Chapter Seventeen

Hildegard offered to do a few chores although, in truth, there was little that needed to be done in the widow’s small, spotless home. She lived, neat and tidy, in the tranquillity of her widowhood and barely left a trace of herself.

After sweeping an already clean chamber, and with the problem of the missing cross nagging at her without respite, Hildegard told Widow Roberts she was going round the corner to St. Helen’s church to sit in quiet contemplation for a while.

In a few minutes she had found a place against the back wall just inside the doorway.

Grey pillars down the short nave. Yellow sunlight. Incense. A glint of gold on the altar. Light in many colours spattering the tiled floor.

She closed her eyes. It was as cool as spring water in here. The day was the hottest yet. It multiplied the flies attracted to the street by the food stalls. They flew in through the open door before being attracted back to the heat and the smell of sizzling meats outside. Gradually the silence took over.

She sat for some time. When she eventually opened her eyes there were as many unanswered questions as when she had closed them.

The place had been filling up. She gave the newcomers a cursory glance. Some rich apparel was on show.

A couple standing off to one side of the altar at the front were particularly well turned out. They did not greet anyone but stood as strangers, the woman stern-faced, wearing a white wimple, a large silver brooch pinning it tightly under her chin. Her escort was soberly dressed but the quality of his garments could not be disguised. Grey silk of the best. An under-tunic of deep purple, its sleeves slashed to reveal a crimson lining. The woman was also dressed in grey with an embroidered over-mantle in a pale, light weave suitable for hot weather.

The rest of the congregation looked plain beside them, although, if they were members of the Glaziers’ Guild, they would be comfortably off these days. The man gave the woman beside him a quick glance, then, noticing that her eyes were closed, turned and cast a look over the people standing in the nave. Then he turned and gave his full attention to the priest.

Hildegard shifted her attention to the stained glass in the east window glowing with blue, gold and scarlet. The priest stepped into the flood of coloured light and began to intone the liturgy in rapid Latin. An altar boy swung a heavy censer whose fumes had the unfortunate effect of reminding Hildegard of the smoke billowing from the remains of the booth yesterday afternoon. She forced herself to think of life as something eternal and to consider what the priest intended with his large claims about the truth.

There was no one from Master Danby’s workshop present.

Unable to give the ritual proper attention she got up and slipped outside, leaving the drone of Latin and the scent of incense with a feeling of relief.

Brother Thomas was at that moment walking along the street. “I was coming to find you. Widow Roberts said you’d gone to St. Helen’s.” His sharp eyes examined her expression. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t sit there, knowing that that poor man is probably dying in St. Leonard’s. That Maud is still suffering. Those armed men are still at large. And that the cross is missing and we’re nowhere near finding who stole it.” She gave him a close look. “How’s your head? I forgot to ask in all the turmoil yesterday.”

“It’s not so bad. Your bruise seems to have gone down.”

“Arnica. I needed it after hitting that Sister Michael in the face.”

They walked across the road to the place where the booths were once again doing brisk business as if nothing had happened. They were without awnings now and the stock was somewhat charred but there were plenty of buyers jostling to make their purchases at a discount. The place where the fire had broken out had been cleared and now a woman stood there, offering fortunes for a groat.

“She’s got her predictions wrong. She should have been here yesterday morning,” Thomas said with a grimace. Just then a scuffle broke out. The first they knew about it was when there were angry shouts and a few encouraging cheers from a group of men standing nearby.

The crowd scattered to make room then quickly re-formed around two apprentices. Thomas went over and Hildegard followed. When they reached the group they saw two lads squaring up to each other. It was no brief skirmish but was turning into a vicious bare-knuckle fight. Both had bloody noses already and the crowd began to cheer every time one of them landed a punch.

Thomas shouldered his way through the onlookers and dragged both boys apart by the scruff of their necks. “Pack it in. Admit your differences and shake hands on it like gentlemen.”

He was tall, strong and spoke with an urgent authority that made both boys fall silent in surprise. “Come on, now.” He shook them both. “I haven’t all day.”

One of the boys broke free. With blood streaming down his face he gave the monk a glare. “I will never, ever shake that traitor by the hand!” With that he pushed his way through the crowd and ran off.

Thwarted of entertainment, the onlookers began to disperse.

“You don’t need to ask what that was about,” one of the idlers said to Thomas. “Drunken brawling. That’s what. It’s them apprentices. They can’t take their drink these days.”

“To be fair,” said Thomas, “they seemed sober enough. Just drunk on a difference of opinion.”

The boy who remained snuffled through his bloody nose and slunk away without looking back. The crowd had melted away as quickly as it had formed. Thomas rubbed his hands on his sleeves. “What were we saying?”

Hildegard gave him a soft smile. Hubert would have done exactly the same as that. She touched his arm. “We weren’t saying anything. Come and have a beaker of wine at Widow Roberts’s. That is if you youngsters can hold your drink.”

*   *   *

“It’s like this,” she began in an undertone when they were sitting in the shade of the eaves outside the house with a beaker each of Rhenish, “whoever stole the cross may not understand its true significance. They may be willing to settle for a ransom.”

Thomas looked unconvinced.

“First we need to find out if it really is something to do with the Company of the White Hart, although what their purpose could be I have no idea.”

“And if, on the other hand, the thief is Bolingbroke?”

“We’re done for.” She gave a wry laugh. “Let’s try one avenue at a time. We need to talk to the rebels.”

Thomas gasped. “What, talk to them here in the town?”

She shook her head. “No. To the ones living outside.”

“Outside the law, you mean?” He looked astonished.

“There must be someone who can put us in touch with them.”

She could see Gilbert in the workshop across the yard. He had finished whitewashing the surface of the large trestle and now appeared to be marking a drawing out on it. He was absorbed in his work.

Thomas idly followed her glance then his jaw dropped. “You mean the journeyman? Are you serious? Do you think he’s a sympathiser?”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

*   *   *

Thomas had asked what she would say to Gilbert and she had told him that she would think of something. She had to do it when she was sure he was going to be alone. Danby, as a guildmaster, couldn’t be expected to condone anything illegal, but Gilbert would consort with other journeymen and apprentices and must be aware of the avenues by which they could be contacted.

Danby went indoors just before Thomas left for nones and had been inside ever since. She could see him talking to Gilbert, their heads close together as they discussed something.

Before he left Thomas had said, “These friars are rare boys. You wouldn’t believe some of the tricks they get up to. Pity they don’t know anything useful.” Then he said, “Do you want me to come back later?”

She told him she would come out to meet him at the friary after she had spoken to Gilbert. She didn’t know how long it would take to find an opportunity.

Now it was evening. Widow Roberts had cooked a tasty pie and with one eye on the workshop, Hildegard had eaten it quickly and later rinsed their bowls out then offered to fill the water bucket at the well.

While she was outside she saw Danby and Dorelia come out and sit on the bench against their wall to catch the last rays of the sun. It was pleasant now the heat had gone out of it.

After a casual exchange or two, Hildegard went back into the house. To add to her impatience they went on sitting outside until it was twilight. Gilbert could be seen in the workshop by the light of a tallow and continued to work until Danby went in and ticked him off. The candle went out.

Danby came outside with a cresset, which he placed in a bracket on the wall. He put his arms round Dorelia’s waist. She leaned back against him but her eyes were wide open. They eventually went indoors. After a moment a candle illuminated an upper chamber with a diffuse golden glow.

Gilbert came to the door of the workshop and stretched. Baldwin stumbled back, evidently from the tavern, and went inside his own house at the top of the yard. As soon as she was sure Gilbert was alone Hildegard hurried out.

“If you please, a word in private.”

He glanced at her with surprise.

In a voice kept low so as not to be overheard, she said, “We were talking about certain things the other day concerning the White Hart brotherhood. Everybody knows some of them have to live outside the law due to circumstances beyond their control. I would like to talk with them. I believe they may be able to help me.”

Gilbert gave her a long stare. His pale eyes seemed transparent, as if they could be seen straight through like a window, but whatever lay in the inner chamber beyond he now kept hidden.

Before he could reply there was a commotion from the direction of the street and a figure strode into the yard followed by a little page. It was the man in grey silk she had noticed in St. Helen’s.

“Master about?” he demanded of Gilbert without any preamble.

“In ’is bed.” Gilbert, it seemed, could be equally curt.

“I bet he is, the lucky devil. I’d be in my bed if I had a wife like that!” He swept across the yard with the page running to keep up. “What about Baldwin? He about?” he called over his shoulder.

Gilbert shrugged. He knew he was because he had just seen him come in from the tavern.

The newcomer banged on Baldwin’s door. “It’s Gisburne!” he shouted. “Open up!”

A shutter flew open. “Oh, it’s you, John. Come inside,” said Julitta’s voice, all syrupy and welcoming.

“That’s Gisburne?” asked Hildegard in astonishment.

Gilbert nodded. “Know him?”

“I do not. Nor would I like to from what I’ve heard. Didn’t he try to intimidate Mayor de Quixlay’s supporters with threats of violence a few years back?”

Gilbert made no reply.

After Gisburne had entered the house she stared for a moment at the closed door. Baldwin’s argument with Danby earlier that day had taken on a different hue. She moved closer to Gilbert so that she could not be overheard. “About what I asked just now. Can you help?”

He shook his head. “What do you imagine I can do?” He turned abruptly and went back inside.

So had she got him wrong? It was late now and with no other plan in mind she made her way upstairs to bed. She had not been in it more than a moment or two when she heard Gisburne making his way noisily across the yard again in the direction of the street.

After that everything fell silent. Later came the distant sound of a bell. It was the deep bass bell from the minster, the sound enlarging then decaying and moving into silence. As the last reverberations faded she heard something else. It was the groan of a door being opened in stealth.

On bare feet she hurried to the window. It was the door opposite. Danby’s bald head gleamed briefly in the suddenly quenched light of a candle before he pulled up his hood. He was quickly followed by Gilbert, bright hair visible until he covered his too. Together the men crept out of the yard towards the street.

As soon as they reached the passage the door to Baldwin’s house opened and a figure slipped out. It wasn’t Julitta. It was Baldwin again. He moved carefully across the yard in the steps of his brother and the journeyman.

Hildegard dragged on her boots and ran lightly down the stairs. She had noticed a dark cloak hanging on the back of the kitchen door and now she pulled it on over her white shift and hastened out into the night. When she reached the corner of the alley she glanced quickly both ways, caught sight of the dark figure of Baldwin and followed after. Farther up she could see the two others and beyond them three or four constables carrying flares.

Danby stopped to have a word with them. In the silence of the shuttered street his words carried clearly. “All quiet, lads?”

They made some comment, wished him good night and continued up the street, checking doors and peering into crannies as they went.

Danby and his journeyman turned off in the direction of the bridge. Baldwin slipped out of the shadow of a doorway, muttered a “God be wi’ ye” to the constables from under his hood and followed them. He made no attempt to catch up. Instead he kept close to the walls of the buildings with his head down. It was obvious he did not want them to know he was trailing them.

They crossed the bridge. The two ahead paused for a moment on the other side as if conferring, then they turned left along the lane that led towards the convent of the Sacred Wounds. Hildegard felt her throat constrict. The last thing she wanted was to be noticed by anyone from there. To her relief the two men turned almost at once onto a side street.

Baldwin was still shadowing them. He too disappeared into the street. Hildegard hurried to catch up.

When she turned the corner she realised they were heading into the stews. It looked as if Master Danby and his journeyman had merely come out to spend a few hours among the whores. She had to admit she was surprised. It made Danby’s vaunted adoration of his young wife look like a sham. And as for Gilbert, well, he was young, probably unable to find a girl of his own anyway, and yet she felt oddly disappointed to think that their night excursion had come to nothing more than this.

They were still plodding on, however, Baldwin slipping after them like a wraith. She saw them reach an intersection where the crossing lane led into a warren of lighted alleys with many girls standing round open doors, waiting for trade. Hildegard pulled the hood of the dark cloak further over her face and crossed the street.

Danby and Gilbert were now walking up the slope on the other side, right past the lines of girls. The road ran up parallel with Micklegate and followed the same incline towards the city walls. Gilbert, she noticed, was limping more than ever and Danby kept slowing his pace so as not to be seen walking ahead.

Baldwin reached the intersection. As he did so one of the women standing in a doorway called to someone over her shoulder. A man appeared behind her. He came out onto the street and called out, “You after your money already, Baldwin?”

“Not tonight.” Baldwin was curt and clearly annoyed. “Get away now. Get back inside.”

He went on up the hill. Hildegard was aware of interested glances as she approached but she kept her head down and walked on as if with some independent purpose of her own. Danby and Gilbert were going along more slowly as the hill began to tax their energies. Baldwin slowed to match his pace to theirs.

Eventually they came out at the top near the wall of the French priory. There was an open space next to the walls with one or two trees dotted around and several wooden structures, unlit, and apparently deserted. Staying out of sight, Hildegard waited to see what would happen next.

Danby cast a brief glance round about but failed to notice Baldwin who had retreated behind a tree. He didn’t give a single glance into the deep shadow of the building where Hildegard was standing. Without a word he pushed open a door into what looked like a storage shed and stepped inside. Gilbert followed.

After a moment Baldwin emerged from behind the tree and stood looking up at the building. It remained in darkness. After a few moments and with a muttered oath he turned and walked hurriedly away.

When she was sure he wasn’t coming back Hildegard went over to the door and tried to peer through the gaps in the planks but there was no light inside and she could see nothing but unbroken darkness within.

She pushed the door. It was unlocked. Wondering if she was being foolhardy she pressed her shoulder against it and cautiously pushed it open. Still nothing.

She slipped inside. It took a moment to get used to the darkness. A single splinter of light from the floor above sifted through the gloom enough to show that she was in the store where the pageant wagons were kept. Lurid shapes leaped into sight: scenery, stage equipment, ropes and pulleys strung from the beams as hoists. They loomed on all sides with a mysterious menace, half alive in the darkness.

To one side she could make out some wooden stairs leading up to a trapdoor. It was from the upper floor that the faint murmur of voices came. It must be a pageant meeting, she hazarded.

But then why had Baldwin bothered to go to the trouble of shadowing his brother like that? It was obvious he expected to discover something else, as she herself had.

She moved deeper into the warehouse. There was nothing here to give rise to suspicion. Sinister as it looked at first glance it was really only a collection of paper sets and gaudy effects. There were flames painted on a screen, laughably unrealistic when she looked closer. The more she stared, however, the more they seemed to take on a mysterious power of their own.

She was about to turn and feel her way back towards the door when the trapdoor was suddenly lifted, letting down a powerful beam of light beneath it. She froze, concealed behind the painted canvas. A man’s legs appeared followed by the edge of a cloak and the rest of a thickset body. He was saying something to the men in the room above as he descended. He was quickly followed by Danby and after him, Gilbert, awkwardly swinging his lame leg and refusing help. The three of them stood at the bottom of the ladder waiting for a fourth man to descend.

Hildegard kept quite still behind the scenery and held her breath.

They weren’t discussing pageant matters. That was obvious. The first man was trying to convince Danby of something.

“He won’t,” he was saying. “He won’t do it. I’ll wager you half a noble if he does.”

Wedged in among the canvas flames she made sure she had a view of the ladder, then waited with pounding heart. They were looking up impatiently to the roof space and the first man called up. A deep voice responded.

“Patience, fellow. I need to make sure I’ve got everything.” Then a foot in a worn leather boot felt around for the top rung of the ladder and the man began a cautious descent.

When he stood firmly on the ground with the others he gave a laugh. “You forget, I’m not used to physical activity like you lads.”

Hildegard gaped. At first she thought it was the preacher she had seen yesterday in Stonegate before the fire broke out in the booths.

Her glance sharpened when he pushed back his hood. In the fall of light from above, she saw fine-boned, saintly looking features, but instead of a tonsure like the preacher she had seen yesterday, his hair was thick and dark and fell untidily to his shoulders.

Yet he wore the russet gown of a Wycliffe man.

The others were treating him with an attitude bordering on deference. The first to descend the ladder now claimed the privilege of carrying his bag and heaved the strap over his shoulders.

Danby put a comradely hand on the preacher’s arm as if to reassure him and Hildegard heard him distinctly when he said, “The silly young devil should have asked her what she was after—”

“I didn’t know how,” Gilbert broke in. “I thought it best to keep my trap shut.”

“He did well,” the preacher said. “You have my gratitude. Let’s go.” For all his bookish looks the man was decisive. The others were quick to follow his lead. They went towards the door.

If Simon de Quixlay welcomes the barefoot preachers, against the will of the Duke of Lancaster but by the will of his own citizens, Hildegard was thinking, why is there need for such secrecy with regard to this one?

There could be only one answer. He was one of those on the run from Archbishop Courtney of Canterbury, the chief prelate of all England, the man sworn to exterminate them from every corner of the realm. There was a price on his head.

Pope Urban, for once in agreement with the anti-pope in Avignon, had demanded that the dissidents be silenced. King Richard had said he would see to it. Yet he had done nothing to obey the pope’s edict.

The archbishop, however, had made it his personal mission to pursue those who refused to recant. They had been thrown out of Oxford, forbidden to teach anywhere else and then tried for heresy in the episcopal court. If they still failed to recant their so-called heresies they were thrown into jail.

One or two escaped this fate as soon as they saw which way the wind was blowing, and settled in a prosperous little fenland port on the river Cam and pretended to concern themselves with innocent matters. Others, more committed to the cause of free speech perhaps, travelled the country speaking their minds.

This man must be one of these.

The four figures slipped from the building. Hildegard prayed they would not lock the door from the other side. To her relief she heard them walk briskly away, leaving it unlocked. The building descended into silence. She waited for as long as she dare then hurried over. The door opened easily and she let herself out.

The men had gone.

She headed towards the main street. About to make her way openly back down Micklegate rather than retrace her steps through the stews, she had gone only as far as the church of the Holy Trinity where the pageant stand was being erected when a man stepped from out in front of her.

He didn’t speak but before she could move he grabbed her by the arms and swivelled her round. The next moment she felt the cold blade of a dagger at her throat.

Her first thought was that it must be Baldwin, unrecognisable with his hood over his face. But her assailant was bigger, beefier, and he gave off a stale smell, like rancid beeswax. She could feel his broad chest against her back as he held her with a force that allowed no escape.

“One move and you’re dead meat,” he grunted.

He began to push her round the side of the church, forcing her underneath the scaffolding and in amongst the trees in the churchyard.