Hangman Blind (9 page)

Hildegard reached over to place her hand on Roger’s forehead. It felt like ice.

Ulf was beside her at once. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘Too soon to tell. But it’s not drink. Get him taken to a private chamber with all speed. Hurry!’

U
LF THREW EVERYBODY
out except Hildegard then barred the door.

‘So?’ he said.

She had already opened her scrip and taken a potion from it and was now applying a liquid with a bitter scent to Roger’s lips. Ulf watched as next she ripped aside his shirt of English linen and began to palpate his chest in the region of the heart.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ He crouched down beside her. ‘I feel so helpless.’

Hildegard was flushed by her exertions but did not pause. ‘Keep everyone out. This is a terrible thing. Who would want him dead?’

‘Dead? You believe someone tried to poison him?’

‘I do. Who could it be?’

‘You want a list? The long one or the short one?’

‘Later then. Let’s try to make sure we don’t finish up with a corpse on our hands. He’s balanced between heaven and hell.’

Somehow, patience and skill were rewarded. First Roger’s colour returned. Then his eyelids flickered open. And then he spoke.

‘Where the hell am I?’

Clearly relieved, Ulf gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Why do they always say that?’

‘Just checking, no doubt,’ she replied, beginning to smile.

‘Do we look like devils?’ Ulf asked, spinning round like a jongleur, clearly delighted at his lord’s recovery.

‘Not devils,’ said Roger, his voice a mere wisp of what it usually was, ‘angels!’ He reached for Hildegard’s hand. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what happened. I remember every damned thing.’

‘Tell me.’ She leaned closer.

‘I remember Ralph and that bloody ridiculous hood. And Melisen with her loose bodice. And the Italian signing our agree—’ He stopped abruptly and his eyes darted up to see who else was present.

‘It’s only Ulf,’ she said. ‘You can say what you like in front of him.’

Roger reached for his hand. ‘Good old Ulf,’ he mumbled, tears in his eyes. ‘Best steward I’ve ever had, you bloody Saxon.’ He gripped his steward’s hand and tried to kiss it.

‘He’s keeping everyone out for the present,’ said Hildegard briskly. ‘But tell me what you remember.’

‘I remember lifting my mazer, then being poleaxed. Next, I turn up here—’ A strange thought shot into Roger’s mind, causing him to jerk upright. He grabbed hold of Hildegard by the arm and dragged her close, then, breath rank from the herbs, searched her face. ‘What in the name of Satan happened? I blacked out, didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would
I
take a tumble? I’m not drunk. I can hold my liquor as well as any man!’ He was turning scarlet. ‘What happened? Your opinion, Hildegard. Was it a seizure?’

‘I suspect not.’

‘Of course not! I’m as fit as a flivver. So why did I fall?’

‘I really can’t be sure at this point.’ She didn’t want to anger him needlessly. He looked as if he was already being swept by one of his famous rages.

‘Come on,’ he gripped her arm harder still, ‘it can only mean one thing!’

She knew it was useless to try to put him off the scent but she wanted his unbiased view. ‘What do you think it means?’

‘I think it means there’s somebody I can’t trust.’ He eyed her narrowly.

‘From your symptoms—’

‘Say it straight out, Sister.’

‘It could have been, yes, something put into your food or drink to make you fall like that.’

‘But we all ate from the same dish. Has anybody else passed out?’

‘No.’

‘Then it must have been something in the wine.’

‘You think so?’

He ground his teeth. ‘Who in God’s name would do a thing like that?’

‘Your enemies are best known to yourself.’

Roger reached for Ulf and raised himself into a more commanding position. ‘Steward, you know as well as me I’m beset by enemies! Saxons! Danes! Celts! Lombards maybe? Scots for sure! And Frenchmen, popes and anti-popes, clerics and laymen. Even a few Normans, maybe, ones gone to the bad. And now, beyond all reason, one of these has dared to attack my person in this underhand way! Poison!’ As soon as the word was out he looked puzzled. ‘Poisoned? Me? Who would dare?’

Hildegard shook her head.

Roger fell back, his face ashen. Instead of being enraged he seemed saddened. Sweat trickled into his russet beard. After a moment’s reflection he spoke in an ominously calm voice. ‘Ulf,’ he began, ‘if you owe me anything, repay me now.’

‘Anything, my lord.’

Roger took hold of his steward by the hand. His voice was hoarse. ‘Root out this poisoner. Show no mercy. I want to see his entrails in a pot! I want his head on a pike! I want his beating heart in my hand! Meanwhile,’ he added, still softly, ‘I shall be taken in a catafalque to the abbey at Meaux. Full mourning shall be observed, the catafalque to be pulled by six black horses.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Lulled into false triumph, rotting in his midden of deceit, the poisoner will reveal himself. Let it be done!’

He fell back, exhausted.

Ulf was thrown into a turmoil of planning and he counted the points off on his fingers. His astonishment was audible in his voice. ‘You want me to tell them you’re dead? Then you want to be carried all the way to Meaux on a catafalque with six black horses?’

‘Plumed,’ said Roger.

‘You’ll suffocate and do the poisoner’s job for him, plumed horses or not,’ objected Ulf. ‘In a box? l’ve never heard anything like it.’

‘Dolt. I shan’t be
in
the box. I shall be safely borne away to the abbey by other means, there to remain until the plotter can be discovered.’

‘I see,’ said Ulf, not moving.

Hildegard interrupted. ‘If you’re really bent on this course of action, Roger, the services of a couple of trusted yeomen might better expedite the matter. And if I may suggest a dray covered in black velvet? A catafalque,’ she explained, ‘though impressive, would properly have to be open. I think we are best to avoid the catafalque.’

‘Dray, catafalque, whatever, this is no time for pedantry, Hildegard.’ Even sapped by poison, Roger was tetchy.

She gave him a long look. ‘I do see a further difficulty, my lord.’

‘Only one?’ Ulf ran both hands through his hair.

‘Speak!’

‘The matter of Melisen, your wife.’

‘What about her?’

‘She will wish to view your—’

‘Some contagion can be the supposed cause of death,’ Roger told her. ‘Hence the need to keep the body first in a sealed room then in its sealed coffin. Nobody will want to touch and breathe the pestilential air of a dead man, least of all her.’ Suffused with a strange energy, he was clearly ahead of them both in terms of plotting.

‘She may wish to kiss you in farewell,’ Ulf suggested.

‘Then you prevent it. What do I pay you for?’

Ulf said, ‘And about this empty coffin.’

‘Fill it with stones, man, what else?’

‘A moment!’ Hildegard stepped back. Roger, suddenly whiter than wax, threw up all over his own hose. ‘That improves things,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Better to expel these matters. But there will be more. I think the idea of riding alone to Meaux a bad idea. I suggest another way be found of conveying you there.’

Roger wiped his beard with both hands then wiped his hands on his capuchon.

‘I’ll get my two trusties to take him out in a logging cart,’ said Ulf. ‘Have him ready as soon as you can.’ Eyes alight, he was already at the door. ‘There’s a host of things to do! And,’ he added, ‘lies to be told and later untold. By St George,’ he continued, ‘this is the sort of action I thrive on! Come on, Hildegard, pinch that candle out so nobody can see him. My lord, hold your retching for a trice and lie dead. I shall fling wide the door to announce your demise. Now we’ll see who your real friends are!’

So saying, and waiting only for Hildegard to snuff out all but one long tallow, Ulf unlocked the door. Then he stepped through into the Great Hall and a deep silence fell as he began to speak. Lord Roger lay as still as the corpse he had so nearly been.

‘Only the poisoner will know we’re lying about my having the pestilence,’ said Roger in between spasms of retching and violent shuddering when the door was safely closed again. ‘Who can guess what the terror of imminent discovery will make him do?’

‘He’ll lie low for a while, I should think,’ replied Hildegard. She had mopped up most of the contents of Roger’s stomach with a cloth and a pail of water that was thrust into the room by one of the lowest-ranking serfs, for even they had a hierarchy which they fiercely maintained. The ruse of putting it about that the Black Death had invaded the castle ensured that no one would enter the chamber.

When Ulf returned two menservants were carrying a coffin, which must have had a prospective occupant standing by or one rudely thrust out. It was decided to smuggle Roger inside it into the chapel. Once there he could escape unobserved through the vestry door to a waiting cart in the lane outside. The timber trade between Hutton Ambo and Meaux was thriving; nobody would look twice as the cart rolled by.

Protesting somewhat, due to a fear of suffocation, Roger was coaxed into the coffin and had the lid closed over him. The two brawny servants Ulf had chosen for the job hoisted it with some difficulty on to their shoulders and staggered towards the door. Let into the secret that their lord was still alive, they kept their smiles off their faces and carried their burden out into the hall towards the bailey, with a show of solemnity that had everybody fooled. The guests fell to their knees and crossed themselves as they passed. With Ulf leading the way and Hildegard taking up the rear, they made slow but steady progress towards the chapel. Once inside, with the doors firmly shut, the two bearers lowered the coffin and Ulf lifted the lid.

Lying in fresh vomit, Roger emerged with as much alacrity as he could muster. Half crawling, dry retches shuddering through him, he made his way towards the vestry door. As soon as they had him safely hidden in a nest between the timbers on the logging cart, the men climbed up behind the horses, gave Ulf the thumb to show they were ready and began to roll away on the track to Meaux. It was almost morning now, and mist, behind which anything might be concealed, lay in gleaming folds across the dale and the moonlight threw shadows between the trees as if phantoms walked abroad. But no mere phantom was as frightening as a poisoner on the loose.

Seeing his liege lord safely into the dawn, Ulf returned with Hildegard to where the guests still lingered in little groups. ‘One of these,’ he muttered to her through clenched teeth as he cast his glance over them, ‘one of these. But which one?’

‘It’s mad, Ulf. How long does he expect to keep it up?’

The steward shrugged. ‘I don’t ask questions. I do as I’m ordered. That’s how I keep my job. And my neck,’ he added as an afterthought.

Hildegard accompanied him when he went to rouse Roger’s chaplain from his bed and inform him of the night’s events. He ordered him to say a requiem mass straight away. As the dazed cleric scurried to make the announcement, Ulf said, ‘The advantage of herding them briskly together gives us the chance to get a look at the face of the devil who did this. He’ll be discomposed even yet. There’ll surely be some telltale sign of guilt to mark him out if he’s human.’

Hildegard nodded in agreement but was secretly doubtful. Anyone tricky enough to poison Roger could surely dissemble in other ways. She did not expect to see signs of guilt on the face of the man who had attacked her either, although a black eye might be proof of his identity.

Standing beside Ulf in the arched doorway of the chapel, she watched carefully as the mourners filed inside.

What Melisen might call the
poraille
came first, crossing themselves and weeping copiously out of innate dread of the hereafter. Then came the personal servants, sobbing quietly; next, the guests, elegantly grief stricken, and finally, with the composure befitting their status, came the family.

Roger’s wife was the only one missing.

‘She’s lying down but will be along shortly,’ whispered Ulf when Hildegard remarked on Melisen’s absence.

The place filled up until there was standing room only. The coffin, loaded with pieces of limestone and two chunks of damaged Purbeck marble Ulf had somehow got hold of from the new building works at Beverley, was placed on a trestle in front of the altar where it received many sad-eyed glances. It was covered by a black silk stole embroidered with the de Hutton arms in gold thread. No pile of stones had ever been more grandly returned to its maker. An avenue of tall candles cast a flickering light over church treasures: jewel-encrusted rood, censer, chalice, urceole, pyx, pax and monstrance. Adding lustre to the shimmering splendour was a melange of gold, gilt, ebony and bronze ornament. Roger de Hutton was being buried in style. Hildegard was amazed at the extravagance after her years of austerity in the hermitage.

The only thing lacking, she judged, was a choir. The family had not been so pious as to run to such display, but the whispering from the highest to the lowest gathered there speculating on the reasons for the sudden demise of their lord almost amounted to a chorus. His death had plainly thrown the inhabitants of Castle Hutton into confusion. Some knelt, stunned into prayer, others whispered fearfully to their neighbours and looked for signs of the plague. The communal grief was expressed by the one Beverley chorister still standing after a night of drinking and singing with Roger’s minstrels. Heroically ignoring any suggestion of hangover, the purity of his voice was enough to set tears in the eyes of everyone who listened.