The Dragon of Handale (13 page)

She had to lean out over the edge of the rock shelf and hoist herself up over the overhang. Her feet scrabbled for something to support her weight, found a fissure in the rock, steadied her. She dared not look down. Pressing herself against the cliff face, she clawed amid the foliage to find another handhold. Bit by bit, she began to drag herself upwards.

It was a temptation to rush, to make a grab for any handhold, but she forced herself to test each one before trusting herself to it. At one point, she had to rest because the muscles in her legs were trembling so much under the strain, but after a pause she was able to continue a slow, frightened crawl to the top.

There was an added alarm when she was within reach of the summit. The broken lip of the cliff jutted out, and when she felt the edge, it crumbled under her touch. Lumps of ironstone flew past her head. She kept her nerve and eventually found a secure handhold. Feet kicking in empty space, she somehow managed to haul herself up over the edge.

She lay at the top in the long grass, panting with fear and exultation. She had done it. Relief swept through her like a flood. She wanted to weep.

Shaking herself, she scrambled to her feet, found the path Fulke’s man had cleared with his sword, and set off towards the tower.

She approached the grove with caution but the men had gone. More boldly, she broke from between the trees and walked over to the tower. When she was close enough, she saw that the tower door was securely locked again. There was no clue to what was behind that lock and chain.

She circled the walls, looking for a way in. It was stoutly built of smoothly worked local stone, reddish gold in colour, but without a single opening unless you counted the window slit high up. Prompted by the suspicion voiced by Sister Mariana that girls were being kept prisoner until their ransoms could be paid, she called out and was unsurprised when there was no response.

It was a far-fetched idea. One or two, like Alys, might be found husbands if they were clearly not cut out for the monastic life, but to run an entire business of bartered girls was too much to believe. Mariana scarcely seemed in her right mind.

If Fulke was up to something, and it certainly looked as if he was, then it was more likely to be stolen goods being kept in a place like this. Few people would know about the tower, and even if they did, few would dare think of trespassing in the priory’s woods to satisfy their curiosity.

It was commonplace these days for gangs to be maintained by small local landowners in self-defence. Their activities often degenerated into nothing less than robbery with violence. Such gangs were rife in every part of the country. It was often men like Fulke who ran them. Men with a respectable veneer to hide the illegal side of their activities.

It would be trade that had enriched Fulke, as she had first imagined. He probably augmented his profit by avoiding import duty on certain goods. There were so many places along the coast where a ship carrying imports from the Baltic or the Scandinavian regions could dock. Anything could be slipped ashore. The tower was an obvious and safe hideaway to those who knew the woods.

If he was a local man, as it seemed, Fulke would be well aware of the places he could store his goods without drawing attention to them.

The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

The proximity of the garrison at Kildale Castle might make things difficult. Maybe that was why he found the priory useful. His activities could be confined to the isolated moors road.

Traffic between York and Newcastle. Rich pickings.

Satisfied that this was the answer and eager to return to the lodge and get Alys to safety, she turned to leave.

She stopped and drew in a breath. She was being watched.

On the far side of the clearing, half-hidden behind as tree, stood a man. It was a stray shaft of sunlight shining on a leather jerkin that gave him away. Her hand shifted to her knife.

Then the light changed and she smiled. It was only Dakin.

At first, he seemed to be frowning, but as he walked towards her, he began to smile.

“Will was right!” he greeted her. “You didn’t come back. We were worried. He was keeping an eye out from the top of the wall and said he saw Fulke and his cronies heading back, but he swore there was no sign of you.”

“He was right. I thought I’d have a look round.”

How long had Dakin been watching her? Why hadn’t he made his presence known at once? Despite his friendly manner, she had the uncomfortable feeling he had been there for some time.

Now all he said was, “I thought you might have fallen foul of the dragon of Handale.”

“More likely of Fulke’s bloodhounds,” she replied.

He laughed. “It’s a dangerous place, this. Doesn’t look it, does it?” He threw a glance into the glistening woodland, the autumn gold deep beneath the trees and soft underfoot. “At least they didn’t find little Alys.” He gave a confident chuckle. “And you, what about you? You’ve been some time. Did you find anything out?”

“Such as?”

“What did they do when they got here?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t seem to make much of a search. Fulke was more interested in something inside the tower. His two men waited outside. Then he came out and they left. Do you think he’s given up looking for Alys so easily?”

“What else can he do? He’ll assume she’s still somewhere close to the priory. I expect they’ve turned their attention to the track you came in by. They’ll think she’s tried to get back to the main road leading to the castle.”

He made no comment about her dishevelled appearance.

A bell began to toll deep in the thicket. “Tierce,” he remarked. “Are you coming back?”

“I am. And with no danger of getting lost. They’ve made a clear path for us.”

“Fortunate,” replied Dakin as he followed her. “No sign of the dragon, either.” He glanced over his shoulder. She noticed he had taken out his knife.

“What was the tower for?” she asked when they reached the lodge.

“No idea,” he admitted. “I expect it was an old hunting lodge from years ago when Kilton Castle was busier than it is now. There’s nobody in residence because the lawyers can’t make up their minds who owns it.”

Hildegard remembered the priest and his claim, but before she could say anything, Dakin had ducked his head under the thatch, calling back, “You’d better come inside for a moment.”

She followed him in. The men were there, busy as usual.

“That was a close thing this morning when Fulke came clumping in here looking for the girl,” Dakin began. “I wouldn’t like to think what could have happened if he’d found her.”

“Is she safe?”

“She is. Scared out of her wits at what she’s done but even more scared at what might have befallen her—or might yet—if Master Fulke gets his hands on her. Come.”

He led her through into a neat little chamber at the back. Carola was bending over a drawing on a piece of stretched vellum. When she saw Dakin and Hildegard, she put her finger to her lips. Moving quietly, she went over to a screen and pulled it to one side. Alys lay curled up under a rug. She was fast asleep.

“I must get her away as soon as possible. I can’t thank you enough for your help,” Hildegard said.

“You’ll have to avoid the priory. They’re still hallooing all over the place for her,” Carola told her. “How do you propose to get out?”

“While I was in the woods, I noticed a way along the beck. You mentioned it, Dakin. It’s strewn with boulders, but it should be possible to pick our way round them to the road. We’ll just have to make sure Fulke’s men have given up and gone.”

Dakin was watching her closely. “What will you do when you reach the road?”

“Trust to God.”

He offered no alternative. Instead, he looked faintly relieved. She put it down to his anxiety about being found harbouring a runaway. The sooner she was off his hands, the happier he would feel. That was the impression.

She said, “I’ll come back when it’s dark. That will be safest. Will you make sure she’s ready to leave?” Before she left she asked, “Where was she hidden so that Fulke didn’t find her?”

Dakin smiled and pointed his finger up towards the thatch. “She said she could have touched his bald patch by stretching out one little finger.” He was amused by this. “What a blind, sot-witted prick he is.”

The rest of the day dragged. Hildegard went to her chamber and spent the rest of the morning tidying herself up, bathing her scratches, enjoying the brief luxury of brushing her hair and putting on a clean head scarf.

She made an appearance at the daily offices: sext, nones, Vespers.

No one seemed to notice she had been missing. A subdued hysteria seemed to reign. No further sightings of the witch had been made. The nuns were quivering with the expectation of seeing her dragged back from the dragon’s lair by Fulke’s hard-faced men. It was clear they hoped the men would have made her pay the price.

Later in the day, a mass was sung for the two corpses in the mortuary chapel. Hildegard went along with most of the others to pay her respects. Sister Mariana, who avoided her, kept her head down, her face shadowed under her hood, lips mumbling rapidly without a pause.

The prioress was not present as, with her two chair men off with Fulke, she had no way of getting out to the chapel. The nuns were too frail to carry her the distance.

The subprioress stood in for her and left before everyone else. Hildegard followed after the cellaress when the last amen faded. “That poor young priest,” she began. “Was it really poison, as the nuns are saying?”

“That’s nonsense. You should close your ears to rumourmongers, mistress. He had a falling fit. It happens.”

“But he looked so young. To have a falling fit at his age? It seems scarcely credible.”

“These things happen where God wills.” The cellarer was curt.

“Even so,” murmured Hildegard, refusing to be brushed aside. “Had he complained of sickness previously?”

“I’m led to believe he complained of an ague. And of course, we must not forget that the plague takes many forms and strikes with swiftness where it finds weakness.” She increased her pace, as if to leave Hildegard behind.

“Oh dear,” exclaimed Hildegard, keeping up. “Is it likely that those here will also succumb?”

The cellarer sniffed at such qualms. “We must hope we are made of truer stuff, mistress, and put our faith in God. As He wills, so be it.”

“Indeed. And I’m relieved to note you do not subscribe to a rumour I’ve heard about the place.”

The cellaress lifted her head.

“I mean this story about the novice being a witch. I’m sure her running away will be found to have nothing to do with the priest’s death.”

“We should hope so for her sake. If it were discovered that she had used witchcraft, she would face the full punishment of the Church. And no one would want to be excommunicated, would they?” She stopped and turned to look fully into Hildegard’s face.

“I should think not. But I wonder, sister, has her family been informed of her disappearance?”

“She has no family.” This was a flat contradiction of Basilda’s story. The cellarer was eager to be on her way, however, and by now they had reached the cloister. Before going inside, she added, almost as an afterthought, “Mistress York, I cannot help noticing that you have good knowledge of our rites.”

It was stated as a mere observation, a shot in the dark, but said in such a way as to leave a threat hanging in the air. Hildegard bowed her head. “One tries,” she murmured.

She would have to watch her step. Were there spies here as well as in Westminster? The dukes played a hard game. It was easy to forget that this was Gaunt’s territory, not part of the duchy of the House of Lancaster, but close enough to the many establishments that owed their existence to the patronage of Lancastrian gold.

Knaresborough, Scarborough, Malton, Ripon. And, keeping an eye on the archbishop himself, St. Mary’s in York. In fact most, if not all, the minor castles and Benedictine houses were scattered like chess pieces across the north.

I’ll have to make a liturgical error of some kind, like the ordinary townswoman I’m supposed to be if this is the view they hold of me. She smiled to herself. Anything to put them off the scent. No point in arousing suspicion now she was convinced there was something afoot.

The day could not move swiftly enough, but eventually the final repast of the day was taken, compline prayer was said, and the priory fell into the black silence that would last until the midnight office dragged everyone out again. It was in this space of time that Hildegard had to take her chance.

Still aching in every muscle after her climb up the cliff, she let herself out of her chamber as soon as the cloister garth fell silent and stood for a moment with her back against the door of the guest house.

On the opposite side of the square formed by the main buildings, the shadows yawned, black and silent. She could imagine a hundred eyes peering out of the darkness. Not until she was sure there was no movement did she begin to feel her way along the wall as far as the corner. Now out of sight of anyone watching, she hastened across the grass towards the humped shape of the mortuary.

The moon was faintly visible behind a gauze of cloud.

It made the slate roof little more than a shadow against a star-filled sky. The tops of the trees on the other side of the enclosure wall were stiff, skeletal-like fingers groping blackly upwards.

Tonight there was a light frost. Hildegard’s footsteps showed up as dark prints in the grass. All she could hope was that if anyone saw them, that person would imagine they were left by a nun intent on offering night prayers for the dead youths.

Moving swiftly to the door in the wall, she let herself out into the deeper night of the woods.

A velvet blackness enveloped her. Imagination might suggest a nightmare of trees inching closer to the priory walls, pressing in against them, swarming in the pitch-black depths of the night to overrun the habitation of the nuns. A lone bird screeched as it flew overhead, followed by a clatter of wings as it broke into the undergrowth.