The Dragon of Handale (34 page)

Hildegard raised her brows.

“We depend on the acknowledged mystery of the Church for our safety,” Basilda stated.

“Notwithstanding Arundel’s treatment of those nuns on the south coast a few years ago?”

Basilda glowered. “That was iniquitous. Negligence in a commander most heinous and abhorrent to all decent folk. He will surely pay for such an outrage if there is any justice.”

They referred to a horrific event when some of the duke’s militia, billeted on a small priory on the coast near Southampton and held there for longer than planned, decided to enjoy more than the nuns offered. About twenty nuns were abducted and forcibly taken out to sea, there to be raped, some to be thrown overboard.

The men had gone unpunished and Arundel had managed to wriggle out of any responsibility. At the time, the whole realm had been shocked, but now, with the passage of time, the guilty had got away with it. And, as with the wrongful impeachment of de la Pole, memories were short. Instead, more recent outrages were being shuddered over.

Hildegard stood in the doorway. “I’ve all but finished my work in the scriptorium, my lady. I trust I may go up in order to complete it?”

Basilda gave her a long, considering look. “Are you a friend of Handale?”

She wants to know what I have discovered, thought Hildegard. Remembering the penitents in the cells and the way the novices were treated, she could not answer straightaway.

Basilda’s expression was enigmatic. “Friend or foe? I can read the answer on your face, madam. Perhaps you’ll tell me what your purpose is? Why are you here?”

“I arrived, as I told you, with the intention of settling a personal dilemma—”

“And have you achieved this purpose?”

Honesty made Hildegard shake her head.

“You may go up.” Basilda waved a hand in the direction of the scriptorium. “I doubt you’ll find anything up there to help you resolve your dilemma.”

So, no hint that she knew about Isabella and her importance as a pawn in the events to come if the dukes declared for war against the king. And no hint that she was afraid Hildegard might have discovered her own personal secret.

A formidable cardplayer.

Hildegard took the stairs two at a time.

There was already someone sitting at the desk by the window. It was Desiderata.

“Mistress York, how delightful.” She rested a hand on the vellum unrolled across the desk and beamed a welcome.

“I’ll come back.” Hildegard began to back out of the door. “The prioress didn’t tell me there was anyone else working in here.”

“Please don’t leave because of me.” Desiderata gave her kitten smile, all sharp little teeth and sleepily narrowed eyes. “I’m copying the kitchen accounts. You may help if you wish.”

Desiderata is certainly trusted, thought Hildegard.

With nothing she would like less than to have to sit and listen to Desiderata’s simpering comments, she stifled a sigh. ‘I’d be honoured, domina.’ She used the title given to the more learned nuns in her own Order.

Desiderata acknowledged the compliment without irony and got up from her place. “Sit here, do. I’ll go down and find another chair. I’m so glad our dear lady prioress asked you to lighten my task.”

As soon as she had gone, Hildegard hurried over to the shelf containing the earlier records of the priory and reached up for the two or three rolls she had not yet inspected. They were untouched since she had last been here. Blowing dust off them, she quickly unrolled the first one. She had a good idea which set might contain information helpful to Mariana.

Down below, Desiderata’s voice could be heard rising and falling. A door closed and the sound was cut off.

Quickly scanning the contents of the rolls, Hildegard was acutely aware that the nun would soon return, and she hurriedly searched through them to find the approximate year she wanted.

It was in the third roll that she hit on the one that related to the year of Mariana’s entry into the priory.

Before she could read it, a sound from the floor below made her stuff the whole thing inside her sleeve. When the door opened and Desiderata walked in carrying a stool, Hildegard was at the desk, apparently reading the vellum that had been spread out for her.

“I was wondering, domina, do you wish them to be ordered by date or topic?” she asked, conscious of the bulge in her sleeve.

“Oh, I think date order might be best, don’t you?”

Sweetness and light reigned for the rest of the afternoon until nones.

The bell began to toll. It sent the birds in the garth flying up with hungry squawking as their scavenging under the melting snow was disturbed. Black-robed figures began to file down from the dortoir and process silently into the cloister.

Desiderata went to the window. “Poor dears,” she commented. “So sad.”

“Their lives?” asked Hildegard in surprise.

“Their fate.” The nun gave the familiar little smile. “Time for prayers, mistress. No slacking now.”

Aware that she would have an hour’s privacy in which to solve the mystery of Mariana’s baby. Hildegard made some remark about following Desiderata down and after she left she quickly took the roll from her sleeve and spread it out.

It took some time to find what she was looking for. When she finished reading, she returned the roll to the shelf, pushing it in among the ones that had been examined already. It might lie there for some time without anyone ever bothering to read it. On balance, it might be the best thing that could happen.

She went out. Down. Into the garth.

Poor Mariana.

And that, she told herself, makes me sound as syrupy as Desiderata. The difference was compassion rose from the bottom of her heart.

“Did you hear the dragon roaring in the night when we were at Kilton?” Hildegard asked as they were drinking a warming beverage before going up to their beds.

Dakin jerked his head round. “No, but the conversi brought in that dead deer/hound.”

“Was it killed by the dragon, then?”

Dakin looked confused. “What do you think, Carola?” He bent his head and pretended to adjust the lacing on his boots.

Carola was leaning back in a chair, resting her eyes from too much close work that day. “I don’t know. But I do know that if we can’t get away from here and back to Durham, I’m going to be roaring, too.”

Hamo had just come in. He must have been hanging round the kitchen again, talking to his dairymaid. He brought lumps of ewe’s milk cheese for everyone. “It’s still thawing,” he said. “If the master doesn’t show up, we may as well load our tackle and leave. Like as not we’ll meet him on the Durham road.”

“No one heard the dragon while we were away,” cut in Hildegard pointedly.

Dakin got up. “I’m off. Good night, all.”

Matt, carving a piece of wood, was giving all his concentration to his work.

That night, it rained so hard that almost every trace of snow had vanished by the time people began making their way over to the church for the first office. Shortly after the service was over, the bailiffs rode in from Whitby.

There was no doubt about their arrival. They could be heard all over the garth, voices booming along the cloisters, making them echo. Confident voices. Men with the authority to do and say what they pleased. Several heads appeared at the cell windows as the nuns looked out to see what was causing the commotion.

The man in charge took something out of an inner pocket with a flourish. “I have here a warrant. We seek a Master Fulke, a guest of this priory?” He looked round.

“Aye, we all know he’s here,” his companion agreed. “Fetch him forth.”

They were accompanied by a couple of bodyguards. Nobody wanted to argue with them. The cellaress sent the nearest onlooker to rouse Fulke from his bed.

The servant came back almost straightaway. “Too sick to be moved, my lady.”

“You’d better go inside and see him,” suggested the cellaress. The same servant was delegated to show the bailiffs the way to Fulke’s bedchamber.

Hildegard saw Josiana walk briskly off towards the prioress’s parlour. She followed the bailiffs and stood at the door with the others. It would be interesting to see whether they dragged Fulke out in his nightshirt or merely set a guard at his door.

A few moments later, the two men reappeared. A command or two was uttered. It was to be guards, then. Fulke must be profoundly sick, or a convincing mummer.

Desiderata went up to one of the men. “I wish to make it known that I have the duty to bring food and drink to the prisoner.” She smiled sweetly up at the more imposing of the two guards.

“That’s perfectly acceptable to us,” replied the bailiff, having overheard her. “If we can’t trust a nun, whom can we trust?” He smiled at the dimpling young woman, who now turned her attention to him.

“So kind, master,” she said breathily. “Perhaps you would like to have something fetched from the kitchen for yourselves?”

“We’ll go over there, if you’ll be so kind as to show us the way?”

In an amicable group, they left the guard on duty and moved off across the garth.

Hildegard had not seen Mariana since her return to the priory, and not wishing to draw attention to the fact that she wanted to speak to her, she had not asked for her whereabouts. Now she decided to seek her out.

The
dortoir
was fairly busy with a lot of coming and going, the nuns unsettled, it seemed, by the appearance of men from the outside within their isolated community. Hildegard’s presence caused far less comment than that of the men, even though she was entering forbidden quarters. Climbing to the first floor, she went unchallenged, peered in through the apertures in the doors, and found Mariana’s cell with little difficulty.

The nun was on her knees in front of a wooden cross. Doubtful about disturbing her, Hildegard hung about in the corridor until impatience forced her to give a tentative knock on the door. Mariana’s devotions were not so deep that she did not start up at once. Scrambling off her knees, she took two strides to the door. “What’s happened? What do you want?”

“I made you a promise—”

Mariana gasped. “You have information?”

Hildegard nodded.

“Not here.” She glanced furtively along the corridor. “Meet me—” She searched her mind for a convenient place. “Meet me at the priest’s house. Nobody goes there now.”

“When?”

“After vespers. We have a little freedom before compline. People usually stay in the cloister to while away the time.”

“Very well.”

She could not tell from Mariana’s expression whether her information would be welcome or not.

A little while later, Fulke was persuaded to get out of bed. He made a shaky appearance in the refectory, sitting between the two guards, looking as if he lacked the strength to attempt an escape. He had been safe from the law as long as the snows lasted, but now that the roads were open, he could be dragged back to the nearest town to face his accusers.

An attorney appointed on behalf of the earl of Northumberland had sent word to the bailiffs in Whitby to the effect that the earl had evidence against a Master Fulke of Ruswarp. He stood accused of bringing goods into the port at Killing Beck without paying tolls. Other charges would be remitted at a later date. This one was enough to hold him for the time being. The accusation of abduction would no doubt come later. As for murder, burning on the tongues of the masons, it was up to them to accuse him. If they believed they had enough evidence.

Fulke must have suspected he was in for it. He looked like a defeated man.

It didn’t stop him from sharing a stoup of ale with his captors. The men became more friendly after several drinks. With armed guards and two no-nonsense bailiffs beside him, it was, of course, impossible for Fulke to escape.

Hildegard left the masons to keep an eye on him. With luck, he would confess everything after a few drinks and they would not be obliged to offer any evidence against him. The badge Giles had lost close to where his body was found was no evidence of murder, despite the fact that it had obviously been torn off in a struggle, and a glib serjeant-at-law would dance rings round it.

Although the snow had vanished from the ground near the priest’s house, some still remained like a scab on the thatch. Inside, the atmosphere was dank. It was like an ice cave. The hollow room echoed dismally to the sound of Hildegard’s entrance. Water could be heard dripping in a melancholy way onto the floorboards in the upstairs chamber, where the priest had done his solitary writing.

She had arrived early, missing vespers on purpose to be sure to be present when Mariana arrived. Now she stood turned to the window, where a patch of sky could be seen.

Everything about the priory contributed to her feeling of unease. A strong sense of the tight bonds among the nuns suggested that much was going on under the surface, and it did not make her position easy. She was not trusted. She felt she was here on sufferance. Did they imagine someone had planted her here? If so, what was she not supposed to discover?

The only connection she had with anyone they might fear was with the archbishop of York, but Alexander Neville had major problems of his own at present. If the dukes were determined to go after the king himself, the archbishop would be in the firing line, too, as he had so movingly admitted to her in London last year when de la Pole was the first of the king’s men to meet his nemesis.

It had been over a year since she had seen Archbishop Neville. If there was a network of spies put in place by the duke of Lancaster, with maybe Fulke as an informer, even he could not imagine she still took orders from Neville. She had served her purpose down in Westminster. Proud to have done so, indeed, despite the horror of that involvement.

She realised she had not thought of Rivera for some days, except once, falling asleep, when that insatiable longing for him had swept over her again like a black wave dragging her down into the depths of a seemingly endless grief. But she had surfaced. It was once only, in a week of nights. A victory of some sort—if forgetting the beloved can ever be seen as victory.