hildegard?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I do. May we go inside?” He gestured for her to precede him into the lodge.

  Inside she turned to give him a long look. He was an angular sort of fellow, tall and stooped, his face parchment-coloured and grooved with worry lines running vertically down his forehead as well as on both sides of his mouth.

  Jostling at his side were four little girls, ranging in age from around five to twelve or so. They were prettily if shabbily dressed and the man himself, their father perhaps, had on a worn tunic over darned brown hose.

  He said to her, “I believe you have custody of my daughter.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  She stared. “Your daughter?”

  His glance was eager as if she held the key to all his future happiness. “I’ve just come from Swyne. The prioress there told me you brought her to York for safety? I mean my little Petronilla.”

  “She’s safe and well,” Hildegard told him evenly. “If you would like to see her, come with me.”

  “Hear that, girls, I think we’ve found her!” he exclaimed.

  The children were standing in a chain of clasped hands and the smallest, a tousled moppet, anchored this little chain to their father’s sleeve with a firm grip of her chubby fingers. The chain broke at these words, however, and the little girls surged round him so that he was suddenly knee-deep in a sea of piping children.

  In one swoop Hildegard grasped the entire picture. “It’s not far,” she reassured him. “Follow me.”

  They practically had to fight their way through the crowds towards the stand.

  Despite the evident delight of the little family it didn’t stop Hildegard from briefly wondering if he had been sent to kidnap Petronilla just as the knight had tried to kidnap Maud, but she led the way to the pageant stand anyway. It was reassuring to note that there were plenty of guards around.

  When she reached the steps she said, “If you wait here I’ll go up and fetch her.”

  Petronilla was leaning on the railing, her glance fixed avidly on another play. She was accompanied by Maud and one or two personal servants. Lady Melisen was lying back with her eyes half-closed and seemed to find the heat even under the canopy too much to bear. Lord Roger was asleep.

  Hildegard called over. “May I borrow Petronilla for a moment, my lady?”

  “Oh do! They never stop chattering and I’m too hot to care about anything just now.” Melisen fanned herself with the edge of her veil. “We’re all about to decamp to Harpham’s to refresh ourselves. I’ll be delighted when the storm breaks. This weather is intolerable.” She stretched out a languid arm. “Run along, Petronilla, do as you’re told.”

  The girl got up and fo
llowed Hildegard down the steps. Hildegard was in front and temporarily blocked the view of the people below. When she reached the bottom she stepped to one side.

  There was a gasp from the top of the steps. “Father!”

  “My little chick! My beauty! My little dove!” The stranger climbed swiftly up the steps to sweep her into his arms. He carried her down then twirled her round in a flurry of skirts before setting her on her feet again.

  Then he stepped back and tried to adopt a stern look that didn’t quite convince. “My angel, why did you run away without telling anyone where you were going?” he asked in hangdog tones.

  “I didn’t think anybody would notice,” Petronilla replied, giving him a wary glance from beneath her lashes.

  “We’ve been out of our minds, pippin! Your sisters have been crying their eyes out ever since you ran away. Isn’t that so, girls?” As at a sign the children gave little squeals of delight and threw themselves all over their sister.

  Melisen appeared at the top of the steps. “What on earth’s going on?”

  “This is Petronilla’s father,” Hildegard announced. She stepped out of the way.

  Melisen slowly descended the steps. When she reached the bottom her glance was on the stranger but then it fixed on Petronilla “Your father?”

  Petronilla stared at the ground.

  “You told me you were an orphan. You told me your guardian was a wicked fellow who had tried to marry you off to an old man. You told me … you told me a pack of lies, madam!” Melisen’s voice had risen.

  Petronilla began to cry.

  Melisen was unimpressed. She used tears to good effect herself and was not moved by others adopting the same ploy. “So you are not an orphan! Your inheritance has not been squandered by a profligate uncle! May I ask, has anything you told us been true in the slightest degree?”

  “Everything was true,” blubbed Petronilla, “except where I came from and why. That was the only lie.”