MIST LAY IN wreaths over the fields and cottages of Low Hutton as they arrived back later that afternoon. Black pennants fluttered on top of the battlements. Hildegard was astonished to see above the keep Roger’s personal banner raised halfway up its staff as a sign of mourning.
They emerged from the trees on to the lane through the village. Here and there smouldering tar barrels littered the walkways as evidence of the previous night’s excesses but otherwise the place seemed quiet except for a hardy group singing lustily round one of the fires. Hildegard recognised the song. Translated from the Saxon, it went something like: ‘This is the rebel’s riot feast, humanity will be king, there is no lord but the one true prince…’, and then a line or two about the King of Stamford, followed by three sharp cheers.
After that they sang it all over again.
It was a song from the old days when King Harald fought his great battle not far away at Stamford Bridge, defeating the traitor Tostig and the Norwegian king, then marching his wounded and weary army down the entire length of England in only three days to face Norman invaders from across the Channel. It was the second battle, the defeat by William at Hastings, that changed for ever the fortunes of the English.
Desperate days, she thought, now long gone. The battle lost. Nobody knew what life would have been like had the Saxons continued in their peaceful farming communities instead of being overrun by the Normans and forced to submit to their hierarchy, their laws, their taxes.
In this part of the country it was still remembered that all three Ridings with their hundreds of farming villages had been laid waste by the Conqueror’s Harrowing of the North. Entire communities had been wiped out. Houses and farms were burned to the ground. Crops destroyed. Women, children and the old were slaughtered without mercy or left to die from starvation. The few survivors were forced into serfdom, their lives riven by the ambitions of their Norman overlords. Since then the country had been dragged unwillingly into endless wars against the kings of Scotland and of France in order to bolster the power of the Norman usurpers. It was no surprise the village folk still sang the old songs, still dreamed the dream of freedom.
They reached the foregate and proceeded alongside the moat in the shadow of the walls. Edberg hailed the lookout in the tower. The drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. Hildegard was overcome with relief as they clipped across the bridge into the bailey. Her fear of the outlaws had been checked with an effort. She knew her nun’s habit was regarded with hostility. Only caution seemed to have held the men from violence.
As the portcullis crashed shut she slipped from the saddle. Safe at last, she thought. Then she saw a group of men with the sign of the blue marsh dragon on their tunics.
She turned away.
Edberg took hold of her horse’s bridle. ‘We’ll see to the horses and your hounds, sister. You’ll want to speak to the steward.’
I certainly will, she thought, as she stamped her feet to bring some life back. Her cloak smelled strongly of smoke as she went to find Ulf.
In the bailey, they were already preparing the wagons for the cortège. Several carts were draped in black. One of them, a char, was more elaborate than the rest. The sides were made of decorated wood panels. Black dyed canvas was stretched over wooden hoops fixed across the vehicle itself. At the head of the cortège, covered by a cloth of scarlet and gold, was the coffin containing its secret cargo of stones.
This is madness, Hildegard thought as she began to make her way through the crowd of servants loading the sumpter carts. Why on earth was Ulf allowing the funeral to go ahead? She found the steward on the steps of the hall overseeing everything with a frown of concentration. When he saw her he said, ‘So you didn’t find her?’
‘No, but we found her pony, a burning mill and a band of looters.’ She briefly explained.
‘Let’s talk more fully later. I want you to come and meet the moot-folk in the village. Then that’s one line of enquiry we can put to rest at least. Do you mind coming with me now?’
The self-styled Savoy Boys met in the village that lay close to the castle’s outer defences. When it wasn’t in the throes of St. Willibrod’s feast it was a thriving community of serfs and freemen called Low Hutton. The reeve’s house was a convenient meeting place for those who worked inside the castle and for those who worked the fields.
The village itself was a higgledy-piggledy group of something like fifty wattle-and-daub dwellings thatched with rye grass and linked by a meandering network of narrow lanes and what the locals called laups. Surrounding these one-storey habitations were the strips for beans, peas, turnips and grain and then the Lammas lands and the orchards. Enclosing all of it was the Royal Forest. Apart from scutage, sending men-at-arms to serve the king, Lord Roger’s main responsibility to the Crown was his stewardship of this vast tract of country and the preservation of game for the king’s own table. There was a lodge in the forest for the use of hunting parties, halfway between the castle and York.
As they made their way into the village the moss-covered roofs and slanting lintels were half hidden under a fog of lung-wrenching smoke that lay like a pall above the ground. Usually well ordered, today hooded villeins loomed out of this roke as they prepared for the feast that would begin when night fell. Meanwhile the lanes were filled with screaming swine and the pungent stench of fresh blood. In the poor light the fires burned out of the November fret as if through breaches in the walls of hell, while soot-faced stokers turned from their task to watch as Ulf and Hildegard walked by. The stench of death was everywhere.
The reeve’s dwelling was a little bigger than the rest, as befitted his status. The hurdles set round it to keep in the pig and poultry were made with skill.
They stooped under the lintel, a chorus of gruff voices rising and falling in the heat of argument, but when the steward followed by a nun came in, a chilling silence descended. Hildegard peered into the gloom. By the sound of it there must be at least half a dozen villagers already present, she guessed, cottars, bordars, villeins and the like. She could just make out a few shapes hidden behind the smoke from an open fire that sputtered in the middle of the floor. The only other light was a rush lamp on a pole by the door. Hildegard’s nostrils twitched at the rank smell of damp wool, fresh manure and sweat that pervaded the place. The smoke from the fire pit was sucked up by the draught towards a hole in the roof but owing to the direction of the wind it continually spiralled back again into the cottage. Everybody, it seemed, was taking turns to cough. Before long, Hildegard found herself joining in.
A spokesman distinguished himself from the group, introducing himself as the reeve. ‘I’m Dagobert, son of Dagobart.’
A Saxon then, of course. Hildegard gave him a straight look. ‘Honoured to be here.’
He was a big man, with a dignified manner, and he peered at Hildegard with a certain genial curiosity. ‘You’re the first Cistercian we’ve had visiting down this way,’ he told her. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘There was that pardoner last week,’ a voice corrected from the gloom.
‘Different kettle of fish, Caedwin,’ replied the reeve without turning his head. ‘He was a Fleming, trying to fob us off with fake relics, and his assailant was a sot-wit southerner in the same game. I think we can tell the difference between a Cistercian and a pardoner.’ He returned Hildegard’s straight look. ‘The lord steward tells me you’ve been frettin’ about where we stand on certain matters – given the unrest at the present time?’
Her reply was direct. ‘I can see you have a strong case for wanting change. You seem to feel the Normans are bleeding you dry and the Church is doing likewise?’
‘That’s the long and short of it,’ he replied. ‘What we want is an end to all these taxes so what we earn by the sweat of our labours we keep to enjoy. Instead of as now, when all our profit goes to fuel the wars or keep the pope in idle luxury. It’s not right.’
‘I worked it out t’other day,’ a voice behind the smoke broke in. ‘I get fifteen days a quarter to tend my own crops, and the rest of the time I have to work for the lord of the manor for nowt. What can I do in fifteen days? We want to be hired labour, not bonded labour like slaves. Are we not men?’
‘And women,’ said a different voice.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ said another, and the rest chimed in with, ‘who was then the gentleman?’
‘I see,’ said Hildegard, ‘but I was wondering what you felt about Master Tyler’s other demands?’
There was some uncomfortable shuffling behind the haze. From outside, the squeal of a stuck pig came loud and clear. It sounded strangely human. Dagobert began to bluster. ‘I don’t think any of us want to go that far, sister.’
Inside the cottage there was an ominous silence.
Hildegard was glad Ulf was standing beside her. She glanced at each of the shapes as best she could through the smoke and said, ‘As I understand it, Master Tyler wanted an end to punishment by outlawry? That seems just. It is often used as an excuse by the courts to seize a man’s lands and increase those of his accuser.’ The silence continued. ‘He also wanted an end to all nobility but the King?’ Nobody interrupted. ‘And to all clergy but the Archbishop of Canterbury?’
‘Too late for Sudbury now!’ A nervous laugh was quickly stifled.
A voice she hadn’t heard before began to intone from behind the smoke. ‘The great lords of the realm have stolen our land! The Roman Church has stolen our liberty! The usurpers have taken our grain, our herds, our homes! What’s left to the poor but blood and bones? The spirit of the people cries for vengeance while we sit by and watch. Misery on us! Misery on all who sit by!’
Dagobert cut through this and the rising murmurs of agreement it aroused. ‘The sister doesn’t want all that. What she wants to know is what we’re asking for. And it’s this.’ He linked his thumbs in the front of his tunic, looking set for a speech, but it was short. He said, ‘What we want is no tax more than one fifteenth of movable wealth. Flat.’
There were cheers.
‘The question is, sister, why should we have to pay one tenth of our crops to the Church?’
‘Birth, marriage and death. They tax the lot. Soon it’ll be the air we breathe,’ a voice added.
Dagobert interrupted again. ‘I believe we’ve put our case clearly enough, Sister. At least it’s a country where we’re still free to speak our minds. But we could sit on our backsides all night arguing. I’m to my bed. It’s well past eight o’ the clock.’ He began to urge his visitors towards the door with a sudden, determined haste.
There was a scramble to get out once it was clear the meeting was over. Ulf thrust out his mace to make a passageway for Hildegard but she drew back and waited in humility until the last villager had left. The reeve loomed over her. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Sister,’ he apologised. ‘It’s not personal. Your people do good work down at Swyne.’
When she and Ulf got outside she turned to him. ‘I wonder if the Archbishop of Canterbury felt it wasn’t personal when they stuck his head on a pike and put it on London Bridge?’
They set off up the muddy, ill-lit tunnel between the cottages. They hadn’t gone far when they heard the voice of two men raised in argument on the path ahead.
‘What did you expect him to say, you stupid bastard?’ one of them was demanding fiercely.
‘Keep your festering gob shut then!’ came the reply. There was the sound of a scuffle and a woman’s voice cut in, ‘Oh, leave him, John, he’s not worth it. He’s only a fuller.’
‘Aye, get back to your vat, you stinking idiot!’ There was a thump.
When Hildegard and Ulf turned a corner they found two villeins squaring up to each other. The men didn’t hear them approach and it was only when Ulf was almost on top of them that they realised they were observed and fell back in confusion. Ulf merely carved his way between them without a word. Hildegard was impressed when they backed off – they were thickset fellows and there were two of them – but by the time she reached them they were doffing their caps and trying to lose themselves in the shadows.
She caught up with Ulf and they had reached the end of the lane when a voice came floating after them. ‘You’re Saxon like the rest of us, steward. When the day of reckoning comes, don’t you forget it!’
Hildegard gave Ulf a glance. His face was set in stone.
It was in a darker frame of mind that they returned to the castle. The raucous shouts of drunks and their constant drumming down by the bonfires on the green, together with the list of injustices experienced by the villagers, underlined the rage that was still brewing in the land. The whole world seemed to teeter on the brink of chaos just as Edberg had claimed on the way back from the mill. How long, she wondered, before the people rose up again and butchered their oppressors? It wasn’t only in England. Look at the Jacqueries in France a few years ago, she thought. They had rampaged round Paris slaughtering the landlords and burning their houses and castles without restraint. Even the Dauphin had retreated behind his walls, like a prisoner in his own kingdom. Now the Companies of Routiers had more power than anyone else but the peasants themselves had been reduced to even worse poverty by the devastation of their farms. There was the rising in Flanders as well. It could happen here on the same scale. Civil war. Rebels exterminated. Famine the result. She believed in the justice of the people’s cause but the violence of an armed revolt filled her with horror.
Ulf looked grimmer than ever. Before parting he took her by the arm and muttered, ‘If this goes on, everybody’s going to have to take sides. Blood will flow.’ With this warning, he flung abruptly away.
Hildegard walked slowly over to the tower stair-case leading up to her chamber. She was wondering what would happen if it became known what she had in her scrip: a relic that symbolised the sacred covenant of Wat Tyler with those of his fellow-countrymen who dreamed of justice.
As Hildegard was passing the guest-master’s chamber on the floor below her own, the guest-master himself came to the door with a couple of gloomy-looking jongleurs. ‘—so there’ll be no more work here, lads, not for the time being at any rate,’ he was telling them. ‘Best get on over to York in my view, until this place is back to normal.’ They parted and after watching them go Hildegard approached the guest-master. He was a pot-bellied, rosy-cheeked old fellow with a clipped white beard and was dressed convincingly in parti-coloured hose and the ubiquitous poulaines. The points were at least four inches long and she wondered fleetingly how he managed to get about.
She smiled. ‘Greetings, master. I was wondering whether you would do me the favour of answering a question about a couple of guests?’
‘Most certainly, Sister. Come inside and ask away.’ He settled her comfortably in a chair and when he was seated himself beside his pile of ledgers he leaned forward. ‘Well?’
‘I’ve been wondering about the two friars who are staying over for St. Martin’s week.’
‘Good fellows,’ he said, sitting back. ‘No trouble whatsoever. Kept themselves to themselves. Pity they’ve gone—’
‘Gone?’
‘Left at dawn when the Lombards rode out. Be back in Beverley by now I should think But they weren’t friars.’ He chuckled. ‘One of them had got himself a nice little post as corrodian, though he didn’t say what service he rendered the brothers in return for his keep. The other fellow was a companion from his youth and they’d decided to take a short break together over Martinmas. I reckon they had more entertainment than they bargained for.’
‘It was put about that they were friars—’ she insisted.
‘I don’t know how that rumour started. We haven’t had a friar in here for the last year. Not even to take Lord Roger’s confession, save his soul.’
All she wanted was to go up to her chamber and catch up on her sleep, but instead Hildegard went to find Ulf. He was overseeing the guests who remained in the hall.
It was a sombre occasion. Sir Ralph was the only man at the top table. Avice and Sibilla were present. Philippa was just leaving. The servants went back and forth without a smile. There was no singing.
Ulf turned as she approached and she said, ‘I’m not here to eat and drink. I just thought you might like to know that those two so-called friars have already left.’
‘So-called?’
She nodded. ‘One of them was a corrodian at the friary in Beverley. The other was just a companion. Neither of them were friars as it turns out.’
‘Let’s not drag those two into it,’ advised Ulf in a harassed tone. ‘There are more important things to consider. You remember you asked me right at the start who would want to poison Roger and I said—’
‘Did I want the long list or the short one? Yes, I remember. And have you a list?’
‘Let’s go somewhere quiet. I want your views.’ He cast a glance round the Great Hall. There was nothing that needed his attention just now. He led the way to his office.
‘I didn’t want to set too many hares running,’ he said as soon as they were seated. ‘I hoped somebody would have given me a useful whisper by now and we’d have caught this poisonous devil. But there’s been no hint of a name.’ He poured them both a drink of Rhenish. ‘So now I’m going to give rein to my blackest thoughts, the saints forgive me. But don’t forget, I’ve lived cheek-by-jowl with the family all my life, I know their ways, and I’m forced to it.’ With a grim expression he began. ‘We have to look at motives. And we need to start with the folk closest to Roger.’
‘The family, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘Clearly young Edwin’s not involved as he’s banished and probably in France. So, who do we have who would gain from Roger’s death? First, there’s Melisen. She knows full well that if she doesn’t produce an heir soon Roger will have no compunction in throwing her out. You know what he’s like. However,’ he frowned, ‘I’ve had a look at the marriage settlement since we last discussed matters. With Roger dead, heir or not, she’ll inherit a fortune.’
Hildegard was stunned to hear him talk so cynically. It was unlike him. Putting that thought to one side she asked, ‘What about Sir Ralph’s baby son?’
‘His claim could be set aside. It was only proclaimed in the hall during a drunken riot. There’s nothing written down. And of course,’ he added with a crooked smile, ‘should Melisen happen to find herself with child now, that would strengthen her claim.’
‘How could she, with Roger dead?’
‘With the help of a virile young squire, perhaps?’
Slowly she asked, ‘Are you suggesting they might have plotted together to get him out of the way?’ She remembered the immaculate youth escorting Melisen into the church for the requiem mass. With that image in mind the idea suddenly seemed less far fetched.
But Ulf continued. ‘As well as that, as a widow, at her age, with or without a child, but with the sort of wealth she would inherit, she could remarry whomever she liked, royalty included.’ He added, ‘I don’t think she’s without ambition despite her whims. Then,’ he went on before Hildegard could do no more than open her mouth, ‘There’s Sir William. It’s well known he’s jealous of his brother-in-law. He owns barren lands near the Borders, a place you’d only go to if you wanted to see your guts served on a platter. Lady Avice came to him with a tract in Holderness but it’s nothing but marsh. The best she offers is portage in and out of Ravenser and a tax or two from Wyke now it’s called Kingstown on the Hull. Otherwise it’s fish, fish, fish, import, export, and continual fights with the burgesses over who should pay what, and all revenues finishing up in King Richard’s coffers after Lord Roger’s had a dip. You can imagine how William feels about that.’
‘So what difference does it make to William if Roger is dead? He can’t get his hands on Hutton lands—’
‘He could put a strong case for being the only one capable of running the estate. He’s hardly stretched at present.’
‘But there’s Sir Ralph—’
‘Do you seriously imagine Ralph has the will to organise a candle stall?’
She reserved her opinion and instead asked, ‘So by default—’
‘William would take the reins as guardian—’
‘But the others wouldn’t stand for it. I mean, despite what you say, Sir Ralph would object most strongly and—’
‘And Sir William would take up arms to force his case.’
They contemplated the blood-shed that would ensue should it come to that.
Ulf hadn’t reached the end of his list, however. He said, ‘And then, of course, there’s Lady Sibilla. If Sir William has a rival, it’s his sister-in-law. This birth, convenient of course, but do you imagine she’s going to sit and wait until the child comes of age before reaping the benefit? Not on your life. She’d be perfectly capable of running things herself on the child’s behalf. She has a good case.’
‘I understand she has lands to the east along the coast?’
‘She has. To an ambitious woman, Hutton could be a gem beyond compare. She would own a swathe from the sea to the gates of York itself, and it won’t have escaped her notice that she could compete with the Nevilles if she got her hands on all this.’ He waved an arm.
‘She struck me as being pretty shrewd. And it’s lucky to have borne a son –’ She furrowed her brow. ‘In that connection—’
‘Let me go on.’
‘There’s more?’
‘You want the full list of those who could benefit, don’t you?’ Ulf gave a heavy sigh and reached for his goblet. He drank deeply then wiped dry the gold hairs of his beard. His frown deepened. ‘As you so rightly observed, sister, there’s Philippa.’ His tone was heavy. Clearly he didn’t like the suspicions that were apparently teeming through his mind. ‘With her father out of the way, Philippa could marry where she chooses. You said she told you as much.’ He looked so troubled Hildegard’s heart went out to him. She could see he was having difficulty going on. ‘Not only could she marry anyone she liked,’ he admitted, ‘she could apply to have the law set aside and prove inheritance on her own behalf. She’s the eldest. She’s of age. All that stops her inheriting every stick and stone is her father’s adherence to Norman law. Which brings us,’ he paused, ‘to the Lombards.’
‘Ah.’
‘You must have noticed how intimate she and Ludovico are?’
‘Is this the first time they’ve met?’
‘I suspect he turned up in Kent after Melisen and Roger’s wedding. Philippa stayed down there for a couple of months. And these Lombardy men get everywhere.’
‘But what would Ludovico have to do with it?’ she asked cautiously.
Ulf looked unhappy. ‘I don’t believe Philippa would think up something like this by herself.’ He gave her a wild look. ‘But Ludovico must have realised when they first met he could be worth a pope’s ransom if he controlled both ends of the wool trade, production here in Yorkshire, the finishing and making up in Italy.’
‘You’re seriously suggesting he could have put her up to poisoning her own father?’
‘Sometimes a black-hearted devil can persuade a soft, gullible girl to do anything he likes so long as it’s in the name of love.’
Hildegard gave him a sceptical glance. ‘Do we know he’s black-hearted?’ She ignored the question of the gullible girl.
‘We can’t know he’s not.’
‘You said there’d be a lot of hares set running, Ulf. What you’re saying, in brief, is that every member of the family benefits from Roger’s death.’
Hildegard went up to her room. It was late by now. She couldn’t stop yawning. There had been no sleep since the ride out to the mill and back. She flung her cloak on its hook, removed her boots and lay down on the straw pallet in a corner of the chamber. Ulf had made it clear who would gain from poisoning Roger – practically everyone – but he hadn’t answered the real question which was: who would want to poison him? It might have a somewhat different answer.
A cock crowing shortly around dawn drew her from the depths of sleep. She stretched. She sat up. A pall of silence seemed to lie over the entire castle. She rose from the pallet, went to the window, and looked down into the bailey.
The carts were still lined up against the walls, augmented by one or two more since yesterday. A steady downpour puddled in the ruts their wheels had made. Melisen’s char with its black awning seemed to have been filled with green branches. When she peered closer she realised it was yew. Appropriate for a funeral. She couldn’t help wondering why Roger hadn’t sent instructions to Ulf to stop the charade. His ‘death’ hadn’t flushed out the poisoner as he had hoped. Eventually people would have to be told the truth. She wouldn’t like to be in his shoes when he made a clean breast of things. She wondered how he would try to wriggle out of it. He wouldn’t be able to put the blame on his steward because she was a witness to his orders. And if he tried to blame her – the idea was unthinkable.
Pulling on her cloak and ramming her feet back inside her boots she went out in the hope of finding something to eat in the Great Hall.
There were plenty of people about, she noticed, when she pushed open the doors. The servants, as ever, were run off their feet, keeping everybody fed and watered, and an army of others were hauling packs of food from the kitchens to load on to the rest of the sumpter wagons. She stood to one side to let them through. There was a strange atmosphere about the place. She couldn’t name it. But you could cut it with a knife. Then Melisen, weeping, came out.
She was already dressed for the journey in a long black cloak with a sweeping hood and was escorted by a retinue of servants. Her squire lent his strong shoulder while she dabbed feebly at her eyes and drooped against him. They stepped outside into the rain. The squire raised a stole above her head and they hurried towards the char. They were followed by Philippa. She wore a grim expression and acknowledged Hildegard with a distracted bob of her head. After her came her personal maid, carrying a large object covered by a cloth.
Glancing across the bailey Hildegard saw that Sibilla and the baby were already sitting in the second char on a mound of furs with Sir Ralph in attendance. A hooded shape sat behind her which Hildegard took to be Avice.
Overhead the sky was weeping on one and all. It was a dreadful day to have to set out. She went indoors.
Ulf, wearing a black surcoat with his riding cloak thrown over his shoulders, was pacing back and forth in front of the dais. When she approached he glanced up with a start. ‘Didn’t you hear all that last night?’
‘The singing in the Hall? I thought it rather subdued—’
‘No, I don’t mean that. You’ve no idea what’s happened, have you?’ He gave a stricken shake of his head. ‘This place must have a curse on it.’
‘What do you mean?’
His lips tightened. ‘Sir William killed a man.’
‘Sir William?’
He nodded.
‘Who—?’
‘Godric, the third yeoman.’
‘You mean the one who serves Roger at table?’
He nodded again. Behind him a row of kitchen staff were hauling out the last of the provisions with their heads lowered.
‘But why? What happened?’
‘He came barging in half way through supper, ranting something about yeomen, and when Godric stepped forth William drew his knife and slashed out at him. It was witnessed by the entire household. He put Godric’s eye out. The man was dead within seconds.’
‘What did you do?’
He glanced away and his lips tightened again. ‘I wasn’t here. I had some business to attend to. They had to come and fetch me.’ He didn’t elaborate.
‘So how has William accounted for himself?’
Ulf looked even more enraged. ‘He hasn’t. He fled. Half a dozen of his men went with him. They rode away before anybody could stop them.’ Ulf was furious and glared round the hall. ‘I won’t blame them. It’s not their fault. They were unarmed.’ He gave Hildegard a fierce look. ‘If you’re ready, we’re leaving at once.’
‘Hold on, I’ve got to get my bag.’
She ran up to her room and began to gather her things. William. They knew he had an ungovernable temper. But to kill an unarmed servant was shocking. Just then there was a noise outside in the corridor. With her mind in turmoil she would have ignored it but it was accompanied by the sound of running feet. An irritable voice shouted something. The voice came again, this time high and wheedling. A crash followed as of an object being thrown. Strong language followed. Then she heard pounding feet and another crash.
With her bag half packed Hildegard poked her head out in time to see one of Ralph’s men picking himself up off the floor.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
He gave her a scowl. It was the man she had outfaced earlier in the kitchen yard over his cruelty to the hen. She felt a shiver go through her.
‘It’s Sir Ralph’s cat. It won’t leave. It doesn’t like rain.’ He straightened his clothes and began to make for a chamber at the far end of the corridor into which the cat was just disappearing with a flick of its tail.
Thinking she might be of some help in cornering the animal, as well as making sure it went unharmed, Hildegard followed. At that point Sueno de Schockwynde came up from the yard.
‘They’re all waiting, sister,’ he boomed, ‘And Sir Ralph will not leave without his little cat. Where is the naughty fellow?’
‘Come and help,’ called Hildegard over her shoulder and as she turned into one of the rooms after the servant she added, ‘He’s in here.’
Master Jacques was crouching on a bench, fur erect, tail lashing, angry hissing issuing from between his pretty jaws. Ralph’s man was inching towards him without a sound. Suddenly he hurled himself on the cat but at that precise moment Sueno reached the doorway and exclaimed in his usual voice, ‘I say! What a wicked little devil!’
It was enough to distract the servant, and Master Jacques, seizing his opportunity, hared off towards the chimney and, with a flying leap, sprang for safety inside. His escape was brief. He was at once sent back down in a shower of soot, to land in a yowling heap on the hearth.
The servant threw himself on top of the confused animal and secured him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Got you, you little bastard!’ he muttered between clenched teeth.
‘Well caught, sir!’ exclaimed Sueno, sauntering on into the room with a beaming smile.
The cat was all teeth and claws but once trapped, he was not going to escape. The servant, grimacing and with fresh scratches to add to the ones already visible on his face bore the protesting Master Jacques towards the door. He had to pass close to where Hildegard was standing and as he drew level he swivelled his head with something like surprise. Where before his expression had been merely hostile, now a look of confusion came over his face. His glance swept her from head to toe then travelled back to her face. Without a word he took the cat outside.
‘Only at Hutton, eh?’ Sueno smiled up at Hildegard. He was unaware of any undercurrent. ‘Sir Ralph really is incorrigible. But now I suppose we can move off. May I accompany you to Meaux, sister?’
‘Thank you, Master Sueno, but would you give me a moment?’ She looked down the corridor to see the servant hurrying towards the stairs with the cat held at arm’s length, claws well out of range of his face. He started the descent to the yard at a rapid clip. She put him out of her mind. There was something else to consider. It was Master Jacques. He had been ejected with startling force from inside the chimney.
While Sueno ambled over to inspect recent work on the window embrasure Hildegard went to the chimney and, resting one hand on the ledge, peered up to see what had prevented the cat’s escape. Sure enough there was a blockage. Reaching up she tugged at a piece of cloth that was jammed inside. It was velvet, she realised as soon as her fingers touched it. She dragged it down and shook it free of soot.
When she unfolded it she found it was a chaperon of triple-died velvet, a little singed at the back. Wrapped inside was a pair of poulaines with double latchets and the sort of long points that had prompted Ulf to mention a statutory fine for the wearer of similar footwear earlier. Of course, no fine would be payable if they were the property of the owner of the chaperon. She rubbed it between finger and thumb. It was the best quality fabric and only somebody with the status of a knight would be allowed the privilege of wearing such an expensive dye. The shoes themselves were made of soft leather and had a pattern of incised cross-hatching. More significantly, they were stained with several dark blotches, the colour of dried blood.
By the time she returned to the yard accompanied by Sueno de Schockwynde, who had noticed nothing of the find she had hidden under her cloak, the cortège was about to move off. All sounds were muffled even though the place was seething with people. The swift feet, soft shod, the lowered voices of the noisiest Saxon serving man, and even the muffled rattle of the horses’ bridles, confirmed that the castle was in deep mourning. There was an additional atmosphere of stunned fear at the enormity of what Sir William had done to one of their own.
Ulf had a face like thunder. When Hildegard approached, he growled, ‘Just because we’re still going to Meaux they imagine he’s going to get off.’ He gave a grimace. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ Bestowing on her a look of anguish, he walked away with long, hurried strides that took him to the head of the convoy.
The de Hutton contingent set off first, followed by Sir Ralph’s family, his household taking up several wagons. As she walked over to take her place at the end of the line she spotted Ralph’s man-servant sitting with Master Jacques and some of the other personal attendants. She drew level. He lifted his head to watch her and his black glance held hers in a prolonged stare until the wagon carried him away out of the yard.
His rich attire showed he was one of the favourites. Apart from an untidily clipped beard and a bloodshot right eye, he would have looked convincing enough in the role of upper servant. There was something at odds, however, between his manner and his garments. He wore them awkwardly. And it was that red eye, she thought. As she had looked into his face she had been unable to miss it. A shudder of revulsion drove through her. There was no doubt who he was. It was barely conceivable that one of Sir Ralph’s own attendants should behave as he had done. He was more than a mere man-at-arms like those other louts he had been drinking with. He was one of the upper servants with privileges and responsibilities. Now, by the malice of his glance, she guessed he knew who she was too.
Master Sueno was a welcome distraction as he fussed around to help Hildegard climb into the space he had saved for her by his side. They occupied the last wagon to leave. Her two hounds had been reluctantly released by Burthred, the little kitchen serf, but, to his great excitement, he now travelled with Roger’s kitcheners so that he could watch over the hounds when they reached Meaux. Duchess and Bermonda loped along beside the cavalcade, as attentive as guardian spirits.
As the wagons rattled on down the lane into the forest Hildegard pondered over the bundle she had found in the chimney and wondered if the poulaines would match the prints beside the body of the murdered girl. She would wager a large sum that they would and her heart was heavy to think what this might imply for Ralph’s part in the terrible and mystifying events that had swept them all into their coils.