Full of rage at the thought that Medford had been so incautious as to betray her identity she crossed the Cathedral Close in the pelting rain, determined to confront him.
She ran over the earlier meeting, if that’s what it was, when she had noticed one of the canons walking towards her in the cloister. His head was bowed, both hands thrust into his sleeves, and he appeared deep in thought.
At first she had not recognised him.
Black, unkempt vestments flapped around him and she would not have looked twice except that when they drew level he stopped dead in front of her and stared with such open-mouthed astonishment that she too jerked to a halt. Peering into his face, shadowed by his hood, only then did she realise who he was.
The last time they met he had been in the ascendant as King Richard’s trusted royal clerk. As he stared at her, his face blanched. He glanced from side to side then put a finger to his lips.
His fear was so palpable and out of keeping with his former dash and courage it sent shock waves of alarm through her.
How times had changed while she had been in Avignon, she thought as she stared at him. That he should come to this.
A wasted, frail, somewhat ethereal figure now, his black cassock hung off his skeletal frame, his face haggard, his dark eyes, once bright and penetratingly intelligent, now darker and emptied of hope. She imagined the horrors he must have seen in these last few months.
Without speaking he had glanced wildly round again as if suspecting a trap and then walked hurriedly away.
Before she could call out or catch up with him he had vanished through a door in the wall. She heard a bolt being drawn.
She felt as if she had seen a wraith.
He will not get away a second time, she vowed now as she shook the rain off her cloak and pushed in through the west door.
It was near the end of tierce. She took up a position outside the chapel and waited until everyone started to come out. When she saw Medford she stepped firmly into his path. Everybody flowed round them and she waited until they were alone before speaking.
‘Greetings, Mr Medford.’
‘Hildegard of Meaux,’ he croaked. ‘Domina? Is it really you?’ He reached out. Finding she was real, he gripped her feverishly by one arm. ‘I saw you earlier. I could not believe my eyes. You! Here, of all places! What on earth brings you to Salisbury?’
His lips were white and dry and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. Before she could reply he demanded, ‘Who sent you?’
‘Fear not, Mister Medford. No-one sent me. I recently arrived back in England and intend to stay in Salisbury for a few days.’
‘No-one sent you?’
‘Why should anyone do that?’
‘No matter. It is all disaster.’
Gone was the self-confidence, the swagger of youth, the aura of power that comes from proximity to royalty.
‘Have you been at the Lent parliament?’ she asked, searching for some explanation for his changed condition. ‘The one folk are calling The Merciless?’
‘You left the country quickly enough when de la Pole was impeached,’ he parried.
‘I was in Westminster as assistant to the Archbishop of York. You know that. When Alexander Neville had done with my services I returned to my priory in Holderness. My leaving was nothing to do with poor Michael de la Pole. I was then sent to Avignon from whence I’ve but shortly returned.’
He backed away and his voice held a note of suspicion. ‘Why to Avignon of all places? To confound Pope Urban in Rome and offer your prayers to the anti-pope Clement instead?’
‘You know me. Have you forgotten so much?’
He offered a quick, excusing gesture. ‘No one is to be trusted these days.’
‘So I learn. A stranger is asking around the taverns for a Mistress York.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me.’
‘How could anyone not in that Westminster circle know that name?’
‘You must have been seen somewhere.’
‘Not you, then?’
‘Not me.’ He gave her a derisory glance. ‘I preserve some of my old discretion, domina. But tell me, you must have heard about the dire straits into which our king is fallen?’
‘We heard rumours in Avignon about Mayor Brembre. As soon as we touched English soil we learned of the unjust fate of the rest of them. Based on false evidence, we understand.’
‘Mostly no evidence at all.’
‘So many seem to have been executed for nothing more than the crime of supporting the king.’
‘That is so,’ he replied tersely.
Too late she remembered Hubert’s advice to hold her tongue but she was in too deep now. And anyway, Medford, above anyone, had demonstrated his loyalty to King Richard.
And yet, here he was. He had survived the barbaric cull of Richard’s supporters.
‘I congratulate you on not being one of those held in the Tower, tortured, led out to Tower Green or worse, to Tyburn to be executed. We can scarcely believe what we’ve been hearing,’ she finished, rather weakly.
He gave her a long, studying look that inched chillingly over her face. She remembered of old the treachery behind that look.
Eventually he said, ‘The trials are a complete farce based on nothing but the malice of Woodstock.’ Then he gave a hollow laugh. ‘We must now remember to call Thomas of Woodstock “his grace, the duke of Gloucester.” Duke! That barbarian! And he’s still not satisfied.’
‘Isn’t it ended then?’
He shook his head. ‘Woodstock and Arundel are going to see this through to its violent and bitter end. Nobody is willing or able to stop them.’
‘Have all the king’s supporters been frightened into silence?’
‘That, or executed. To condemn the Mayor of London, dauntless Nick Brembre, they had to go to the vote three times before one casual remark by the Recorder was used to condemn him. That’s justice in England now. I could tell you more that would make you weep through all eternity.’
‘We heard one of his enemies exulting over Brembre’s fate when we were in Avignon.’
‘Who was that?’
Seeing no harm in naming him she told him. ‘Sir John Fitzjohn.’
‘Never heard of him.’
She thought he might be lying but explained anyway. ‘He’s a Lancastrian, a vassal of Thomas Swynford - ’ she nearly choked on the name, recovered, and added, ‘who is presumably an ally of Woodstock, the new duke, as is Swynford’s lord, Harry Bolingbroke.’
‘What were Lancastrians doing in Avignon? Buying arms from Pope Clement?’
‘Maybe. Or more likely purchasing an alliance with him in some other way.’
In the old days Medford would have picked up on that remark at once. Now it was different. ‘I was in Westminster,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘I witnessed Woodstock’s revenge. The horror of it. Good Queen Anne two hours on her knees to him, pleading for Simon Burley’s life. Poor Burley. They’ll get him eventually but even Woodstock knows he has to dress his spite in the cloak of legality. That they can even threaten to butcher Sir Simon Burley of all men makes a mockery of every decent human endeavour! Did Burley’s valour at Poitiers mean nothing to them? There were riots of protest in Kent last week but they were put down in as brutal a manner as you would expect. Many summary hangings took place just as in the days after the Great Revolt.’
He seemed to be staring at something far away and terrible and his grip on her arm was like a claw. ‘Why did I survive, you ask?’ He stared intently into her face.
She could not reply but waited for him to continue.
‘A valid question, domina. I know you will want an answer. It was not through my own efforts. I escaped death only because of my clerical privileges. Thanks to the Great Charter. But for that it would have been me, too, to lose my head to the axeman. And what delight they would have taken,’ he added with bitterness. ‘They’ve destroyed everyone close to dear Dickon. He and his sweet queen have no-one now. Good Queen Anne, the Londoners were calling her when she requested an end to the executions after the Great Revolt. Where are their voices now?’ His voice rose. ‘Fear has silenced them. The king and queen are quite alone.’
‘They must have allies - ?’
‘No-one dare speak out. King Richard lives under the threat of assassination. He and Anne are little more than children.’ His voice broke. He is not much older than them himself, Hildegard thought, looking at him and feeling something like compassion stir for the broken man in front of her.
‘I am sorry to hear of your own ordeal, Medford. Your loyalty to the king was proved at the October parliament when Woodstock and Arundel so ruthlessly pursued de la Pole.’
‘You played your part then. I asked much of you. I fear I betrayed your lover. I hope there has been no lasting harm?’
She stared at him. Eventually she managed a reply. ‘No harm to me, apart from nightmares. It was Rivera who paid the price.’
Medford looked as guilt-ridden as his conscience allowed. He had been instrumental in the spy Rivera falling into the hands of Thomas Swynford and a howling mob of Londoners out for revenge. Goaded by the militia they dispensed with the need for a trial and with only the rage of the mob in control, Rivera had been beheaded in the street.
No lasting harm? Medford was blind, then, to the heinousness of his own part in what had happened.
‘I thank God every day that I am one of the fortunate ones and ask Him why He saved me,’ Medford muttered with a shamed expression. ‘I can only assume He has some higher purpose in mind for me. Some good for which I may yet be the instrument.’
Suddenly his old self flashed forth and he gave a sardonic grimace. ‘I say I am fortunate - that is if it can be called fortunate to serve time in the Tower of London.’
‘What about your assistant, Dean Slake?’ The dean’s uncontrolled violence had incidentally saved Hildegard’s life. She had mixed feelings about him too.
‘The dean is shackled in the bowels of Bristol Castle. So far with no threat to his life. He’s protected, as am I, by his role as a servant of God. Maybe he’ll turn his coat if the torture becomes too much for him. Meanwhile I’m exiled here and watched every moment both day and night by Arundel’s spies. I’m forbidden to return to London or to communicate in any way with my king.’
‘But you can do, you do, surely? He is not quite abandoned?’
Medford gripped both her hands in his and whispered, ‘I shall never abandon him but betrayal would be my undoing. I doubt whether I’d escape with my life a second time.’
‘I will not betray you, Medford.’
He gave one convulsive grasp of her arm before letting his hands drop.
‘Poor, poor Dickon,’ he muttered. His eyes welled with tears.
Hildegard felt her own eyes filling too. ‘Is nothing being done to help him?’
‘None of us know what to do. He has no army. No-one to defend him. He’ll be sent mad by this.’
Medford’s black eyes stared into her own with a haunted look. ‘Mark my words, domina, not even a saint could survive such remorseless hatred. To see his dear Burley condemned as a traitor to England and the Crown is more dolour than any human soul can bear. If only Burley can be rescued from the Tower - ’
His voice, still hoarse, came near to breaking but he recovered, glanced up, noticed someone walking towards them, changed his mind about what he had been about to say and in prophetic tones, loud enough for anyone to overhear, declaimed, ‘We stand on the brink of the End Days and stare helplessly into the abyss. This is but a forewarning of further calamity to come. Sin not and repent.’
Hildegard was startled to see a man with his head down, a grey hood pulled well over his face, walk close by them. He did not stop or even appear to notice them but went on to the end of the cloister and turned a corner out of sight.
‘That man,’ she whispered, ‘who is he?’
‘One of Arundel’s spies no doubt.’
Hildegard gripped him by the arm. ‘I think he has followed me.’
‘Either you or me.’ Medford shrugged.
‘And Burley, you were saying?’
Medford eyed the corner of the cloister where the man in grey had turned off then gave her a covert glance. ‘They’re saying that if Burley could be rescued from the Tower of London – but no, it’s hopeless, he’ll be too well-guarded – ’
‘Good men and true will not stand idly by while their king is ruined,’ Hildegard vowed. ‘Richard is beloved by the people of England.’
‘He is England,’ agreed Medford. ‘He stands for us all. But I can foretell what will happen. I’ve seen the beginnings already. It is this. His power will be lopped little by little until the people themselves will declare him useless, an unworthy defender of the realm. Then they will be urged to cast him aside and choose another in his stead. This is my prophecy.’
‘Surely Woodstock, or Gloucester or whatever he’s calling himself, has got what he wants by now?’
‘King Richard’s enemies are urged on by that most heinous of all traitors - the one who is the most secretive about his desires and therefore the most full-dyed in evil, the man who desires above all else the Crown of England...’ He gave her a meaningful look.
She stared. The most secretive? That exempted Gloucester - and it exempted the earl of Arundel. Both men were blatant about their disdain for the unsoldierly king and it was generally agreed that Gloucester had had his sights set on the throne for years. No secrets there.
Medford could only mean the man who had so far only half-heartedly opposed the king in public.
She stepped further back into the shadows of the cloister and whispered, ‘You mean his cousin?’
Medford gave an imperceptible nod.
‘But he stood with the Appellants in Westminster, He also openly declared himself at the battle of Radcot Bridge,’ she reminded. ‘His ambition is known.’
‘He shows his allegiance,’ agreed Medford, ‘but always with a little hedging, demurring like a maiden at the May. Ask him if he wants the Crown and he’ll go silent like a shy child. He’s merely biding his time until it falls effortlessly into his hand.’
‘Was the time not right for him after Radcot, then?’
‘He brought his army up as if coerced by Woodstock.’ Medford’s lips twisted with contempt. ‘Bolingbroke marched through Oxfordshire as if he had no intention of engaging with the king’s army but meant only to stop de Vere from doubling back to London and the king. The plan to engage and kill de Vere on the battle field was foiled by de Vere’s unimpressive response. The time then was not right for Bolingbroke.’
‘And de Vere got away.’
Medford nodded. ‘And left the fragments of his army behind. Who would have expected that? Any other commander would have realised what was happening, accepted that he had walked into a trap, then stood his ground and fought to the death.’ He shrugged in contempt. ‘De Vere’s army melted away in the morning mist as soon as they saw what was happening.’
‘What else could de Vere do but save his own skin to fight another day?’
‘But he has no intention of fighting again. He’s living in Normandy, did you not hear? He’s hunting, enjoying the pleasures of Agnes de Lancekrona, the fate of England the least of his thoughts.’
‘He may yet be rallied to Richard’s support, surely?’
Medford gave another humourless smile. ‘Gloucester and Arundel may fear that, but I doubt whether anyone could persuade him to return. If he tried it they would take steps to prevent it. Indeed, they may already be planning to assassinate him and those other two friends of Richard who managed to escape in time - ’
‘De la Pole and Archbishop Neville?’
He leaned closer and whispered, ‘Watch how long they last in exile before some accident overtakes them.’
‘Richard must engage some loyal men-at-arms, mercenaries even, to defend the realm. All is not lost, surely?’ Hildegard feeling of desperation persisted.
‘He has no funds with which to bribe the faint-hearted,’ Medford pointed out. ‘The King’s Council make sure of that under instructions from great Gloucester.’ His lips twisted.
‘Surely Woodstock - Gloucester, I mean - has got what he wanted?’ she repeated. ‘The king is helpless. What can he do now but jump to their commands exactly as they wish?’
‘Have they got what they want? All of them? As I’ve just said, what about Bolingbroke?’
‘The king’s own cousin!’ She grimaced. She had never trusted Harry Bolingbroke, not since she had seen him trying to press a hard bargain over a holy relic with the Archbishop of York.
Medford lowered his voice. ‘If I’m seen talking to you, expect trouble, domina. Trust no-one. Should our paths cross, better for both of us if we pretend we do not know each other.’
‘So you have not mentioned my name to anyone here?’
‘Of course not. Why would I?’
His eyes seemed to pierce her own as if to confirm what he said but she did not know whether she could believe him or not, remembering, of old how devious he could be. ‘We must meet again, Mr Medford,’ she replied slowly. ‘As for our mutual friend - I cannot believe you will let matters remain as they are.’
Medford made no reply, neither of assent or dissent but merely stared at her with his soulless dark eyes.
Hurriedly she said, ‘The king must have allies who will come to his aid. They must be summoned.’
‘And Sir Simon must be released from the Tower?’ he breathed, lifting one shaking hand to his throat.
‘Released, yes,’ she whispered, catching his meaning with a leap of hope.
‘He has friends,’ Medford murmured. ‘I pray for him, with this one ray of light in the pitch black night of hell.’ He stretched out his arms to display the tattered gown. ‘Look at me. I am reduced to the level of a canon in the service of Arundel himself. You perceive my predicament?’
‘I do. I also see that you have not lost your love for King Richard.’
‘Though powerless, we must prevail, Mistress York.’ He gave a twisted, half-humorous smile at her old alias. ‘For King Richard - ’ bowing his head, ‘and for the true Commons?’ With that he melted into the shadows.
As Hildegard peered after him a movement, glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, revealed a figure detach itself from a gloomy niche on the other side of the cloister. It was not the man in grey. When this fellow moved into the light she saw that he wore a bassinet and a mail shirt with a sword belt slung low on his hips. He gave her a hard glance from under his helmet’s metal brim when he drew level then followed Medford down into the yawning mouth of the cathedral.