Inside, on a velvet bed, looking like nothing much, was a T-shaped piece of blackened wood. She recognised it at once. On the back an inscription would be found:
In hoc signo vinces
. It had been the Emperor Constantine’s battle cry when confronting the enemies of his fledgling Christian empire at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge near Rome many centuries ago. God, went the legend, favoured Constantine and bestowed victory on his army to prove it. The cross he carried into battle was said to be this very one and because of that its power was believed to be immense.
It went without saying that it was priceless to anyone with ambitions to steal a crown from a king. It would legitimise their theft in the eyes of the people who believed in such things.
Last time Hildegard had seen it, her prioress was keeping it safely and secretly at the priory of Swyne.
Expected to hand it over to the archbishop, whose gold had financed Hildegard’s expedition on the quest to fetch it back to England, the prioress had point-blank refused. Even though Alexander Neville was her brother, she had
doubts about his loyalty. She suspected that he intended to offer the cross to the Duke of Lancaster’s eldest son, young Harry Bolingbroke, who had offered a vast sum for it. But, suspected of plotting to depose the King, his cousin Richard, he had been refused. The cross, with the legend to impress the superstitious, would clearly have bolstered his claim.
Now, Hildegard registered, it confirmed the hope that the archbishop had recovered his sense of loyalty and the prioress had handed the cross into his keeping. His intention must be to deliver it to the King in Westminster.
He did not lift it from the reliquary and nor did he touch it. Instead he gazed long and hard at it, and finally, when he raised his head, she saw tears in his eyes. ‘I would lay down my life for this.’
Hildegard said softly, ‘So now I understand, Your Grace. It was to protect the cross that you abandoned your household, leaving them to defend themselves against those men lying in ambush.’
‘Precisely so.’
He snapped the lid closed, replaced the reliquary in the small chest, then pulled a linen bag over the whole thing.
His voice shook. ‘This morning,’ he told her, ‘I discovered that those who seek the cross are now within the bishop’s enclave. Who they are, I know not. I decided that someone should be told what I possess in case anything happens to me and the cross is stolen.’
‘What makes you think they’re inside?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘During the night my guards disturbed someone trying to gain entrance to my privy chamber. There’s only one
reason anyone would want to break in here.’
‘Surely you don’t suspect someone in the bishop’s household?’
‘Buckingham himself is loyal. I’m sure of that. But he spends so little time here in Lincoln these days he must have failed to keep a close watch on the loyalties of his household. It’s my guess it was somebody allied with those armed men my men routed on the way down.’
‘We can find that out by closely questioning the prisoner we took.’
He nodded. ‘Be it so, although he may be in ignorance of the greater lord from whom his captain receives his orders.’
‘No doubt they’ll make another attempt?’
He agreed. ‘It goes without saying. I shall increase the number of armed guards.’
‘Your Grace – may I make a suggestion?’
When he nodded she said, ‘Armed men often provoke attack. Their presence creates interest in the value of what they’ve been instructed to guard. Mightn’t there be some more unobtrusive way of conveying the cross to Westminster?’
‘Such as?’
‘Remember how I carried it all the way from northern Italy back to Yorkshire? No one suspected the value of the object in my old travel-scarred bag.’ She smiled, remembering the ease with which she had carried the cross past the guards collecting the customs tolls at the port of Ravenser on her return. ‘Might I offer my services in like fashion?’
Neville looked startled. ‘God’s teeth, I would never
hear of such a thing! Carry the cross yourself? Think of the danger if they attacked – no! Never!’
‘But Your Grace, I beg you to consider it.’
He shook his head. ‘I promised my sister I wouldn’t put you in danger.’
‘My prioress is ever flexible in her actions, Your Grace, as I am sure you already know. She would appreciate the problem and come to an accommodation with any promise made in ignorance of the present circumstances.’
‘She would?’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘She would.’
He glanced down at the linen bag with its priceless contents. It looked as if it might contain clothing, a nun’s book of hours, spare leggings, or whatever nuns carried when they travelled from their cloisters.
With a sudden gesture, half gratitude, half reluctant submission, he placed the bundle in her hands.
Without speaking she slipped it inside a capacious leather bag
–
her scrip, where, among other things, her cures were stored. There, under the fern-like leaves from the bishop’s garden she hoped to identify later, she concealed the cross.
It was raining by the time she came outside, the sort of rain that floats on the wind like a mist but still drenches and finds a way inside the thickest cloak. Undeterred, she pulled up her hood and hurried across the garth towards the west door of the cathedral. The bag was safely hidden underneath her cloak. From now on she would not let it out of her sight.
Inside the entrance the pilgrims had already started
to gather, joyful at this extra penitential inconvenience, shaking the rain from their woollen cloaks and glorying in the mud that fell from their rain-sodden boots.
Hildegard gave a groan. There would be no hope of getting near the shrine this morning. The pilgrims had beaten her to it.
The cathedral was the centre of a diocese that stretched from the border with Yorkshire down through the midland counties as far to the south-west as Oxford. It possessed extremely profitable lands and displayed its wealth with spectacular soaring arches, perpetual chantries, and a hundred gilded carvings placed up and down the long nave. Expensive beeswax candles flickered on the altars, the continual sonorous chanting of the monks filled the airy caverns with sound, and the susurration of slippered pilgrim feet was like the brushing of a thousand wings. Today the coloured glass in the tall lancets was darkened by the gloom outside and rain clattered incessantly against the quarry panes.
Already there was a huge crowd round the elaborate gilded shrine dominating the east end. The heady scent of incense billowed from the censers carried by a little army of acolytes as they marched up and down the nave, passing the winding queue of those waiting to crawl inside the shrine. For a moment the scent of frankincense reminded her of the Abbey of Meaux, of Hubert de Courcy, the abbot. His handsome, haunted features swam before her.
He would be riding down to Westminster soon, as would all the other prelates summoned to attend Parliament. It was to be no ordinary gathering. It was
intended to put the country on a war footing in order to repel the invasion when it came, and the abbot would be expected to speak in the lords’ chamber. Those for and against the King would have their votes counted. Where his loyalty lay would become apparent.
Carrying her bag she slipped into a small chantry away from the crowds, driven by the urge to pray for Hubert, his judgement, his safe journey and for the defeat of the King’s enemies.
The place was empty when she entered. There was barely room to kneel, as a large fretted screen separated the altar from the rest of the little place. She knelt in a wedge of shadow to one side and turned her thoughts to what was important: the safety of the abbot, of the King and of England.
After a few moments she was reminded of the little panicked boy when he saw the contents of the vat and she prayed for him too, that he was safe in York with the rest of his family and friends, and then, about to rise to her feet, she heard a commotion in the doorway and two men entered.
They had their hoods up and had evidently just come in from the rain, because they dripped water all over the tiles. One of them was wearing a waterproof cloak and his companion, in fustian, was holding onto his arm and being half dragged towards the painted effigy of St Hugh on the other side of the screen.
The man in the waterproof dropped to his knees, forcing the other man down with him. A muttered conversation followed as they knelt in front of the effigy and it continued more viciously when the first man forced
his companion’s head and shoulders down towards the floor as if to make him kiss the base of the pedestal where the saint’s effigy stood. The man freed himself with a curse and scrambled to his feet.
He was panting with fury, she saw now. ‘You bloody have to!’ he was muttering. ‘I’m in enough shite already!’
The kneeling man ignored him and there was a fierce silence until he stood up, made the sign of the cross, then turned, grabbing his companion by the front of his cloak. Both still had their hoods up and their faces were in shadow but the venom of their exchange carried to where, momentarily transfixed, Hildegard was still kneeling.
She could not help but hear him say, ‘Listen to me, you bungling shithead! I’ve got bigger fish to fry! Don’t waste my time with your piddling problems!’
‘You bastard! Are you just going to leave me in the lurch?’
The man laughed without humour. ‘I’ve told you I’ll sort it!’
‘Sort it?’ the other demanded in disbelief. ‘How the hell are you going to sort it now?’
‘I will do so. There’s only one thing you have to do. Give me a sign. It’s as good as done. And then you can bloody get on with the other business!’
She saw him release his grip and ask, ‘What the hell is it about anyway?’
There was a brief pause, then grudgingly, the reply, ‘A woman.’
‘You bloody fool!’ His companion gave a jeering laugh and began to stride back through the opening in the
wooden screen, snarling over his shoulder, ‘I’ve heard it all now!’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Everything can be sorted. I know what I’m saying! Now do it!’
The other man followed him out, leaving wet footprints down the centre of the tiles.
The chantry was lit by a slant of light from one small window. Not enough to make out who they were. They could have been anyone. They could have been two men from the town. Anyone at all.
She saw them mingle with the congregation in the nave.
Even after they left the air seemed full of venom.
She got up and went out. A group of York men were queuing outside the shrine waiting to pay their respects to the saint. It was only as she approached that she noticed that one of the men who had just been arguing in the chantry, the one in the soaking-wet fustian cloak, was pushing his way through the crowd towards them. She watched as he went over to join them, pushing back his hood as he did so. Then she stared. It was Jarrold of Kyme.
She searched the crowds for his companion. He had gone to lean against a nearby pillar. He was difficult to pick out because he was still wearing the grey woollen hood half over his face with the waterproof draped across his shoulders.
Jarrold went up to the line of men waiting to crawl inside the niche under the sarcophagus of St Hugh and flung an arm round one of them. She saw him say something and the man laughed and clapped him on the
back. The others shuffled up to make space and he fell into line with them. The man near the pillar turned and began to thread his way towards the exit.
Hildegard decided it was time to leave too. The scene had been unpleasant and it was stifling here, now that the crowds had grown as more and more people came in to shelter from the rain. When she reached the west door she was temporarily stalled by the influx of a fresh batch pushing in. Jarrold’s companion was halted as well and she found herself standing close to him in the porch. He pulled the waterproof hood up. She was close enough to smell it. He had had it treated with a mixture of pig fat and rosemary oil. She had seen the mercenaries wear such garments in the Alps.
With one hand holding the hood over his face he plunged out into the rain and she watched him splash across the garth towards the row of tenanted houses within the enclave.
Reluctant to get wetter than she already was she hung about in the entrance for a moment or two, waiting for a lull in the storm, and was surprised to see Jarrold appear. She greeted him by name. ‘So you decided not to wait to enter the shrine?’
He looked confused.
‘I had the same intention,’ she continued, ‘but the queue put me off as well.’
He realised what she was saying and gave a brief nod. ‘That’s right, Domina. Yes, that’s it. Too many people. Better to come back later.’
He was about to step outside when she said, ‘There seems to be some excitement in the close today. Is it just the storm or is there fresh news of the invasion?’
‘Nothing on that score as far as I’m aware.’