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Authors: Cassandra Clark

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BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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Their only defence, should an invasion be launched through Ravenser, would be the landholders, like Roger and his brother barons, and the levies they could raise, but their defence would be as nothing if the abbeys lent practical support to a foreign army. They could withhold supplies from the king while maintaining the invading forces for many months.
Since she had been away in Tuscany the picture had changed somewhat. The Bishop of Norwich and his army had launched an attack against Burgundy and, even though it had come to nothing, attention had been deflected from the North.
‘And where,’ the prioress had asked, ‘does Hubert stand in all this?’ His father, she said, had been a French spy at the court of King Edward. Wasn’t it likely that Hubert would follow in his father’s footsteps?
What this might have to do with his present activities could only be surmised. The clerk, copier of a document deemed subversive by King Richard’s opponents, had been murdered within the purlieu of the abbey itself.
His death might have been the outcome of a drunken brawl, but it might equally have a meaning deeper and darker: a deliberate killing
to silence a dangerous enemy. It was certainly true that someone had decided to treat Reynard’s death not as a simple homicide – for which the punishment might be a fine – but as murder, with hanging as the ultimate penalty.
It was obvious who would gain by silencing him.
Gaunt would gain.
Everything led back to him. To Duke John of Lancaster. Earl of Derby, Lincoln and Leicester. Lord of Beaufort and Bergerac, Roche-sur-Yon, Noyen. Seneschal of England. Constable of Chester. The eldest living son of Edward III. Protector prince of the realm of Albion – and father of young Bolingbroke, cousin of the king, schooled from the age of twelve in the art of war, his heir.
Ambition, as Roger had said, was the devil.
What Gaunt had to do to suppress the true story about what had happened at Smithfield was to get rid of the clerk who had copied the text, then find a scapegoat to accuse of his murder. It would be even better if it could be passed off as a crime of passion.
With the true text suppressed, the alternative story about the killing of Wat Tyler could be fostered. Gaunt and his followers could rip out the heart of the rebellion with lies. They could confuse good, simple folk with a treachery they would never imagine.
More than this: Gaunt’s ally was Pope Clement in Avignon, the man who issued orders from the opulence of his palace, orders that echoed down the line of command to the most distant Cistercian cell.
 
Hildegard waited in the darkness. Eventually the church doors opened and the soft glow of candlelight fell over the even stones of the garth as the brethren emerged. Hubert left the procession and made his way towards his lodge, which stood a little apart from the main buildings. Hildegard followed.
As he reached the door she caught up with him.
‘My lord abbot!’
He froze. She watched as he seemed to gather his energy to make the turn necessary to face her. His expression was scarcely discernible in the pale starlight filtering down. He peered at her as if he could
not connect her to anyone he knew and to help him she pushed back her hood, stepped closer and said, ‘It’s Sister Hildegard, your servant in Christ.’ She bent her head. When she looked up he was gazing down at her without making a move. She straightened until they were eye to eye.
He lifted a hand in a warding off gesture. ‘You?’
‘I have just lately returned from pilgrimage,’ she managed. Finely attuned to every nuance of his voice, the ice in that one word chilled her to the marrow. Nothing had changed. She was accused and knew nothing of the charge.
‘What do you want with me?’ he asked in a hoarse voice. He took a step forward.
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment.
A sort of madness seemed to blaze from his face, forcing her to take an involuntary step backwards as if he had threatened to strike her.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he whispered. ‘Leave the precincts of my abbey. Never set foot here again.’
Hildegard drew herself up before her defences could be overwhelmed and said quietly, ‘I am not here through choice, my lord. I’ve been called as a witness in the prosecution of Master Pierrekyn. Tomorrow I register my interest with the sheriff on instructions from the lord steward of Castle Hutton.’
‘And what else does he instruct you in?’
‘My lord?’ She was puzzled.
When he failed to reply, merely giving her a long, piercing scrutiny, she said, ‘I’m surprised this is considered to be a matter for the abbey court.’
‘A writ will no doubt be issued after they’ve heard the plea. It’ll go to the Justices of the King’s Bench. Then the matter will be out of my hands and you can go on taking your instructions from Lord Roger’s steward to your heart’s content.’
He rested a hand on the door of his chambers as if the conversation had exhausted him. All the fight seemed to have left him. His voice was faint. ‘I meant what I said, Hildegard. Get away from me, from here.’ He rallied and his tone roughened. ‘Leave Meaux and never come back! Remain in your cell at Swyne! I withdraw
any permissions I have ever given you. Tell your prioress it’s no use battering me with requests to change my mind.’
He finished speaking and in a moment had pushed on into the unlit chamber beyond.
T
HE JUSTICES OF the Peace were elected by the chancellor and treasurer at a meeting of the king’s council. It was assumed that magnates like Gaunt and the other barons put pressure on the members to elect someone who would be useful to them. This practice filtered down to all levels of the realm. Knights and esquires were given positions of power through gifts of land or by appointment to official positions within the hierarchy on the basis of their affiliations. Roger himself made no bones about it. ‘It’s as helpful to have a Justice in your pocket as it is to bribe a jury.’
Hildegard remembered these words now as everyone filed into the chapter house. If Roger hasn’t secured the Justice – as he clearly has not – then we are at the mercy of those who have.
Normally the abbey court was held at the vill of Waughen but it was inconvenient for the noble visitors to have to set out on the road yet again. Besides, the hearing was expected to be over within a short time. The boy had no defence. He would hang.
The Justice was a professional lawyer. Roger clearly suspected the man of being maintained by Gaunt. There was nothing to be done about it now.
Hildegard took her place on one of the benches with everyone else. The commission’s role today was purely to take down the facts of the case and collate the evidence so that it could be checked by the jurors when it went to the king’s court. If matters turned against Pierrekyn, the serjeant-at-law would receive a commission of gaol delivery and hand him over to the Justice of oyer and terminer.
It was then that Pierrekyn would spend time in York gaol, waiting for the next court of the King’s Bench to convene. The Chief Justice would decide whether the court should travel or stay in Westminster.
It could be a protracted process unless the boy’s enemies took matters into their own hands. Heaven forfend they pre-empt any judgment, she thought.
She worried about how Pierrekyn would withstand imprisonment. His lute had already been taken away but later it would have to be confiscated by the escheator who would assess the value of his possessions. He owned so little: the borrowed attired he had been wearing when he was arrested, his lute, the leather satchel he carried it in. And one other thing.
She had asked the monk-bailiff why he should not have back his lute when the escheator arrived. The monk had gladly agreed.
‘Let him keep his belongings for now. He’s still innocent in the eyes of the law and I like a tune,’ he had argued in deliberately affable tones. The escheator, not wishing to appear uncharitable in the monk’s eyes, had agreed, albeit with an ill grace.
The tune Pierrekyn had been practising since early that morning was still in her ears, plaintive but with a defiant chorus that would have had the foot tapping in other circumstances. Whenever anyone walked past his cell window they could hear it. Quite a number of novices had found cause to do their lessons that morning in the south-west corner of the cloister, much to their master’s annoyance.
Hildegard’s attention was brought abruptly back to the present as everyone rose. Hubert processed in at the head of his chief officials. This morning he looked even paler than before and refused to catch the eye of any of those present. He merely took his seat and indicated that everyone should do likewise. Only the suspect and the serjeant-at-law remained standing.
The latter read out the coroner’s deposition, then called the first-finder.
Ulf stepped forward to confirm that he had found the body. The serjeant asked him to confirm when and where he had done so, and to tell the court exactly when the bales of wool had been sealed. Ulf explained that the clip had been packed first, a day before the fells were sacked up. He added that it was around then, a full day before the convoy left, that Reynard’s disappearance had first been noticed.
The serjeant asked the man who had appealed the accused to step forth. A frightened-looking servant was thrust from the crowd. When he was asked to confirm his name and rank – he was one of Sir William’s grooms – his voice was no more than a whisper. The serjeant demanded to know what he had been doing at the abbey on the day in question and, too terrified to look up, he had come out with the information that he had been sent over with produce for the abbey kitchens from one of Sir William’s outlying manors.
The serjeant-at-law then asked him to tell the court what he had seen. Scarcely daring to look up, he claimed that he had seen a young man loitering by the sheds after everyone had gone and, having himself returned briefly to the scene to retrieve a gauntlet, had noticed him slip inside the shed whereupon raised voices had been heard. Thinking nothing of it, he had picked up the gauntlet and returned to the servants’ hall.
‘And this man you say went into the packing shed, is he here in the court today?’ asked the serjeant.
‘Yes. He’s there.’ The groom pointed. ‘It was the minstrel, Pierrekyn Haverel.’
The serjeant held up his hand to stem the murmurs that broke out and asked him whether, as was the custom, he would prove the truth of his statement by engaging in armed combat with the accused. Pierrekyn looked startled and was clearly relieved when this convention was waved aside.
The serjeant turned to the young clerk sitting on his left. ‘Got all that written down, Will?’
‘I have indeed, sir,’ he replied, wiping his quill on a piece of rag.
The person appealed had to appear next but to the serjeant’s blunt, ‘Did you do it?’ Pierrekyn answered, equally bluntly, ‘No, I did not.’
The serjeant was just about to slam his books together and give orders for Pierrekyn to appear at the county court when Hildegard rose to her feet. She made her way to the front as one of the clerks whispered her name and status to the serjeant. Grimacing at what he clearly thought was a waste of time, he nodded for her to begin.
Conscious of all eyes on her, of Hubert sitting opposite, of John Coppinhall’s narrow observation, she opened her scrip and took out the embroidered kerchief. She unknotted it, and spread out its contents on the lectern.
Hubert’s eyes were fixed on her fingers as she refolded the kerchief and put it to one side. The first thing she held up was the scrap of blue cloth.
‘This is the first piece of evidence I wish to have recorded by the serjeant,’ she explained. ‘It’s a fragment of the cloth they call calimala and it is triple-dyed in woad.’ A few glances were exchanged and there was a murmur that stopped abruptly when she turned to Lady Melisen. ‘Would you confirm, my lady, that you gave me a blue cloak to wear on my pilgrimage to Tuscany?’
Looking confused, but pleased to be the sudden focus of attention, Melisen rose to her feet. ‘I will indeed, Sister. May I see that fragment?’
Hildegard handed it over.
‘It’s very like the fabric of my own cloak, which I gave you. I had it specially made for me. The dye was my own choice. I have never seen another like it.’
‘Thank you, my lady. And is this part of the same cloak, cut down?’ She produced a bundle of blue cloth.
Melisen poked it with one finger. ‘It certainly is. It’s outrageous! They’ve quite ruined it!’
‘Where’s this leading?’ asked the serjeant.
‘This fragment of cloth comes from the cloak Lady Melisen gave me. It was lent to Sir Talbot, my escort in the Alps.’
As briefly as she could she explained the circumstances.
‘It was this very cloak,’ she continued, ‘that Sir Talbot was wearing when he was shot by a bolt from a crossbow.’
‘What of it?’ demanded the serjeant with the air of a man who fears he might be missing something.
‘This small fragment was discovered by fellow travellers coming through the pass a few hours later. Guessing it might be a clue to the identity of the murderer in whose tracks they were following, they handed it to me when we met again. Shortly afterwards I came across a man wearing this cloak cut down to a more fashionable length. I believe he was the murderer of Sir Talbot.’
‘One and the same,’ cut in the serjeant. ‘I still ask, what of it? What’s does it have to do with us here? It doesn’t prove the wearer of the cloak shot this Sir Talbot you mention. The cloak could have been bought either ready-made or in its damaged state from any pedlar. I assume they’re as plagued by pedlars over there as we are?’
There was laughter.
‘Indeed they are,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘However, after taking it from the body, the murderer of Sir Talbot might also have worn the cloak himself or even carried it down the pass, where it snagged on the rock, this fragment being found by the rest of the group scattered in the ice storm the previous day. A blue thing in a waste of white, easily noticed. Further,’ she continued before she could be interrupted again, ‘the same man who wore the cloak also wore this.’ She held up Sir Talbot’s leather pouch.
The serjeant-at-arms gave it a sceptical glance. ‘So? A pouch is a pouch. What’s special about this one?’ He seemed to have forgotten Pierrekyn for the moment.
‘This pouch is different to many others. Indeed, it is quite distinctive.’ She opened it so that everyone could see what she was doing. ‘Inside is a secret pocket. The thief failed to realise this. Otherwise he would have found something of far more value than a piece of worked leather.’ She took out the brooch and held it up.
‘Bear with me,’ she said, ‘this is relevant to the present hearing.’
Everyone craned forward to see what she was holding up.
‘This brooch proves that the pouch belonged to Sir Talbot. I myself was with him when he bought it from a goldsmith in Bruges. He had it inscribed:
je suy vostre sans de partier.’
The brooch was handed from one juror to another. Even Hubert took it although he passed it on to the prior as if it burned his fingers.
‘I am yours for ever,’
he said in dry tones, speaking for the first time. ‘Whom did he have that inscribed for?’
‘His lady in France,’ she replied.
‘These facts will be checked.’
It sounded like a warning but she acknowledged it with a lifting of her spirits. ‘You will find everything I say is true, my lord.’
His expression was ambivalent.
The serjeant-at-law was looking longingly at his books. He was probably thinking he hadn’t studied law for sixteen years only to be unable to have recourse to them now. But procedure had to be followed. Here was a witness who could not be brushed aside. He returned doggedly to the point.
‘So this is intended to demonstrate that the fellow stole a pouch from the body of the knight in the wilds of the mountains. What has it to do with us here in England?’
‘His guilt will prove the accused’s innocence.’
‘Guilt of one murder doesn’t prove guilt of another. Where’s the link?’
‘There is a link. It’s this.’ She held up the ring that had fallen at her feet in the palazzo of La Gran Contessa. Again, outlining events as briefly as possible without mentioning the cross of Constantine, she said, ‘It links the murderer of Sir Talbot with the murderer of Reynard of Risingholme. It is the clerk’s ring.’
There was a flurry of astonishment, quickly stifled.
‘How do we know that?’
‘We do know it,’ she continued, ‘because he had two identical rings made.’
Pierrekyn was standing with his head down, staring at the floor. She turned to him. ‘Show us your hands, Pierrekyn.’
Confused and sullen he spread them out. There was a gasp. The ring he wore was identical to the one Hildegard held up.
‘Can you confirm that the ring I have here belonged to Reynard of Risingholme?’ she asked him.
His face was a picture of bewilderment. He nodded.
‘Say it aloud so everyone can hear,’ she suggested gently.
‘It is.’ He swallowed.
‘Will you make sure?’
Reaching out, he took it and held it between his fingers. When he raised his head his eyes were glistening. ‘It is the very one. He had two matching ones made by a silversmith in Beverley. That’s Whitby jet in the mouth of the wyvern. I would know it anywhere. He had them made to his own design. He made the drawings and the silversmith worked from them.’
‘No doubt the court will call the silversmith as witness should
it be necessary,’ Hildegard suggested with a covert glance at Hubert.
‘So he had two identical rings made?’ began the serjeant-at-arms.
Roger stepped forward. ‘Let’s be clear—’ He stopped, suddenly remembering he was in somebody else’s court, and turned to the abbot. ‘If I may be so bold, my lord abbot?’
‘You may,’ replied Hubert tonelessly.
‘So the man who shot Sir Talbot, and betrayed himself by stealing his cloak and his pouch, also stabbed my clerk, betraying himself again by stealing the fellow’s ring and wearing it? Making him as much a thief as a murderer and, if either, then a blackguard of the first water.’
Hubert roused himself. ‘I thank you for your contribution, Roger. That sums up everything so far.’ His icy glance fell on Hildegard. ‘Pray continue, Sister. I don’t doubt you have more to say.’
BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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