The long grass in the orchard was crisp with frost. The falconer must have been confounded by the weather because the clouds had been driven back out to sea and sunlight shimmered over the crooked shapes of the wintering trees. At the lowest end they were half-hidden under a gauze of mist. It seemed impossible to believe in rain on such a day.
‘How fine it is out here,’ murmured Hildegard. ‘I can understand why Aelwyn saw it as a private place for contemplation. There at his back is the abbey.’ She turned to look up the slope. ‘His home since childhood and his security, and down here in the orchard something free, natural and beautiful, bringing him close to reverence by a different path. I wish we had had the chance to know him.’
In silence Egbert lifted the beam from across the door. The two guards, sitting at a distance, barely glanced up after they registered their arrival. They looked bored and ill-tempered, one whistling through his teeth while he threw pebbles at an irregular turf of grass, the other whittling a piece of wood into a rough animal shape with his eating knife.
As Hildegard entered the store she noticed how fresh the air was now the blockages had been removed. Nothing else had changed. The earthen floor was scuffed where the body had been removed. Many feet had trampled about near the doorway. Deep inside, ranged along the length of the building, rows of apples waited to be collected for the kitchens.
Turning, she noticed that something else had not changed – the six apples chosen by Aelwyn and placed in a row where his hand had lain. ‘They’re still there,’ she remarked to the others.
‘Nobody would want to scrump apples in a dead house.’ Egbert stood looking down at them. ‘The kitchener was complaining that his great piece of culinary art is now out of favour. People won’t go near it. He’s going to have to invent something new that doesn’t involve apples.’
Gregory stood looking out through the door to where their footprints had left a trail of darker coloured grass as the frost melted under their tread.
Hildegard glanced at the apples then walked slowly along the shelves built from floor to eye level where the remainder rested on slats of wood. When she came to a space in the rows she stopped. This must be where Aelwyn had made his choice. There was not enough room for six; enough, maybe, for two. Close by was another space and, above that, room for the rest of the apples.
Sunlight streaked in through the gap between the stone blocks. It lit up the slats at eye level. The separate fruit ranged there shone in colours of russet, amber, ruby, and jade, brought to glowing light, like jewels in a crown, in the final flaring of their beauty. She peered more closely at a glimpse of gold, noticing a fine thread shining in the shaft of light. When she moved her head it vanished into shadow. She edged out of her own light and, free of shadows, the thread glinted again, as frail as air.
Carefully she felt around in her scrip for something to put the thread in. Then, holding her breath so the air around it was not disturbed, she pulled the thread from between the grains of wood where it was trapped and held it up.
‘What have you got there?’ Gregory asked from behind her.
‘It looks like a piece of gold thread.’
With her free hand, she passed him a small glass phial used for seed-collecting and asked him to remove the linen stopper from it. He held it steady while she inserted the thread and replaced the stopper.
‘Look at this, Egbert.’ Gregory indicated the phial Hildegard was holding up. ‘What do you make of that?’
As was their right as guests, the monks were free to enter the guest house and the Cistercians made use of this privilege by returning with Hildegard to find a private place in the hall where they could discuss their find.
‘Clearly no monastic in rough woollen garments could leave such a betraying thread.’
Hildegard gave Egbert a quick glance. ‘That’s true …’
He raised his eyebrows but she didn’t explain. ‘Who else has access to the store? Surely only servants, kitcheners, and an occasional helpful and apple-loving monk like Aelwyn?’
‘That’s what we’re told.’
The two monks had no suggestions to make and they looked up expectantly when the great doors opened and someone entered.
‘That’s Sister Aveline,’ Hildegard murmured.
The nun, in plain black wool, was sharp-eyed. She at once spotted the two tonsured monks and, despite their dark worsted cloaks and the alien robes of unbleached stamyn their cloaks only partly concealed, she came over and spent a moment or two in pleasantries before setting off in the direction of her chamber.
Darius soon followed. He was sweating and red-faced when he strode in. For one so young he was, judged Hildegard, too irascible. Why was he always so agitated? It cannot surely have been anything to do with pressure from his father who, on the whole, seemed a genial, easy-going sort, interested only in enjoying his young wife’s company to the full in this season of pre-Lenten festivity.
Gregory noticed him at once and called over. ‘Out with the hounds today, my lord?’
Darius, creaking in cuir bouilli, came over. ‘Not much chance of that, brother. The guests are too slothful and full of Christmas cheer to stir themselves. Too many sore heads around after last night’s entertainment to join me! I thought to take my father’s horse out for exercise but it was already out. Instead I took my hawk up to the fish pond to see what we could raise.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not much.’
‘If it’s any solace, for our entertainment we were forced to our knees on the stone floor of the church most of the night, praying for your sins.’ Before Darius could think up a riposte, Gregory added, ‘I hear the town band were up here. Any good?’
‘Passable.’ Darius took this as an invitation to join them. He flung one leather-clad leg over the bench opposite Hildegard and gave her a nod in greeting. ‘The variety of guests is somewhat restricted this year – apologies, domina. I mean there are few laity here. I’m having to amuse myself in the town most of the time.’
‘I understand the Pope’s men do the same,’ she rejoined.
Darius laughed. ‘They can afford to, the amount of tax they gather for His Holiness. The bursar reeled off the figures for me. It’s astonishing that the abbey has anything left.’
‘So the supporters of King Richard would say,’ agreed Gregory. ‘The Court is down to its last shilling, to hear them talk. Or so we are given to understand,’ he added, with a flash of humility. ‘We poor monks must be keeping Rome afloat with the amount of taxes the Pope extracts from our flocks. What line are you in yourself?’ He put the question casually, as man to man.
‘My father is lord of several manors up near Berwick,’ Darius admitted. ‘The greater part of our income comes from our farms, but I’d prefer to go into wool, as you do. I don’t like the idea of dependence on one source. Father does not agree with me.’ He hesitated but then decided not to continue.
‘Are you much bothered by the Scots invasions?’ asked Egbert, coming to life. ‘I hear there was a bit of a skirmish last summer.’
Darius’s face turned to stone. ‘They waste our crops, steal our sheep, burn our vills. I wish them in Hell.’
‘Surely the Earl of Northumberland is a stout protector?’
‘Of his own!’ Darius shifted angrily, soon roused again, Hildegard observed. ‘It’s a question of defending ourselves and to hell with the latest Marcher Lord or bowing before the reivers. We’ll only be free from attack when we’re adequately armed. Northumberland can raise an army when he wants but he only wants when it suits his own interests. We small men need to form our own defence. And I don’t mean by getting into endless treaties, broken as soon as sealed. I mean by the use of hard steel.’
‘Wielded by private armies? Mercenaries? Beyond the usual levies?’
‘Definitely, despite the barons. They’d have apoplexy if they knew what we were planning once Percy’s ransom has been paid.’ Darius gave a humourless smile. ‘You must have noticed even here in Whitby that the monks believe they have to use armed force to protect their interests? A poor lot their muster turned out to be! Were you down there yesterday?’
Both monks shook their heads. ‘What happened?’ asked Gregory, although he very well knew.
‘A gang of cut-throat fishermen consider themselves robbed of a valuable liberty and refuse to pay their dues. The bursar sent down half a dozen men with broadswords to persuade them otherwise. It turned into a rout. The whole town supported their own men and chased the abbey guards back up the cliff. Of course,’ he added, ‘they won’t get away with it for long. The bursar and his friends will make sure of that.’
‘They want what’s theirs?’ commented Gregory dryly.
‘Indeed they do.’
He got up. ‘Interesting talking to you, brothers. I’ve always had a regard for Cistercians. You seem to know what you’re about. Maybe we can exchange ideas sometime on how best to protect our wealth? I understand you run things to your great advantage down in the East Riding.’
‘We endeavour to run things to the advantage of all,’ Egbert corrected with a genial smile to soften his words.
Darius was impervious to nuance. ‘I expect the way you put the fear of God and hellfire into your tenants is enough to keep them tame. I wish I could do the same with mine, the godless losels.’ Almost smiling, he went through into the kitchen, calling out for a flagon of wine to be sent up to Sir Ranulph’s solar.
‘Do you have a solar, Hildegard?’ Gregory teased.
‘Sot-wit! Do you imagine so? I’m lucky to have a small sleeping chamber to myself. I wouldn’t know what to do with a solar.’
‘I expect that young fellow could teach you. Does he not have a wife?’
‘It appears not. And I’m not sure he’s in the market for a wife at present. His interests seem to lie closer to home than his father might relish.’
Gregory lowered his head. ‘Those two fellows in black who came in while we were sporting with young Darius—’
‘They’re the Pope’s men he was referring to.’
‘Soberly attired in plain velvet.’
Egbert sighed. ‘Not a thread of gold in the entire place,’ he concluded, summing up the purpose of their visit.
‘Are we reduced to inspecting the wardrobe of the lady Amabel to find our gold thread?’ Gregory asked Hildegard as they walked across the garth towards the church some time later.
‘I doubt whether she had any quarrel with Brother Aelwyn!’
They reached the west door. ‘Is this where you leave us?’
She rested her hand on the latch. ‘Amabel is usually at one Office or another. If she’s there now, Greg, I’ll save you the inconvenience of going through her under shifts by making an inventory of every garment she’s wearing.’
Gregory slanted her a smile as he left. Not for the first time Hildegard registered with surprise how good-looking he was in a haunted, world-weary way that touched her heart. His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds of seriousness and was both disarming and dangerous. But then Egbert, bluff and foursquare, stalwart in his integrity and loyalty to those to whom he felt he owed allegiance, was attractive for that very sense of moral strength, and was all male, despite his spiritual calling.
With a shock she realized that she would probably be expected to confess such wayward thoughts – but she had not seen Luke, who had to listen to her catalogue of sins, for some time. Dear Luke. No-one had mentioned him.
‘Where is Luke?’ she called after them now.
‘Where do you think?’ Egbert looked disgusted when he turned back for a moment.
‘Our dear brother is engaged in physical labour on behalf of the widow Sabine,’ Gregory called as he too turned.
‘“The poor girl must have somewhere to live other than down that wretched alley,” says he.’ Egbert shook his head in wonder. ‘I applaud his compassion but not his judgement.’
They parted, finally, the monks to their privileged position behind the screen in the choir, Hildegard to her more ignominious place with the laity.
The nave at the west end.
Master Buckingham’s unfinished building works were much in evidence. His men had done their best to give as little inconvenience as possible to the worshippers when they knocked off. Scaffolding was erected against the west wall where the roof was awaiting completion. It was too distant for Torold to have made any use of during his grand escape attempt.
Now, as everyone waited for the service to begin, a stiff breeze winkled its way under the waxed covers over the highest walkway and was making them flap with a sound like a constant slap in the face. A bucket rolled from one end of the platform to the other. A rope or two worked loose.
People glanced up and edged away from the structure. Someone hurried outside, to return a few moments later with one of the servants who was instructed to uncouple the ladder from where it was tidied away and climb up to secure anything that was not tied down.
He went up like a shot then struggled for some time to catch the end of the flapping waterproof. When he eventually did so, standing on tiptoe, there was subdued applause from the watchers below.
He returned to ground level with a wide grin. Hildegard, standing against the door, heard him say to the man who had called him in, ‘I could have dropped that bucket on the heads of you lot and there’d have been nowt you could do about it!’
‘Good job you didn’t with Master standing by.’ They both glanced furtively at a tall, broad-featured fellow in an ochre capuchon with a fur slung over one shoulder before they snuck outside.
Master? So that’s Master Buckingham, Hildegard surmised. Chief figure in the Guild of Masons, he was renowned throughout the county for his building works and Whitby Abbey was the latest venture to add to his fame.
Commissioned to build extra bays, his major innovation was the style of the windows, slender perpendiculars, and the massive columns that held up the extension to the roof. Although work had started with an energetic flourish, it had stalled somewhat of late due to an argument about payment.
‘I want paying on the nail,’ Buckingham was supposed to have said. ‘My men can’t live on fresh air and promises. They have mouths to feed.’
Now it looked as if he was back and prepared to continue the work he had begun. Someone must have paid him, Hildegard decided, because he did not look like a man who would concede anything once he had made up his mind. From past experience, recalling her old acquaintance Master Sueno de Schockwynde, in charge of building works at Durham, she guessed Buckingham would have a similar desire to keep his builders happy. The times were such that it would always be possible for a man or woman to find work elsewhere if their current conditions did not suit them. She remembered the imager, too, the talented daughter of a master mason and her team of masons making additions to Handale Priory. A close-knit group as she had discovered, as close and secretive and self-protective of the mysteries of their guild as any fraternity of monks. Or nuns, come to that.
The man she assumed to be Master Buckingham looked up as Sir Ranulph entered. It seemed to Hildegard that something passed between them, nothing tangible, a too hurried lowering of the eyes, no more. Sir Ranulph turned his back and went to lean against the opposite wall. After a moment his wife, accompanied by Darius, followed him in, just as the monks on the other side of the screen started the first chant. They went to join Ranulph and Amabel slipped her hand inside one of his sleeves and looked up at him with a little smile.
Hildegard moved closer. It was a jeu d’esprit of Gregory’s to suggest that Amabel might have been inside the apple store, but, loathe to leave any stone unturned, she gave her garments a surreptitious stare. No sign of gold there either.
A whisper in her ear startled her. She turned her head. A stranger was smiling into her eyes, his own a sharp hazel in a healthy brown face. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was tied back in a leather thong. His rough woollen garments showed he was a servant of some kind.
‘Domina? Forgive me for interrupting your prayers but I hear you would like to speak to me about our dearly beloved brother Aelwyn and some related business?’
‘And you are …?’
‘Edred,’ he confirmed. ‘Assistant to our lord bursar, Peter Hertilpole.’
Hildegard eyed him as carefully as he was eyeing her. If she had understood Brother Dunstan aright, this was the fixer between abbey and town for all things non-secular. Whatever his role, so far she approved of what she saw.
He seemed to come to a similar judgement because he whispered, ‘I’m busy until after Compline. Can you meet me then?’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll be in the lane outside the guest house.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’