Authors: Cassandra Clark
The knight turned.
“What is beyond reason and humanity and compassion and all the bounds of decency and civilised custom, is that a servant should be subjected to the treatment meted out to her by you and your men.”
Without trying to protest his innocence Sir Alaric took a few steps forward towards the dais. “I admit I took back the manor. It should never have been stolen from me in the first place. Naturally the peasants there suffered. The men were loyal to the rebel cause for a start, and all the more reason to stamp them out. But she”—he pointed to Maud—“she’s nothing but a Saxon serf, my lord. Not of our stock. It’s the treatment they expect.”
Roger leaned forward and all his affability had vanished. “I’ll tell you what she is, sir, she is my ward. I will have redress for this outrage.”
Sir Alaric went pale. “Your ward? But how is it possible?”
Roger gestured to the serjeant-at-law. “He has the documents if you wish to read them.”
“But I couldn’t have known that! How could I have known? It’s grossly unfair. Let’s talk it over like brothers-in-arms—”
“I’ve said all I want to say.” Roger turned to Ulf. “Make sure he stays here until the justices can fetch him. I expect the manor lord whose property he laid waste will have something to say to him, as have I over the destruction of Deepdale.”
A group of armed men surrounded the knight and his henchmen and, aware that there was no point in protesting unless they preferred to put themselves forth as martyrs, they were marched from the hall to a boisterous cheer from the entire household.
“Now,” said Roger, “let the music begin!”
* * *
It was midnight when all those who wished to attend the vigil for the Feast of Corpus Christi processed out of the hall to join the crowds already thronging into the candle-lit churches.
Hildegard, feeling weakened by her ordeal, retired to the chamber allotted to her and spread her aching limbs on the bed. Roger’s generosity to Maud was a cause for deep satisfaction. In addition, a message had come through from St. Leonard’s while they feasted. Thomas had been conveyed to the hospice where his wound had been stitched up—and he was already pleading to be let out.
She closed her eyes.
Throughout the feasting Ulf had made sure their paths had not crossed. She had seen him take a partner or two onto the dance floor. The rest of the time he had been surrounded by a laughing, chattering retinue.
Except for one thing it was almost as if she had dreamed those words whispered in the steamy alcove while she bathed. It was when she rose to leave. His glance immediately swung her way as if he had been aware of her out of the corners of his eyes all evening—just as she, full of compassion, had been aware of him.
* * *
The dawn sky had a lustre like the inside of an oyster shell. Those who had returned early from the vigil now roused themselves again to prepare for the first pageant play, the Creation. A fanfare of sackbuts from nearby Pageant Green announced the start with enough volume to waken any who imagined they could ignore it. The first wagons rumbled onto the street hauled along by men from the Barkers’ Guild.
The steel-shod wagon thundered over the cobbles and came to a halt outside the church of the Holy Trinity. The drumming of nakers and tabors started up, almost drowning out the shouts of the pageant master as he ordered his actors into place. Then came the chatter of timbrels and the skirl of pipes and after that the low-pitched murmur of an approaching crowd from lower down the street.
Hildegard hauled herself out of bed and pulled on her freshly laundered summer habit before stumbling over to the window and looking down. From one end to the other Micklegate was a river of light.
Townsfolk, hundreds of them, were streaming up the hill towards the first pageant station. She watched them emerging out of the morning mist with lighted candles in their hands, men and women, young and old, children carrying small tapers, babes in arms, entire families, all walking up the hill to join the worshippers still swarming out of the priory church opposite the house. The two groups merged and eventually gathered at the foot of the Holy Trinity steps in a blaze of light.
Throwing tiredness aside, Hildegard hurried down to join them.
An army of burly guildsmen had already manhandled the first of the two-tier wagons into place when she arrived.
An awesome silence fell before the first words to herald the creation of the world were spoken. Candlelight flickered over upturned faces. Dawn began to break, piercing the mist with a shaft of light. On the stage with its painted clouds the angels and the archangels were ranged in order, as still and bright as figures painted on glass. Then the pageant began. God spoke:
“Ego sum Alpha et Omega vita via
Veritas primus et novissimus—”
His voice rang out over the upturned faces of the crowd.
“I am gracious and great, God with no beginning,
I am maker unmade, all might is in me,
I am life and way unto wealth wynning,
I am foremost and first—as I bid shall it be…”
The audience stopped fidgeting and became absorbed in the unfolding story. The actors were guildsmen, more used to trade and manual work than acting, but they had learned their lines well and, proud of their roles, put all their energy and skill into this first performance. If anyone had fears about the explosions earlier in the week they were forgotten now.
Chapter Thirty-one
From her position at the side of the audience Hildegard could see the machinery behind the wagon where the apprentices, working as a team, were hauling ropes to move the painted clouds across the sky, conducting the actors on and off stage at the right moment, and handing up props on cue.
One apprentice was preparing some concoction in a clay pot and handed it to an assistant. When Lucifer appeared it emitted a flash of light that made the audience draw in its breath.
Hildegard watched as the pot was stuffed in with the other props to be used again at the next station.
The Fall came.
It was Lucifer again who slid spectacularly down a rope to land with a howl of defiance in the middle of the audience, making them scatter, and somehow letting flames spout from his scarlet mouth. His face was blackened by the smoke. With curses on heaven and all its denizens, he raged for quite some time. It sent those at the front shuffling back out of his way with mock cries of alarm for fear of another spout of flame. Then a woman’s hair caught fire on her neighbour’s candle and more scuffles followed to put it out.
God spoke again.
Despite the mask, his words were perfectly audible. A child held aloft at the back of the crowd mimicked him in a false, deep voice, making the audience roar. Unperturbed, He ground out his curse and the angels, ranged along the back of the wagon, exchanged smug glances.
Hildegard remembered how Jankin had cast doubt on the audibility of God in a mask. Now the thought seemed a pathetic memorial to him. Tears filled her eyes. She saw his face underwater. It was as if he floated on the green air, weightlessly borne aloft on his wings.
* * *
The wagon of the Barkers’ Guild rumbled away down the street to the next station. Its place was taken by the plasterers. In a short knockabout piece the entire earthly world was built in moments—drawing jibes from the crowd about the plasterers’ uncustomary speed—then the next wagon lumbered into place. The speaker stepped forward to a fanfare and with a sweep of his arm announced: “Scene: The World.”
Despite the ambition of its setting, it had only three characters. The boy who played Eve wore a skin-tight leather suit like the one Melisen was supposed to have worn for Gilbert’s drawing. His wig of long flaxen hair was garlanded with real flowers and brought whistles of mocking appreciation from the apprentices at the front whenever he tossed his head. This time God had so many lines Hildegard suspected that the Cardmakers’ Guild was employing one of the professional players who travelled from town to town; either that or he was an amateur with a prodigious memory.
The scene changed again and another wagon rolled up, this one carrying the Garden of Eden complete with tree. One of the stagehands shook it to make its leaves tremble and there were cheers, but the biggest cheer came for an actor in a serpent suit who leaped on stage clutching an enormous red gourd.
“And an angel with a sword!” announced the narrator. “To drive the sinful pair from Paradise!” Booing followed.
Attached to the angel’s shoulders were wings of cloth and paste, and brandishing a toy sword, he was let down on a rope to “fly” across the stage to a wooden perch at the back. The audience decided to give him a rousing cheer for his daring, even though he was against the transgressors whom they clearly favoured. With a sardonic flourish the narrator withdrew.
Despite the ribald jokes that continually interrupted the actors, Hildegard was only half listening. She was haunted by more sombre memories.
Jankin.
He would have loved the show. He had been so young, so full of life—so unwitting of his bloody destiny.
She decided to head towards the de Hutton stand. The sun had already burned away most of the mist. It glittered off the spangled costumes of the actors, making her eyes water. Dashing the back of her hand over them she wove through the fringes of the crowd and started across the street.
Before she reached the other side there came the sound of a massive explosion. A rush of alarm coursed through her and when she turned she saw a pall of smoke rising from the pageant wagon. Then she gave a shaky smile. It was only the serpent demonstrating his power over the hapless couple in Eden. Now everyone had recovered from the shock of the explosion he was drawing roars of protest from the onlookers. Cries of “Shame!” and “Leave them alone!” arose on all sides.
Backstage the hands, apprentices by the look of them, were standing about with buckets of water as a precaution against fire. They had broad grins on their faces and were obviously itching to let loose with the water over each other’s heads. There was another flare of flame as the serpent vanished into his tree.
She reached the stand. The de Hutton contingent were already in their seats. They looked as engaged as the townsfolk by the performers.
Petronilla and Maud, wearing little chaplets of fresh flowers, were sitting next to Lady Melisen, who herself wore a startling mantle of shimmering silk worked in silver filigree that would not have been out of place on stage. Roger, much as usual, had a stoup in one hand but had at least donned a tunic with his red and gold emblem on the front. His chamberlain, wrapped up against the dawn air in his black velvet houpelande, looked as if the hot weather was a myth. He’s not taking his cure for melancholy, observed Hildegard as she climbed up to take a seat beside him.
Below them a row of men-at-arms, broad-shouldered and alert, were leaning against the rail across the front of the stand and pretending to keep an eye out for possible malcontents but even they were as engrossed as everyone else in the plays.
Ulf, she noticed after a careful scrutiny, was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
In the break while one wagon was hauled away to the next station and another one was trundled into position, Hildegard got up again. She felt unsettled. The continual explosions on stage were rattling her nerves with their reminder of the threats made earlier in the week. She decided to see how things were going with Danby and his company in the pageant house. It would be some time before the Glaziers’ Guild were due to perform.
They would have had to find another archangel, she thought as she descended to the street. No doubt they had been hard put to find one who looked as right for the part as Jankin. She wondered about the wings and if they had managed to find a substitute for the ones that had ended in the mill pond. That one feather, discovered under Jankin’s bed, had been the only sign of his abduction. She wondered who had scrubbed the place clean and later disposed of his possessions, and guessed it must have been Julitta.
* * *
The glaziers’ wagon was already standing outside the warehouse where it had been stored during the preceding weeks and the painted flames that had caused her such fright as she groped her way inside the place at dead of night had already been erected. Now she saw again that they were crudely painted, the brush strokes obvious in daylight. No doubt when they were pulled about on ropes to simulate the fires of hell during the harrowing they would be convincing enough. Judging by the singing that kept breaking out among the crowds, the audience would soon be in a state to be convinced of anything.
“Is your master around?” she asked a busy apprentice as he was heaving a load of costumes into the apparelling chamber beneath the stage.
“In there, sister.” He gestured towards the pageant house.
She went over. Almost empty, it was still gloomy and shadow-filled despite the sunlight pouring through the door. Danby was standing over by the far wall talking to Master Stapylton. Both wore worried expressions. When Hildegard appeared Danby gave a startled glance and put a hand on Stapylton’s arm. Then he called out, “Over here, sister. Something I’d like you to see.”
When she approached he held out a piece of vellum like the ones Gilbert used for his pattern book. It was much scored and scratched. “What do you make of this?”
She took it and peered at the words with a feeling of alarm. Written in a clear hand, it was a proclamation warning of the approach of Antichrist and the imminent death of the town’s mayor and civic dignitaries. It was unsigned.
“Is it a joke?” she asked.
Danby turned away as if to conceal some thought that was too painful to bear, and when he turned back he said, “Joke or not, I found it in my own creel where we put all the waste.”
She turned it over. There were some notes on the back, a random list of colours and quantities of pot metal, some crossings out, ingredients for a rabbit pie, a few sums totted up and when she read the proclamation again she saw that a word or two had been changed. Instead of “the mayor and his aldermen,” it read, “the mayor and his aldermen and all the guildmasters.” Someone who liked to get things right then. Someone focussed in their threats.