HILDEGARD ENTERED THE garden at Meaux to find the abbot standing alone among his sunlit plants. He was inspecting some straggling herb beds and turned when he heard the gate.
He looks tired, she observed, as she walked down the path towards him. Hubert’s eyes were ringed with shadow but, with his cowl thrown back to catch the last of the sun’s rays, it struck her again how fine he was, especially now when he must have just had the monthly shave his Order allowed and his features were revealed with such clarity.
Unaware of her appraisal he came towards her. ‘Sister, greetings.’ The austerity of his glance softened and a good-humoured gleam entered his eyes. ‘They tell me extraordinary things have been going on at Castle Hutton.’
‘Things you will find hard to believe.’ She returned his smile. And some you will never know, she thought.
‘Come. You must tell me everything.’
He led the way to a stone bench set against the east wall from where they had a view of the westering sun. It was an unseasonably warm evening. A solitary bee was humming languidly among the last of the roses. A blackbird swooped in a graceful arc across the lavender beds. Distantly, from within the echoing vault of the abbey, came the frail sound of the choir. Hildegard gave an involuntary sigh. It had turned into one of those days when summer reaches back to offer a final gift to winter and seems to hold the season on a single thread. At such times the opening of the heart in response brings an unexpected languor. The abbot, too, seemed part of this voluptuous embrace of nature and she became vitally aware of his presence beside her. Instead of spilling out the whole story at once as she intended, she let the deep perfection of the moment speak instead.
Eventually, returning to his question, she began to bring him up to date with what had gone on since they last met, reserving only personal events which could not interest him. He was amused, alarmed and sorrowful in turn at what she told him.
‘But Master Jacques!’ he exclaimed when she came to the fight inside the castle. ‘Who would imagine Sir William would use him to try to get the better of Sir Ralph! And what about Lady Avice? That was an evil thing. Where did she get such a poison?’
‘The apothecary might have given us a clue when he happened to mention the French pope.’
‘Ah,’ said Hubert. His jaw tightened. Her purpose was to assess his allegiance but apart from that involuntary movement he gave nothing else away.
As if oblivious to the dangers of the ground she trod, she continued swiftly with her story. ‘I was a dolt not to guess the identity of those two corrodians at Hutton. Not until the joust, when Edwin’s friend the Earl of Teesdale’s son drew his sword and swaggered forth, did I realise who they were. They had laid bets that they could enter the castle in defiance of Roger and spend a night there undetected. When his father died, as it seemed, and left the succession in jeopardy, Edwin hurried north to rouse forces in order to regain his inheritance.’
‘A lad of spirit. Glory or trouble lie ahead, I’d guess. And his stepsister? I believe you have a soft spot for her.’
Hildegard nodded. ‘Dear Philippa, she eventually got over her rage with her father. It was due to fear as much as anything. She thought he’d try to hold her to an unwanted betrothal. Her Lombardy prince turned up with his men in the middle of the night, having ridden like furies all the way from Rievaulx Abbey at the first opportunity. By then she had solved the puzzle and opened the casket. Having seen one of these devices before, I suggested she twist the lion’s tail,’ said Hildegard in an aside.
‘And within—?’
‘Not the remainder of the poison as I briefly feared but a ring. A plain and simple gold band with her own name and Ludovico’s inscribed on it. So she is now betrothed again, but this time to someone she loves with all her heart and who, we hope, loves her.’
‘And Roger is no doubt delighted with the profitable alliance he has made.’
‘Quite so. But I must tell you something to make you smile. Lady Melisen, who, by the way, had a small though innocent part to play in Roger’s collapse through her overzealous use of a certain herb useful in matrimonial matters,’ they exchanged knowing glances, ‘saw Roger reading some document the Lombard put before him. Astonished, she exclaimed, “But my lord, can you read?” “Just a bit,” said Roger with unusual modesty. And Melisen said, “My father the earl says why bother when you can buy a clerk to do it for you?”’
Hubert began to chuckle.
‘But that’s not all. Roger’s eyes sharpened to needle points when he heard this and he said: “You mean your father has to rely on the honesty of his clerk to know what he’s signing up for?” And that, Hubert, is a situation that may be watched with interest in the coming months, don’t you think?’
It was the first time she had called him Hubert. The name was out before she could stop it and she watched in alarm to see how he reacted. He let it pass.
‘We must watch our own dealings with Lord Roger too.’ His glance found hers and held it. When he continued his words seemed charged with meaning. ‘He is one of those people with a disarming manner.’ He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘It’s the sort of thing that could lead a more sanguine man than myself to forfeit some of the abbey’s interests without even realising it.’ He paused, as if dealing with a difficult thought, then, in a sudden change of mood, said, ‘I was astonished at the folly of Sir Ralph and Lady Sibilla in trying to pass off a servant’s child as their own. Although,’ he added, ‘it’s a trick that has been tried before with some success. But how did you guess the truth about the baby?’
‘I was very slow and should have accepted the promptings of my intuition sooner. But it seemed too outrageous an idea to be taken seriously, beginning with nothing more than a hand.’ She explained. ‘It was Sibilla’s ring, or rather the rough hand of her maid and the fact that the ring did not fit her properly, that puzzled me. Apparently they pushed it on to her finger to allay suspicion should anyone not in the conspiracy enter the birthing chamber. May’s hand was rough, a hand used to hard work, not that of someone who never lifts a finger except to run it over silks and velvets or slip inside the soft leather of a hawking glove. It looked odd but I didn’t realise the significance until other discrepancies mounted up.’
‘Such as?’
‘A fading scent of jasmine, Sibilla’s perfume and other things as slight.’
‘Ah, the feminine power,’ he said with a thoughtful expression. ‘But what penalty did Roger devise to punish such deceit?’
‘Nothing so far. He plays a long game. I suppose he thinks, let the hoodman hang himself! All he said was that when Sibilla has a child of her own he will make it his ward in court.’
‘Is it likely she’ll conceive?’
Hildegard shook her head. ‘Who knows?’
‘Mysterious are the ways indeed.’ He sighed. ‘And what about the midwife who was so helpful to them? What happened to her, poor soul?’
‘Not so poor. Gone into retirement on the proceeds of her work. She’s now living with her aged father in York where she’ll have plenty of employment with the daughters of the burgesses, if she wants it. I’m told she was attending one of the miller’s daughters in secret and that’s why her pony was tethered out of sight. Then the mill was set on fire and she saw the outlaws drive away the inhabitants. Before she could make her escape, we arrived, stole her pony, as she saw it, and she was left to return to her father’s assart on foot.’
‘And, finally, to crown all, I’m told the murderer got his just desserts. Master Escrick Fitzjohn, a devil incarnate to be sure. What was his motive in such a killing spree?’
Hildegard hesitated before she spoke. After consultation with Roger, she had come to the conclusion that it would be best to play along with the belief that Escrick had drowned in the canal. The idea was that it would be easier to flush him out if he imagined everyone but Hildegard thought him dead. He would become careless. The net, claimed Roger, would be drawn in secret until they had him well and truly in its folds.
Now she said, ‘I fear it was loyalty to Lady Sibilla and maybe a kind of thwarted love that drove him to try to prove himself in that extreme fashion. But again, I have only hints to lead me to that belief. I remember certain looks that passed between them. An air of complicity. And I can well imagine her own attraction to a man so unlike her husband.’
She felt Hubert give a start, but then he bent to pick up a pebble from the path and she could not see his expression, only his fingers repeatedly turning the piece of coloured stone as if it held the solution to some problem he was trying to solve. The moment stretched while she tried in vain to understand. Such was the nervous labour of his fingers that all she knew was that there was a mystery here.
‘Sibilla herself mentioned Escrick’s ambition,’ she continued, confusion making the words sound forced. ‘She seemed to admire the way he rose from a lowly position as son of a bondsman to one of considerable power, entirely by the singleness of his purpose. I myself saw how he strove to make himself indispensable to her. Nothing she asked was too much trouble.’
‘The truth is he risked hell for her.’ Hubert’s voice roughened. He threw the stone into the grass.
Hildegard turned to look at him. His face was like alabaster. After a pause she said, ‘Yes, I suppose he did.’
‘And his body has not been recovered?’
‘That is the story.’
He gave her a piercing glance. ‘Have a care, sister.’ From his tone she could not tell whether he meant for her soul or for her corporeal self. Without explaining he said, ‘As the body of the valiant lock-keeper fetched up close to the pack bridge, still impaled on the sword, we had him interred here and sang a mass for him. It’s to be hoped the body of Master Escrick will turn up in the reed beds one of these days. Then we’ll all sleep safely.’ He gave her another sharp glance.
‘And do you have any news about the youth I found in the woods?’ she asked, hurriedly changing the subject.
‘My man went to York as instructed and managed to search out the fellow’s kin. He was one of six apprentices who left York with the intention of gaining support from their brethren in Beverley.’
‘Support?’
Hubert looked thoughtful. ‘I believe it was you who mentioned the Company of the White Hart?’
‘Your man—’ she faltered, suspecting he referred to his spy, a fact the prioress would find interesting. ‘Did he find proof that the youth was a member of that particular company?’
‘He has little doubt. The story he heard was that they were pursued by a gang got together in York by another guild. They were followed to the gates of Beverley itself. There have been killings within both towns. These five were caught and executed in the brutal manner you saw, the sixth cut down while trying to escape with the relic you found in his hand.’ His expression was sombre. ‘It’s a great sadness when they try to solve their differences by resorting to violence. It can only breed more violence.’
Despite his obvious regret for the boy’s death, Hildegard could not help but understand his words as a warning. He was telling her he knew as much as anybody else about plans for insurrection in the Riding.
After this they sat quietly for a moment or two, busy with their own thoughts. The sun slid its shafts between the branches of the trees and as it sank below the horizon its dying light dappled them in colours of scarlet and gold. Time itself seemed to hold its breath. For a moment all the strife of mortal men yielded to a deeper truth. A sense of eternal peace had dominion over all things.
Reluctant to break the spell, Hildegard eventually forced herself back to other matters. ‘For some days my hounds have been in the safe-keeping of a little kitchen carl from Hutton called Burthred. His future is on my mind.’
‘Be content. Their little warden has prospects. The lad made himself so agreeable here, if Roger will release him one of my grange managers is willing to take him on. The lad has a way with animals. He also expressed a wish to serve with our conversi when he’s old enough.’ Hubert was referring to the lay brothers employed to work the land and deal with the livestock. This would suit Burthred down to the ground. Animals were what he lived for. ‘The conversi are the backbone of our community,’ the abbot observed. ‘Without them we would be poor indeed.’
‘But without your business sense and ability to handle the affairs of a great estate the conversi would be poor too.’
‘You make it sound like a marriage made in heaven,’ he murmured. His ivory features acquired a sudden tint of colour that came and went in the blinking of an eye.
‘Something troubles you, Hubert?’ she blurted in surprise.
There was a pause while he appeared to choose his words from a vast and complex store.
‘Many things trouble me, sister,’ he said at last. He gave a wan smile. ‘My confessor has much work to do these days, poor fellow.’ His tone changed and became businesslike. ‘One thing I can freely confess, something trivial in itself, but an irritation to me.’ He cast a glance at the garden with its tumbled weeds. ‘I had hoped that when I was appointed Abbot of Meaux I could make a garden for rare herbs, ones with medicinal properties beyond the everyday cures already known. But you see, I’ve failed badly.’ He looked unexpectedly helpless. ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
‘What’s happened to make it look so…well, unkempt?’
‘Poor Brother Selso has always run the gardens but now he’s too crippled with rheumatics to deal with it. To preserve his feeling of usefulness in his old age I can’t appoint anybody else to take over just yet. I wonder, you wouldn’t put Selso’s nose out of joint if you—’
‘Offered a little help now and then?’
‘My very hope.’ His face broke into a smile and he lifted one hand as if about to take one of hers but then let it drop. Hildegard was mystified when he fumbled for his cloak and rearranged it rather unnecessarily.
When he suggested a look round the rest of the garden she rose to her feet with relief. As she did so the abbot broke off one of the rosebuds that grew around the arbour then stood with it in his hand as if not sure how he came to be holding it. Hildegard watched to see what he would do next. He came to himself and, using it to gesture towards the path, suggested, ‘Let me be your guide.’
His words reminded her of the phrase at the beginning of Dante’s long poem. ‘Take my hand and let me guide you…’ And together, so it went, they ascended to the gates of paradise. She felt her cheeks burn.
Inhabitants of the real world with the ever-present threat of damnation in the next, they strolled together under the stippled shadows of the pear-tree walk. Aware that they were bound by the strict Rule of their Order and the wisdom of having a care for the perils of the times, their conversation skirted any issue that might lead to controversy. Instead, in the fading light, they touched on abstract matters of mutual interest: the difference between belief and superstition, the ethics of the mendicants, the value of contrition, until, eventually, Hildegard raised the subject of the grange she had been to see the previous day.
It brought a frown to Hubert’s face. ‘Did someone escort you? I expect it was that rough Saxon fellow, was it?’
‘If you mean Lord Roger’s steward, yes.’
His frown deepened. ‘So this grange he recommends, I suppose it’s up near Castle Hutton?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Far from here, though?’
‘Not very.’
When she explained that it was no more than ten miles away his mood seemed to lighten. ‘It sounds quite suitable. If your heart’s set on it I trust your prioress will say the same.’
She was astonished at such words after his hostility when she had first approached him. Then even distant Yedingham had seemed too close. Now her feelings were mixed. It looked as if the prioress was going to get her way. Meaux was about to be squeezed.
But it was what she wanted too: permission to inspect the buildings more thoroughly and if she still deemed them suitable to take the necessary steps to procure the lease from Roger. And then the real work could begin.
They reached the bounds of the garden and stood looking out across the now placid waters of the canal to the trees on the other side. Night creatures were beginning to call to each other in the echoing shadows. The sky behind the branches turned to pearl.
Hubert gazed into the darkening woodland. ‘Hildegard—’ he began. It was the first time he had used her name. But then inexplicably his voice fell away to silence.
Next morning she made her way to the stables carrying her leather travelling bag, a wedge of wastel and a flask of wine. Already mounted and waiting was a small group of pilgrims, merchants from the north. They were visiting several shrines on a leisurely journey to London and had invited her to ride with them as far as Swyne. In the continuing dry weather they could expect to reach the priory shortly after noon.
The sharp scent of manure and horseflesh met her as she stepped inside the stable to take her mount. One of the lads, his sleeves rolled, was wiping down a steaming grey that looked as if it had just that moment been brought in. He glanced up when he heard her at the door. ‘I’ll be with you in a trice, sister. Just got this poor brute to see to.’
She stepped closer. Gouts of blood stood out where spurs had raked the horse’s flanks. The animal quivered and steamed. ‘Surely one of the monks hasn’t been riding her so hard?’ she demanded, outraged at such treatment.
‘No. It was some foreign gentleman. Thrashed her all the way from Ravenser. Spoke not a word when he got in except “prenai” or some such. Then threw the reins at me and dived in to see the abbot.’
Shaking his head, he finished his task quickly and saddled up a horse for her. In the freshness of the morning, she set out safely with the group of pilgrims for home.