The Dragon of Handale (25 page)

A dank gloom permeated the simple dwelling. A stale smell of unwashed garments hung in the air. No more than a single chamber on the ground floor, with a bed in one corner and wooden stairs to an upper room in the other. A crucifix on the wall above the bed. A cloak on a hook. Not even a rug to warm his feet when he rose in he middle of the night for matins.

She mounted the creaking wooden stairs, a short flight onto the plank floor of his reading chamber.

It was a bleak place. Enough to send into a spiral of despair anyone who lived here unless they possessed a deep faith in another, better world to come. An aumbry held a few books. A folding table he’d used as a desk was open, pushed against the window, with a chair aslant as it had been left. A quill or two. A sharpener. An ink horn. And now the patina of a few days’ dust.

His missal lay on the deep sill of the window opening. It was well thumbed. The usual thing. A few notes in the margins in a spidery, careful hand. She replaced it as she found it. No confession of self-harm had fluttered out. No last words to those he was leaving behind.

Frost drew leafy scrolls across the window blind. She pushed it to one side and looked out onto the herb garden.

Serried ranks of frozen leaves poking above the snow. At the far end, a curl of smoke over the thatched hovel where the herberer lived. She could almost smell the honeyed warmth inside of some potion designed to keep the chill at bay.

She went back down the stairs.

On the back of the door was something she had overlooked as she came in. Only now, on the way out, was her attention drawn to it. She reached to take it down. It was a belt. Thin, fine-grained leather, with a pattern of roses cut into it, designed to be wrapped several times round the hips over a cotehardie or a kirtle.

At one end was a silver emblem in the shape of a heart, and at the other a hand. There was an inscription, so small she had to hold it up to the light to read it.
Take my heart.

A strange gift to give to a priest. Gifts of belts were commonplace between lovers, however. The words of the herberer returned with renewed meaning.
A cock among hens. What else did she expect?

She replaced the belt on the back of the door and, deep in thought, let herself out.

Suicide? Was that it? Suicide for what he could not have? How tortured by carnality he would have had to be to take such a cure.

Recrossing the outer garth, she suddenly felt watched. Turning, Hildegard thought she caught sight of the hem of a black robe disappearing round a corner of the stores. It was a shadow. Nothing.

I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. With the snow as bad as this, Ulf would not have been able to get through. Penned, and furious that it was so, she joined everyone in the warming house before mixtum.

There was a feeling of something bubbling underneath the surface, like a kettle about to boil.

Hot bread at least, brought in by the cop-shod novice. Hands reached out to take a piece. Everyone made ravenous by the cold. Cheese going the rounds on a platter. Warm wine from a pot jug. Cinnamon floating in it. Nutmeg.

Hildegard sipped it. There was something else. It brought a flush to the cheeks of the nuns. One or two giggled over a joke. Another guiltily ran through her beads with downcast eyes. Carola came in.

She, too, was flushed, but more from a brisk walk than from the wine she had yet to taste. She caught Hildegard’s eye and came over. “Still here, I see.”

“You, too.”

“Sueno will never get through in this. We’re going to be trapped here forever.”

“My feelings entirely. Is it really impassable down by the river?” she asked.

“Yes. Matt tried to get out that way this morning, but with no luck. It’s in drifts waist-high. He came back blue with cold.”

“It’s a pity we have no boat.”

“You’d risk a drowning if you tried that. Don’t you think we’ve already considered it?”

“And then there’d be the problem of getting anywhere else, even if you did reach the road. Unless you wanted to go to Kilton Castle, of course.”

Carola gave her a sharp glance. “Why would anyone want to go there?”

Hildegard shook her head.

The wine jug came round again. No one refused.

“How did you get permission to be allowed inside the enclosure?”

Carola looked pleased. “We persuaded the captain of the guard from Kilton to plead for us. He said he couldn’t be held responsible if Dakin escaped while he—the guard, that is—slept. ‘They cannot spare another man from Kilton at present,’ he told the prioress. ‘They’re expecting important personages and need all the men they possess. Which ain’t many,’ he added to us.” She brought a rueful smile to her face. “Dakin and the guard seem quite content to be bound to each other. We’ll never let Dakin live it down.” She frowned, adding, “Assuming he’s ever freed.”

“I’m sure Prioress Basilda will withdraw her charge when she realises he’s going to fight back. After all, he has the guild behind him. I”m sure they’ll need strong proof before they’ll allow the accusation to stand.” She paused, “Who is the important personage due to arrive up at Kilton? Do you know?”

Carola shook her head. “Some local knight, presumably. The guard was no doubt exaggerating his importance.” She shook out her dark hair. “I’d no idea I’d be kicking my heels in this godforsaken place all winter. I’ll never work outside Durham again.”

Hildegard shared her dismay and as she did so, she chanced to glance up.

Desiderata was watching them both with an unfathomable intensity. When she noticed Hildegard look across, she turned away.

“Where are the men staying?” she asked Carola.

“In that guest wing with Fulke.”

“Now he’s gone.”

“Gone? No, he’s still here. He’s got a cold and is having his meat and drink sent up to him.”

“At the prioress’s invitation?”

“I suppose so. Why?”

So after making his sale to the coxcomb, after his assault in the woods, he had come back and been welcomed in? She asked, “Has he mentioned anything about the so-called dragon attacking him?”

Carola laughed aloud. “What? I’m sure he would have if—” She peered into Hildegard’s face. “Are you serious? When was this supposed to have happened?”

“The other night,” replied Hildegard, deliberately vague. “I’m astonished he didn’t mention it. I thought he’d been injured.” She stopped, realising that she had said more than she needed.

Carola gave her strange look. “So you saw it yourself?”

“I heard something.”

“We all heard something.” Carola turned away. “We were inside the enclosure by then.”

“All of you?”

“What is this? Has something happened?”

It was Hildegard who turned away this time, asking, “What is it? Or, more to the point, who is it? What is their purpose? Is it just a mean trick to frighten everybody? Or is there more to it?”

When she turned, Carola was biting her lip. “Do you think it’s some prankster from the castle, mistress? Putting the wind up the nuns. You know what lads are like,” she added.

“I thought it might be Fulke. Trying to keep everybody out of the woods so he can—” She broke off. “Something like that?”

She made an excuse to end the conversation by going to get more bread from the platter on the other side of the chamber, and by the time she had broken some off and returned to finish what she’d been saying, everyone was beginning to move off to the next office.

Feeling as if she was on a treadmill, Hildegard gulped it down and followed last of all.

C
HAPTER
22

Time seemed to drag. It was the feeling of being cooped up against her will that was so hard to bear. Hildegard knew that. For the last year, she had been freer than at any time in her life. Free to walk the long pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostela. Free from the oath that bound her three times over. Of those, the vow of poverty was the least exacting.

She heard someone following her across the garth. It was Mariana. When they reached the shelter of the guest chamber, she called, “Mistress York?”

Hildegard turned. She eyed the nun warily. “What is it?”

Mariana dipped her head. “I have come to beg your forgiveness. Lord knows I don’t deserve it. You caught me out in a place I should not have been in. I imagined you had been sent to spy on me.” Her face puckered, eyes red-rimmed, the faint scar where Hildegard had defended herself showing up.

“Who would send me to do a thing like that?”

“Our most holy mother prioress, Basilda, of course.”

“Why?”

“She does not trust me. Nor does Master Fulke. I thought you were one of his allies.”

“Hardly likely—although I can see how you might have imagined it,” she added, remembering that she was not wearing her nun’s habit. “Why do they not trust you?”

“I shall always wear my sin like a brand on my forehead. They will never allow me to forget it.”

“Mariana, may I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“Where is your baby now?”

Sister Mariana gazed off into the distance, unseeing, eyes filling. “They won’t tell me. I trust he’s being cared for and loved.”

“I’m sure he is. Can you not find out? Surely they won’t withhold his whereabouts from you if you demand to be told?”

“They say it’s part of my punishment for breaking my oath. That I deserve to live in this state of—this state of not living. In their eyes,” she added bitterly, “my tears can never wash away my sins.”

“I wish I could help.”

Mariana’s face bore a strange, ferocious look and her lips trembled. “There is no help. And as I’m condemned to hellfire, as they constantly tell me, then nothing matters much. Why should I care about anything?” Her head lowered and she pulled her hood up. “That’s all I wanted to say. My rage was not meant for you.”

As she was about to walk away, Hildegard put out a hand to detain her. “A moment. If I may ask, were you looking for anything special in the prioress’s private belongings?”

Mariana nodded. “I thought there might be some clue as to where they had sent him. But it was just her store of gold.”

“Perhaps there is a record elsewhere?” She took a risk and added, “Perhaps in the scriptorium, where the other records are kept?”

“Do you think so?’ A brief flash of hope appeared in her eyes. Then she frowned. “I daren’t go back up there. I’ve tried it before. They’d flay me if they found me there again.”

“But not me.”

Mariana looked at her in astonishment.

“No promises,” Hildegard warned. “My time is my own at present. Let me try.”

As Hildegard walked away towards the
dortoir,
she was aware of someone watching from just inside the guest house porch. It was a nun. One of the prioress’s spies, she supposed. But when she saw who it was, she went cold. It was Desiderata. The woman was smiling. A few fair curls escaped from under her wimple. With hands clasped inside her trailing sleeves, she stepped into Hildegard’s path.

“Dear Mistress York, this weather must be very trying for you?”

“Indeed. As it is for all of us.”

The woman was all smiles and dimples. Hildegard wondered if there was another nun with the same name. It was difficult to believe what she had seen written in the roll.

“I noticed you earlier, chatting, so friendly to us, and as the rules are relaxed, I thought I would stroll over to have a chat, too. The guest house becomes quite a little haven of friendship at times like these. I love to hear news from the outside world. It reminds me how fortunate I am to be a sister at Handale.”

“You are indeed,” murmured Hildegard. “Clearly you don’t find it harsh.”

“Harsh?” She gave a peal of laughter. “If it is harsh, it is because we deserve it. But I am privileged. I am trusted, unlike some of the nuns here.” Her small mouth pursed in distaste. “Shall we go inside, out of the cold, and continue our conversation?”

Hildegard spent a dull hour listening to Desiderata chat with all the vacuity of a provincial housewife. She would do well at Watton, she decided, remembering the nunnery not far from Meaux where the well-off widows of knights and the more distinguished kind of merchant ended their days.

It was no penitential Benedictine prison house. Quite the opposite. If Desiderata were as innocent as she appeared, she would enjoy the chattering company.

She risked broaching a question to see what answer she would get. “I wonder, did you ever consider living in a gentler part of the county, such as Watton?”

Desiderata looked shocked. “But they’re followers of Giles of Sempringham. I could never follow him. He’s an Englishman. I’ve heard they’re quite licentious. They take their pet animals into mass and wear whatever they like and have a constant stream of male visitors.” Her light tone belied the sneer that briefly flitted over her lips. “They appear to find their oath of chastity impossible to keep.” She gave that sudden catlike smile again—so soft, she was almost purring. “But you don’t have to bother about that, mistress,” the nun blandly continued. “Your couplings are an accepted sin as long as you obey the Church’s rules and fornicate only for the procreation of children and within the times and days decreed by our Holy Father, the Pope. Is your husband a York man?”

“Dead—” Something caught at her throat to prevent her from saying more. It was astonishment, either at her own ease in lying or grief at the deeper truth that lay beneath. “I must go,” she added hurriedly.

But, with her mind still on the same topic, Desiderata had not heard her. “Women who behave in such a way deserve to be whipped, naked and in public, as fornicators, for flouting the Rule. Like that novice who disappeared. May she burn in hell. But burning is too good for them. She was a whore, hanging round the priest at every opportunity, driving him to sin. Those sort deserve to suffer cold steel—I’ve heard that in Spain they have a very special kind of torture for whores. It involves sewing their eyelids open and inserting—”

“No, I must go. I have something urgent to attend to.” Hildegard backed away.