The Butcher of Avignon (16 page)

‘Let me attend to your fingers before they become infected.’

Placing the bread and broth on the floor she opened her scrip. She needed water first to clean up the bloody mess that had once been his finger tips. The flagon beside him was still nearly full so she tipped some onto a clean piece of linen. ‘This will hurt but I beg you, John, do not attempt to restrain your language. It will help to utter any imprecation you can think of. I don’t know why, but it does.’

She set to work. The ends of his fingers were a bloody pulp. The inquisitors had done a thorough job. Delicately she wiped away any loose skin, staunched the flow of blood that was started up again then applied a mixture of honey and a few other things taught secretly to her many years ago. Then she had to cut strips of cloth and bandage each of his fingers separately.

Afterwards he apologised for his oaths.

She smiled. ‘I’ve heard far worse. And from nuns too.’

A little life came back into his eyes. Unable to hold anything, he looked helplessly at the bread and broth. She told him to shut up and do as he was told, then to open his mouth to eat the broth she was about to feed him like the babe in arms he was and then, when he had polished off the last of the bread which she was also going to feed to him, gobbet by gobbet, she wanted to know everything that had happened.

He did as he was told, taking the bread soaked in broth from between her fingers with closed eyes. The strength began to seep back inside him.

‘You’d never do this if I had the use of my hands,’ he murmured.

‘I wouldn’t need to.’

‘True.’

His brown eyes flickered with a show of spirit as she urged him to eat it all.

‘Worse than my mam,’ he told her when she finished by brushing the crumbs off his tunic, ‘but twice as beautiful.’ He levered himself into a different position. ‘Tell me, domina, when will I be able to use my hands to lift my sword against those bastards?’

‘Soon enough.’

‘They wanted to know about our methods. Fancy that.’

‘What methods?’

‘How we took the mine down so deep. How we drained the water out at those kind of depths. That sort of thing. One daft fellow asked if we’d ever got down far enough to see the flames of hell. That’s one question I did answer. “Raging hot they are and as big as mountains.” He was excited about that. Wants to go down and see them for himself. They didn’t translate when I told him I hoped it’d be sooner than he thinks. Then they wanted to know what sort of deal the Emperor had made with Chancellor de la Pole.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘I told them nothing. Anyway, how the hell would I know what Wenceslas offered de la Pole? We got Good Queen Anne in exchange for a go at their silver mines. Mother of the next king of England. I reckon that’s prize enough for us.’

He held up his bloodied bandages. ‘For every nail there was a question. For every question there was no answer.’ He shuddered in the aftermath of his ordeal and pretended it was the cold.

Hildegard wanted to hold him against her as if by doing so she could protect him from further violence. Instead she urged him to keep talking, as the best cure for shock she knew. ‘Tell me what’s happened to Peter.’

‘When they brought me back they made sure he had a good long look at my hands. He went as white as a sheet. I said, “Fear not, I told ‘em nothing. Stand firm for the brotherhood. “I will,” he said. He gave me the clenched fist. For King Richard and the true Commons, domina, as I know you understand.’

‘I do. You’re brave lads. England’s best.’

‘I gave them nothing. My only fear is, will he stand firm?’

‘He will. Trust him. He’s rock solid.’

‘I wouldn't blame him if they found a way to destroy him and make him talk.’ Tears came into his eyes but he could not brush them away because of the pain in his useless hands when they knocked against anything so he had to allow them to trickle down his cheeks into the bristles on his chin. Hildegard turned away so he would not know she had seen them and be shamed.

She left soon after that, saying she would return shortly with something else to sustain him and she hoped it would be more than food and wine.

‘What wine?’ he called after her. A cackling laugh followed.

**

When she reached the guest quarters where Sir John Fitzjohn was staying it was Bertram who greeted her. He conducted her to where Fitzjohn’s steward was sitting in a cramped ante chamber no bigger than a kennel for the hounds. He was a thin, dark, morose fellow and glowered when Bertram appeared. ‘What do
you
want?’

‘My lady of Meaux begs audience with her countryman Sir John,’ he announced.

‘She does, does she?’ The steward looked her up and down as if he was about to give a sniff of dismissal when he chanced to catch her eye. He shambled to his feet. ‘Domina, Sir John has nothing to do with nuns. He has his own chaplain.’

‘This is not a church matter. I beg only a little of his time on private business.’

Grudgingly he ordered Bertram to go inside and inquire if Sir John had any thoughts on the matter.

In a trice the boy was back. With a covert smile of triumph he announced, ‘Sir John will grant the holy sister a brief audience. Please follow me, domina.’

Hildegard turned to the steward. ‘Thank you, my lord steward, I am obliged to you.’

In the passageway Bertram turned a grinning face to her. ‘We got the better of that old goat, domina. He makes our lives hell. But be warned, Sir Jack is no better and he’s in a foul mood today.’

He opened the door into a fairly impressive chamber with a high ceiling covered in plaster mouldings displaying the papal insignia with windows down one side giving a distant view over the battlements towards the red roofs of Avignon.

At one end, turned towards the door, stood the imposing figure of Sir John. He was wearing body armour, a leather hauberk showing underneath a tunic of some heavy fabric, cambric or worsted, with the blazon of the earl of Woodstock embroidered finely upon it. His sword belt was lying on a bench next to him within reach but he wore a tooled leather belt low and wound twice round his hips in the latest style.

His blond hair was shoulder length and brushed straight back from his face to reveal strong bones and a confident expression. At some time his nose had been broken but it did not detract from his good looks, merely enhancing them and giving a ruggedness to features that might otherwise be thought too regular.

Edmund, the dutiful esquire, had already stepped from behind the door and, looking well-turned out himself, offered a deep and courtly flourish. ‘Domina, may I conduct you into the presence of my lord, Sir John Fitzjohn.’

Hildegard followed. Then Sir John was standing over her.

**

‘Anyone from England is welcome here, domina. Have you news from Westminster?’

‘None that you will not already know, my lord.’

He smiled faintly. ‘You overpraise my intelligencers.’

She noticed now that he had a thin line of carefully razored blond hair on his upper lip and a slight cast in one eye. He was still physically daunting. She was reminded of his younger brother, Escrick, also a bastard son of John of Gaunt, and thought how different they were in appearance, Escrick dark and brutish, with a chip on his shoulder that made him unpredictably dangerous, and this smiling fair-haired and courtly knight.

A few pleasantries were exchanged although he did not offer her a seat or anything to drink from the silver wine flagon on the table at his side.

Picking up his goblet he drank deeply, staring at her over the rim, before asking, ‘So what may I do for you, domina?’

‘I have some information. It is something of which you cannot be aware, given the honour in which you stand.’

A small scowl flickered over his face and he gestured impatiently for her to continue.

‘It has been brought to my notice that two men have been brought to Avignon against their will.’

A long pause followed until he drawled, ‘What’s that to me?’

‘I believe you are aware of these men and that perhaps they were brought as a gift from England for his Holiness?’

‘I brought several men in my retinue but as a gift?’ He feigned amused astonishment.

‘I believe so. A gift, yes, because of what they know.’

‘Go on.’ His initial charm was fading.

‘They are two miners. I have seen where they are being held. They are suffering the most abject conditions. One of them has already been tortured.’

His lips tightened. ‘I ask again, what has this to do with me?’

‘They are your countrymen, my lord. They arrived in your retinue.’

He glared at her and she saw the colour rise to his cheeks. He turned on Edmund who was obediently standing by and cuffed him sharply on the side of the head. ‘What are you gawping at, dolt? Go and find a job, you idle devil.’

Edmund bowed his head quickly but not before Hildegard saw the dart of rage in his eyes.

Before he reached the door, Fitzjohn called him back. ‘On second thoughts, stay here and learn something if you can get anything into that fat head of yours.’

Edmund came back and stood beside Fitzjohn with his glance fixed on the floor and his cheeks flaming in anger.

Fitzjohn turned to Hildegard. With an air of exaggerated politeness he said, ‘I am at a loss, domina. You come to me in order to inform me that two Englishmen have been abducted and are now being tortured by my host, his holiness Pope Clement?’

‘One tortured, so far,’ she corrected.

She did not want to add oil to fire but she needed to make things plain. ‘As an Englishwoman I find it a most heinous insult to our king that his subjects should be punished by a foreign power, one whose authority our king does not recognise. I understand that you are in ignorance of this treatment, of course, otherwise you would not countenance the stain on your own honour and that of your country.’

He pulled at his stripling moustache for a moment. Took another drink from his silver goblet. ‘Torture?’ he said at last. ‘No, that will not do. But you see the difficulty of my situation, domina?’

She waited for him to continue.

‘Let’s assume they were brought over here in my entourage somehow or other. As a woman, as a nun, you will not understand the delicate nature of our policy towards our host.’

Hildegard showed no sign of how she felt at his words.

He mistook her silence for encouragement. ‘What steps can I take that will not offend his Holiness? Can I go to him and say, “Clement, this will not do?” No, of course not. These men you mention, whoever they are, must have earned their punishment. We are now, I’m afraid to say, within the jurisdiction of the papal court of our most holy father, Pope Clement. Do you see that?’

‘I see my countrymen being tortured for no fault of their own. Your men, Sir John, ones you brought over here.’

‘They say that, do they?’ His eyes narrowed.

‘They have no idea who brought them here.’

‘So as I said before, what has this to do with me?’

Hildegard waited. They both knew the truth.

Fitzjohn’s expression hardened. ‘Understand this, I will not jeopardise the interests of my lord, earl Thomas of Woodstock, the Duke of Gloucester, no less, for the sake of a little discomfort suffered by two miners. They should tell the pope’s men what they want and then go free. This mulish resistance to a perfectly acceptable exchange of information is absurd. What is wrong with the men that they should refuse to cooperate? Are they traitors to England’s prince?’

Before she could summon an answer he ground on, ‘It seems like it. They deserve all they get! If they don’t want to serve the prince and his interests then I’ll send men down myself to see if our methods are more persuasive than those of the pope. Now, if you’ll excuse me, lady, I suggest you stop meddling in things that don’t concern you and get back to your prayers. I have pressing matters deserving my attention.’ He gave a dismissive bow.

Edmund, glance averted from his lord, stepped smartly in front of her, and indicating that she should follow, briskly marched from the chamber.

When the door closed behind them Edmund would not look at her but tried to lead her back down the corridor with his head averted.

‘Edmund, wait.’ She put out a hand to detain him before they turned the corner to where the steward’s dog kennel was. ‘Does that happen often?’

His eyes were glistening with rage. He nodded.

‘It was uncalled for.’

‘It can be worse.’

‘This is not ended. None of it. Trust me.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I may need your help and that of your guild of pages. Is there somewhere private where we can meet?’

**

Hubert’s strong profile was visible between the banners held aloft by the pope’s retinue of clerks and choristers as they processed through the crowds of petitioners into the Great Audience Chamber. He was standing on the opposite side of the nave with the other Cistercians to witness the proceedings.

Hildegard had convinced herself that his coldness towards her was what she desired. She had no with to restart their little
amour
if that’s what it had been. It would be wrong on every level. She could not help recalling, however, Hubert’s declaration of desire two years ago under the soaring arches of Beverley Minster. That had been no trifling fancy. His words, vibrating with the intensity of his feelings, had left her in no doubt of the depth of his emotions. Now, it seemed as much a chimera as the page’s promise of riches.
Put not thy trust in mortal things.

Well, fools might. She wouldn’t, she hadn’t, and Hubert could go to perdition as he had told her to. It was better this way. She had no right even to remember anything of that period of her life when her vows had been so shaken by the feeling of desire he aroused.

The chamber, large as it was, filled rapidly as more and more petitioners tried to enter. Soon it was crammed to the walls.

Most had been waiting since before dawn, some even feeling their way in the darkness straight from lauds. Patience, it seemed, was a virtue much practised.

Many Scots had arrived, she noticed, Clement being their chosen pope with preferment in his gift. A canon of Eglinton, for instance, lecturing in Paris, was one of the first to present his petition. It was for a benefice in the gift of the abbot of the convent of St Andrews. He excused the fact that he already received the profits from the priory of Blantyre by saying that he would resign it in favour of St Andrews, the richer one, she supposed.