The Red Velvet Turnshoe (17 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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His glance was alert as he searched her face.
‘Sir Talbot was murdered by a bolt from a crossbow,’ she told him.
To her surprise he nodded. ‘We know. We found his body. Two of the
maronniers
took him back to the hospice and the three pilgrims went with them, as soon as they’d recovered their wits. He was a good lad. What happened?’
‘An unknown assassin.’ She was curt. ‘I was with him at the time. I didn’t even get a glimpse of the bowman.’
‘And no suspicions – apart from ourselves?’
‘You were the only ones in our group with crossbows,’ she pointed out.
‘And we might yet have done for the poor fellow for all you know. You only have our word, eh, Donal?’ He nudged the Scotsman who roared with laughter and said something in his own dialect that Hildegard did not catch.
‘He says he’d suspect himself if he didn’t know full well he hadn’t done it,’ he translated. Both men roared again. Then Black looked serious. ‘You’ll want to know the culprit.’ His glance flickered to Pierrekyn who was staring at Sir John Hawkwood sitting astride his prancing horse while one of the
priori
indulged in a lengthy eulogy of Hawkwood’s qualities. Jack Black shifted his glance back to Hildegard. ‘Any ideas?’
She shook her head.
‘I suppose it was you who cut the bridge?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes. ‘We followed your tracks down the mountainside until we came to the ravine. You caused us three days more in the snow. Luckily the
maronnier
knew of an alternative route. We were mostly
on our backsides except when we were hanging from some thread of rope by our teeth. Surprisingly somebody had gone before us.’
‘Who was that?’
He shook his head. ‘Somebody who knew the mountain or managed to get hold of some secret knowledge of it. From what we saw of his tracks he’ll be your crossbow man. And I warrant I have something that might lead you to him. No doubt your sir knight has a rich family who would be willing to pay a price?’
‘He was poor. He had nothing but what he earned, just like you.’
He gave her a long look, judged her to be telling the truth, and replied, ‘In that case we’ll regard him as one of our brothers and you can have it and avenge him.’
Hawkwood had by now begun to dismount at the steps to the Signoria. Tall enough, Hildegard could see over the tops of the heads in front. A battalion of Florentine militia in their red and white colours faced down towards the square and drew their swords in unison. It was obvious to everyone that Hawkwood’s men could have dashed them aside without breaking step but there was a good-natured cheer when Hawkwood himself strode forward and knelt briefly in front of the Florentine standard.
‘What a showman,’ muttered Black.
From a nearby balcony overlooking the square a woman and her retinue of ladies called down. When Hawkwood rose again he raised his head and the woman let loose a silver veil so that it fluttered in a graceful descent to his feet. He glanced up at the balcony and then with a sardonic lift of his lips he simply tramped over it in his riding boots. To the squeal of cornets, he ascended the steps to meet the line of scarlet- and ermine-clad
priori
and their chief the
gonfaloniere
in his star-spangled cloak.
Hildegard glanced up at the balcony. The woman’s face had changed from charm to black fury. It was too late. Hawkwood, if he had cared, had already turned his attention to the flare that was held out to him. The honour of setting la
colombina
in flight was his, and Hildegard saw the firecracker ignite. With a great whoosh of flame and a cheer from the entire crowd, the silver bird flew on its string over their upturned faces to the other side of the square. When it
alighted safely there were more cheers and Hawkwood, having performed to everyone’s satisfaction, disappeared inside the Signoria.
The crowd jostled and swayed to an anthem and began to turn their attention elsewhere. One or two standing close by gazed up at the balcony and hissed, some even made a sign to protect themselves from witchcraft.
‘Who is that?’ Hildegard asked Jack Black, tearing her eyes away.
‘That, sister, is La Gran Contessa, a most dangerous woman. Have you not met her?’
‘I think our host moves in different circles,’ she replied.
‘She’s a beautiful woman, no man could deny that, but her wealth, they say, comes from first poisoning her brother and then her husband. She tries to court the
popolo minuto
against the council but the people are too wise to be swayed.’
Matteo caught the tail-end of Jack’s words and followed his gaze. ‘Some man will get the better of her one of these days.’
‘Unless she poisons him first,’ Jack added.
The
fattori
said they were going to push their way further forward so they could get near the loggia. They wanted to loiter there until Ser Vitelli came out with the latest news.
Hildegard turned to Jack Black. ‘What is this thing that might identify Sir Talbot’s murderer?’
With another glance at Pierrekyn, he whispered, ‘Something we found on the way through the pass. I’ll bring it to you. Where can I find you?’ He was already allowing a swarm of people to carry him off.
‘At Vitelli’s,’ she called over their heads. She saw him raise a hand in acknowledgement before being swept away. Donal was already striding off through the crowd, scattering them like chaff before him.
 
The celebrations looked set to go on long into the night. Certainly there were expectations that when Hawkwood came out of the Signoria with his gold there would be more singing and dancing in the streets to add to the usual Easter carnival. La
colombina
had flown. As the sun began to go down the light from a million firecrackers would light up the sky.
Hildegard turned to Pierrekyn. ‘Let’s see if there’s a better way of contacting Hawkwood. Surely Ser Vitelli will be in a position to arrange a meeting for us.’
Pierrekyn looked at her in astonishment. ‘Us?’
She nodded. ‘Maybe if we can persuade Hawkwood to announce his support for King Richard it will be enough to deter his enemies and there’ll be no need for bloodshed.’
 
They made their way back in a drift of revellers towards the palazzo. They had no sooner reached the gatehouse, however, than something unexpected happened. Four men-at-arms with the black and white slashes of the Count of Male on their sleeves appeared out of nowhere. Swords drawn, they circled them both.
‘Is this him?’ demanded the captain.
Ser Vitelli’s porter, standing at the gate wringing his hands, gave a reluctant nod, at which the men seized Pierrekyn by both arms and tried to snap irons on his wrists.
He struggled but was helpless against four. Hildegard stepped forward, demanding to know what was going on.
The captain’s answer was curt. ‘Pierrekyn Haverel. Wanted for the murder of a man in Bruges. Now, get out of my way!’
P
IERREKYN DID His best to resist arrest but was no match for the men-at-arms. ‘It wasn’t me!’ he yelled. ‘I didn’t kill him! Ask the Sister! He was my friend!’
Hildegard regretted that her hounds were in their kennels. ‘You can’t seize him. Where are you taking him? On whose authority are you doing this?’
The captain said, ‘We act on the authority of the Justices of Bruges with instructions from Lord Roger de Hutton. He commands us to arrest this man and return him to England. If he’s innocent he can prove it under English law.’
Pierrekyn was still raging. ‘I didn’t do it! I won’t go!’
It was useless to protest. Hildegard tried to remonstrate with him and only when the men man-handled him and punched him on the jaw did he quieten down.
‘Let the Sister get my lute for me,’ he managed to ask, his eyes still darting as if to find an escape.
‘Yes, let me get his lute. He’s a minstrel. It’s his livelihood. You can’t stop him taking the tools of his trade with him.’
With a show of reluctance, they agreed to wait while she fetched it. She sped up to Pierrekyn’s music room, the place that had been his haven in recent days, quickly found the bag with the lute inside it, reached down into the bottom of it until she found the turnshoe and, slipping it inside her sleeve, returned to the group outside. She handed Pierrekyn the bag. Already one of his eyes was beginning to swell.
Turning to the captain, she gave him a hard look. ‘Should I discover any harm has befallen Master Pierrekyn on the journey you will feel the full force of the law in whatever country you try to
find sanctuary. My Order has power in every country in Europe. Not only that, the boy’s master is a great lord in England with the command of many forces. He will take it as a personal insult should one of his people come to harm.’
The captain agreed that if the prisoner would come quietly no more harm would befall him but that, for safety’s sake, he would have to travel in irons.
Knowing this was the best they could hope for, Hildegard reached out impulsively to take Pierrekyn by the arm. ‘I’ve got the turnshoe,’ she whispered. ‘Be strong!’ The look that passed between them was confirmation that she would do what she could.
Pierrekyn was dragged away with a last beseeching glance that wrung her heart.
 
The silence was chilling after the wild noise of the carnival-goers in the streets. She felt uneasy as soon as she opened the great doors of Santi Apostoli and stepped inside.
She glanced up. The scaffold was empty. The ropes hung motionless to the ground.
The singing painters would be raising their voices in the streets with the rest of the town. They had finished painting the rafters. Gold and silver stars glittered in the shadows. The fresco was almost finished too, washes of sky blue, the gold of a coronet, angels’ wings touched with pink, a vision of heaven. And yet she had a sensation of impending evil.
She began to make her way down the nave between the pillars, her footsteps echoing softly on the tiles. The confession box was closed but there was no sound of a penitent within. She sniffed the air. It was not saltpetre. Rather it reminded her of a butcher’s stall. Slabs of dripping meat.
She was down the nave in a trice and swept open the door of the confessional. Inside was the old monk who had uncomprehendingly heard her confession the other day. His eyes stared ahead as unseeing as glass. When she put out a hand he did not flinch. Then she noticed the thin cord round his neck, the bulge of his eyes and, in the semidarkness, the protruding tongue.
‘Jesus!’ she exclaimed, backing away.
But this was not where the smell of blood came from.
Something sent her running deeper into the church, past the altar, towards the sacristy. Thrusting open the door, she burst inside but stopped on the threshold.
It was empty. But instead of its previous neatness everything was upside down, the bed overturned, the pallet slashed open, spilling straw, the chair smashed into pieces, and the olive-wood cross had been torn from the wall and lay broken underfoot. The most damage had been done to the aumbry. Its doors had been wrenched off their hinges as if the key could not be found. When she looked inside, the reliquary had gone.
Fearfully, she went on into the kitchen to find the same scene of destruction, the sacristan’s few poor cooking utensils in shards on the floor.
Outside in the yard was a worse sight. The old sacristan himself was lying on his back near the broken pot of rosemary. His face was bruised, his eyes gaping, a gash in his stomach revealing his entrails. There was blood everywhere.
She forced herself closer.
The blood she had smelled as she came in was hot and fresh like that of a recently slaughtered animal. It pooled in a flood over the paving stones. Flies were already buzzing round beginning to sup.
A sound made her turn. Her breath stopped.
After weeks of false sightings: Escrick Fitzjohn.
He was smiling. His hands were as red as a slaughterman’s.
He began to tread towards her, taking his time, relishing the moment of his triumph, with the air of a man who had caught his prey at last.
She stood her ground. She would not plead. He would descend into his own hell when the time came.
He approached within a pace of where she stood.
‘You’re a brazen one. Aren’t you going to try to run for it?’ Her stillness seemed to puzzle him. He glanced over his shoulder, the movement too sly to give her time to react. He put out a hand and, as he had done once before, ran it over her face with a puzzled expression. ‘Flinch, damn you!’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Why should I flinch from you? Am I supposed to be afraid of you?’
‘With no hounds to protect you, Sister, you should be very afraid.’
‘Why kill the two old monks?’
‘They were near death anyway,’ he said with contempt. ‘The old devil here,’ he put out a boot to kick the sacristan on the shin, ‘had the audacity to swallow the key to the aumbry! Would you believe the cunning of the fellow? I had to wrench the door off. The key must be down his gullet but I couldn’t find it.’
She saw now that the sacristan’s throat had been ripped open. ‘You’re a monster.’
‘No doubt. But now you’re going to do something for me.’
Her flesh went cold.
He reached out, gripping her by one arm. ‘Come with me.’
Without another word, he dragged her out of the yard, back through the kitchen, through the living quarters and out into the nave of the church, then, spurs clattering on the tiles, he marched her towards the main door.
For a moment she thought she might be able to escape once outside but to her dismay two armed men emerged from a side chapel and, grasping her by both arms, hustled her into the alley where night was already falling.
When they reached the turning onto the river bank she felt the point of a knife digging into her back. Escrick murmured in her ear, ‘Make one move and you’re dead. We’re going to a celebration. That’s what the poor sots of this town do at Easter – especially when they’ve delivered themselves into the hands of that devil Hawkwood and imagine they’ve bought peace!’
‘If you call him a devil then what does—’ A mailed fist smashed into her face and she felt blood in her mouth.
‘Shut up, bitch. Speak when I say you can. Let’s go!’
He dragged her hood over her face and, with the men on both sides locking her by the arms, she was hurried in among the crowds celebrating with music and fireworks. If she screamed she knew she would not be heard in the hubbub and the only result would be a knife through her ribs. When a passer-by made some comment, one
of her captors laughed and said, ‘Can’t hold her liquor, the drunken mare!’ They hurried her on.
 
She found herself being dragged through the streets, over a wooden bridge, up some steps and across smooth stones. From under her hood she glimpsed a blur of black and white tiles, then colours, red, green, white, then black again as the hood was pulled more firmly over her face. There was a roaring sound louder than the ringing in her ears from the blow Escrick had delivered. She was in a hall full of people. Her spirits rose a little.
When her hood was pulled off, she could only blink under the glare from a hundred glittering cressets.
Not until the men-at-arms standing in front of her opened up to make a passageway for someone did she see a face she recognised. It had been earlier that day on the balcony outside the Signoria. It was La Gran Contessa.
‘So what’s she? A Cistercian?’ The contessa looked her up and down with contempt.
‘She must know where the contents of the reliquary are hidden, my lady.’ Escrick’s tone was servile.
Hildegard glanced at him but her attention returned at once to the contessa. She was beautiful to look at, with fine features framed by an elaborate headdress of velvet and gold filigree that allowed her black hair to cascade in glistening undulations over her shoulders. She wore a gown of gold brocade, the waist tightly pinched, her bosom high and barely concealed under a silk veil.
The hand that reached out to Hildegard was covered in rings, large gold bosses, rubies like drops of blood, and a diamond that caught Hildegard with sudden viciousness across the cheek. The flame of it forced a cry from her before she could stop herself.
Strangely, when the contessa smiled, as she did now, her beauty was dazzling, but it was illuminated by such hatred no surface brilliance could conceal it. Hildegard watched the woman’s small, neat teeth bite down on her lower lip as she considered something. It appeared to amuse her.
‘Sir Fitzjohn, to whom do you owe your allegiance?’ She fixed her brilliant eyes on him.
‘To you, madam.’ He bent his knee.
‘And it is your duty, is it not, to fulfil my desires to my entire satisfaction?’
There were guffaws of amusement from the rest of the men and Fitzjohn, not knowing what was coming next, agreed.
‘And I asked you, did I not, to bring me the cross this nun has been sent from England to buy?’
‘You did, my lady, and—’
Two thin lines of annoyance forked down her forehead and her red lips tightened. ‘You did not bring me the cross, sir. You’ve brought me this gaudy coffin with nothing in it.’
One of Escrick’s henchmen still held the reliquary just as he had brought it through the streets under his cloak. Escrick didn’t move a muscle. There was no smile on his face now.
‘If I had wanted a gold reliquary flashing with jewels I would have asked for one. Instead I asked for an ancient wooden cross said to bestow unlimited power on whomsoever possesses it. Why do you imagine its whereabouts have been kept secret for over six hundred years? Because, dolt, it’s worth more than a king’s ransom! I asked you to procure it for me. You said you could do so. But you failed, Sir Fitzjohn, you failed miserably!’
The contessa said something in Florentine to two of her bodyguards and they swooped on Escrick before he could move. There was a gilded table near by bearing dishes of nuts, fruit and other delicacies. The contessa dashed one of the bowls to the floor where it shattered, oranges flying out of it, to roll one by one between the boots of the men-at-arms standing next to it.
‘Put his hand on the table!’ she snarled.
Escrick had no choice. Looking bewildered, he was forced to let them spread his right hand on the table. He wore a ring on his little finger. Hildegard stared at it in surprise.
The contessa pointed as if choosing a morsel from the board. ‘That one,’ she said.
One of the guards took out his knife and in one swift movement sliced off Escrick’s little finger together with the ring. He must have been in agony but apart from the colour leaching from his face, he betrayed no flicker of emotion.
‘Who wants a talisman?’ his tormentor shouted. She picked up the bloodied finger and threw it, the way a bride might throw a bouquet among her wedding guests, and there was a brief scuffle as the men fought for it. The ring fell onto the floor but in the mêlée over the trophy of the finger no one noticed it. Hildegard picked it up.
‘Hold your hand in the air, Sir Fitzjohn.’ He did so. ‘That’s to show everyone to whom you belong.’ The contessa’s voice rose. ‘Maybe now they’ll show you more respect than you’ve managed to inspire in this nun here. When I ask you to get something for me I won’t have you bringing me a worthless box with nothing in it!’ she screamed. ‘I want its contents. Maybe now you know I’m serious?’
‘I swear,’ said Escrick, dropping to his knees, ‘I searched every nook and cranny of that church, everywhere, and there is no cross apart from the one above the sacristan’s bed and the brass one on the altar.’
‘The cross of Constantine is wood!’ she shouted. ‘Are you stupid? Do you know what wood is? The cross is made of English oak! The sacristan brought it back from Rome on instructions from the highest source. My informants tell me everything except this one thing – where is it now?”

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