‘This again comes from Martin’s wife. She’s a local woman and, like herself, many of her kinsfolk work at the castle. Naturally, like all servants, they observe what is going on and discuss it between themselves. When I stopped off at Bishopthorpe Palace before riding down
here she came to find me. She was in great distress. We’ve spoken in the past when she’s visited Meaux to consult the Talking Crucifix and she felt she could trust me. She told me that she was convinced Jarrold killed her husband.’
‘She said that openly?’
‘Not exactly openly,’ he chided. ‘I tell you all of this in the deepest confidence, Hildegard. But as it pertains to the health and welfare of the King and hence the entire realm, I cannot withhold what information I have.’
Reproved, she fell silent.
‘I hope we can pool our thoughts on the matter?’ he suggested in a softer tone.
Knowing what she had yet to tell him, she was unable to reply.
‘Martin,’ he continued, ‘knew about the rumours concerning Ralph Standish’s death as did everyone else at Scarborough. He hinted to his wife that he had proof that Jarrold poisoned him.’
‘What sort of proof?’
‘I don’t know and neither, apparently, does she, but the two men worked side by side in the kitchens and something must have betrayed him. Given Martin’s views he should have been pleased that Ralph Standish, a man suspected of being in a plot to assassinate the King, had got his just desserts.’
‘And wasn’t he?’
‘She told me her husband was a man of some idealism and did not believe the rumours that rebels had poisoned Standish out of revenge. He felt the plotters must be finding it expedient to allow that belief to flourish. He wanted to
confess what he knew to somebody in authority.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. He kept putting it off. He talked it over with her and, she suspects, with someone else, until eventually it must have got back to Jarrold. She told me they came to blows only a few days before the murder.’
‘What were they fighting about?’
‘She believes it was because Martin confronted Jarrold and begged him to confess to save his soul and exonerate the brotherhood of the White Hart.’
‘And he would deny everything, of course?’
He nodded. ‘But that wasn’t the end of the matter. She knows Martin was worried about something the day before the retinue left Bishopthorpe but she put it down to unhappiness at having to go to London without her. Now she thinks it’s because he wanted the matter with Jarrold to be resolved one way or another, but that when he confronted him again Jarrold threatened him.’
‘In what way, does she know?’
He shook his head. ‘It was enough to worry him but despite this, she believes, he decided to force the issue saying he would go to the archbishop himself and tell him everything. And he arranged to meet Jarrold before the convoy set out to give him one last chance—’
‘And it turned out to be an assignation with his murderer?’
‘So she believes.’
‘Is this now the common view with those who remain at Bishopthorpe?’
He shook his head. ‘If it is, it’s not because of anything they know. She has told no one. She’s too frightened to
speak out.’ His expression was bleak. ‘Her fear seems justified. One of her husband’s closest friends was John of Willerby.’
Hildegard felt a shiver go through her. She told Hubert about the argument in the chapel at Lincoln Cathedral again. ‘“I’ll fix it,” Swynford had vowed. “Show me the man.” And Jarrold went up to Willerby in the queue and threw his arm round him in a gesture that was nothing like the friendship it appeared to be.’
‘How appearances can deceive.’ Hubert looked grim. ‘Where is Swynford now?’
‘With the retinue of the Earl of Derby, I expect.’
‘With Harry Bolingbroke, heir to the dukedom of Lancaster.’ His face was like thunder. ‘Untouchable.’
Hildegard had been listening carefully to Hubert’s story and although she had taken part, she had been in a dream. He was here, just as she had imagined him, his handsome face, the sudden sparkling warmth breaking up the austerity of his features. Despite the horrors they were exploring it brought such happiness to be sitting beside him again. She pulled herself together. ‘Hubert, we have no sure motive for Ralph Standish’s murder. Even his death by poison is based on rumour. It might be grief that makes his wife link her husband’s death with his alleged poisoning at the hands of the same man. A way of making his death more significant. The obvious explanation is one Edwin came up with on the way down.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘As Jarrold himself said in the chapel, a woman is involved. Maybe it was the wife herself? Maybe she had an understanding with Jarrold before Martin appeared
on the scene at Scarborough and she fell for him? Maybe Jarrold wanted rid of Martin for a reason like that?’
‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’
‘We need to find out more about Jarrold of Kyme. And, as regards Willerby, we must find the third man, if there is one.’
Hubert’s eyes were brilliant as he bent towards her. ‘Let’s work together on this, Hildegard. Justice must be done.’ He gazed into her face. ‘My dearly beloved, forgive me for mentioning this but I noticed as soon as I saw you – there’s a bruise on your cheek.’ His fingers hovered over it, not quite touching. ‘In no way does it detract from your beauty, indeed,’ his voice thickened, ‘nothing could ever do that – but I’m afraid it must be causing some pain …’
He did not breach the physical barrier that must remain between them but his imagined touch was like a balm to her pain. But then he asked the question she had been dreading. ‘How did it happen?’
Trying to gauge every nuance of his reaction, she told him quickly and plainly about the return from the dead of the Lord of Ravenscar. Her husband.
Hubert rose to his feet when she finished. Without a word, he crossed the chamber and gazed for an age out of the window as if unsure which way to turn. She thought he moved in anger. She could not tell.
She waited with a sense of dread.
It was over.
She had unwittingly deceived him. But she had been, herself, deceived. Surely he would understand that?
Nothing, however, could change the facts. She was not what she seemed.
It was over. His silence told her that.
It was over.
Now and for ever.
When Thomas came down again he met Hildegard in the lodge, where she stood alone.
He gave her a faint smile. ‘They live in more comfort than we do at Meaux. I shall have to bring Hubert up to the mark when we get back to Yorkshire.’
In silence he escorted her as far as the landing stage. When they arrived at the boats Thomas turned with a look of deep concern. ‘I assume you’ve told him, then?’
She nodded.
‘May I be permitted to ask—?’
‘Oh you may, Thomas. He took it as he always takes things. Enigmatically. He said nothing – only that he would need to see me more formally after he had consulted the proctor and the abbot.’
Hubert’s cold face swam before her.
Thomas took her hand. ‘If you want me to do anything, Hildegard, anything – anything at all – just say the word.’
After her outburst tears pricked her eyes. ‘I will. Dear Thomas.’
He towered over her, his young face full of kindness, and said, ‘I’ll keep you informed. There’s no rule I know that says I can’t do that. Now I’m going to escort you back to York Place where you can seek Neville’s advice. That’s your best course. Turn to him. Let’s go.’
‘No!’ She put out a hand. ‘You’ve no need to come back again. You’re wounded. I’ll do as you say and go straight back to consult His Grace.’
‘But—’
‘Forgive me. I want to be alone.’
Thomas instructed the boatman not to pick anyone else up but to take the domina back upriver and see her safely ashore.
He was a cheery character. ‘Never fear, Brother. I know the drill with you people. I’m so used to ferrying monastics about, I’m practically a monk myself.’ The man, with a large wooden cross protruding from a forest of hair under his jerkin, grinned down the boat at Hildegard as she settled herself on one of the thwarts.
As he began to row strongly out into the stream she raised one hand to Thomas. He was hovering on the shore with a look of fierce concern on his face.
It took longer to row back against the tide, even though it was less strong as it approached slack water, and the boatman had to use all his energy rather than giving her the benefit of his thoughts like the other fellow.
It was just as they were approaching the burnt-out ruins of the Savoy on their right when Hildegard saw a boat leaving the shelter of the bank to head downriver. That was nothing. There were a lot of boats on the water at this time of day. What aroused her interest was the figure sitting in the stern.
It was the man they had been talking about, Jarrold of Kyme.
His hood had been blown back by the stiff wind and if he had looked across the water he would have seen her, but he was holding the gunnels of the narrow craft with white knuckles and staring into the bottom of the boat as
if to avoid seeing the yellow water frothing on both sides.
On an impulse Hildegard leant forward. ‘Boatman, can you turn here and go back?’
‘Me, I can turn anywhere.’
‘Then follow that boat!’
Catching the note of urgency in her tone, he gave a broad grin. ‘With the greatest pleasure, My Lady. Hold on!’
She pointed to where the other craft was already slipping away. Deftly plunging an oar deep into the water and pivoting the craft by the sheer strength of his brawny arms, he set off in pursuit with long powerful strokes of the oars.
They flew along and almost caught up with the other boat but her man cunningly fell back far enough to make sure they would go unnoticed. Eventually Jarrold pointed to the shore and the bows turned in towards Tower Stairs. Her own man followed, drifting to shore only when the other boatman had been paid off and Jarrold was striding up into a narrow cobbled thoroughfare. He disappeared between the two rows of tenements.
It was with some trepidation, quickly overcome, that Hildegard followed him into the labyrinthine streets off the quayside. It was thick with dock workers, porters, merchants overseeing their goods in readiness for the invasion and all the usual wharfside riff-raff that gathered in the hope of earning a penny or two. Suspecting that it was likely to be the district that catered for the needs of the vast hordes of sailors who peopled the riverside she pulled up her hood and kept her head down with only
an occasional glimpse from underneath to keep Jarrold in sight. I’m wasting my time here, she told herself. He’s probably going to find a woman.
But he did not stop. He ignored the calls from the girls sitting on the balconies above the lane and walked on.
When he reached the top of the incline where the street met at a junction with a wide thoroughfare she realised they were close to All Hallows by the Tower. She shuddered at the thought of bumping into Ravenscar again.
He had said he had not finished with her.
She assumed he meant that he would be applying through the courts for restitution of his lands – the ones that had now passed to his younger brother, Guy – and perhaps he had already begun to make approaches to the Court of Arches too to try to get back the dowry she had brought to the marriage. So, out of caution, she kept her head down.
By now Jarrold was crossing the road and heading up towards the great market in the Cheap. She noticed that he was carrying two empty leather bags over his shoulder. He came to a stop outside an ostler’s. She watched him make payment and a horse was led out. Cursing under her breath she watched him ride on between the stalls towards one of the city gates on the other side. He joined the queue of people filing through.
She watched him leave.
An old man selling caged linnets was on the corner and she approached him. ‘Can you tell me which gate that is, master?’
‘That be Aldersgate, Domina.’
‘And this thoroughfare?’
‘Cheapside.’
‘And the road outside the gate, where does that lead?’
‘Out into wild country, towards Essex way.’
Deciding she could follow Jarrold no further she dropped a coin into the old man’s palm and made her way back to the quay. Someone would know where the road from Aldersgate led. It might only be that Jarrold was on a legitimate errand from York Place. He might even be innocent of all their suspicions, the rumours about him misplaced.
They were on the Strand. Ulf had gone to buy them a couple of pies from a stall while Hildegard sheltered from the wind in the lee of a goldsmith’s shop. Idly she peered in at the display of goods, then, losing interest, turned rapidly to scan the crowds for Ulf and the steaming pies. As she did so she caught sight of someone staring straight at her over the heads of the crowd from the other side of the street. He turned away at once but not quickly enough. She recognised him. So here he was again.