The Alchemist of Netley Abbey: Eighth in the Hildegard of Meaux medieval mystery series

by Cassandra Clark

  ‘Whatever my little bluebird desires,’ he answered, patting her hand with its cluster of rings.

  She rose to her feet and lifted the mass of red hair tumbling out from underneath her coif from off her neck to cool herself and, catching sight of the ship-owner’s glance, let it fall in a leisurely manner through her fingers to cloak her shoulders in its shimmering and extraordinary colours. ‘The rest of the pilgrims should arrive today, master. How many shall we be?’

  ‘I have five or six on my tally, mistress.’

  ‘So we wait for only one or two more?’

  ‘There is no hurry. The friar tells me the near channel will not be right for us to discharge our cargo until the day before the full moon, then we’ll take a day to scrub the St Marie from top to bottom to make it pleasant for your good selves, then a day to get everyone on board with enough victuals to satisfy the greatest gourmand, and off she goes as the tide lets us. We shall have ample time to get to know one another before then.’ His glance seemed to be dragged unwillingly back towards Delith twirling the string of her bodice, an action at variance with the severity of the plaited coils of her hair and the demure expression under it.

  She’s pretending not to have noticed that look, thought Hildegard sitting unregarded at the end of the row. She wondered who would make the next move in the little dance of attraction and desire that had started on its first uncertain steps. Maybe nothing would come of it. It was only a short time before the moon brought a favourable tide, the ship would sail and the master would be left behind to consider his profit.

  Chapter Four

  The ship in question, the St Marie, was a wooden trading cog, wide-bellied, with a large square sail amidships furled over the yard arm. She lay exposed to the glare of the sun on a winking bed of mirrors with no sign of activity on deck. The crew would be lying below out of the firey heat, Hildegard surmised, from where she herself reclined with Gregory and Egbert on the bank above the beach. Even so it would be stifling down there among the bales of cargo.

  She had crossed the seas in a trading cog much like the St Marie on her way to Tuscany with the minstrel, young Pierrekyn Haverel, the time he had smuggled the little pearl-studded turnshoe and its secret all the way to Florence. His wonderful playing and singing had accompanied them all through Flanders, over the Alps and beyond.

  ‘That’s the one thing missing here – music...if you discount the singing of the monks,’ she said to the other two, lying on the grass beside her.

  It was the dead time before the mid-day Office when usually they would have been busy at their books or about the abbey on some essential work but today the heat-wave had brought the regularity of the usual monastic day to a halt. It was simply too stifling to do more than lie about in the shade and, as Gregory said, there was a limit to the amount of time anybody could be expected to spend in church.

  By common consent they had agreed that the coolest place was under the shade of some trees above the waterfront where a fragile breeze made a leaf tremble now and then.

  ‘Are you both asleep?’ she murmured when there was no response to her idle comment about music.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Gregory, opening one eye. ‘It’s simply too hot to summon up the strength to turn out an answer. I do wonder, though,’ he went on, ‘about these guests here.’

  ‘The invisible Welsh prince?’ Egbert suggested without opening his eyes. ‘Are you sure you didn’t dream his arrival, Hildegard?’

  ‘Maybe I did,’ she agreed, without the strength to argue. ‘Have you spoken to the night porter yet?’

  ‘He was off duty when I went by the gatehouse earlier. I’ll catch up with him later...find out what he can tell us.’

  ‘And what about this ship merchant,’ Gregory continued. ‘He’s surely too big for a small place like this? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He did remark on how out of the way it was, a good place to do business with little competition.’

  Gregory appeared to fall asleep again until he said, ‘Remind me, Egbert, what Abbot Philip said about the goods he’s sending over-seas?’

  With eyes still shut he replied, ‘Apart from pilgrims? He’s sending embroidered cloth...Opus Anglicanum...to some prelates in Rome...worth a king’s ransom. Or at least worth more than its weight in gold.’

  ‘Philip was hinting that it was to fulfil an order for the Pope himself.’

  ‘It may be so. I find Abbot Philip difficult to follow. He’s a nervous sort of fellow for an abbot.’

  ‘New in the job,’ Gregory drew his lips back to reveal his even white teeth in derision. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing what Hubert thinks to him. Of course,’ he added generously, ‘this is a small place, beautiful though it is. They don’t have the resources we have at Meaux. Their wool exports come mainly from others. They’re middle-men without the pasturage we have in the north. They don’t necessarily attract top men to the top jobs.’

  Hildegard liked to hear Gregory talk of ‘we’ – it was many years since he had been at Meaux. He had been there in the time before she joined the order but his loyalty to the place was still intact. Now she said, ‘Surely the top men are the most devout, not the best businessmen?’

  ‘You’ve got a point there – ’ Egbert broke off as if he had been about to name someone they all knew but careful not to impugn Hubert’s piety he added, ‘Nobody wants an abbot who’ll run the place into the ground for want of practical sense.’

  ‘I shall go to sleep if we sit here much longer,’ Hildegard changed the subject. ‘And those two sisters, they’re full of what you’d call practical sense and as for their piety...’

  ‘And the widow...’ Gregory contributed.

  Another drowsy silence followed.

  ‘Well, nothing’s expected of us. We’re guests,’ he eventually continued. ‘At mid-day Egbert and I shall go in and try to make it rain with our voices. That’s really all they expect of us.’

  ‘Yes, Hildegard, make the most of it,’ Egbert agreed. ‘This is the beginning of a long sojourn until Hubert is fit to travel again. Once he’s stumping around on crutches you’ll have your time cut out trying to keep up with him.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you decided to go north without him.’

  ‘I’m expecting him to suggest it.’ Egbert picked a blade of grass and began to chew it. ‘But before any of us leave I’d like to make sure he’s going to be safe.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Gregory. ‘But will he be? I can’t get the measure of the place at all.’

  ‘Arundel’s dark wings hovering over us?’

  Gregory nodded. ‘Maybe it’s to do with the abbey itself? Despite its ethereal beauty – the masons’ work, the painted glass, that wonderful east window – there’s a palpable sense of unease beneath the surface.’

  Egbert agreed. ‘It’s on the front line for invasion, either from France or against France. We should not forget that.’

  ‘The dark secret of allegiance at its heart?’ Hildegard suggested.

  ‘Yes, maybe...spies on both sides? The place is certainly more than it seems,’ Gregory concluded.

  Before they got up to leave at the first summoning of the bell they saw the ship- owner strolling down towards the waterfront. He stood gazing out towards the St Marie as if willing its cargo unloaded, set on its way, and the profit safe in his coffers. A second figure came down and stood at a short distance from him, her face shielded from the glaring sun by a floating veil of some light stuff of pure white. As she stood there on the shingle she wound its diaphanous veils around her head like a nun’s snood giving her a devout and touch-me-not appearance.

  Hildegard sat up on one elbow to watch.

  A voice beside her put her thoughts into words. It was Gregory, following her glance. With a humorous chuckle, he remarked, ‘There goes Mistress Delith with her next mark.’

  Hildegard turned with a startled glance. ‘Do you know her already?’

  ‘Which of us monks do not? She m
ade the calculated mistake of turning into the Chapter House just as we were about to start the day’s business this morning. “Oh do forgive me, my lord abbot,” says she, kneeling at his feet and looking up from under her lashes with soulful eyes. “I was trying to find the refectory.” Abbot Philip was beside himself with pleasure and dispatched one of the lay-brothers to set her on her way at once with his blessing.’

  “Why do you say ‘calculated’?’

  ‘There was more than I’ve just related but you get the gist. Not one of the fifteen brothers who happened to be present did not succumb to the unaccustomed aura of such a vibrantly female presence. Their confessors will be over-worked today.’

  ‘She is very pretty if you like dark-haired women,’

  ‘And she knows it...And glories in it too. That’s the sin.’

  ‘I met her in the refectory. She’s a strange one to be going on pilgrimage with her head so full of vanity.’

  ‘There now, the ship-owner has noticed her and acknowledges her.’

  Egbert sat up. ‘What are you two talking about?’

  ‘Pilgrims, Egbert, and their mixed motives in setting forth to visit the holy shrines of France and Galicia. This particular pilgrim is attempting to lure the ship-owner to his doom before she leaves.’

  Egbert followed his glance. ‘Is this a betting situation because if so I have no inclination to have my debt of penance augmented.’

  ‘Nor do I. It’d be a fool’s game.’

  Egbert watched as Delith moved closer to the ship-owner so that her sleeve brushed his. ‘She already knows he’s wealthy but does she know he’s married?’

  ‘Is he?’ Hildegard wondered about his omission of that fact when he introduced himself earlier.

  ‘His wife is an invalid. She’s being cared for in the infirmary until the ship leaves when she hopes to leave with it to find a saint overseas, stronger than our own, who will restore her health.’

  ‘From what Hubert said the monk in charge gives little for her chances.’ Gregory crossed himself.

  The two standing by the water’s edge began to pace slowly along the shoreline away from the abbey until eventually they came to a stop where a dozen or so small boats were pulled up onto the shingle nearby with a boatman mending a net beside them. Master John went to have a word with him and Mistress Delith followed in his footsteps, chatting all the while.

  Heat haze draped the far bank of Southampton Water where a few trees and a huddle of fishermen’s huts glimmered, a scene far enough distant to have all the enchantment of a promised land. Soon the sun would reach its zenith, forcing a further loosening of garments and, among themselves, an unusual slowness of thought. Hildegard yawned and closed her eyes.

  After a time the frail sound of a bell from inside the abbey wavered into the morning again and this time could not be ignored. ‘That is the bell, isn’t it?’ someone remarked superfluously.

  Gregory rose to his feet with unaccustomed languor. ‘This is like being in Outremer. It’s the first time I’ve felt really warm since I stepped off the ship at Marseilles.’

  Together they ambled back towards the gatehouse. The day porter was still on duty and Egbert, with maybe the thought of ale on his mind, did no more than raise a hand as he stepped past the guard-room door.

  As they entered Cloister Garth a lay-brother Hildegard had noticed fetching and carrying in the infirmary ran up to her. He made a graceful obeisance before speaking with unexpected formality. ‘Domina, your lord abbot wishes audience with you.’

  ‘I’ll come at once. Is anything amiss?’

  ‘Not that I know of, domina.’

  The two monks went on ahead. Said Gregory over his shoulder, ‘We must go in to pray in order to uphold the piety of Meaux among the mysterious denizens at Netley. Let us know if the abbot needs our services.’

  She saw them enter the cool shadow inside the church as she followed the flashing, sturdy legs of the messenger.

  The infirmary, too, was in a deep recess of shadow, cool as water and as silent. Hildegard went to stand over Hubert where he was lying with his leg fixed in its brace.

  When he opened his eyes and saw her smiling down at him, he remarked, ‘Caught as if in a gin trap. You may do with me what you will.’

  ‘I see you only wanted to spoil my rest on the river bank,’ she observed.

  He held out his hand so she could slip her own into his. ‘You were coming in for the mid-day Office I hope and expect?’

  ‘Which you have now made me forfeit.’

  ‘Not at all. You can join them at once. I only want you to visit the magister in his den afterwards to get some more of that knit-bone concoction. I intend to be on my feet as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why did you not send for a servant?’

  ‘Because your face is fairer than any of the lads here and if you must know you are the only medicine I really need. I’m feeling better already, just looking at you.’

  ‘Fair words, my lord.’

  ‘Why do you call me lord when you know I’m your slave?’

  ‘You’ll never be anybody’s slave. But it shall be done. Knit-bone. Anything else?’

  ‘Only your presence if you can spare one moment in your day for me?’

  She smiled. ‘One little moment, maybe, who knows? We’ll have to see.’

  ‘Such cruelty! Go then, and offer a prayer for me if you regard me with an iota of kindness.’

  As their handclasp was released she noticed a cubicle with a screen across it at the far end of the infirmary. ‘Is someone in serious straits?’ she asked him, indicating the screen.

  ‘She’s the wife of the ship-owner. I fear she’s in need of all the prayers she can get.’

  ‘Brother Egbert mentioned her and how seriously sick she is, poor woman.’

  ‘You might sit with her awhile when you come back?’

  ‘Of course, if she’d like that. Can you spare me?’ she teased.

  He was serious when he said, ‘I believe her need is far greater than mine.’

  When Hildegard reached the church, the monks, indistinguishable from each other, were still filing in. A choir of boys was singing. It was a sweet sound and while everyone was mumbling through their prayers she waited in expectation to hear their voices again.

  Her hope was rewarded and Gregory, whose voice was not as bad as he made out, was audible behind the screen in its familiar resonant bass. To her joy, a tenor among the guests standing at the back began to sing. At first he merely allowed his voice to underpin those round him but then, as if the effort to keep it caged was too much, he allowed it to take flight and like a released bird it soared above the rest with such overwhelming beauty Hildegard turned her head to see who it was.

  A stranger stood at the back, a tallish, thick-set man in his late twenties with reddish-brown hair in a military trim. He was plainly dressed as if not wishing to draw attention to himself but was thwarted, now, by the natural glory of his voice. He stood as if beatified as the music carried him along.

  As the last note died he knelt swiftly and bowed his head in a sort of apology for drawing attention to his singularity – or, maybe, as if a great sorrow was bearing down on him. Both hands were clenched in prayer. He stayed like that until everyone had left and not until the last footsteps faded did he lift his head to look about. His glance collided with Hildegard’s before she could avert her astonished face. It was like a deluge of cold water. She felt her mouth open in astonishment at such an unexpected clash. With brutal speed he rose to his feet and walked out with a strong, athletic and military stride.

  Hildegard stared after him in some fear. Was this Glyn Dwr himself? Everything about him fitted with what she already knew of him. And if this was the man Friar Hywel had met at the gate house, was he, too, one of Arundel’s men?

  Full of alarm she went to the door of the church and looked out onto the garth. The stranger was already striding into the cloisters and looking neither to right nor left until he disappeared t
hrough a door at the far end. Should she follow him? No, that would only alert him to their presence. How could she find out for certain who he was and what the friar’s connection was?

  In order to fulfil her errand on Hubert’s behalf she would have to speak to the friar anyway. He would no doubt be found in his small lean-to drying shed in the herb garden. She set off across the garth.

  After what seemed like an almost bruising encounter in the church it was a relief to push open the gate into the sunlit enclosure and stand for a moment to collect herself. She breathed in the heady perfume of a hundred different herbs.

  When she felt steadier, she walked cautiously down a south-facing slope between the friar’s well-tended beds, mostly now in full flower. There was no-one around.

  It must have been Glyn Dwr, she told herself as she hesitated on the path. That military walk. The look of authority in his glance. Hostility, even. But, if it were so, what was he doing here unaccompanied by any of his men? Clearly he did not want to be recognized. That hair though! It was a give-away. From what she had heard of him, he was not dark like a Welsh man, but auburn, with hair almost like Bolingbroke’s reddish brown crop. It had to be Glyn Dwr. She lingered until she heard voices further down the garden. When she made her way towards the sound she discovered that it was the friar and his apprentice and they were in the midst of a fierce argument. She hesitated. Was it sensible to break in on it?

  Before she could make up her mind she heard the friar shout, ‘You Saxon sot-wit, Jankin! Get out of my way or I’ll wring your neck!’

  Rounding a hedge she saw Jankin higher up the garden, in full view and close enough to see his blue eyes flash like polished stones as he glared down at someone on the other side of the hedge.

  Red-faced he shouted back, ‘I am Saxon! Yes! I can’t help that! Nor can you help being a witless Welshman!’

  Hywel came into view and she saw him throw his head back, outraged, with incipient violence in the gesture. ‘You insolent young devil! I’m your master. I could have you whipped for that! Haven’t your women folk told you not to speak to your masters like that?’