Read The Red Velvet Turnshoe Online
Authors: Cassandra Clark
The Red Velvet Turnshoe (10 page)
Wherever he went came the death-scent of saltpetre.
They shook themselves free from the noise and violence of Salins as soon as possible and travelled on along a route that was supplied with a string of unremarkable inns where Pierrekyn was for ever in demand for his singing. A particular favourite was the lament about the knight and the three ravens, which never failed to draw a sentimental sigh from even the most hardened traveller as the last note died away.
One night Hildegard had a strange feeling as soon as Pierrekyn started to sing, causing her to blink back tears before anyone could notice. It took her a few moments to understand the reason.
As the music wove its spell she discovered that she was haunted by the memory of Hubert de Courcy. She seemed to see him standing before the altar in the chapel at Meaux, his austerely handsome features softening as he turned to look at her. Unwillingly she recalled his voice in the pear-tree walk when he had uttered her name for the first time.
Before Pierrekyn finished singing she got up and went out into the yard at the back of the inn. The ribald sound of drunks floated from another tavern across the street but there was a crystalline quality to the air, and the stars, small and frosty, brought a surging sense of the immense emptiness in which the globe of the world turned.
Her hounds were kennelled close by and she went to release them. It’s just a cheap song, she told herself as she paced the yard. It’s no wonder the Church rails against minstrels.
After a circuit or two she sank down onto one of the benches against the wall. Her husband’s death in France had prompted many offers of matrimony but the last thing she had wanted was to be bartered for her inheritance. To live in loveless idleness with some semi-literate magnate from the shires was not to her taste. She had retreated to the priory instead. For seven years she had not regretted this decision. In fact, in an unexpected way, she felt she had found her vocation. The dream that had later inspired her to found a separate cell was on the verge of becoming reality. As soon as she returned to England she would move to the grange Roger de Hutton had promised to lease and set it up to help the poor.
Now, the sorcery of Pierrekyn’s playing aroused an unexpected sense of loss. She sat for a long time, thinking things over. Eventually, she rose briskly to her feet.
An abbot? she thought. Am I mad?
Just then, Pierrekyn himself came outside.
‘Those pigs!’ he raved, storming over to her. ‘What do they know about music?’ He looked as if he was about to sit down but, apparently regretting his outburst, swivelled on his heel to return indoors.
The way, however, was barred. It was the thin-faced mercenary, Harry, who stood there.
‘Bon-jewer, messire,’ he began in a needling voice. Then he burst into hoarse laughter. ‘You! You’re no more a Frenchman than I am!’
Pierrekyn had started to effect a slight accent, being increasingly asked to sing
chansons
now they were journeying south. He didn’t reply but simply tried to push past the sapper who pushed him back, harder.
chansons
now they were journeying south. He didn’t reply but simply tried to push past the sapper who pushed him back, harder.
‘You’re not a frenchie. You, a troubadour?’ He jeered. ‘You’re a Kentish man just like me. And the point is,
master,
I know all about you.’
master,
I know all about you.’
‘Let me past, you pathetic cur,’ replied Pierrekyn, incautiously. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Well, monsewer, I’ve plenty to say to you!’ The man prodded him in the chest.
Hildegard stepped forward. Bermonda and Duchess pricked their ears.
‘Piss off, you piece of dung!’ yelled Pierrekyn, losing his temper with astonishing speed.
He quickly propped his lute against the wall, then launched a wild punch at the grinning mercenary. This was not well advised. The man was a professional fighter. He dodged the blow with a mocking laugh and retaliated with a heavy fist to the stomach. Then, before Pierrekyn could get his breath, he smacked him hard in the mouth, grabbed him by the neck and rammed him up against the wall. It was then that Sir Talbot came sauntering into the yard.
‘What’s all this?’ he asked.
By now the mercenary was pounding Pierrekyn’s head against the wall. The latter, refusing to fight, had his hands over his face.
Sir Talbot took three strides, dragged the mercenary back by his tunic and smacked the back of his hand across the man’s face, making him stagger with the force of the blow. Then he gripped him by one ear, forcing him to his knees in the mud.
‘The code of chivalry does not allow me to chastise a commoner, sir, or by God you’d regret this base attack on one of my party.’
With a swinging movement he hurled the man bodily down the length of the yard. The sapper collapsed to the ground and, half scrambling, clawed his way back inside with a hurried glance over his shoulder.
‘What was that about?’ demanded the knight, rubbing his knuckles.
Pierrekyn refused to answer. His mouth was swollen. He picked up his lute and turned to go back in. Then, clearly bothered by what might lie in wait, he hesitated.
Talbot understood. ‘Go through that door with your head high. Don’t let them see you’re afraid.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
Talbot gave him a level glance.
Clenching his fists, Pierrekyn turned on his heel and returned indoors.
Hildegard was standing with her hand inside her cloak where it lay secretly on the hilt of her knife. Her hounds were still poised. Talbot shook his head. ‘He’s something of a loose arrow, our young friend. But not without a certain reckless courage. I’d better stay close to him. I may be needed again.’
Hildegard, her hounds at her heels, followed.
The last of the pilgrims were having a drink before turning in for the night. Talbot had wedged Pierrekyn in among them on one of the benches.
The group looked peaceful enough. The matter was not yet over, however, because, as Hildegard entered, the three mercenaries were swaggering over in a group. She noticed Talbot’s hand move to the hilt of his sword.
Jack Black spread his arms. ‘That was untoward, sir knight. But I believe this rancour has a history preceding our journey. Ask the lad the truth of the matter. And then we can judge who’s right or wrong.’
Pierrekyn, confident in the safety afforded by Sir Talbot, scowled. ‘There is no history. I’ve never clapped eyes on that dog in my life.’
‘No,’ replied Jack, ‘but he’s clapped eyes on you.’
Pierrekyn’s bruised mouth turned down. Jack shouted for one of the serving women to bring ale all round as if to make up for his companion’s roughness towards the boy, but Pierrekyn’s expression did not soften, nor would he answer any questions. When the last of the pilgrims went up to bed, he took out his own little dagger and began to hack sulkily at the edge of the table in a black silence.
Talbot had been made restless by the skirmish and clearly wanted some resolution to it. He drank down half the contents of his mazer in one gulp and then looked around for something to excite his interest. Noticing what Pierrekyn was doing, he hooted in amusement and whipped the knife in an instant from between his fingers.
‘What’s this little toy, young master?’ He twirled it like a stick. Pierrekyn tried to grab it back.
Laughing, Sir Talbot leaped to his feet and waved the knife above his head. ‘What is it?’ he teased. ‘You don’t expect anybody to be frightened of this, do you? It’s no more lethal than a piece of straw. Even a monk couldn’t sharpen his quill with it!’
There were a few guffaws at the double meaning. With an explosion of rage, Pierrekyn threw himself bodily on the knight and tried to snatch his knife back but Talbot was as quick as lightning and whenever Pierrekyn tried to make a lunge he lifted it a carefully judged inch out of reach.
The mercenaries cheered every time Pierrekyn failed to snatch his knife back.
‘He scraps like a jade,’ mocked Harry with a snort of contempt.
Talbot offered the knife, handle first. ‘Here, take it. You need something better than that. It wouldn’t even gut a rabbit.’
‘I know what I can gut and what I can’t!’ Pierrekyn shouted, unappeased, grabbing the knife by its handle. With all his strength, he rammed the blade straight back towards Talbot’s chest. Startled, the knight smoothly disarmed him and the knife flew across the floor.
Harry bent to retrieve it and held it up. ‘It’s rubbish, is this,’ he declared. He stabbed it hard into the table and the blade snapped like a twig.
Pierrekyn gaped in horror. ‘That was my only weapon,’ he exclaimed, gazing aghast at the broken blade.
Hildegard thought he was about to burst into tears so she said hurriedly, ‘I’m sure we can find you something to take its place, Pierrekyn. Let’s find you a better one tomorrow.’
As if he had not heard he spun away but as he did so something fell from inside his doublet. It came to rest under the table at Hildegard’s feet and she crouched to pick it up.
It was a red velvet slipper no bigger than a hand’s span. A child of ten could have worn it. Sewn with hundreds of tiny seed pearls, it was a little turnshoe, stitched inside out then turned right side out. In the lining thus formed was something stiff that rustled as she crumpled it in her palm.
She pushed it into Pierrekyn’s hand. ‘Yours, I believe?’ She stared at him closely. His face was ashen.
Without looking at her, he stuffed the turnshoe inside his doublet and marched out.
Hildegard gazed after him with a feeling of horror. She was astonished at the lack of control the boy had shown. If his knife had been stronger and Sir Talbot less agile, he could have run him through the heart and his victim would now be lying dead at their feet in a pool of blood.
Talbot exchanged a glance with her and without speaking followed the boy out.
Jack Black noticed her expression. ‘Harry here knows him from down Kent way, ain’t that right, fellow?’
‘No doubt of it. He was active in the Rising,’ he affirmed. ‘As were we all. When they took the leaders and hanged ‘em and set up courts on all the manors around to hang the rest, somebody betrayed a heap more names to the Justices. Men were hanged even if they hadn’t marched to Smithfield. Next thing was, that lad’s master was found dead, his throat slit, and, when the constables showed up, the lad had gone. Make of that what you will.’ He spat into the sawdust on the floor but would say nothing more.
Sick of the animosity, and troubled by the alarming thought that Pierrekyn might well have more to hide than she believed, Hildegard made her way up to the dormitory she shared with the other pilgrims.
It hadn’t taken long to reveal how uncontrollable Pierrekyn’s temper could be. And the sapper’s accusation was revealing. Why would the boy flee his master if he was innocent? And if guilty of one murder, why not a second?
T
HE FROST RETURNED and the danger of avalanches receded. It was best to risk going on while they could. The cavalcade entered the Jura.
HE FROST RETURNED and the danger of avalanches receded. It was best to risk going on while they could. The cavalcade entered the Jura.
Talbot pulled rank and found a place for Hildegard on one of the wagons so she wouldn’t have to continue on foot. After a few days, when she had been shaken black and blue on the wooden seat, he again showed his consideration and managed to obtain a cushion for her. With her blue cloak pulled well up over her face to keep out the wind, she was as comfortable as she was likely to be on such a tough and tedious journey.
Towns and villages came and went. The linen bales carried on the wagon formed a wall that kept out the worst of the weather, but even so, the constant jolting of the cart made her feel queasy and there was nothing Sir Talbot could do about that. It was thanks to his chivalry she wasn’t sitting in the wagon full of herring. The smell wafted strongly in the thin, clear air and it was best to travel upwind whenever possible.
Halfway through the morning Talbot swung up onto the wagon to sit beside her, bringing a couple of hot pies from one of the vendors who swarmed round them like flies at every town and custom post. ‘I was unkind to tease poor Pierrekyn so remorselessly over his little knife,’ he said. ‘I should have realised that it had a value beyond its practical use.’
‘Meaning?’
He grimaced. ‘I suspect it might have been a memento of some sort. There’s no other reason for him being so upset about it.’
‘Perhaps he just doesn’t like being teased?’
‘But it’s true I was cruel to him. I’m going to make amends.’
He showed her a dagger with a blade about five inches long, narrow and well sharpened, its handle smartly bound in red leather.
‘It’s pretty enough to appeal to him, don’t you think?’
Hildegard gave it a careful scrutiny. ‘I didn’t try to find him a replacement because I wasn’t confident he wouldn’t misuse it. Do you think he’s safe with a knife?’
‘I believe he lashed out without thought the other evening. At the back of his mind he knew such a thin blade would do no harm against my mail shirt.’ He noticed her uncertainty. ‘This is wild country, Sister. Everybody needs to be able to defend themselves.’
‘I hope your faith in him will be proven. It’s a kind gesture, one to be hoped he’ll appreciate.’
Pierrekyn was riding the hired mule exchanged for the horse Talbot had obtained earlier. Now the knight sprang down from the wagon and, loping with long strides beside the mule, suddenly flour – ished the knife in front of Pierrekyn to display its scarlet handle.
The boy’s expression changed. He smiled briefly and took the knife. Hildegard found herself praying that he would use it only for good.
Talbot came striding back to the wagon. ‘At least I’ve put things right.’ He threw Hildegard a puzzled glance. ‘What sort of boyhood has he had to make him take a bit of teasing so amiss?’
Hildegard did not tell him what little she knew. She did, however, mention the sapper’s accusation.
‘We’ve only Harry’s word. No one should be without a good knife these days. I’m prepared to give the lad the benefit of the doubt,’ Talbot added firmly.
The matter of the velvet turnshoe she kept to herself.
They were now somewhere in the Vaud, a territory ruled by the Count of Savoy. After their descent from the Jougne pass, the Jura had been left behind and they soon cleared the toll at Les Clées.
There had been no sign of Escrick Fitzjohn since Bruges if those fleeting shadows in Salins could be discounted.
Once through customs, their road joined several others on a run down to Vévey on the shore of Lake Geneva. It was much frequented by pilgrims travelling to and from Rome. The town was overflowing with travellers, the lake itself a windswept expanse of sharp-fanged
waves. There they joined another road that ran along the upper Rhone to Martigny before at last beginning the steep ascent through St Branchier to Orsières.
waves. There they joined another road that ran along the upper Rhone to Martigny before at last beginning the steep ascent through St Branchier to Orsières.
Ahead were the towering heights of the Alps and the place they all feared, the dreaded Great St Bernard pass.
The last of the merchandise was offloaded at Martigny for shipment along the Rhone where it would again be loaded onto wagons at Brig for its final destination to Milan. Some, however, was put in store until the roads opened again in summer. The innkeepers along the route made a rich profit from offering guarantees to the merchants for the safe storage of what were often goods of high value. In summer the pack animals would continue through the pass and on into Tuscany.
This was the route to be followed by the de Hutton and Meaux woolpacks – except for the one bale that remained in Bruges, despoiled by the presence of a dead body.
By the time they reached Orsières near the entrance to the pass, their party was much depleted. It now consisted of Hildegard, Talbot, Pierrekyn, the three mercenaries, and half a dozen pilgrims who, for reasons of spiritual purity and not a little fear, kept themselves to themselves. Even Pierrekyn’s singing partner left.
While they were at the inn in Orsières, a courier arrived from the south. He was shivering despite his hard walking and, before he leaped onto the back of the mule waiting for him, warned them that snow was falling in the mountains. It was expected to get worse over the next few days.
After a brief, worried conference, Hildegard and Talbot decided to go on. If the courier had got through the pass with his leather satchel of mail, then they could do the same with their few belongings. It was, after all, only eight miles.
Pierrekyn looked disgruntled but offered no view of his own. Jack Black and his comrades, hardened to all weathers, were in a hurry to get to the lucrative fields of war and gave no thought to the trivial inconvenience of snow. They were prepared to hire guides to see them over the summit. It was what you did in these parts, they said. They would all keep together. There was no sense in waiting.
So now, with a handful of the more hardy pilgrims, their small group was ready to set out for the worst part of the journey.
Although only eight miles, a distance that could have been covered in a couple of hours’ brisk walking on the flat, it was the height of the climb, the roughness of the terrain, and the snakelike meanderings of the route that made it near enough a day’s climb.
They had been on the road since dawn. As they discovered, what made it difficult were the frequent slow traverses they had to make from one side of the mountain to the other. Sometimes there was nothing more than a few ropes to help them; at others there were frail cord bridges suspended over the ravines, which they could use only one at a time.
It was frightening. Hildegard felt her breath stop every time she set foot on the cordings set loosely on their net of ropes. From a distance the bridges looked no more substantial than a silken web. Close up they seemed little better. What made them more dangerous was the fact that ice clung to them, adding to their weight, and making them groan under the strain even before anybody set foot on them. A hundred times over, Hildegard imagined the ropes snapping under the strain and the unlucky traveller pitching down in a blitz of ice to the bottom of the chasm.
Apparently oblivious to danger, the mercenaries went doggedly ahead to dislodge the ice with great sweeps of their axes, hooting with glee every time the shards smashed on the rocks below.
When Harry saw Pierrekyn gingerly peering over the precipice after a particularly large block had fallen several hundred feet, shattering into a thousand pieces or more, he yelled, ‘Bet you’re glad that’s not your bloody ’ead!’ For once Pierrekyn held his tongue.
Sometimes they had to cross frozen brooks where the ice crackled under their tread. At the last halt they had hired overshoes studded with nails to stop them slipping on the ice and were encouraged to wear horn eye-pieces with narrow slits cut in them through which the world could be seen, elongated and somehow clearer.
Ulf had warned Hildegard what it would be like but no words could match the physical reality. Each step taken was a small victory
against the elements. The wind pierced like a knife through every gap in their garments. Hildegard’s fingers turned into useless lumps despite her fur mittens. Even the beaver hat did not prevent ice cutting her face and forming a rime over the eye-piece.
against the elements. The wind pierced like a knife through every gap in their garments. Hildegard’s fingers turned into useless lumps despite her fur mittens. Even the beaver hat did not prevent ice cutting her face and forming a rime over the eye-piece.
By the time they reached the hospice on the summit they were exhausted, but there were smiles of satisfaction all round. They stamped their boots to dislodge the snow and jostled to get inside with a palpable sense of achievement.
What made it bearable for Hildegard was the thought that she would soon be in Florence. The thought had sustained her all day. When the prior came down to greet them she saw it as one more waymark on the long journey to obtain the cross.
The prior and canons of St Bernard had been offering hospitality to pilgrims and other travellers for over three hundred years. Bernard himself was of royal descent, related to the counts of Savoy, and he had built the hospice on the site of a small monastery with endowments from his relatives. Nowadays an increasing number of pilgrims made the journey from the northern countries down to Rome on what was called the via Francigena and as a result a network of similar refuges had been set up. But the Great St Bernard hospice was the first.
Unlike the inns that had sprung up as trade increased, at intervals of a half-day’s journey, where travellers were charged as much as the market would bear, the hospices offered free accommodation to everyone. This, together with the fact that the buildings were expensive to maintain at such an altitude, made them perpetually short of money. The prior also offered the free services of
maronniers
whose job was to guide travellers through the pass, act as a rescue service, maintain the fixed ropes and bridges over the steepest part of the route and keep up the
perches,
the signposts without which anyone could become lost. On top of that each traveller was given a portion of bread and a measure of wine before leaving.
maronniers
whose job was to guide travellers through the pass, act as a rescue service, maintain the fixed ropes and bridges over the steepest part of the route and keep up the
perches,
the signposts without which anyone could become lost. On top of that each traveller was given a portion of bread and a measure of wine before leaving.
In order to do all this the place was run by a number of Augustinians. One of them fell into conversation with Hildegard once he knew she spoke French. He was helping a couple of lay brothers to arrange the implements for the evening meal.
‘I am,’ he told her, ‘a
quêteur.’
When she asked him to explain, he said, ‘I’m usually out on a quest, begging, of course, as I’m a mendicant.’ He glanced round the hall. ‘It takes money to keep this place running. It’s a pity we can’t charge as the innkeepers do!’
quêteur.’
When she asked him to explain, he said, ‘I’m usually out on a quest, begging, of course, as I’m a mendicant.’ He glanced round the hall. ‘It takes money to keep this place running. It’s a pity we can’t charge as the innkeepers do!’
‘There are many members of your Order in the towns close to my priory in the North of England,’ she told him. ‘They do a lot of good among the sick.’ They both moved on, he to finish his chores in the kitchens, Hildegard to feed her hounds.
Duchess and Bermonda had worn small leather pouches over their feet with nails to stand in lieu of claws but had not taken kindly to such an indignity. Now when she found them they looked at her with forlorn expressions. She ruffled their ears and spoke kindly to them to cheer them up, and in reply they leaned heavily against her legs as if to plead with her not to put them through such an ordeal again.
‘My poor creatures,’ she murmured. ‘Only one more day and then we’ll be over the mountains and you’ll be basking in sunshine and walking in marble halls.’
Quêteur,
the canon had called himself, a quester. That was her own role too. In her case it was a quest to find the cross of Constantine and bring it home.
the canon had called himself, a quester. That was her own role too. In her case it was a quest to find the cross of Constantine and bring it home.
There was not much singing from Pierrekyn after supper that evening. Not that he was unwilling but his repertoire had to be tailored to suit the religious nature of their lodging.
Eventually he found a suitable song. It was another
chanson
about a lady in a bower. ‘The arrow of love has pierced my heart and now I bleed and die,’ he warbled in a mocking falsetto. Apparently he was quite revived from the day’s ordeal.
chanson
about a lady in a bower. ‘The arrow of love has pierced my heart and now I bleed and die,’ he warbled in a mocking falsetto. Apparently he was quite revived from the day’s ordeal.
Hildegard closed her eyes. All day she had thrust aside every thought of Hubert de Courcy. Now weariness made the effort too much and he appeared before her, not as she had last seen him, cold and indifferent to her fate, but as he had been on that autumn afternoon in his garden. Banal as love often seems to outsiders, the song expressed her feelings with shaming accuracy: an arrow had pierced her heart, she bled, she died.
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