A Parliament of Spies (14 page)
Read A Parliament of Spies Online
Authors: Cassandra Clark
Finding no one waiting outside she hurried in. It was empty.
Candles burnt at the far end illuminating an effigy of the Holy Mother with the twisted corpse of her son in her arms. Every contorted muscle was revealed. It looked horrifyingly lifelike.
No sign of Bertrand.
She went further in. Massive rafters loomed over the nave. Stone pillars cast shadows across the uneven floor. It was an eerie place. Knowing what she did about it, she shuddered.
Worried, now, that Bertrand was in trouble of some sort to want to meet in a place like this, she forced herself to go in search of the sacristan. She was already halfway down the nave when the big iron-bound door slammed behind her. The noise of fighting up the street faded to distant howls and the barking of the dogs.
In the silence she could hear the sound of her own footsteps.
A flight of steps seemed to lead into the crypt. Noticing candlelight at the bottom, she went over, confident there would be somebody down there who would be able to tell her if one of Norwich’s squires had been asking for her.
It was well after nones by now. She and Thomas had been caught behind the lines far longer than she had realised. Hoping that Bertrand had not simply given up and left, she began to descend.
She called his name when she was halfway down.
The light at the bottom went out.
She came to a halt.
‘Bertrand?’
Her voice echoed round the stone vault. When there was no answer after she called again, she took a step forward into the muffling darkness. Drops of water fell onto the flagstones. She steadied herself against the wall, feeling flakes of lime fall away beneath her finger tips.
There was no glimmer of light from below now the
candle had gone out. Cautiously she stretched out the toes of one boot and found a step. She lowered her foot onto it, then the next one, and down, carefully descending.
candle had gone out. Cautiously she stretched out the toes of one boot and found a step. She lowered her foot onto it, then the next one, and down, carefully descending.
Turning too quickly at the bottom, she bumped into a wall then realised it was the slender column of an arch. She stretched out a hand in front of her but encountered nothing but cool, subterranean air in the blackness of the void.
She edged forward. There had been a light, a candle or taper of some sort. It had lured her down here, giving a glimpse of tombstones at the bottom of the steps before it had suddenly gone out. She should have stayed where she was but, now she was here, she had no choice but to find the tinderbox and get some light.
She began to edge forward again but then stopped. A small current of air came out of nowhere. Ghostly fingers seemed to brush her face.
‘Is that you, Bertrand? … Are you playing games?’
Before she could say more she was pitched backwards, cold steel crushing over her face, dragging her against something that felt like chain mail as she clawed at it to free herself.
The thing that had caught her was everywhere and she was unable to lay hold of it.
A sudden irrational thought came that it must be a ghost. The risen dead! There was the smell of death everywhere.
Her hair stood on end.
She could not breathe.
Struggle as she did, she was held in a grip like a vice.
Her bag fell to the floor. Her cross was ripped away in the struggle.
She managed to find her knife in the folds of her cloak, but then the thing slammed her hard against the wall and she heard a chuckle from out of the darkness.
It was no ghost.
Hot breath slid down the side of her face and a voice grunted, ‘Some welcome this is, my lady!’
‘Who are you?’ she managed to croak. Her knife was unsheathed now but she had no idea where to thrust as her assailant began to rip her garments aside, now here, now there, never still.
When he felt the strength with which she resisted, he growled, ‘I’ll get light.’ He moved away.
On the other side of the crypt a spark suddenly glinted then light flooded the whole crypt. In its brilliance she saw a monstrous image. It was an armed knight, his visor raised. His grotesque shadow leapt across the wall behind him as he turned back to her.
With the light held high above him his face was still in shadow.
‘Don’t you recognise me, Hildegard?’
She froze. He knew her name.
Terror made her open her mouth but she could force no sound from between her lips. It must be Escrick Fitzjohn, she surmised feverishly. He had tracked her down as he had vowed he would. Now he was here to wreak vengeance on her.
She blinked into the glare. Wedges of shadow obscured the knight’s features. Then the light moved. It picked out, first an unkempt beard, then small darting eyes, then the
familiar broken nose. She stared. It was not Escrick after all.
familiar broken nose. She stared. It was not Escrick after all.
It was worse.
Far worse.
‘No … it can’t be … !’ She put out a hand to ward him off. Then she was falling into darkness.
Only seconds elapsed, because when she came round she was still being held in a grip of steel and the apparition was staring into her face, the flare held high, its light flooding over them.
‘It’s me!’ The thing gave a harsh laugh. She felt its mailed body crush her against the wall, mauling her, rough and determined, growling, ‘I thought you’d guess!’
‘How could I?’ she replied weakly.
‘It doesn’t matter. Now you can greet me as you should. It’s been long enough, my dear wife.’
Hugh de Ravenscar. It was impossible.
He disappeared, believed killed in the French wars, more than ten years ago. As his wife, Hildegard had been given papers to prove it. She had believed herself a widow for over ten years.
He became violent when he realised she was going to resist, and with the advantage of his coat of mail her struggles were having little effect. In the tussle that followed she tried to feel around with one foot for her knife where it had fallen but it was too dark and instead she tried to find a weak point to counter his attack.
Remembering Hubert in all this turmoil, she recalled how he had defeated Sir William atte Wood at the shrine
of John of Beverley when the knight, fully armoured, had broken into the minster to abduct the minstrel Pierrekyn Haverel. Hubert had defended the boy’s right to sanctuary and, unarmed, had defeated atte Wood by wounding him in the throat just above the top of his breastplate, where armour gives the least protection.
of John of Beverley when the knight, fully armoured, had broken into the minster to abduct the minstrel Pierrekyn Haverel. Hubert had defended the boy’s right to sanctuary and, unarmed, had defeated atte Wood by wounding him in the throat just above the top of his breastplate, where armour gives the least protection.
Now her fingers grappled at Ravenscar’s chain mail but it was pulled up tightly under his chin and she could find no opening.
‘Leave hold!’ she cried hoarsely, ‘I can’t believe it’s you. Why did you let me believe you were dead?’
He gave a wild laugh, but when she put her hand on his forehead in something like a caress, but in reality to hold his lips away from her own, he lifted his lust-bleared eyes and in the flickering light she saw a wish to boast about his deceit.
‘Tell me, husband, why did you leave us to mourn?’ she whispered.
‘I sent two men,’ he rasped, drawing back a little. ‘I paid them for the journey. Did the bastards take the money and run?’
‘Two Genoese arrived at Castle Hutton with a ring and some documents to show they were from you. They spoke no English. We guessed they were trying to let us know you were dead.’
‘That’s so. I sent them.’
‘But why?’
He laughed harshly, as if only a fool would ask such a question. ‘I didn’t want anybody to come looking for me. I was safer where I was.’
‘Safer? But where? How? The last I saw of you, you
were going to join Woodstock in Normandy. Tell me what happened.’
were going to join Woodstock in Normandy. Tell me what happened.’
‘We were on
chevauchée
. Hungry. Looking for loot. We’d been holed up in some godforsaken town for weeks, neither able to take the castle at Caen, nor anything else worth a pig’s whistle. We came across a small town which we ransacked. Good pickings. I broke into a fish-merchant’s house, biggest in the village, with plenty of gold and silver in it and a woman—’ he broke off. ‘I was wounded. I caught a fever. I decided the woman was useful and if I played it right I could have both the loot and the woman and – what was best – a safe bed to lie in. Luckily she thought it worth her while to keep me alive so she could claim the ransom. After the English army moved on I recovered and put my plan to her and she agreed. It suited us both. Her man had been killed when we took the town. So, off with the old, on with the new! Good business!’
chevauchée
. Hungry. Looking for loot. We’d been holed up in some godforsaken town for weeks, neither able to take the castle at Caen, nor anything else worth a pig’s whistle. We came across a small town which we ransacked. Good pickings. I broke into a fish-merchant’s house, biggest in the village, with plenty of gold and silver in it and a woman—’ he broke off. ‘I was wounded. I caught a fever. I decided the woman was useful and if I played it right I could have both the loot and the woman and – what was best – a safe bed to lie in. Luckily she thought it worth her while to keep me alive so she could claim the ransom. After the English army moved on I recovered and put my plan to her and she agreed. It suited us both. Her man had been killed when we took the town. So, off with the old, on with the new! Good business!’
‘You mean you changed sides?’
‘What choice did I have? The English army was making a push towards Rouen. What did you expect me to do? March through Normandy alone? It was infested with mercenaries. I was wearing valuable armour. I was safer where I was.’
‘But you let us believe you were dead …’
‘Was I supposed to offer myself as a hostage and trust somebody to pay up?’
‘You know Roger de Hutton would have paid. You were his vassal.’
He made a mocking sound at the back of his throat. ‘I’m damned sure I wouldn’t pay up if one of my fellows was fool enough to get himself caught.’
‘Roger is not like you.’
Ravenscar braced his shoulders and his lip curled. There was a small scar beneath his nose that she had forgotten about. It made him look pathetic. He must have seen the change in her expression because, misunderstanding it, he pulled her towards him again.
‘I’ve waited a long time to regain what’s mine. You owe me a hell of a lot of duty—’
‘That’s surely not why you’re here … ?’ Her heart gave a sickening plunge, a physical response that happened before she had time to acknowledge what it meant.
His touch repelled her.
It had begun to do so long before he left for Normandy. She had felt guilty about it but had been unable to help her feelings. Now the old, secret repugnance surged back and she flinched away from him, attempting to run towards the steps leading out of the crypt, but he lunged after her and brought her to the stone floor with a crash of steel and a turmoil of tangled limbs.
She screamed then. As loud as she could. As long as she could. Until his hand clamped over her mouth and he hissed in her ear. ‘Stop your racket! Do it again and you’re dead. I’m here in secret. Until I’ve got the lawyers to sort out my claim nobody can know I’m here.’
She was on her back, crushed under his great armoured weight, but her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Claim?’
‘My lands, of course. France is an expensive country. Ma belle dame has sent me to get back what’s mine—’
‘But your brother inherited your land. The rest passed to the children – and I took my dowry back and gave it to my Order—’
‘Your dowry!’ he derided. ‘It belongs to me. Everything you have belongs to me. You belong to me.’ He gripped her by the jaw. ‘You can’t be a bride of Christ, Hildegard, you’re
my
bride. Now open your bloody legs and let me prove it.’ He began to fumble under the edge of his chain mail shirt for the belt holding his breeches.
my
bride. Now open your bloody legs and let me prove it.’ He began to fumble under the edge of his chain mail shirt for the belt holding his breeches.
‘Let me go!’
The letter she believed came from her son had been a fake. She felt sick. His ruse had taken her in completely.
Rage at her own stupidity made her fight back strongly, gasping with every blow and shouting for help whenever she managed to free her mouth from the suffocating pressure of the mail gauntlet he held over her face. It was hopeless. He was too strong. She was weakening. Then, when all seemed lost, suddenly, like a miracle, the entire crypt was flooded with light.
Ravenscar jerked up his head, blinking towards its source. His weight shifted. Somewhere behind the light a voice demanded, ‘Who are you?’
Ravenscar was gawping at a figure standing in the doorway.
Hildegard scrambled free and got to her feet.
Someone was descending the steps.
He wore a white habit and was tall enough to have to stoop under the low ceiling. His torch revealed a dark foreign-looking face, with large liquid eyes that took in the scene with one quelling glance.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
Ravenscar, with extraordinary speed, pulled up his breeches and hurled himself past the stranger to the top of the steps without looking back. The man watched
him go without trying to stop him. Then he turned to Hildegard.
him go without trying to stop him. Then he turned to Hildegard.
They stared at each other for a moment without speaking. She took in his white habit similar to her own and noticed some sort of red and gold symbol on the shoulder. An alien friar, then.
His observant honey-coloured eyes alighted on her long enough to suggest he knew everything about her.
Shaking, she crumpled to her knees. ‘My thanks, my deepest thanks, Brother. You arrived just in time to save me from a most horrible—’ Then she could not hold back the tears of relief. They coursed unchecked down her cheeks. She raised her tear-stained face towards her rescuer. ‘Please escort me out of this place.’
He held out a hand. ‘Come. I didn’t realise you were a Cistercian nun. Come, Domina. You’re safe now.’
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