Authors: Cassandra Clark
“Let’s do that. We’ll be less conspicuous.” He glanced at the leather satchel she carried over her shoulder. “Have you got it there?”
She nodded.
“So when do we leave?”
The archbishop’s letter requesting her to attend him had been waiting at the nunnery when she returned from the drawing session at Master Danby’s. It offered her an audience that evening after vespers.
“We have time to kill,” she said. “What would you like to do?”
“Let’s sit awhile in a niche somewhere and you can tell me about the calamity at Deepdale and what you intend to do about it, and then you can amuse me with your account of this drawing session you’ve just attended.”
The minster was busy with the usual activities and nobody was bothered by the two Cistercians sitting together under one of the windows. The sun slanted through, casting a bright light over the faces of those who passed and picked out the colours of their garments, the reds, the blues, the yellows, making them like the jewel hues of the glass itself.
“Lady Melisen must have wished she had never insisted on being drawn from life,” she told him, avoiding the topic of the devastated grange. “There can be nothing more tedious for the sitter. Gilbert is so painstaking he wouldn’t allow her to move at all until he was satisfied. Of course we were forbidden to make a sound. It seemed to go on endlessly, the thin scratching of his pen, Gilbert’s glares at the shuffle of my feet as I changed position or got up and walked around the workshop, Melisen staring rigidly at the wall just as he had positioned her. She had her hair down,” she added. “It’s very long. It covered her like a cloak and there was no need for a suit. And besides it was so stifling hot in there—” She broke off. “Perhaps I’ve told you enough! Anyway, it was a terrible penance, for me as well as for Melisen. Gilbert gave me the blackest look when I went over to see some of his drawings.” She frowned. “You might be interested in the conversation I had with him before Melisen arrived.”
“What was that about? Craft and illusion again?”
“Not entirely, although…” she grimaced, “I suppose there is a connection. No, it was more subversive, you might even say heretical, than that.” Briefly she told him what Gilbert had said, omitting his unexpected warning.
“Our Founder offers many challenges,” Thomas replied carefully when she finished. “I see it as a failing that he didn’t counter Abelard’s arguments when he had the chance. It has left us with the suspicion that he was unable to do so. But you’re uneasy about Gilbert?”
“He’s surprisingly well read for a journeyman.”
“Linking him with the rebels, then, who pride themselves on their knowledge of the scriptures?”
She nodded. “Maybe. At any rate he knew what Bernard meant by the foxes.”
“Maybe he’s been listening to marketplace preachers?”
“That’s what I thought. It makes me wonder if it has any bearing on what Agnetha hinted … about trouble brewing?”
Thomas looked thoughtful. “Stapylton told me something interesting while I was haggling over the price of candles. He said he didn’t think the fire in his workshop was accidental.”
* * *
When it was time to leave they hired a boat at King’s Staithe. The archbishop’s palace was a little way downriver. Thomas rowed and they passed the watergate and the inlet to the king’s fish ponds. Soon both banks became more wooded until the spire of St. Oswald’s was visible against the summer sky and a huddle of houses on the waterfront showed they were just off Fulford. The village was swiftly left behind and they were soon floating between thick woodland again.
It was a calm night. The only sound apart from the soft dip of the oars was an occasional screech of an owl or the plop of a rat as it slipped into the water. Shortly before the river began its long meander through open countryside they came suddenly upon the blazing lights of the palace on the opposite bank.
Thomas manoeuvred the bow towards the shore. In a moment they felt the boat bump against a wooden landing stage. He tied a line to a post and even before he finished a couple of guards appeared with flares held above their heads. There was a rattle of arms as they marched up.
“Who comes?” grunted one of them.
“Sister Hildegard and Brother Thomas of Meaux.”
The guard held his flare close to Thomas’s face, noted the white habit, and demanded, “On what business?”
Hildegard stepped forward. “Private business with His Grace. He expects us.”
The man seemed satisfied with this and told them to follow. He led them up a long avenue towards a lighted gatehouse. Under the flickering cressets within a few guards were playing dice and barely looked up when they entered. A page was sent to announce them and a few minutes later they were being shown inside the palace.
“This is lavish,” whispered Thomas in her ear. His mouth was slightly open at the amount of gilding in the small chamber where they were asked to wait.
Hildegard had been here before. “This is only the anteroom. Wait until you see his audience chamber.”
An armoured door was flung open and they were ushered through.
Thomas gasped.
At the far end was the archbishop’s throne. It seemed to be fashioned entirely of gold. Two large brass stands, taller than an average man, stood on either side of it, bearing thick beeswax candles. The air was heavy with the scent of honey. Archbishop Neville himself was standing at a table hewn from Purbeck marble illuminated by a chandelier of Venetian glass, each facet glittering with the light of many candles. Beyond the light the chamber was in darkness.
The archbishop beckoned them to step closer. Hildegard felt constrained to bend her knee and she heard Thomas drop to his own.
“Up, up. Who’s this?” Neville demanded of Hildegard.
“Brother Thomas, a monk from the Abbey of Meaux, and my escort.”
“Very wise. Now, your prioress—” Neville paused heavily for a moment, his pouched red face turned to her, “wishes you to return the cross after it has been verified?”
“I have promised to do that.”
“I know better than to thwart her.” He smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes, which were blue and calculating.
He called to one of several servants standing by unseen in the shadows. “You can all go to your beds.” The servants filed out. There was a further movement and a man stepped into the pool of light. Hildegard’s eyes widened.
About twenty or maybe even younger, he was a sturdy, muscular, swaggering sort of fellow. But for his bejewelled and gold-embroidered surcoat and the expensive-looking sword dangling from the studded belt on his hips, she might have taken him for a man-at-arms. He was shorter than she was but made up for it in confidence.
Now he looked the two monastics up and down and, she noticed, checked Thomas with a practised glance for any concealed weaponry. The archbishop did not introduce him. Hildegard surmised that he was a military commander from the south—it was certainly not one of the northern magnates, the Duke of Northumberland, whom she had seen many times, nor his firebrand son, Lord Harry, and yet there was something about the way he spoke to Neville … as if the archbishop was his vassal and he the overlord.
Thomas seemed stunned into immobility.
“Let’s see it then,” said the stranger. He flicked his fingers to bring her closer and indicated the table.
She unslung the leather bag from her shoulder and placed it on the table in the pool of light. When the simple oak box was withdrawn from its cloth cover the stranger frowned. No doubt he had been expecting a jewelled reliquary as costly as his own encrusted garments.
“I was forced to bring it back from Tuscany without its usual container,” she explained.
“I’ve told him that,” said Neville somewhat testily. He reached forward and lifted the lid.
Both men crowded round and Hildegard withdrew a little to give them a chance to have a proper look.
The expression on the stranger’s face was hard to decipher. Finally he turned away, scratching his neck. “It doesn’t look much.”
“I warned you not to expect the heavens to open and let forth the sound of trumpets,” murmured the archbishop.
The stranger’s eyes flashed. “So you did, Neville, so you did.”
The archbishop lifted the cross out of its scarlet bed and held it up. There was a strange reverence in his gesture. He seemed moved by knowledge of its history. “The Donation of Constantine,” he breathed. Then he gave a sharp glance at his guest. “If you doubt what it is there’s an inscription on the back.”
As if satisfied with his brief communion with what was for him a most holy relic, he handed it over. The young man’s stubby fingers, scarred, Hildegard noticed, as if in the joust or in some swordplay, probed along the underside of the cross, turning it over and peering at the inscription. He translated with a smile. “In this you will conquer.” He lifted his head. “Or might we prefer to say: With this I am victorious?”
The archbishop cleared his throat and glanced at the two Cistercians. Thomas had made himself almost invisible.
Slouching, the stranger pushed it back to Neville and then gave Hildegard a narrow look. “So how much will she accept?”
Neville gave an exclamation. “My lord—”
“I haven’t time, Neville. Let’s get to the point.”
The archbishop turned away to conceal his exasperation.
Hildegard said, “It’s not for sale.”
The small eyes blistered into her own and became even smaller. “I asked how much.” He put his head on one side.
Hildegard tried to explain why it could not be sold. “When it was agreed to allow me to bring it back to England, it was done on the understanding that it would be given into our temporary stewardship, to be returned when the canons of Santi Apostoli requested.”
The stranger gave a curse. “Don’t play with me, sister.”
Hildegard turned to Archbishop Neville. “Your Grace, I understand you are on good terms with my prioress. I myself cannot enter into negotiations but perhaps you could approach her directly?” She knew the answer would be no whatever this conceited, battle-scarred young devil thought.
Neville met her eye and she noticed a brief expression of gratitude. Turning to his guest he said, “That sounds acceptable. I have promised to return it but I’m sure, if we keep our word, we shall more easily attain our desire.”
The man looked uncertain. It seemed he was about to force the issue but then he gave a sudden sound of capitulation. “I haven’t long,” he growled. “Start negotiations and be quick about it.”
Neville inclined his head. The cross was rewrapped and Hildegard walked from the chamber in astonishment that they had got their way.
As they left the building she whispered to Thomas, “She will never agree.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he replied. “I can’t believe my eyes.”
He took the bag with the cross inside and they walked briskly through the gatehouse where the game of dice was progressing and out onto the avenue. When they were out of earshot he asked, “You know who that was don’t you?”
He stopped and looked down at her. In the pale starlight she could see his expression. It was dazed. “That was Lord Derby,” he whispered. “Henry Bolingbroke.” And just in case she still didn’t understand he added, “John of Gaunt’s eldest son. King Richard’s cousin.”
Chapter Thirteen
They continued between the trees and were soon out of range of the light from the flares. Their eyes were dazzled, both by the sumptuousness of the glittering palace of the archbishop and by the inner dazzle and confusion aroused by the presence of King Richard’s rival, Bolingbroke.
“I saw him down in Westminster,” Thomas explained in a hushed voice, “and again in Lincoln not so long ago. It was him all right.”
“What on earth’s Neville up to, brokering the sale of a cross he knows he has no right to?” The prioress, although sceptical of human intention, seemed to have a practical regard for the archbishop. She would be speechless.
“I can’t imagine what he’s up to. Your guess is as good as mine.” Thomas hefted the bag awkwardly under his arm.
Everything was quiet. The river lay ahead of them, shining like a sheet of black silk beyond the trees. As they approached the bank the water could be heard gurgling under the wooden struts of the landing stage. It was dark now. There was no moon.
Thomas went on ahead, probably with the intention of handing Hildegard down into the boat, when he turned as if to say something then gave a sudden shout. To Hildegard’s astonishment he pitched forward and vanished into the darkness. She heard a thump as he hit the ground. Then hell seemed to break loose as several hooded figures burst from behind the trees and she found herself grasped roughly with a knife at her throat while both arms were trussed behind her.
She kicked out at her attacker but there was nothing she could do. Expecting a blade in her ribs she was surprised to find herself being dragged down the bank towards the water. Fearing that they were going to try and drown her she began to struggle even more wildly but she was pushed into the boat and heard her assailants scrambling back up the bank side.
There was the further sound of scuffling and Thomas, she assumed it was he, landed in the boat nearly capsizing it. He made no movement and she feared he was dead.
Managing to shake the hood from her face she was just in time to see a shadow fumbling with the boat. The next moment it was given a good push, sending it floating out into midstream. The current caught it and they began to drift downriver away from the palace.
“Thomas?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
To her relief a groan came from somewhere out of the darkness.
“Are you hurt?”
“My head,” he groaned. “I saw stars. Where are we?”
She could hear him struggle to sit up. His hands appeared to be free because she saw them grasp the gunnels beside her.
“Untie me, can you?”
“Did they hurt you?” he asked as he pulled at the rope binding her wrists.
“Mostly my feelings,” she replied. Her hands were released and she began to rub her wrists. Suddenly she looked at him in horror. “Have you still got the cross?”