‘Domina, you’ve saved me the trouble of getting out my inkhorn.’ He smiled and made a bow. ‘His Grace sends his warmest greetings.’
‘Where is he?’ she asked guiltily, knowing she would have to face him as soon as possible.
‘On the King’s business. But I have a message for you. We are to visit a prisoner in the Tower.’
‘The Tower?’
‘There’s a man there wrongfully locked up on an accusation by Thomas Swynford. We have to obtain our permissions from the King’s secretary, Mr Medford. If you’ll follow me?’
Crossing the yard they arrived at one of the side doors leading into Westminster Hall, where the porter checked a docket Edwin handed him and waved them through.
The great raftered hall where all the business of the realm was conducted lay to one side of the passage. Through an open door Hildegard glimpsed a gloomy and forbidding place where rows of clerestory windows slanted grey light across the floor and the oak pillars were wide enough to conceal assassins. Bunched at the far end near the king’s dais was a crowd of lawyers and clerks, the former gaudily dressed, the latter in more sombre colours, attending to matters in the courts of Chancery and the King’s Bench.
The distant echoing noise of their activities receded as a servant led them up a staircase to the first floor and came to a halt outside an iron-studded door.
Two young men were sitting at a long trestle heaped with documents. They rose to their feet when Hildegard and Edwin entered.
Using what prior knowledge she had, she turned to the one with a pale clever face dressed entirely in black. ‘Mr Medford, I presume?’
He was the most important clerk of the Signet Office, controller of King Richard’s personal finances.
They stood eye to eye. His attitude seemed to be to face her down. She was determined not to be so faced. There was a brief silence while he took her measure.
‘Domina,’ he murmured then, ‘so good of you to bestow on us the grace of your presence. Mr Westwode has briefed us on relevant matters.’ He glanced over her shoulder at Edwin who had followed her inside.
When she turned, Edwin had a dazzled look on his face. Medford must represent the pinnacle of his world, she realised. To Hildegard the King’s secretary looked like nothing more than a tall child in adult clothing. A handsome wilful child. He could be no more than twenty-two. The power he wielded was enormous and, of course, the King himself was only nineteen – little to be wondered that he should surround himself with young men of a similar generation.
We are governed by children, she decided, turning her gaze to rest on Medford’s companion. An open-faced, fair-haired fellow, he looked even younger than Medford.
‘And this is the Dean of the Chapel Royal and head of the Signet Office,’ explained Medford languidly.
‘Will Slake.’ The young man gave her a pleasant smile and bowed. ‘Another fellow from King’s Hall, Domina,
do forgive us. We Cambridge men have rather taken over the King’s affairs these days.’ He grinned, friendly and unapologetic.
Before she could reply Edwin stepped forward. ‘If I may, Mr Medford … Dean … there
is
something – now we’re here to pick up our permits to visit the prisoner in the Tower, perhaps we can discuss a related matter?’
‘The problem of Sir Thomas Swynford? Quite. I was coming to that.’ Medford gave Edwin a reproving glance. ‘On that topic we may have something for you.’ He called to the servant by the door. ‘Bring him in.’
While they were waiting Slake cleared some rolls of parchment off a chair and offered it to Hildegard, then went to sit on the edge of the trestle, swinging his legs. He wore leather boots with embroidery of gold thread down the sides. Medford took up a place in the window embrasure where he could brood. Edwin, more nervous than she had seen him before, paced restlessly towards the door and back.
The servant returned. With him was an abject little figure, snivelling and ill-kempt. The servant had him by the scruff of the neck and dropped him at Slake’s feet like an unwanted kitten.
Silence fell while they all looked at him.
The boy cringed and kept his head down.
‘Come on, then, tell us who you are.’
Slake was still swinging his legs in a nonchalant fashion but the boy stayed on his knees. He muttered a name but the sound caught in his throat and Slake got up, raised the lad by one ear and said, ‘Again! I can’t hear you!’
‘Turnbull, sir.’
‘Is that what you do? Turn bulls?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m page to Sir Thomas Swynford, sir.’
‘He’s a dirty-looking young devil to be a page to anybody,’ remarked Medford, looking him up and down. ‘Do you ever wash, boy?’
Slake still had him by the ear. ‘I’ll tell you what he does, Mr Medford, he carries messages. You carry messages, don’t you, Turnbull?’
‘Yes, sir, when Sir Thomas demands, sir.’
‘Obedient little fellow, aren’t you?’
The boy hung his head and Slake let him drop suddenly so that he fell to his knees.
Medford leant languidly in the window and in a bored voice instructed him to tell them about the message he had delivered at the Abbey of St Alban not this week past.
The boy, still crouching on all fours, stared silently at the floor.
Slake grew impatient. He slid a long silver knife from out of the tooled-leather sheath on his belt. ‘If you won’t talk to us, Turnbull, maybe I’d better cut out your tongue as you don’t seem to need it.’
‘No, please, sir!’ The boy crouched at Slake’s feet and began to sob.
‘I will. I’ve a mind to. I like tongue. Fried nicely on a piece of white bread. What do you say Mr Medford?’
‘No accounting for taste, Dean. You eat it. I’ll have his fingers, one by one.’
‘No! Please, don’t!’ The boy was shivering in terror and Hildegard stepped forward.
‘I think perhaps he might like to tell us what we want to know if we ask him in a more straightforward manner.’ She knelt down beside the child and asked soothingly, ‘What do you have to tell me, Master Turnbull?’
‘I can’t say. He’ll kill me, My Lady.’
‘You were at St Alban’s with your master, Swynford, weren’t you?’ demanded Medford.
The boy was so frightened the words stuck in his throat. ‘No harm will come to you,’ Hildegard told him with a glance at the two clerks. ‘I’ll see to that. But tell me, were you at St Alban’s Abbey when the archbishop of York’s retinue were in residence?’
The boy nodded but would not look at her.
‘Ask him about the message,’ urged Slake.
‘Well, what do you have to say?’ she whispered. ‘You can tell me.’
‘I can’t! I daren’t – please, My Lady!’
‘Is it something to do with the falconer and what happened to him?’
Between sobs the boy nodded.
‘Then make it easy for us all by telling what you know. You’re quite safe here with us.’
‘He’ll kill me,’ the boy sobbed. ‘He said he would beat me within an inch of my life then leave me to die.’
‘Does he beat you?’
‘All the time.’ The boy was still crouching abjectly on the floor and every few moments a sob would shiver through his thin body. He needs a good square meal or two, thought Hildegard, wanting to gather him up.
‘By “he” I suppose you mean Sir Thomas Swynford?’ demanded Medford.
The boy nodded. ‘He swore he would chain me in a tower like a baited bear and starve me to death.’ He turned a tear-stained face towards Hildegard. ‘He said he’d block up the door so I couldn’t get out and I’d dwindle away like a wraith and then die and nobody would ever know what happened.’
‘I think Mr Medford would have something to say about that. Isn’t that so?’ She raised her head and gave Medford a challenging look.
Medford’s black eyes were boring into hers but he lifted one hand and let it fall. ‘We’ll spirit him away out of Swynford’s reach if we feel he deserves it. Let him tell us about this message first.’
‘Was it from your lord?’ she asked.
He gave a resigned nod.
‘Who did you take it to? Just his position will do. There’s no harm in that, is there?’ Hildegard coaxed.
‘It was to the head falconer at St Alban’s,’ he mumbled.
‘And did you tell him that he was wanted by Master Fulford over some matter to do with the Yorkshiremen’s kitchens? You may nod if it is so.’
The boy gave a small nod then raised his head. ‘I don’t want to starve to death, My Lady.’
‘And nor shall you. Mr Medford will make sure you have plenty to eat. But tell me, did you also give a message to Archbishop Neville’s falconer that he was needed in the mews?’
Again the boy agreed, with a reluctant terrified nod.
‘And tell me, have you heard the name Jarrold of
Kyme?’ She felt Medford and Slake lean forward as if taken by surprise at the question.
She looked into the child’s eyes. He was shaking his head and staring straight at her. ‘I’m sorry, My Lady. I’ve never heard of him.’
Hildegard stood up and encountered Medford’s brooding stare. ‘So it’s as we suspected, but why Swynford should involve himself in such diabolical activities remains a mystery—’
‘The victim’s name at St Alban’s is John of Willerby,’ Edwin interrupted. ‘So far he can’t remember much and but for divine intervention he’d have bled to death and Swynford would therefore be guilty of murder.’
‘Don’t worry about him. We’re dealing with him. Who’s this John of Willerby? Never heard of him. Is he from some place in Yorkshire?’
‘His family was. He himself used to work for the old abbot at St Alban’s, so I’m told.’ Edwin looked pleased to be able to supply an answer.
‘And what is his importance to the King?’
‘Is he an informer?’ asked Slake, bluntly.
Edwin shrugged.
‘We have not been advised on that,’ Hildegard told them. ‘If he is, it still makes no sense,’ adding, ‘so far.’
‘So far?’ Medford cocked an eyebrow.
‘It will, master. We shall make sure of it.’
Medford gave a faint smile. ‘Good.’ He got up. ‘Then I’ll leave it with you. Meanwhile we’ll see what else we can get out of this snivelling brat.’ He gestured to Slake. ‘Their documents, Dean.’ He turned to Edwin. ‘You will return here after speaking to the prisoner, Westwode. And you’ll
report to me in person.’ He toyed with the papers Slake had thrust into his hand then offered them to Hildegard. ‘Domina.’ He bowed.
Dismissed, Edwin was already moving to the door but Hildegard hesitated. ‘I take it the boy will not now be returning to Swynford. If it is discovered that he has helped us, his life will be in danger. I trust, therefore, that your house servants will take steps to keep him safe and fed?’
‘See to it, Dean.’ Medford yawned.
‘Oh I will, Mr Secretary, I will!’ Slake laughed as if Medford had cracked a good joke.
‘You can’t aspire to such a position, Edwin, even if you had been trained at King’s Hall and your path was open. It involves too close a kinship with cruelty.’ Hildegard turned a worried look on him.
He was uncomfortable. ‘It’s how things are done here. That’s how the Signet Office gets results.’
‘Did they beat the boy before they brought him to us? Is that why he confessed?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
She saw him frown. He knew the answer as well as she did.
‘At least we know the truth,’ he mumbled.
‘The truth?’
‘That Swynford deliberately attacked His Grace’s falconer.’
‘But he had already left when the attack took place. We’d have great difficulty in proving it.’
‘Either he came back covertly and did it himself, or he hired a servant to do it.’
‘And his purpose – to punish Willerby or silence him?’
‘What do you think?’
She frowned. It must be to do with the cross. Neville already suspected that he was being given a warning by having his retinue terrorised. Now it looked as if he was right.
Hand it over or else.
But she could say nothing of the cross to Edwin, and besides, he was already continuing on another tack.
‘I think Swynford wanted to maim Willerby as a warning,’ he said slowly. ‘If he’d wanted to silence him, he could have had him knifed in a back alley somewhere. I think Willerby must know something he shouldn’t. And if it is a warning, it’s to tell others to keep their mouths shut.’ He scowled. ‘If only he’d regain his memory and begin to talk!’
‘We can only be patient.’
Then Edwin surprised her. ‘Mr Medford is treating it as a direct plot against the King.’