The Butcher of Avignon (32 page)

She smiled at this.

The message itself was written in a flowing hand that they must have paid a scrivener to produce. It ended with flowery wishes for her safe return home ‘after her long pilgrimage’ and promised to attend her to pay their undying respects. It was signed ‘your ever loving brother in this world and the next’ with a name that might have been deliberately blotted.

When she found the guild of pages in their secret lair she told them that the miners were safe.

‘At least that matter has ended well. But it’s still a mystery to me how they managed to get themselves kidnapped in the first place,’ remarked Bertram, furrowing his brow much as his own father probably did.

Hildegard told him how it had come about. ‘They assumed they were targets because their skill was something Fitzjohn’s lord could use as barter.’

‘So what did he want in exchange?’

Hildegard gave a sudden start.

Apart from the money to raise an army what else was useful to Woodstock?

Poison.

The acknowledged poison-masters were Lombards. They were skilled and knew of concoctions that could kill at the slightest touch of a doctored garment, or cause death by a single sniff from a perfume bottle, or by kissing a poisoned ring, or by all the old methods of adding some lethal ingredient to food or drink. Some poisons worked slowly, others in an instant. Some copied known symptoms and were never detected. Some were so sudden and violent they were blamed on the Plague. The Lombards were masters of them all.

Both popes, to their shame, were reputed to have access to the latest potions of the poison-makers and employed their adepts, secretly, in their palaces. As she had seen, Clement took the greatest care over his food and drink as, to be honest, most monarchs did these days.

The poison from Clement’s treasury must have been precious and rare to be hidden in the hilt of the dagger. What if it had been a poison so refined that it could never be detected?

Woodstock, through his vassal Sir John Fitzjohn, would want above all else to obtain such a weapon against his enemies.

A poison that would be undetectable. And the victim? The answer made Hildegard dizzy.

Woodstock desired one thing above all else. To be King of England.

And one man stood in his way.

Richard.

Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Bertram was asking in a tone of bafflement. ‘Why would the pope want to get hold of a couple of miners, no matter how good they think they are?’

Hildegard focussed her thoughts to answer the question. ‘It’s to do with the English alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor, Clement’s great enemy.’

The boys stared.

‘When King Richard was married to the Emperor’s sister, Anne, at the age most of you are now, she came with no dowry. Ordinary people were up in arms and thought it was a bad bargain and she was unpopular at first until everyone saw what she was like.’

‘They call her Good Queen Anne wherever you go.’

‘Now, yes. But at first they thought it a bad bargain because they didn’t know the truth, that it was a secret arrangement between the Emperor and Chancellor de la Pole.’

‘God save de la Pole,’ murmured Bertram. ‘My father says he’s the only one of the lot to talk sense.’

‘Well, de la Pole has been anxiously aware of the shortage of silver to make coin and keep trade flowing for some time. He knows the country needs a new source. Bohemia is famous for its silver mines as you know. Anne’s dowry came down to this - it was to give King Richard a share in the silver ore extracted at Kutna Hora.’

‘So that’s it!’ Bertram nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it would have to be something to do with the revenue. If he can get his hands on a source of silver King Richard will at last have the means to raise an army.’

‘To protect us against invasion?’ Elfric surmised.

‘And against his enemies the barons. His uncle Thomas Woodstock has his own army. The king has nothing to use against him.’

‘Remember the massive fleet the French assembled last year,’ reminded Edmund, ‘everybody thought London was going to be under siege. Everybody expected to be slaughtered in their beds. We had nothing to defend ourselves with except for a few warning beacons on the south coast and some ditches round the walls dug by Londoners themselves. And why were we in such parlous fear?’

‘Because the King’s Council would not allow Richard the money to raise an army and equip a fleet,’ Bertram cut in.

‘He has no money of his own,’ agreed Hildegard. ‘He has nothing that isn’t granted to him by the Council.’

‘And the King’s Council is run by Gaunt and Woodstock.’

‘So you’re saying that with access to Bohemian silver King Richard will have enough money to provide ships and a paid militia to defend the country against all enemies and make himself independent?’ Bertram summed up.

‘Quite so.’ Hildegard nodded.

‘But why miners?’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Don’t the Bohemians have any of their own?’

‘Those particular two are skilled in deep mining, knowledge the Emperor needs.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because his mines are almost worked out near the surface so he has to dig deeper. Pope Clement and no doubt the French king thought that by kidnapping them and stealing their special knowledge they could do three things. They could spoil England’s alliance with the Emperor, ruin our trade because of lack of coinage, and gain the means to further their own mining interests.’

‘So those two were pawns in a very big game?’

‘So it seems.’

Bertram looked as if nothing would ever surprise him again. ‘That makes such sense,’ he remarked.

‘And is that why my brother died?’ Elfric spoke. ‘Because he knew about the poison that the pope was going to exchange for the miners?’

‘You’ve got it,’ said Edmund putting an arm round the boy’s shoulders.

‘I still don’t understand,’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Maurice was murdered before Fitzjohn and the miners even got here. Did Maurice know Fitzjohn was after it?’

‘And what would Maurice have done with the poison when he got hold of it?’ Bertram asked.

‘Was somebody else after it, domina? Did they order Maurice to get it first? Is that what it means?’

‘It must do,’ Bertram was emphatic.

‘It would certainly add to Fitzjohn’s rage,’ Edmund exclaimed. ‘Somebody getting there before him.’

**

As Edmund said, somebody had got there before him. Hildegard wanted to hug the boys for their persistent questioning. They still did not have all the answers but the problem was clearer now. The link between the Fitzjohn-Woodstock faction and the poisoned dagger was slim, nothing but circumstantial, and yet the more Hildegard thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Maybe it was the fact that Maurice was English that made the connection plausible. What they needed though was evidence.

‘Are you sure Sir Jack has never mentioned poison?’ she asked Edmund.

‘I’d know if he had because I’d be looking for it to tip into his wine goblet,’ he replied rubbing his sore head.

Elfric seemed proud to think his brother might have been involved in important matters and not killed on some trivial pretext. It seemed to dignify his death and make it more bearable.

‘He would only have agreed to get the poison for a good reason,’ he confided to Hildegard as they left. ‘He would never do anything bad.’

Hildegard prayed that when the truth was revealed Elfric would not have his faith in his brother turn to ashes.

**

The rains returned. The discomfort such weather brought only added to the austerity of Lent. It was bleak. People trudged about the main court yard whenever they had to venture outdoors swathed in cloaks or if they did not possess one, in blankets, heads covered, faces barely visible, and feet, red raw in their sandals, wet, muddy, and throbbing with chilblains. Penitents flocked into the warmth of
la Grande Chapelle.

Hildegard informed Hubert that she would prefer to remain in the palace rather than make the journey back to Cardinal Fondi’s villa on Villeneuve in such vile weather. To her surprise, he agreed without argument. This was so rare she looked at him in astonishment. All he said was that as his fellow countrywoman and one of his nuns from Meaux he would find accommodation for her that was both safe and agreeable as was his duty and his right.

On the point of asking him if he was feeling well, she held her tongue just in time.

‘I’ll send Brother Gregory to conduct you there when I’ve found somewhere suitable for you.’

‘Which one is he?’ she asked. Neither of the monks had made much impression.

‘You’ll know him by his solicitous manner,’ he remarked with a long look.

She was to wait for him in the Tinel where he would come to find her.

**

The refectory,
le Tinel,
was always busy with guests, petitioners and other folk, enjoying the lavish fare usually available. Today they were on short rations because of Lent but it didn't prevent an army of servants catering busily to everyone’s needs within the restrictions that prevailed.

Trays of flat bread were piled high. Hard cheese was brought out in great wedges and set down on the trestles to become the immediate focus of a forest of hands. Now and then fish from the ponds or the river was carried forth. White flesh falling off spiked bones needing careful sifting with the tip of a knife. Sauces, none. Meat, none. Subtleties, none. Wine? Some, of course. Nobody wanted to go down with the stomach cramps by drinking contaminated water.

Safety in numbers, Hildegard observed to herself as she found space on one of the long benches at the table reserved for women. Everyone fleeing starvation and the grim reaping of winter. She sat with her back to the wall so she could see anyone approaching.

While she waited for Brother Gregory her thoughts ran over her conversation with the pages and then she cast her thoughts back to the occasion when Athanasius had taken her along to have a look at the body of Maurice in the treasure vault.

It was a slightly blurred memory now. The shock of what she had seen shed a light on some things and left others in darkness. She saw in her mind’s eye the stiff body in its beautiful court garments, the gold-red hair thick and vibrant, the hand fiercely gripping the jewelled dagger. Then she recalled the weeping cardinal and how she had felt a slight, uncalled for irritation at his lack of control.

Then what had happened? Had she climbed out of the vault before him? She thought she remembered turning to look down into the vault when his mumbling pleas to have the youth brought back to life had ceased. She closed her eyes the better to focus on what she had observed then.

It was Grizac, holding the hand of Maurice, holding the hand with the dagger in it.

She recalled the fleeting thought that the rigour of death would soon abate and then the fingers would relax and the knife would be released of its own accord.

It was a flash of memory and she could not decide whether she had seen the cardinal holding the hand out of grief, or trying in vain to prise the knife from it.

She remembered how when she went back into
la chambre du pape
the pope‘s bodyguard must have already been there. He had climbed down to shine the light on Maurice’s face as Athanasius had directed. He must have climbed out first because she and Grizac were left in a small pool of light from the chamber above. She could surely not have seen anything as detailed as a hand holding another hand.

Athanasius had stepped forward to assist her out of the vault. She had seen his face in the glare of light. Its expression was empty. Then she had looked down to watch Grizac climbing with difficulty out of the black hole. Tears glistened on his cheeks before he turned his head and moved into darkness.

After that came the understanding touch on the sleeve as Athanasius edged past him.

The light followed them down the stone steps outside onto the landing where the stair divided and the guards played dice. They were there then, wary, attentive, fearing to put another foot wrong.

It was one of the pope’s personal body guard who had dutifully held the lantern through all this. Poor Grizac. When he first cast his eyes on Maurice he was controlled enough. It was only as Athanasius began to inspect the body that he broke down and began his tearful prayers.

She went over the scene again. The bodyguard holding the light as directed. Athanasius, thoughtful, assiduous in his duty to confirm death. Herself, bewildered, travel-weary after recently arriving from England, and filled with a sense of horror at what she saw. The cardinal, stoical, then tearful. With shock? With fear? With rage? With confusion? There had been no way of reading him.

Brother Gregory leaned across the table to attract her attention. ‘Far away, domina? Forgive me for breaking into your meditations. Our lord abbot sends his greetings. Will you be kind enough to follow me?’

As she rose and came towards him he put out a protective arm when a servant blundered past. ‘Have a care now, fellow,’ he warned mildly. ‘This way, if you will, domina, please follow me.’

**

She threw her bag down and sat on the bed when Brother Gregory left. Hubert had found her a small, pretty chamber in the guest wing, without the austerity of the quarters assigned to visiting monastics.

A single window faced east overlooking a small garden in the lee of the battlements. Espaliered fruit trees were growing against the walls and in the middle of a paved area was a spring sending up a fountain that fell back into a shallow marble basin. A door led into this miniature paradise and she decided she would go and find it when she had time.

Now, plumped down on a bed that was rather more comfortable than the ones allotted to the nuns, she had one name on her mind.

Grizac.

It seemed to turn up again and again. His grief-stricken face appeared before her, his tears in the treasury that day - for the loss of a favourite acolyte or for something else? Again she asked herself why Maurice had entered the forbidden vault, why he was holding that particular treasure of all things. Had it been a dare? Or had somebody put him up to it? If so, who?