Hangman Blind (19 page)

‘W
HAT THE DEVIL
are you doing here?’ Roger spoke between gritted teeth in a voice so low that only Hildegard and Ulf could catch his words. ‘God’s nails!’ he rasped. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? And is that supposed to be me in there?’ He gestured towards the coffin. ‘What the hell am I supposed to tell Hubert? He’ll think I’m stark staring mad.’ He surveyed the cortège from beneath his borrowed cowl with disbelief.

The moon gleamed down, covering the bustling scene in the courtyard with sheet silver. A light mist ghosted about in the nooks and crannies. To an observer the hand on Ulf’s arm was merely to detain him long enough to indicate where the household was to be lodged.

‘I thank you, Father Prior,’ said Ulf in a loud voice as Ralph escorted Sibilla and the baby across the garth to the guest lodge. As soon as they were out of earshot he demanded, ‘What do you mean, have I taken leave of my senses? I’m following orders.’

‘I only meant if – if – you didn’t find the culprit straight off, to tempt him out by…oh, I don’t know! I wasn’t thinking straight, for heaven’s sake. Would you think straight if somebody tried to poison you? I never dreamed you’d take it to these lengths. Plumes for God’s shite! Sorry, Hildegard.’ He broke off. ‘It’s just a shock. I was delirious, couldn’t you tell? Anyway, you’d better both come inside. Thank heavens Hubert’s praying again.’

As Ulf and Hildegard were swept along in his wake Ulf said, ‘Am I mad or is it him? He distinctly said—’

‘He’s unhinged by everything that’s happened,’ Hildegard assured him. ‘He doesn’t know who to trust, which way to turn. Be patient. It’s now he needs you most.’

‘Wait until I tell him about Melisen.’ Ulf looked as if he were about to be hanged.

Hildegard paused outside the chamber in which Roger had been so comfortably lodged – while they had been embroiled in the hellish events at Castle Hutton – and asked a lurking novice to bring hot water.

Ulf overheard her request. ‘You’re not thinking of adding water to the lord abbot’s wine, are you? I warn you against such desecration.’

‘I have herbs with me. Mixed with hot water they should rebalance Roger’s humours and make him more amenable to reason,’ Hildegard explained. ‘Don’t tell him anything until after we’ve supped.’

‘I’m not supping herbs right now. That’s the last thing I want,’ grumbled Ulf.

‘You won’t have to. This is for Roger only. We’ll have the wine you mentioned.’

For the first time since they had emerged from the forest into the courtyard at Meaux Ulf’s spirits seemed to rise and a small gleam of hope entered his eyes at the thought of Hildegard with a plan. He went inside to find Roger lolling on a couch heaped with sheepskins. Underneath the threadbare habit, he wore an ankle-length garment of stitched skins with the wool turned inwards for extra warmth.

‘Well, steward,’ he snapped, ‘why haven’t you discovered this poisoner? What’s the matter with you? Can’t your spies come up with a name?’

‘There are several problems, my lord,’ Ulf began. Catching Hildegard’s eye, he slowed his speech and appeared to be sorting his words in order to give Roger the facts as clearly as possible – but in fact to give Hildegard time to mix her potion.

Luckily at that moment the door opened and the novice brought in a pitcher of wine and the flagon of hot water she needed.

As choleric as always, however, Roger was jumping with impatience. ‘Come on, man, spit it out! A name is what I want! What do you think I pay you for?’

‘Then you’ve had no news from Hutton since you arrived here?’ Ulf stalled.

‘Not a whisper.’

‘A lot has happened,’ he stalled again.

By now Hildegard had mixed some of the water with the herbal concoction. ‘A moment, Roger. I’ve made you a balancing draught against the poison you drank.’ She handed it to him with a warm smile.

‘Always get your own way, you, don’t you? I remember how you used to—’ Her steady gaze stopped him in mid-sentence and he cleared his throat. ‘I still can’t get my head around your changed life. Anyway, ge vu!’ He threw the potion back then smacked his lips and held out the beaker for more.

‘That will suffice for now,’ said Hildegard. You don’t want to overdo it.’

‘I am entirely in your hands,’ replied Roger, settling back on the couch and putting up his feet in their kidskin night boots. He began to yawn and Hildegard caught Ulf’s eye and gave him a slight nod.

‘Well, sire,’ began the steward in a slow soothing tone.

Roger yawned again. ‘Where’s Melisen? I didn’t notice her in the garth.’

‘She still believes you dead, sire,’ Ulf began in a reproachful tone.

Roger chuckled. ‘You really did take me at my word, didn’t you? It was the poison speaking. I would have thought you’d realise that, you sot-wit! So how is the silly goose taking my demise? Plenty of tears?’

Ulf looked shocked. ‘She’s inconsolable if you want the truth.’ He leaned forward to emphasise what he was saying. ‘You ordered me to tell everybody you were dead. You said it would flush out the poisoner. You said, “He’ll be revealed in his midden of deceit.” I did as you ordered.’ His voice cracked. ‘As a result some terrible things have happened. I can hardly bring myself to speak of them.’

‘Go on.’

Ulf braced himself then seemed to decide to give it to Roger straight. Even so his tone roughened when he said, ‘Ada, one of Ralph’s serving women, was murdered the night before last.’

‘What?’

Sparing him nothing, Ulf described the murder scene. As he went into detail Roger stroked his beard and when he finished he said, ‘I can’t believe it. As soon as my back’s turned all hell breaks out. There must be some madman running loose.’

‘We might be able to name him,’ said Ulf.

Roger raised his eyebrows.

‘I told you some terrible things had happened? Well, Sir William stabbed one of your yeomen in full view of everybody. And next—’ His hand, noticed Hildegard, strayed to his dagger. Not to attack, she knew, but to defend himself.

Roger was watching his steward closely. ‘And next—?’

There was a pause.

Roger’s thoughts must have raced like demons to their conclusion because the colour drained from his face and he asked, ‘It’s Melisen, isn’t it?’ His voice became hoarse. ‘No! I won’t believe it! Is she dead too? My pretty martlet, dead?’

Ulf shook his head at once. ‘Not that I know of, my lord,’ and he added quickly, ‘merely abducted by Sir William and a brace of cronies.’

‘Merely?’ Roger’s tone was dangerous. ‘Abducted? What the devil do you mean?’

‘He fought valiantly to prevent it,’ Hildegard interrupted, ‘but was himself pierced by a sword—’

‘You have a wound?’ asked Roger, voice cold with disbelief.

‘It’s just my shoulder,’ said Ulf.

‘Let’s see this wound.’

Reluctantly Ulf pulled aside the neck of his hauberk to reveal the dressing that Hildegard had applied. It was blood-stained.

Roger nodded and with an abstracted frown gestured to Ulf to cover himself. ‘What happened?’

‘It was Sir William with his henchmen. They swooped down without warning on the cort Aacute; ge as we were approaching Brocklebank Dip, snatched Lady Melisen from the funeral wagon and made off with her. I sent men in pursuit. They should be here with news before long.’

‘With more than news. Hopefully with the lady herself,’ snarled Roger. ‘Did she struggle?’

‘Like a wildcat, my lord.’

Roger put his head in his hands. When he eventually looked up his expression was bleak. ‘Anything else?’

Hildegard said, ‘Ulf’s told you everything that happened. There’s nothing we can do now until your men return from their pursuit of Sir William.’ She hesitated. ‘Meanwhile perhaps you might consider these.’

She picked up her bag from where it rested beside her chair. ‘I found these objects hidden in a chimney shortly before we left.’ So saying she opened the bag and drew forth the velvet chaperon and the stained poulaines.

They all looked at them in silence. Rain dripped on to the floor of the room above.

Eventually Roger reached for the chaperon and shook it out. ‘Who does this belong to?’ he asked.

‘Possibly Ada’s killer,’ Hildegard suggested.

Roger held it up. ‘William would never wear a thing like this. We can count him out! Look at it! And whose ridiculous footwear is that?’

‘As yet we don’t know.’ Hildegard turned to Ulf. ‘If you look closely you’ll see that the pattern is similar to the drawing you made of some of the prints beside Ada’s body.’

Ulf fingered the soft leather and gave a grimace. ‘I know who these belong to. We have found our princess of the lost slipper.’ He glanced from Roger to Hildegard and back. ‘They belonged to Godric, the third yeoman. I warned him about a fine if he persisted in wearing them.’

‘So the footprint in the barley dust might be his?’ asked Hildegard.

‘Looks like it,’ he replied.

‘The inference being: he murdered Ada?’ she raised her brows.

Moving close to Roger, Hildegard took him by the arm. ‘So far, my lord, I haven’t told you where I found these things but you need to know everything. I found them stuffed inside the chimney in the solar where Ralph and Sibilla were lodged.’

‘Ralph? But he’s my brother! Are you trying to say he’s this murdering madman?’ For a moment Roger looked as if he’d been felled by a physical blow.

Hildegard said quickly, ‘We must be careful not to jump to conclusions.’

Roger rose to his feet. ‘Either Ralph did it or if not it must have been this bloody yeoman who hid them there.’

‘No chance. Someone would have noticed him. It’s out of his territory,’ replied Ulf at once.

Roger fumbled for his sword propped against a nearby chair. ‘Where is Ralph? I’ll rip the truth from the bastard’s throat myself.’

Ulf moved swiftly, crowding Roger so he couldn’t leave. ‘We must decide whether it’s advisable to reveal all our best cards in one fell swoop, my lord. Remember, he thinks you dead. And he may not have put these things up there at all, so by accusing him you might forearm the real culprit.’

Roger shouldered his steward aside, all effects of Hildegard’s potion apparently worn off. ‘To hell with talk! I’ll deal with Ralph when I get back. While we sit here chatting, Melisen’s a prisoner. I must ride out after her. Knowing William he’ll have taken her to his stronghold down in Holderness, damn his eyes. If he touches her, I’ll not be responsible! Come on, man, rouse the forces! Let’s go!’

Given that they had been riding since early the previous day and it was now just after midnight and the rain was still falling like steel rods, Roger’s men turned to with remarkably little grumbling when they heard what they were being ordered to do. The prospect of a good scrap with Sir William’s Holderness forces seemed to raise their spirits at once. The handful of William’s men who had ridden over from Hutton with the cortège offered to change coats at once and bear arms on Roger’s behalf but they were regarded with scepticism, and put for safe-keeping in the abbey prison. Sir Ralph’s men, of course, were lodged at close quarters to their lord and lady in the guest house, and knew nothing of this night-time exodus from Meaux.

After a short announcement by Ulf, there in the stable-yard where most of the Hutton men had been about to bed down in whatever dry corners they could find, they were astonished when a monkish figure strode into their midst and, pausing only for a moment, threw back his cowl to reveal Lord Roger himself.

There was a collective intake of breath. A voice cried, ‘A ghost! Save us!’ This was quickly followed by a rousing cheer and cries of ‘God-a-mercy!’ and ‘A miracle!’ and a sudden spontaneous hymn of thanksgiving when it became obvious that the man before them was no apparition but flesh and blood and spoiling for a fight. A host of hands patted him on the back and their enthusiasm brought a flush to Roger’s cheeks. He muttered something about preparing for what lay ahead and they set about getting armoured up with alacrity.

The abbot, having returned from his prayers, was alerted by his servants, apprised of the situation, and magnanimously allowed the use of fresh horses from his own string, as well as requisitioning a couple more from some merchants who were passing through. These two were not best pleased at this but, roused in the middle of the night by the prior and two hooded monks, thickset fellows with fists thrust menacingly into their sleeves, they chose not to demur. Soon the small army was ready to set out.

It was still raining. By now the drops were as big as pebbles and chimed off the helms of the men, hit the ground then bounced up again and struck their greaves, sending spatters of mud everywhere. The din made speech impossible, but the men were undeterred.

Ulf – shoulder freshly trussed – was astride a sparky bay belonging to the precentor, and his face gleamed with pleasure at the prospect of the fight ahead. ‘It’s marshland down that way,’ he told Hildegard, as if she didn’t know, ‘not what we’re used to! It’ll be a real challenge picking our way through the waterways to that devil’s lair. But then we’ll see what’s what.’

‘Remember, don’t use your left arm for anything,’ warned Hildegard as she walked along beside him towards the gatehouse. ‘Despite the weather I wish I was coming with you to keep an eye on things.’ She crinkled her eyes hopefully.

‘It might turn nasty,’ he told her with relish. ‘You’re best keeping yourself safe and dry here within the abbey.’ He paused and added awkwardly, ‘And don’t forget to pray for us.’

‘I’ll do that,’ she called as they clattered under the arch out of the garth. They set off straight away at a roaring gallop, making their pennants fly, and the hens and ducks sleeping in the newly formed puddles on the foregate scattered, squawking, from beneath their iron hooves.

An unnatural silence seemed to fall after they swept from view. I will pray for you, thought Hildegard, but there’s much else to do besides. She turned towards the chapel where the bell was being rung for lauds then changed her mind and squelched towards the cloisters. There, with the gargoyles spitting jets of water from the roof, she paced with her head bowed and her fingers playing over the multicoloured beads she wore at her waist until she came to her starting point. And then she paced on for another half-dozen circuits. The rain was a continual background roar to her whirling thoughts.