The Red Velvet Turnshoe (24 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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The serjeant interrupted. ‘My lords.’ He nodded to the abbot and to Roger, and randomly wherever he felt his deference might be expected. ‘The cloak is the weak point. Another weak point is the ring. In short, both are weak points—’
‘And
your
point, serjeant?’ asked Hubert civilly. There was a quickly suppressed titter.
‘Well, the man might have bought the ring at the same time as he bought the cloak.’
‘From whom?’ asked Hildegard.
‘Why, the murderer of course, or maybe from somebody who accidentally came across the body in the wool-shed, picked up the ring and—’
‘And then travelled all the way to Tuscany where he sold it and obtained the belongings of another murdered man?’
The serjeant nodded. ‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility—’
‘Doesn’t it leave rather a lot to chance?’ Her tone sharpened.
Before he could answer she went on, ‘It is as certain as anything can be in this vale of uncertainty that, just as the murderer stole the ring from the finger of his first victim, he also stole the cloak and the pouch from his second victim. Although it may not prove that
the same man wielded either the knife or the crossbow, it strongly suggests he was present close to the time when both murders took place, that is, when Sir Talbot was shot and when Reynard was stabbed and before the latter was interred in the bale of staple.’
The young clerk sitting beside the serjeant interrupted: ‘A murderer wouldn’t leave a body lying where somebody could find it. And if he did leave it, an accomplice must have come along to hide it and could then have picked up the ring.’
‘Did he have an accomplice?’ demanded the serjeant-at-law.
‘I have no knowledge on that point,’ replied Hildegard. She suddenly became aware of Coppinhall. He was watching her like a fox.
The young clerk interrupted again. ‘If we accept that it was the murderer who hid the body in the staple, then he must be the one who removed the ring – unless somebody stole it off the dead man’s finger on the quayside in Bruges.’
‘Impossible,’ Ulf broke in. ‘It was guarded at all times.’
‘Ergo, my lords,’ said the young clerk, ‘the thief and the murderer are one and the same.’
‘I believe the clerk has summed up the situation with precision,’ she agreed blandly. ‘The murderer stole whatever he could from Sir Talbot. Just as he stole what he could from the clerk.’
‘And do we have a name for this thief and murderer?’ asked Hubert in a quiet voice.
‘We do, my lord. It is Escrick Fitzjohn.’
There was a gasp from those who knew his reputation and muttered questions from those to whom the name was unfamiliar. Hildegard glanced in the direction of Sir Richard and Lady Sibilla. Fitzjohn had once been steward to their household and complicit in their cunning. Sibilla was white-faced. Richard was inspecting his fingernails.
Lord Roger took a step forward. ‘My apologies, Hubert, my lord.’ He waved an impatient hand to brush away the formalities. ‘I thought that blackguard was supposed to be dead?’ He turned to Hildegard.
‘He lives. I spoke to him in Florence on more than one occasion. I also caught sight of him while travelling through Flanders. It appears
he left Ravenser at much the same time as ourselves.’ She thought again of the hooded man on the quay.
‘Master Fitzjohn is already outlawed for failing five exigents in five different courts, dead or not,’ said the serjeant-at-law, pleased to be able to get a word in on the strength of his books.
‘The minstrel is innocent,’ said a quiet voice from the crowd of servants at the back. ‘Give him his lute and let’s have a song.’ Sounds of general approval came from the back benches. Pierrekyn lifted his head. For the first time that morning there was a spark of hope in his eyes.
‘Stay!’ Coppinhall stepped forward with his hand raised. ‘This matter is not finished. There is this to consider.’ He held up a piece of vellum. ‘It’s an unfinished copy of a document found in the chamber of the murdered clerk.’
‘In his chamber? You mean somebody’s been poking and prying on my property?’ Roger sprang to his feet with a face like thunder.
‘No, sire. Not on your property but here in the servants’ guest quarters at Meaux. It was handed to me in confidence, having been found by a servant appointed to clear his chamber after the murder.’
Roger had the sense not to ask why the servant hadn’t gone straight to the master of the abbot’s conversi. He sat down.
The same voice that had asked for the lute to be brought out was heard to mutter, ‘A servant who reads, says he. A miracle!’ There were a few answering murmurs and an usher told them to shut up or get out.
On Coppinhall’s appearance, the serjeant-at-law ceded the floor with a look of relief. It was clear from his expression that they were in collusion. Hildegard waited to hear what would come next. She had already guessed what the text said.
Coppinhall looked round the assembly with a smile on his face. ‘It is my considered opinion that this,’ he waved the vellum again, ‘proves beyond reasonable doubt that the clerk was guilty of sedition.’
The entire chamber fell silent.
‘My reading of events is as follows,’ he continued. ‘This youth, Pierrekyn Haverel, discovered Reynard’s true leanings, remonstrated with him and the two came to blows. He’s a strong lad and killed the
clerk in a fight over the latter’s views. Panicking, he ran away. Later, thinking more carefully, he returned to the scene of the crime in order to cover his tracks. Unaware, or uncaring, that the ring had been taken, he hid the gore-stained body within the bale of staple in the belief that it would be miles away by the time it was discovered—’
‘That’s not true!’ Pierrekyn was staring at Coppinhall in blind rage. Two constables moved to restrain him.
‘Or,’ continued Coppinhall smoothly, ‘there is another possibility. It is this: the accused knew all along of the dead man’s affiliation to a proscribed society. There was no fight between those two – as he has just so vehemently attested – no fight, because there was nothing to fight over! If this is the case, the minstrel himself, whether guilty of murder or not, is guilty of the far more serious crime of sedition by association.’
He swung on Pierrekyn but before he could extract an admission, Hubert came to life. ‘I adjourn this court! We meet again tomorrow morning after tierce.’
There was uproar.
The abbot ignored it and swept from the chapter house with his robes billowing behind him.
He was followed in short order by the prior, the sub-prior and the sacristan. The cellarer, Anselm, drifted through the mêlée towards Ulf who had been sitting with a frown on his face and now stood up, looking round in a dazed sort of fashion.
Pierrekyn was standing aghast with his hands by his sides. The two constables went to take him roughly by the arms and a third was about to clap irons on his wrists when the cellarer nudged Ulf and they went over to the men.
Brother Anselm was firm. ‘May I remind you fellows that you are within the purlieu of the abbey of Meaux? We do not have a custom of putting irons on our prisoners until convicted. Nor do you have the power of arrest within our boundaries.’ When they hesitated and glanced across at Coppinhall, Anselm added, ‘Release him.’
The monk-bailiff, a thick-set, powerful-looking brother, materialised at his side. Ulf stepped forward. ‘Do as he says. Be good fellows. You’re getting above yourselves.’
Reluctantly the men let go their hold. Pierrekyn glared at them and rubbed his wrists. With the cellarer on one side and the abbey bailiff on the other, he was led out.
 
Roger paced the floor. ‘We have a spy among us. Who is it?’
‘God’s feet, if I knew I wouldn’t be standing here scratching my head, I’d have my hands around his throat,’ replied the steward.
‘Narrow it down. Which of these sots can read?’ Hildegard spoke up. ‘Reading’s not necessary. He could have simply looked for anything in Reynard’s chamber that seemed unusual.’
‘But on whose orders?’ Roger thumped a fist into his palm.
‘Coppinhall’s,’ suggested Ulf at once.
‘Or Hubert de Courcy’s,’ growled Roger.
Hildegard went cold.
‘Maybe now we know why he’s so riddled with guilt that he has to have himself flogged every morning,’ Roger went on. ‘What do you say, Hildegard?’
Pulling herself together, she said, ‘We can’t know who the spy is at present. What we do know is that Coppinhall is determined to indict Pierrekyn. I can’t see why. It doesn’t make sense. What’s so important about him?’
Roger pulled at his beard. ‘We know nothing about the lad, do we? I let Reynard bring him in and took that as recommendation enough. He needs some hard questioning.’
‘Asking him anything is like trying to get exemption from a tax collector,’ said Ulf, grimly.
‘If he is hiding anything Coppinhall’s going to reveal it after tierce tomorrow. Why tierce, anyway? That’s a bit late in the day, isn’t it?’
Ulf sighed. ‘It’s because of the abbot, my lord, he’s a penitent and the Chapter meets before tierce—’
‘Oh.’ The light dawned. ‘After tierce then. Gives us a chance to talk to Pierrekyn. Maybe it’ll give Melisen a chance to work her wiles and get something out of Coppinhall. And Hildegard can find out what Hubert’s game is.’
‘I see you expect a full complement of cozeners, my lord.’
‘You can beguile anybody. Now,’ he gave them both a steely look, ‘what about this bit of vellum Coppinhall was waving about? Surely
he can’t go and claim a thing’s seditious without it being proven in a court of law first? What’s it supposed to say?’
‘I believe it’s an account of Wat Tyler’s death told from a point of view regarded as unofficial,’ said Hildegard carefully.
‘Anybody found with a copy will hang,’ added Ulf.
‘Well, they can search me. I haven’t got a copy. Have you, steward? If so, now’s the time to set a taper to it.’
‘I haven’t got one, no, my lord.’
Hildegard was silent. Eventually, when they both turned to stare at her, she said, ‘They can search my cell if they wish, they won’t find one there.’ Reynard’s text was burning a hole in her sleeve. She reached inside and drew it forth. ‘If they searched my person it would be another matter.’ She handed the document to Roger.
He read a few lines, then gave it to Ulf. ‘It’s based on that thing they made us have read out after the Rising.’
‘Not based on it, Roger. This is the true version of events. The other one is a false account put together by Gaunt to discredit Tyler and the true commons.’
Hildegard knew she was delivering herself into Roger’s hands as she spoke. He could turn his coat to suit his own interests without a qualm. If he decided to support Gaunt and the Lancastrians she was finished.
He said, however, in a lowered tone, ‘How many copies have you got?’
‘Just that one. I made it from Reynard’s version and passed his on.’
‘I can tell by your face you’re not prepared to say who’s got it now. I hope for your sake he’s to be trusted.’
‘That’s a risk I had to take. His help, if he chooses to give it, could be invaluable.’
‘I’m in a devilish position here. The commons would get rid of me in a trice, along with Gaunt and his crowd, if they had the power. They don’t see the difference between us. Meanwhile—’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Ulf, ‘you’re in more danger from Gaunt than from the commons. Besides, Richard demands our support. He’s king by right—’
‘And the Lord’s anointed,’ Hildegard pointed out.
‘I’m not reneging on my oath of fealty. I just want to keep a hold on my lands – and my head, come to that. It’s not going to stop me opposing Gaunt. For that reason I’ll do what I can to support the White Hart lads.’
Hildegard remembered Melisen’s little hart brooches she had brought back from Flanders and wondered whether Roger knew that his wife had also cast her vote.
Now he smiled. ‘Better get a few copies made, Ulf. Anybody left we can trust?’
S
OMETIME THAT AFTERNOON, shortly after the office of nones, Hildegard went down to the leper house at St Giles. It was a long, low-eaved, wattle-and-daub building beside the bridge on the opposite bank of the canal on the road to Beverley. There were maybe a dozen or so lepers provided for within, all of them in various stages of sickness, young and old, men and women, several bedridden, a couple on the point of death.
Hubert, the sleeves of his white habit rolled up to the elbows, was washing an elderly man’s sores when she entered. At first he did not notice her. It was one of the other monks from the abbey, an assistant to the hospitaller, who saw her first.
‘Sister, welcome. Have you come to see our work?’
‘I thought I might be able to help as I’m staying in the guest house for a day or two,’ she replied
Hubert, concentrating on what he was doing, was unaware of her arrival.
‘Come with me then,’ said Brother Mark. ‘We can always find work for useful hands.’
For the next few hours she was kept busy. When Hubert happened to glance up to see who was helping him lift one of the bedridden onto clean straw, he said nothing. They worked silently together, anticipating what was needed, and, to a casual observer, it must have looked as if they were working in harmony, even though they scarcely exchanged a word. After some back-breaking hours it was time to return to the abbey. The bell for vespers could be heard tolling from across the canal.
Giving her only the briefest of glances, Hubert said, ‘Come aside, Sister. I have something to say to you.’
They went out into the stores yard at the side of the building. When Hubert was satisfied they could not be overheard, he asked, ‘Why are you defending this minstrel?’
Hildegard gathered her thoughts. ‘Because it’s evident he didn’t kill Reynard, as I thought I’d demonstrated. It was Escrick Fitzjohn. He more or less admitted he shot Sir Talbot and he was at Meaux when Reynard was stabbed. You don’t doubt this, do you?’
‘Let’s assume you’re right. Is someone protecting Escrick?’
She wondered whether she was being led into a trap. ‘I imagine he was maintained by someone.’
‘Someone in the locality?’
She was silent. It seemed so obvious. Why was he trying to get her to spell it out?
‘And you believe they instructed him to get rid of the clerk?’ he pursued. When she didn’t answer he said impatiently, ‘Well?’
‘It looks like that,’ she agreed.
‘And no doubt you have a view as to their identity?’
She shook her head.
He changed tack. ‘This seditious document, so-called, was found in the clerk’s temporary lodging in my abbey.’
Believing that she now saw which way his thoughts were tending, she said, ‘I don’t believe there’s any suggestion that you’re implicated.’ Roger’s accusation rang in her ears.
Hubert made an impatient gesture to dismiss the possibility of his own involvement. ‘The question we have to ask is how did anyone know the clerk possessed such a document? Was it found accidentally as we are supposed to believe? Or did Escrick point them in the right direction? If so, how did he come to know of it?’
It was back to the same thing by a different route. It had been her very own thought, however, and now she could only shrug. At least it was beginning to look as if Hubert was as puzzled as she was that Reynard’s activities had come to a head within the abbey purlieus. With Coppinhall in mind, she said, ‘We may guess the name of the master who pulls Escrick’s strings, but you’re right, we must ask ourselves who told him about Reynard’s activities.’
‘There’s a spy in my abbey,’ he replied.
‘Not necessarily so. Reynard might have mentioned the document to someone elsewhere who passed the information on. Maybe his master then gave instructions to get rid of Reynard. Maybe they decided it would be easier to do so while he was away from Castle Hutton.’
‘But what is gained by his death? Why not just go on betraying his contacts to the authorities and pull them in, one by one?’
‘Reynard may have guessed what was happening and revealed his suspicions to someone he thought he could trust.’
Hubert gave her a piercing glance.
‘Or maybe the document was discovered by chance,’ she suggested.
‘In that case why hasn’t the servant who found it been called? What are they waiting for? It could only bolster Coppinhall’s case.
‘There are a million ways in which its existence could have been discovered.’ She couldn’t help adding, ‘It must be a cause for joy that secrets don’t lie hidden for long.’
The look he gave her sharpened and she thought she had either gone too far or been misunderstood, but he returned almost at once to his theme. ‘Maybe someone forced the truth of the document’s existence from the minstrel himself?’
‘I hadn’t thought of him as the weak link.’
‘Tomorrow we shall see,’ he announced grimly. He turned, pulling down his sleeves. ‘Time for vespers.’
She watched him leave. He ducked his head under the lintel to make his way back inside through the crowded
hospitium
, many hands reaching out to touch the hem of his garments as he passed. By the time she was at the door herself he was already at the bridge. Unrolling her own sleeves she watched him walk swiftly across and without looking back go under the great arched entrance of Meaux.
 
Hildegard decided not to go to vespers and returned straight to her cell but when she opened the door she came to a halt on the threshold.
A doughy smell, like the scent of yeast before the bread is proved,
made her nostrils twitch. Her glance flew round the small chamber and alighted on her leather travel bag. It was exactly where she had left it on the end of the bed.
She went over to it.
The two laces that held the flap in place were now tied in a slack granny-knot. She always used a fisherman’s hitch as it could be unloosed more quickly and never jammed in the rain.
Curious, she opened the bag and looked inside. There was little to attract a thief: a few garments in need of washing, some writing materials, her missal. It was all there. She flicked through the pages of the missal, relieved that she had removed Reynard’s document and given it to Roger. Replacing the missal, she looked around for further evidence of the intruder.
Her night boots were arranged slightly differently, aligned rather too precisely side by side under the bed. Her cloak hung on the hook on the back of the door, its folds much as before. Then she noticed her beaver hat was missing. Glancing around, she found it wedged between the bed and the wall, and then she noticed that the bedcover itself must have been moved. Someone had even searched her mattress.
That they had done all this while she was down at St Giles suggested that they knew she would be away for some time. The porter had spoken to her as she went out and any one of a number of people must have seen her leave the abbey.
They had got nothing for their pains, she thought with satisfaction. But then she considered the way Hubert had delayed her with those meaningless questions in the yard. Was that to ensure the intruder had time to get away undetected?
Haunted by such speculations, she went to see Roger at once and told him what had happened.
‘Hubert,’ he said and looked troubled.
Alarmed at the speed with which he had jumped to that conclusion she asked, ‘I hope the copy of
anomenalle
is safe?’
His answer was to pat the opening of his houppeland. ‘Nobody but Melisen gets this close.’
He dismissed his servants and turned to her. ‘Take a beaker with me, Hildegard. I want to say something in private.’ He paused. ‘I want to thank you.’
‘What for?’ she asked.
‘That pair of red silk hosen.’
A picture of Ser Vitelli handing her a gift as she prepared to leave Florence came back. ‘I was given them,’ she explained. ‘They do things differently over there. The donor was not to know I wouldn’t be allowed to wear them.’
Roger handed her a goblet of wine. ‘Melisen sends her thanks as well.’ He lifted his wine in a toast and, philanderer that he was, blushed scarlet behind his beard.
From the yard beneath the window the sound of hooves could be heard. He invited her to look. ‘That’s that Danish mare Ulf brought back for Melisen,’ he told her.
They looked down. A groom was putting the mare through its paces. Then, in a most casual-seeming tone, Roger said, ‘So you know something about commenda contracts, do you?’
It was late in the day by now and the only light in the chamber other than the one that drizzled in from outside came from the fire flickering in the hearth. Shadows were sent in a dance macabre across the tapestries with their scenes of the hunt. She could make out a stag, arrows piercing its shoulder, the huntsman drawing a knife to complete the kill. It had never appeared at all sinister before now. The absence of servants became suddenly oppressive.
Roger moved up close behind her. She could hear him breathing. He went to the casement and flung it open.
‘That’s a long drop, ’ he observed, gazing down into the yard. He leaned out and shouted down to his groom, ‘Take her in now.’
Hildegard saw groom and horse disappear round a corner towards the stables. Roger turned back inside, leaving the window open. She moved away but heard him tread after her.
‘You must have talked to Vitelli about contracts,’ he continued. ‘I expect you know everything there is to know by now.’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew much,’ she replied.
Just then a servant hurried in after a brief announcement, then skidded to a halt.
‘What is it?’ demanded Roger testily, glaring at him.
‘Lady Melisen awaits you, my lord.’
Still clutching his goblet, he turned towards the door. ‘Tell her I’m on my way.’ He glanced back at Hildegard. ‘Can’t keep her waiting. We’ll talk later.’
Hildegard released the stem of her goblet after he left, her knuckles white.
Roger might well want the witness to his contract with Melisen’s father dead. Reynard. And whoever else knew about it. A long drop. She shivered and finished her wine in one nervous gulp.
 
Hildegard went to visit Pierrekyn in his prison cell. This time he had his lute but it lay beside him while he stared at the flame of a candle. He looked up when she entered. ‘Praise heaven. You must help me, Sister—’
‘Of course.’
‘No, I mean you have to get me something. I cannot stand the idea of torture. I will not be tortured.’
‘No one will torture—’
‘They’ll break my fingers and cut me. I know what they did to a friar down in Kent. They said he’d accused Gaunt of treason, so they cut out his tongue. Then gouged out his eyes and slit him and—’ He was shaking with fear, she saw now, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Their accusations were based on hearsay as well. Imagine how they’d mutilate
me
.’
She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Pierrekyn—’
‘Give me a potion of henbane, anything. Let me die before they rend my flesh, please, I beg of you—’
‘Pierrekyn.’ Her voice was calm and practical. ‘Let’s not leap into hell before we’ve even seen the gates. It’s not at all likely that that appealer’s accusation will stand. It’s his word against yours. I will provide testimony for your character and so will others.’
‘The sheriff found no malice in the accusation—’
‘We will prove him mistaken. They cannot hold you.’
Pierrekyn was not convinced. ‘Coppinhall’s charge will stick—’
‘Only if they can prove a link between you and the copy of
anomenalle
. They can’t charge you with sedition otherwise.’
‘They’ll try to blacken me and claim I’m of notorious repute. They will not set me free. I know they will not!’
She sat down on the bench. ‘Listen to me. I need to know what Coppinhall is going to say next. He seemed very confident that he could indict you on the basis of your association with Reynard. Finding the
anomenalle
document in his chamber was unfortunate, to say the least. But if that’s all he has to go on, your denial of conspiracy must stand.’
Pierrekyn threw himself down on the floor and with his head in his hands began to sob his heart out. ‘They know about me,’ he said between sobs. ‘They’re going to rake up everything from the past and I won’t stand a chance.’
‘What do they know about you?’ Hildegard insisted.
Pierrekyn shook his head and went on weeping until she stood up.
‘If you’re not going to tell me then there’s nothing I can do.’
She began to walk towards the door and he looked up in alarm. ‘Wait!’ He wiped away his tears with the backs of both hands and mumbled, ‘I was given three exigents before I left Kent. It’s probably gone up to five by now.’

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