Hangman Blind (20 page)

William might be a despot, and a hothead, and a murderer of yeomen, and a rapist, and all those other things he was rumoured to be but it did not necessarily make him the murderer of Ada. Nor did it make him a failed poisoner. The chaperon and the poulaines seemed to prove it. After a closer look at the stains, they had decided they were blood, as Hildegard had first suspected. The wearer had trodden in it as he sewed the stitches. But, as Roger had said, William would never wear such things. There was a deeper secret hidden here, she realised.

Soon the monks started to come out of chapel after the last office, some walking in procession to the stairs that led up to the dorter, others finding an excuse to stand and listen to the rain. Tugging her cloak more tightly round herself, Hildegard left them to it and made her way back inside. Roger had been housed in private rooms reached by a spiral stair from the slype. It was secluded, a place where the abbot could entertain guests at his discretion, and she settled down there amid the sheepskins to think.

One small question kept rubbing away at her thoughts, like a grain of salt in a wound, and, in the midst of everything else that had happened, she could not banish the sense of unease it brought. It was Ralph’s man servant, his blood shot right eye, his look of confusion a she jerked to a halt in the doorway after recapturing the cat. Something had jogged his memory. His black look proved it. She shivered and tried to imagine what had given him the clue to her identity and then, feeling more uneasy than ever, she wondered what he might do now he knew who she was.

Despite what Ulf had remarked earlier it was scarcely safer here in the abbey than on the field of battle.

Prime came and went. Hildegard heard the bells. She heard the soft shuffling of the monks as they went down to the refectory for mixtum and came back again to read in the cloisters underneath her chamber, or, if they were novices, to go to their lessons, until eventually the time passed and the bell began tolling for Lady-mass.

Soon after that she heard a large group assemble below and begin to process round the cloister to the summons of the second bell. She pulled on her buskins and took her cloak from the hook.

Sibilla and her nurse would be unlikely to take the squalling baby into mass. Now would be a good time to pay a visit to the guest house across the garth. Aware that she might come face to face with Ralph’s servant, she braced herself and set forth.

Set a distance from the main buildings with its own stables and servants’ quarters, the guest house was a solid, four-square building with a pleasant aspect and the comfort of a manor house. Smoke billowed from its kitchen chimney. A few conversi, abbey servants, could be seen, bustling about on different errands. To add to the peaceful scene, from the nearby chapel floated the varied voices of the singing monks, an empyrean sound, drifting with unexpected harmonies and the ethereal treble of the boys. Hildegard’s boots sank into the soggy grass as she cut across the garth. She sniffed the air for signs of snow. Maybe the marsh puddles and brimming ditches down in Holderness would be brittle with ice this morning. The horses’ hooves would make a sound like breaking glass.

When she went inside, a fire was burning in the hall. Sibilla was sitting in a chair close to the hearth with the baby on her lap. The wet nurse was standing over her. As soon as Sibilla heard someone enter she lifted her head and, seeing who it was, gave a flustered greeting, wafting the maid aside as if in play.

‘Go away, will you? You can have him later. Let me hold my own child.’ The nurse gave a sullen curtsey and backed off. ‘The silly girl imagines him hungry when he makes the slightest peep, sister. Does he look hungry to you?’ Sibilla asked.

‘Not at all.’ Hildegard inspected the swaddled infant. He had sweet, small features and a tuft of fair hair sticking out of his bonnet. His cheeks were rosy with the warmth of the chamber and his tight swaddling bands. ‘He looks most peaceful,’ she remarked. ‘Quite charming, indeed.’

The wet-nurse, buxom and high coloured in the Saxon way, had her eyes fixed on her charge. She was evidently ready to pounce as soon as Sibilla was off guard. There seemed nothing wrong with the baby at all. No cat’s head or devil’s scales. The little fingers on both hands were of the accepted number. Despite the bickering, he was sleeping peacefully with his eyes tight shut. All in all he seemed placid and content and perfect.

‘Dear little Rogerkin,’ observed Sibilla as soon as the nurse had left the chamber. ‘No wonder the silly girl’s so besotted by him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s such a darling.’

‘Do you know what happened to her own child?’ asked Hildegard.

‘Died, I suppose,’ Sibilla said carelessly. She poured a goblet of wine for them both with the baby crooked in one arm, then called for Ralph. He appeared at once carrying Master Jacques.

‘There now,’ he addressed the cat, ‘you can come in freely again. How they banish you from the baby-chamber, my little angel! Don’t they know what a soft sweeting you are?’ He smothered the cat in kisses.

‘Oh, do stop fussing over that detestable animal,’ said Sibilla. She turned to Hildegard, ‘Why was there the sound of horsemen leaving the abbey in the middle of the night?’

‘Horsemen?’ Hildegard cleared her throat. Both Roger and Ulf had decided to keep Roger’s resurrection secret for a little longer. All those who knew the truth, apart from the abbot and his serviciars, were now far away in the south of the county. She gave a vague smile. ‘Did you say horsemen?’

Sibilla looked uncertain. ‘Well, I thought that’s what I heard.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe it was just the drumming of the rain on the roof.’

Hildegard moved on. ‘I was most distressed to hear what had happened at Hutton while I was away,’ she began. ‘Did you see the whole sorry incident yourselves?’ She glanced from one to the other.

Ralph had gone over to the chessboard but now he raised his eyebrows and gave a mock shudder. ‘I’d just sat down at high table, wondering where William was – we were all there,’ he explained, ‘Sibilla, Avice, Philippa, quite a little gaggle of women and me the only knight among them – when that poor fellow paraded in with the jugged hare.’ He was just setting the hare on the table when William burst into the hall. He came storming up to the dais, brandishing his sword, and yelling, “Which one of you carls is number three?” The yeoman arranged the hare very slowly on the dish then looked up into William’s face. I’m not saying he was defiant, but he certainly wasn’t cowering with respect. “I am he,” he said, just like that. “I am he.” He must have known what it was about. He stood there without blinking. And William, with one great leap, sprang on to the dais and went slash, so!’

He demonstrated with the hand that wasn’t cradling the cat. ‘And the poor devil fell back with both hands to his eyes. There was blood gushing everywhere. There was nothing we could do. All the women screamed and drew back and the man fell without a cry. He was quite silent. It was as if he was suffering something he knew he deserved but was not bowed by. I thought it very odd.’

‘In what way odd?’

Ralph shrugged. ‘Why did he not cry out? And William losing his temper like that and all over a serving wench. What on earth got into him? I don’t know what Avice is going to do.’

‘You mean he killed Godric because—?’ Hildegard let her words trail away.

‘Because he was jealous, I suppose. The fellow must have had a prior claim. But William’s always been like that. Any wench is fair game. It’s when he gets found out he loses his reason. Same old story.’

‘And Godric? He didn’t strike me as a man who would get involved with a serving wench.’

‘No,’ agreed Sibilla. ‘He was quite the little gentleman. But it’s not surprising he fell for her, she was stunningly pretty. She could turn anyone’s head.’ She glanced briefly at Ralph, caught his eye and smiled.

‘But I remember you telling me you didn’t know her?’ Hildegard reminded her.

‘I just hadn’t connected her with…don’t forget I’d just given birth,’ Sibilla lifted her hand to her throat. ‘I’m still a little tired now. That ride from Hutton! And Melisen! Do you think she and William planned it together?’

‘Planned it?’

Sibilla shrugged. ‘I can hardly think straight.’

‘That’s understandable.’ Hildegard got up to go. ‘It’s been an eventful Martinmas so far.’

‘And it’s still not over.’ Ralph came with her to the door. ‘Roger’s funeral will have to be delayed, of course. I’m going to have to rouse up a few men shortly and escort poor Avice to Watton. She wants to stay with the nuns for a while and who can blame her?’

‘And when you return, Ralph?’ Hildegard asked.

He looked confused.

‘Someone has to take the reins at Castle Hutton,’ she pointed out.

‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ Ralph threw a glance over his shoulder at Sibilla. ‘The reins. I must say it does rather seem as if the Hangman has caught his victim after all.’ He began to chuckle. ‘Remember the other evening when I couldn’t catch a single one of you? Now it looks as if I’ve got the whole pack!’

A
S HILDEGARD LEFT
the guest house, Ralph’s disconcerting delight at getting the better of everyone prompted a somewhat macabre chant to float into her head. It was one they used to sing as children and went something like: Who will hang the hangman blind? Who will snap his neck? And the reply would come: The hangman hangs the hangman blind, the hangman hangs…And then everybody would shout the name of the next victim. It was a warning to flee for your life.

She shuddered. Heaven forfend there should be another victim.

Briskly crossing the garth after looking in on Burthred and the hounds, she noticed the abbot coming out of chapter. In the western alley a few novices were questioning a senior monk over the readings for the day as she walked past, but the next moment the abbot himself was hurrying towards her. He cut across the cloister court and quickened his pace, reaching the door just as she put her hand on the ring-handle of the door in the slype. She glanced up in surprise. ‘Sister,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you can answer a few questions about the situation with Roger and events at Castle Hutton?’

‘Of course. If I can. There are many puzzles.’

He gave a grim smile. ‘Come to my chamber.’

‘And the chaperon and shoes were hidden in Sir Ralph’s quarters?’ Abbot Hubert de Courcy frowned and made an empty steeple with his fingers, as if the answer would emerge between them. ‘You rightly call it a puzzle, sister. A puzzle within a puzzle.’ He paused. ‘Within a further puzzle.’

Hildegard had explained in as orderly a fashion as she could the circumstances of the attempt on Roger’s life, the murder of Ada and William’s subsequent though not necessarily connected killing of the third yeoman, Godric.

Hubert was sitting in an impressive carved wooden chair with a high back to keep out the draughts. It also served to conceal the occupant from anyone entering. Hildegard sat on the other side of the fire on a comfortable sheepskin-covered bench with a goblet of Hubert’s wine to hand.

‘And Roger’s steward recognised the poulaines as belonging to this same yeoman, you say?’ Hubert frowned. ‘The prints, you suggest, set deliberately in the barley dust beside the body in order to cast suspicion on him?’

‘Or to turn suspicion away from someone else.’ Hildegard took a sip of wine. ‘That’s one idea that’s been mooted. Although of course we can prove nothing. And we’re even further away from finding out why anyone would want the maid dead.’

‘But this footwear.’ Hubert frowned. ‘Quite distinctive, and you say they were hidden in the vacated chamber of Sir Ralph and Lady Sibilla?’

‘Yes. And but for Master Jacques they would no doubt be there even now.’

‘But clearly not put there by the yeoman himself, God bless his soul.’ Hubert crossed himself. ‘He would never have had the opportunity, as the steward, you say, pointed out.’

Hildegard was thoughtful. ‘We have no real proof that the yeoman even entered the grain store. Only that his shoes did.’

‘Are you suggesting they did so of their own volition?’

Hildegard smiled. Hubert’s mind was obviously on less material matters, and it wasn’t surprising. The Talking Crucifix for which the abbey was famous had, just last month, offered apparently sound advice to a local merchant, and a handsome endowment had been given in thanks. She returned to the matter in hand. ‘I don’t think we can assume Godric himself was wearing the poulaines. And if he wasn’t, then someone else wielded the knife that killed Ada.’

‘A knife so far unidentified?’

Hildegard nodded. ‘Nor do we have any idea why Godric would wish her dead.’

‘Nor why Sir William would wish him dead.’

Hildegard hesitated. She remembered Ralph’s theory, and William coming into her makeshift confessional with something weighing heavily on his mind, followed by his hasty departure. But instead she said, ‘It was unfortunate that the midwife’s shoe-print was so similar to the one beside the body. Both long, both narrow, both blurred. That’s what sent us off in fruitless pursuit.’

‘Yet her presence in the store, corroborated by the clerk of the kitchen, is not in doubt, which therefore suggests that her observations may have been pertinent, so, but for her disappearance, it might not have been so fruitless after all.’

Her eyes kindled. ‘Quite so. Thank you, my lord abbot, though I take little comfort from our failure to apprehend her.’

‘Your first suspect disappears so you cannot question her and your second is killed so you cannot question him,’ observed Hubert, in a musing tone of voice.

She nodded.

‘That is a similarity of sorts but whether meaningful or meaningless I would not venture to guess. It seems that our suspicions are based on nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence of footwear.’ He frowned. ‘Could the midwife, perhaps, have worn the poulaines? But no,’ he corrected himself, ‘for how on earth would she have got hold of them? Perhaps we should turn our attention from the prints and ask ourselves why she disappeared from the scene? That in itself raises suspicion. Those who flee are usually guilty.’

‘Again, there is only supposition. She had a genuine errand in the store. Whether she discovered Ada’s body and, fearing to be implicated, fled, we can only guess at this stage. But in my opinion she fled as one not seriously troubled by fear or guilt.’ She mentioned how freely the midwife’s old father had told them how they could catch up with her. ‘Maybe, her job done, she simply went off to offer her services elsewhere.’

‘But again, is it coincidence that a fire should break out at exactly the time your suspect – as she was then – was about to be apprehended? I find the whole issue of the fire most disturbing,’ Hubert rested his chin on his steepled fingers. ‘I do fear, however, that it is more likely to have been an act of arson and has nothing to do with your enquiries. There is much unrest among the people in that region. Our granges are continually bothered by them.’

‘I understand the freemen resent having to pay to have their corn ground at the lord’s mill. They feel he takes advantage of his monopoly with resulting high charges.’

Hubert nodded. ‘These manorial lords are often rapacious. They claim to fear more bad harvests, hence the need to stockpile their stores. But in fact they’re bleeding the country dry. In the meantime many of them fail in their responsibilities towards their bondsmen. Smarting under a sense of injustice, the people run in confusion. They are lost souls. To counter their wretchedness they take refuge in drink and fornication…’ He cleared his throat. ‘But a county cannot thrive in turmoil. Justice must prevail to allow all souls salvation.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then with an effort roused himself. ‘Still, to get back to our puzzle…’

‘The fire,’ Hildegard agreed. ‘No matter how it started, the question is, was our midwife inside or outside the mill? Is she dead? Or is she alive? And is she the key to this mystery or not?’

‘Patientes vincunt.’

‘Patience is all very well but I fear for her safety. And cannot but believe that her flight has some secret reason connected to Ada’s murder.’

‘Time reveals all, Sister. Meanwhile I have to ask what inference you draw from the fact of the red chaperon?’

‘At first I thought it was a mere wrapper for the shoes. But then, why wrap them simply to push them up inside a chimney? It didn’t make sense. Then I realised that the garment itself must have some bearing on the matter, and on inspection saw that it was singed. Where are the fires that would singe a garment in this way, across the back as if the wearer had reason to stand close to a flame? In the kitchens there’s such a fire. But there was also one in Lord Roger’s Great Hall of course. On the night he was almost poisoned there was a huge blaze, the screens were put up, and a servant could easily have waited there for an opportunity to poison the wine.’

‘Sounds plausible,’ observed Hubert. ‘Is there more?’

‘I don’t remember any particular person in this colour,’ Hildegard continued. ‘There are hundreds of servants at Hutton, all dressed gaudily, but there is one who might stand unnoticed so close to the fire.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You mean this yeoman fellow?’

‘He was the one to supervise Roger’s wine. He was coming and going throughout the feast. All he had to do was stand behind the screen and wait until everyone was distracted, reach forward, slip a potion into the goblet, and—’

‘And why could someone not have done this in the kitchen before it was served?’

‘Because the wine was brought to table in a flagon. And I assume it had to be administered to Roger only and that the yeoman did not wish to poison the entire household.’

Hubert blew gently through his nose. ‘So then we have to address the question of motive.’

‘Some hatred for Lord Roger?’

‘He seems popular with his men.’ A smile lightened Hubert’s sombre features for a moment. ‘I find him a most congenial guest, appreciative of our hospitality and knowledgeable on many topics of mutual concern.’

‘That, my lord abbot, is what I don’t understand, why a yeoman would want to kill Roger of all people. There seems nothing to gain from it. The popular view is that the yeoman also murdered Ada, but again, there seems no motive for it. They’re saying it must have been from thwarted love and that he was driven to a frenzy of jealousy when he saw her dancing with Sir William at the feast the previous night. Then William killed him out of rage due to his naturally violent nature or as a form of retribution.’

‘I see from your expression you regard this as mere guesswork?’

‘Indeed.’ She hesitated before deciding to voice a niggling disquiet, but the abbot’s expression invited her to speak. ‘This is no way a plausible reason for murder, but I did notice something, a small incident…It so happened this particular fellow was forced to submit to some ribaldry in front of the guests. I gather it was a regular joke.’

She remembered the expression on Godric’s face when Roger called him in and then told him to go away again, just to amuse himself at the way he was forced to bow and walk out backwards. ‘Of course he had to obey, but his eyes were full of fury at being mocked in front of everyone.’

‘Pride,’ observed Hubert. ‘A grievous sin.’ The light from the new window fell at such an angle that it highlighted the chiselled cheekbones of Hubert de Courcy as he spoke, giving him a handsome and saintly look. The effect could almost have been seen as collusion by abbot and architect to enhance the reputation of both, if they had been prideful enough.

Hildegard chased the idea from her mind. Hubert and the concept of pride were incompatible. He was rigorous in pursuit of the ideals of his Order.

The sacristan shuffling past seemed to distract Hubert. It would soon be time for the next office. ‘So many more questions I might ask, sister,’ he said to Hildegard. ‘And then there is also the subject of that other sad matter of the body in the wood. The coroner has sent a message to say he is on his way. You will stay for the inquest?’

‘If you will it.’

‘We shall meet again before he arrives, perhaps at dinner?’

‘I shall be honoured, my lord abbot.’

Hubert’s saintly smile followed her to the door, where, with enough humility to match his own, she bowed her head and left.

None of it made sense. Every lead seemed to end in a blind alley. As if to echo her thoughts, Hildegard now found herself entering the alley where the monks played bowls. It was a rectangular enclosure lying in the shadow of the south tower. There was only one way in and one way out, through a wicket gate made of crucked elm. She pushed it open and, with her hounds at her heels, stepped inside.

Ahead lay a strip of immaculate turf blocked on three sides by the high walls of the dorter, the latrines and the outer defences. With the monks in church there were only two players just now, a couple of guests taking the opportunity to have a game and lay a few bets on the result. The pleasant sound of wood on wood echoed across the green. She stood by the gate and watched them play for a while until one of the men came over.

‘Greetings, sister. Forgive us our idleness but our horses have been requisitioned at the abbot’s request by some high-handed Saxon fellow.’

‘High-handed, was he?’ Hildegard smiled at the thought and saw no reason to tell him that would be the steward from Castle Hutton.

‘More like a Norman than otherwise,’ said the second fellow, coming up. ‘You could tell which side of the fence he sits.’ He had a jovial red face and didn’t seem to mind Ulf’s behaviour. ‘We were speculating on the reason for wanting our old amblers,’ he told her. ‘Not another war, is there? Is it the Scots at it again?’

‘Something more local, I believe.’

‘So we’ll get our horses back in good time, will we?’

‘Quite soon, I would imagine.’

He bent to pat Bermonda on the head and she permitted this fondling with a dignified silence. ‘Nobody seems to know a blessed thing,’ the man said. ‘You ask one of these monks and they pass you on to another and he passes you on to a third and on down the line till you’re back where you started. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added hastily, with a glance at her habit.

‘I expect they’re as much in the dark as you,’ she replied. ‘I understand the men had to be mustered in a hurry. I’m sure you’ll get your horses soon. Where are you heading for?’

‘We’re wool merchants from Doncaster en route to Hutton. Or were, till now. We heard there were some Lombardy loan-men up there recently. We thought we might get a cut ourselves.’

She smiled. ‘No hurry, then, as there’s much disarray at Hutton and the Lombardy men have gone up to Fountains to do business and may be some time, unless they decide to come here on account of Lord Roger and his household.’

‘In that case we’ll wait and enjoy ourselves feasting on the good cheese and ale of Meaux,’ the second merchant said cheerfully. He wore a Flemish beaver hat and lifted it before turning back to the game with a jaunty, ‘Let’s go!’

In the easy nature of their companionship they reminded her of someone she had forgotten in the confusion of recent events. Now it came back. It was the corrodian and his friend. They too had been travelling with a similar air of companionship and lack of haste.