Chapter Twenty-one

The sun was beating down out of a molten sky. Nothing new there. It seemed the hot weather would never end. It might easily be the beginning of the Apocalypse as many believed.

Master Edric Danby was sitting outside his workshop on his usual bench against the wall. At first sight it was a scene of normal domesticity. His shirt was undone, however, and his bald head shone unprotected in the glare of the sun. He was mumbling something to himself and paid no heed when Hildegard, hot, dishevelled, weeping within herself, arrived back after her ride across the moors.

A spilled flagon lay on the ground beside the glazier, the liquor evaporating in the heat.

At that moment the Widow Tabitha Roberts came out of her house carrying a cup. She didn’t notice Hildegard at the entrance to the yard. “Drink this posset, Edric, do, for the love of God.”

“What ails the master?” Hildegard asked, stepping forward.

Tabitha turned in surprise. “Thank the Lord you’ve returned. Maybe you can talk sense into him?” She tried to force the cup to his lips.

With a roar Danby dashed it to one side. “Posset, woman? Do you think that’s going to mend me?” He thrust his head into both hands and began to sob. His whole body heaved.

The widow turned away. “I’m at my wit’s end with him. I’ve had enough.”

Gilbert appeared in the doorway. His face was as pale as usual, his bright hair pulled back in its ponytail, his grey eyes wary.

The widow wiped her hands on her apron and with a last glare went inside her own house.

“Gilbert?” Hildegard went over.

“He’s been like this since he got back. Drinking and howling—”

“But why?” She felt frightened. “Is Brother Thomas harmed?”

Gilbert shook his head. “He’ll be back here straight after prime. It’s Dorelia. She’s vanished.”

“What do you mean?”

Gilbert went back inside the workshop and, astonished, she saw him bend his head over his work as if nothing else mattered.

Danby looked up, then recognition dawned and when she went over he reached out to grip her by the sleeve. “Not a ghost then, but safe. Thank St. Benet and all the heavenly host. We couldn’t believe our eyes when we saw you brought into camp t’other night. Then having to leave you … I can’t tell you how it wrenched us to the soul and then … like a judgement … to come back to this—” His chest heaved again.

“What’s happened to Dorelia?” she asked.

“Absconded. With that apprentice of mine! I’d no idea—” He lapsed into incoherence again, repeating, “I’d no idea … right under my nose … how could I not notice? How could she? Didn’t she mean anything she said? Lies, all lies. Her look when she said those soft words … looking me in the eyes and brazenly lying to me … oh God, help me!”

Hildegard sat down next to him and let him rant.

She was in this position when Ulf strode into the yard with a jangle of spurs.

He checked in astonishment when he saw her then hurried forward. “Struth, Hildegard! Am I glad to see you. I couldn’t believe they’d left you behind. Call themselves men! I only found out yesterday morning when I came down to look at the glass. When Roger heard he came down himself to give them a bollocking. He sent a search party to look for you and found the camp but everybody had left by then. He’s got men scouring the forest for you. I’d better go and tell him you’re back. Brother Thomas is doing nothing but pray.” He shot a swift glance at Danby. “And I see the master’s in the same state.”

“Can you tell me what’s happened? I’m not getting much sense from him apart from the fact that his wife has run off with his apprentice. Is it true?”

Ulf nodded. “He says they’d gone when he arrived back next day, after that night ride to meet the rebels. He’s been sitting like that ever since by the look of him.”

“But where have they gone to? Did they leave a message with anyone?”

Ulf shook his head. “Took their chance while they could. They’ll be lying low somewhere, pretending to be man and wife.”

He jerked his head and Hildegard paced beside him to the end of the yard out of Danby’s earshot. When she looked back he was sagging against the wall, his eyes shut, tears trickling down his cheeks into his beard.

“Poor devil,” Hildegard remarked, “he’s in a state of shock at present. I expect he’ll be raging shortly. He’s already thrown Tabitha’s cup of posset to the ground. She’s gone off in a huff.”

“She’s done as much as a neighbour can, but he won’t be helped. Dorelia and Jankin though?” He shook his head. “Coupla dark horses. Danby says he had no inkling.”

“Surely somebody must have known what they were planning?”

“Baldwin says he’s been asking questions of everybody they know. So far he’s drawn a blank. It’s obvious they’ve been working out how to do it for some time, to cover their tracks so well.”

She glanced down the yard to where Danby was now rocking backwards and forwards with his head in his hands. “Poor man. But it could be worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rebels,” she blurted. “They were ambushed. Both the leader and his lieutenant are dead. As well as most of their men.”

Ulf gazed at her in horror. “Ambushed?”

She nodded.

He took her by the arm. “What’s all this about? Is it to do with the stolen cross?”

She nodded. “That badge you found suggested that the men of the White Hart Company were the ones who had stolen it, so I hinted to Gilbert that I’d like to meet them. He and Danby fixed up a meeting—”

“So they said. And then they left you to your fate,” he intoned, his expression grim.

“They had no choice,” she quickly pointed out. “There were twenty or thirty armed men and just the two of them, with only Thomas’s small eating knife between them. Don’t be angry with them. They did the sensible thing by coming back as quickly as possible and raising the alarm.”

“I suppose so,” he admitted, clearly finding such behaviour beyond his understanding.

She told him quickly what had happened after Danby and Thomas had been escorted back onto the road to York.

She could see he was horrified. With forced humour he said, “The world must have gone mad. All this for a relic. Next you’ll be saying these rumours about Sacred Fire are true. These are the end days all right! Step forth the Antichrist!” He looked searchingly into her face. “So where’s the cross now?”

She touched the strap of her leather bag and his eyes widened.

“Can I see it?”

“Later. It’s caused so much bloodshed I feel I never want to set eyes on it again. The leader of the rebels wanted me to throw it into the sea so that no one would use it against King Richard. I couldn’t do that. It was loaned to me on the understanding that it would eventually be returned to its guardians in Florence.”

“Even so—”

“It was an earlier promise,” she explained, “stronger and made in clarity of mind.”

Ulf seemed to accept this. “So it was the Company of the White Hart who stole it, as you suspected.”

“They were wrong to do it and it was wrong that men in their own brotherhood betrayed them. Both sides were slaughtered without discrimination.”

“But those locals, the fishermen … whose side were they on?”

“Nobody’s but their own by the look of it. They must have thought they’d get the cross in return for handing over the arms they’d looted from Acclom’s wrecked ship. But something odd happened. A light appeared from a ship in the bay. That’s when the fighting started. It looked like a signal. If it was, it was a trap that caught everyone in it.” She gripped the steward by the arm. “So many died, Ulf. There were no winners. But I promised the rebel friend of Magister Thorpe that I would not allow the cross to fall into the hands of Gaunt.”

“So they stuck to their resolve even in death: We want no king called John.” His lips tightened with emotion. “You have to hand it to them for tenacity.”

Hildegard was beginning to tremble as the scenes of slaughter danced before her eyes. Ulf saw how shaken she looked and put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment they stood without moving. She was aware of the warmth of his fingers through the fabric of her thin summer habit. He was reassuringly alive. She placed her hand over his and cupped in its vitality, drawing strength from it.

After a moment their hands slipped apart and they began to walk slowly back to where Danby was sitting while she explained in greater detail what had happened after the glazier and Thomas had left the encampment. Danby, she noticed, lifted his head to listen when he heard her mention the White Hart Brotherhood.

“The issue seems to boil down to a split between them,” she explained. “The original faction were trying to live according to their ideals, no one person set above another, respect for learning, freedom, truth—”

“Friends of the White Hart boys offered safe houses to the clerks from Oxford,” Danby contributed. “Those who refused to recant over this Corpus Christi business. They were all outlawed for it.”

“Men like Will Thorpe?” she asked, remembering her escort on the way through the woods.

“A good, brave fellow,” muttered Danby, wiping his eyes.

“Him and others,” Ulf agreed.

“There’s Aston, Swinderby, Herford, Purefoy, the list goes on,” Danby told them. “Outlawed, the lot of ’em, by that bastard at Canterbury, Archbishop Courtenay. Herford’s even gone to Rome to argue the issue with the pope, daft devil. He’ll get no joy there.” Danby closed his eyes again, lifted the flagon to his lips and emptied it.

“The splinter group were more interested in arming themselves with weapons the fishermen had scavenged from a ship destined for the Scottish king,” she told them.

“Bastards,” Danby muttered. “That’s not what the Rising was about.”

“I expect Acclom’s involved.” Ulf frowned.

“You mean that shipman running vessels out of Scarborough?” Danby opened his eyes.

“Piracy’s his usual trade.” Ulf gave a scowl. “But he carries anything for anyone.”

“They said he lost a ship a few weeks ago on the scaur.”

“It’d be carrying arms then,” said Ulf.

She nodded. “So they said.”

“Those fisher folk live by looting. Acclom wouldn’t be pleased if they’d laid hands on his cargo. He probably set up the ambush to get it back … or to teach the looters a lesson they won’t forget.” He looked thoughtful. “We can only speculate but it seems to me he must have had an ally in the brotherhood to start the fighting off.”

“And you believe the signal came from one of Acclom’s ships?” Hildegard asked.

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “The light was failing and it was too far off to see its ensign. The true rebels were hoping to sell the cross for gold. They had no belief in its power. For them the only value it had was its agreed equivalent in coin. The bunch of outlaws they took into their midst preferred to sell it to the fishermen for the arms they’d scavenged from the shipwreck. That was the nub of the dispute. And the fishermen were after the cross because they could use it for barter.”

“Cross?” Danby lifted his head.

“That’s what this is all about,” she explained. “It was stolen from me a few nights ago by the White Hart rebels. That’s why I wanted to meet them. They thought it could be used to raise money so they could go on publishing their tracts.”

“It must have been worth a fair penny or two,” he grunted. “Made of gold, was it?”

“It was only worth what it was believed to be worth. To most people it was just a piece of old wood. Ancient though, if the stories are true, and deserving of reverence for that reason at least.”

Someone came into the yard just then. It was Agnetha.

The dairy woman carried a basket over her arm containing fresh cobs of wastel baked by her sister-in-law, a baxter of the guild as she explained now. Her expression was worried. Addressing Hildegard she said, “I called at the nunnery of the Holy Wounds as I hadn’t heard anything from you for a few days, but they were enraged when I mentioned your name and spoke of you as a she-devil. I left as soon as I could get away. The girls are safe, I take it?”

Hildegard noticed the tone of reproach in her voice. “They are safe and well now.”

“I was worried. How long have you been here?” Her tone was cool.

“Just a few days. I should have let you know. But I had to leave York suddenly. I’ve just got back.”

“I can see that.” Agnetha gave her travel-stained appearance an up-and-down look.

Hildegard outlined relevant events as briefly as possible with regard to the girls. She told the dairy-woman about Maud’s confession, that although Thomas had been unable to say much, whatever the girl had admitted had shaken the young monk to the core.

Agnetha’s mood softened. “The main thing is you’re safe, sister. And the girls are safe too.”

Ulf said he had to bring Roger up to date. His page and two men-at-arms who had been lounging in the entrance to the yard followed briskly after him as he strode off.

*   *   *

Agnetha produced an earthenware pot from the bottom of the basket. Tabitha, her good humour restored, welcomed her into her kitchen. The pottage was doled out. Danby, offered some through the window, merely waved his hand and gave a heavy sigh as if food was poison to him.

With Agnetha and Tabitha treating her like an invalid, Hildegard finished her portion as soon as she could then made an excuse to go upstairs. She wasn’t used to having anyone try to look after her.

As soon as she gained the privacy of her room she startled herself by bursting into tears. She sobbed in silence, both arms gripped round her chest to stifle the sound.

Outside she could hear Danby howling again. It brought her quickly to her senses. Death might have laid a brutal hand over those honest men with their small demand for justice, but there was nothing to be gained by giving in to grief.

She removed her stained clothing, sponged herself down with a little water from the pitcher then changed into fresh garments. When she went downstairs again she was as composed as ever.

*   *   *

The chandler, Master Stapylton, was in the yard when she returned. She went out to greet him, followed by Agnetha. Gilbert was standing in the doorway of the workshop. Danby must have gone inside because Gilbert called, “Stapylton’s here, master.”

Danby’s voice came from within. “Tell him I’m not in the mood for visitors.”

But Stapylton was already pushing his way inside. The two women followed.

When they entered Stapylton was bending over Danby saying, “Come on, mate, brace up. Let’s get you straightened out.”

Danby was sitting next to the cold kiln in Dorelia’s chair and allowed Stapylton to set his garments straight and even fasten the ties of his shirt, but after a moment he pushed him away. “Leave that. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now. The White Hart lads have taken a beating. That’s your concern. Not me and my stupid faith in women.”

“Now you can’t blame all women for the actions of one.”

“Nor all men for the actions of some,” added Hildegard. She addressed Stapylton, telling him briefly what had happened, and concluding, “So you knew about their encampment as well, master?”

“We all knew they were out there somewhere. Though nobody knew exactly where. They kept it a secret for fear of losing their heads. It was a bad law that put them outside the walls. We couldn’t change it but we could soften its blows. They speak for us.”

“Aye,” broke in Danby, “we owe them a debt.”

“But while we talk free speech, safe in our houses, they live it out in the wilderness. Lived,” Stapylton corrected. His eyes filled. “I can’t believe it. Were many slaughtered?”

When Hildegard told him her estimate he shook his head. “It’s all a confusion. I don’t know what to make of it.” A look of alarm crossed his face. “I could lose everything talking like this if Gisburne gets back in power. I assume I’m among friends?”

He glanced nervously about the workshop.

Hildegard nodded, and could not be doubted now. Agnetha stood beside her. Gilbert continued to work quietly at the bench without lifting his head.

Danby gave a snuffle and searched for a rag. He wiped his face. “You’re with friends, Will, you know that.”

“I know nothing. I thought I was with friends t’ other day when my workshop nearly went up in flames.” His eyes fixed on the back of Gilbert’s head.

Danby heaved himself to his feet. “Show our guests some hospitality, Gilbert. There’s still a dreg of Rhenish left I hope.” He pushed them all outside. “I want to be alone.”

*   *   *

Gilbert brought another bench out after he distributed the wine and sat down on it to take a break. His silvery gaze flickered over them all but he was as silent as ever. Agnetha looked at Stapylton. “Your fire must have caused enough damage, master, but it could have been worse. My cousin told me about it.”

“Who’s that then?” His glance sharpened.

“Jack Enderby.”

With a look of relief he gave a nod. “He’s a good lad, Jack.” He cocked his head. “You’re not that cousin of his who faced out the Abbot at Meaux over heriot tax are you?”

“That’s me.”

“By! You’re a one all right! That was sticking your neck out!”

“It was really Sister Hildegard who persuaded the Abbot to give in,” Agnetha said.

“He agreed straightaway,” Hildegard said quickly. “He has a genuine sense of justice.” She felt a blush coming and turned hurriedly to Stapylton. “Have you found out how the fire started?”

“It wasn’t Holy Fire, that’s for sure. There was a dish of wax left over a flame. None of my lads would do a thing like that. It’s about the first thing I teach ’em when they start their apprenticeship. Everybody knows melted wax’ll catch fire if it overheats. No warning. Just puff! Up in flames. It’s that what must have caught some rags left hanging above. And that’s another thing. Who put them there?” He scowled. “It was deliberate.”

“So the stage was set, as it were?”

He nodded.

“And if it was as you describe, the fire would have started after the fire-raiser left?”

“He could have been long gone,” he agreed.

“But who would know how to do a thing like that?”

“Anybody can set a fire,” Stapylton scoffed. “It doesn’t take brains, only a nasty turn of mind. There’d been folk in and out all morning but definitely nobody there when I went out mid-morning. Nobody could have got in after I left unless it was a magician able to walk through walls. I locked my door that day,” he explained, “because of all the stock I had in there.”

“So who’d been in and out the rest of the time?” asked Agnetha, getting straight to the point.

“Everybody. It’d be easier to say who hadn’t been in.” He suddenly jerked his head up and looked full at Gilbert. When the journeyman returned his stare he dropped his glance and muttered, “Customers. Anybody buying candles for their altars.”

“I called that morning,” Gilbert announced in his soft, foreign burr, as if to preempt something.

They all turned to stare.

Stapylton’s voice had a strange absence of warmth. “He comes along with his master but stays below because of his—” He gestured towards Gilbert’s twisted limb. “I remember you were down there by yourself for some time,” he challenged.

“I was.” Gilbert stared at him as if daring him to put his suspicion into words.

“And then there was the puppet booth fire,” Hildegard remarked, to deflate the tension between the two men. Her glance shifted from one to the other. She would get to the bottom of this. It was no good accusing Gilbert in public and even Stapylton seemed to realise the folly of that. It would be denied … unless there was proof. And anyway, what possible reason could the journeyman have for trying to fire the chandler’s premises? Stapylton was being ridiculous.

He was staring into his flagon with a bitter expression.

“People were thick around all the booths that day,” Hildegard continued. “The whole town was jam-packed. There was that crowd round the preacher. Stonegate was simply swarming with folk.”

The booth that was set on fire was close to the glazier’s church too. The masters and their apprentices were in and out all day, praying to their saint, Helen. Glancing at Gilbert she decided not to mention this fact. Indeed, it might not be the same person who set both fires. “As an attempt to spoil the pageant,” she said, “it hasn’t worked.”

“How could it?” Stapylton looked up. He was scathing. “People aren’t so lily-livered they’ll stop doing what they want because of a little frightener.”

“Anybody with half a brain would guess that,” said Agnetha. “There must be something else behind it.”

“Such as?” Stapylton narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve no idea.”

Baldwin and his wife came into the yard from out of the street.

Mistress Julitta was wearing an expensive-looking silk over-mantle with an embroidered border in multicoloured thread with the ubiquitous beads and bangles jangling on her wrists and on her bosom.

She swept straight through into the workshop, ignoring everybody and saying brusquely, “Where is he?” Then they heard her say, “Sort yourself out, Edric. You know she was no good. You’re well rid of her.” There was a muffled reply and Julitta reappeared, saying over her shoulder, “You try my patience, you really do.”

A glance passed between her and her husband. Baldwin turned away. His wife had brought two beakers out with her and now helped herself to wine from the jug. She handed Baldwin his and went to sit a little distance away as if unwilling to mix with the rest of them.

Stapylton had fallen silent and after a few moments he too went inside. Hildegard saw him put a hand on Danby’s shoulder and bend his head. Through the open window she heard him say, “Listen, old son, will you pull yourself together and come over to see me in the morning?”

When Danby looked up Stapylton turned, aware that his words were audible through the open casement. “Just something about that stock I told you about. Yes?”

Danby barely gave him a glance. “I’m not ready for visiting folk.”

Stapylton clapped him on the back. “Think about it.”

He came outside and raised his hand before heading for the alley.

Gilbert got up and limped beside him. He said, “I’ll bring him over.”

Stapylton nodded without meeting his eye and went out.

If Baldwin had noticed the frost in the air he pretended not to and was already pouring his brother another mug of wine. He took it inside. They heard him say, “Get that down you, you sot wit. They’re never worth it. Any jack’ll tell you that.” He came outside again but made no further comment.

Danby appeared a moment later with the beaker in his hand. His tone was bitter. “I rue the day you brought her here, Baldwin, and that’s the truth.” He threw the drink back in one gulp then held his beaker out again. Baldwin refilled it without speaking.

Gilbert’s glance washed over everyone and came to rest on his master and then on the drink in his hand.

Without a word he went inside, appearing a moment later in the back workshop where the trestle with the half-finished vidimus was waiting. Hildegard saw him pull back his bright hair in its leather tie as he resumed his work.