Authors: Cassandra Clark
After the disastrous events of yesterday it was a relief to be standing in the well-ordered workshop where the chandler exercised his craft. His premises consisted of a comfortable two-storey building, chandlery on the ground floor, living quarters above, wedged between a huddle of similar buildings not far from the minster gates.
The honey scent of beeswax swamped the air. It was heady after the unpleasant odour of burning timbers. Hildegard breathed in with a feeling of pleasure. On all sides of the workshop were graded candles hanging in rows; long, paired tapers, joined at the wick and fresh out of the vat, slung over wooden pegs along the walls to harden; thick stumps of what the Normans called
bougies,
ranged on the trestles alongside squat altar candles covered in carving and destined for the guild churches.
‘I want them to have a beam of light,’
she read on one of them as she peered to make out the careful lettering that spiralled round the stem.
Some candles were enormous, long and slender as flag poles, and darkened to deep amber, richly honey-scented. Others were the colour and texture of toffee. Yet others were white and odourless, new wax, not left long in the honey.
Labels were attached to the groups. Bakers, she read. Coopers. Cordwainers. Glaziers. Lorimers. Guild candles ready to be carried by the members in procession on the eve of the vigil before the Feast of Corpus Christi.
At that moment the chandler came breezing into the workshop from an upper chamber, his arms outstretched in greeting, an apprentice at his heels.
“Sister! Well met! I didn’t intend to keep you waiting. Do forgive me.” He was all smiles. “Your beeswax has saved our lives, hasn’t it, Stephen!” he exclaimed, cuffing his apprentice on the shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for sending that consignment, sister. If I’d failed to supply the guilds my name would have been mud.” He gave her a narrower glance. “Let me offer you a beaker of wine while we talk business?”
Prepared for a hard bargain, but feeling that she had the upper hand given his desperate straits, Hildegard was glad of the chance to sit down for a moment before the bargaining began.
“You’ll be staying for the pageant then?” Master Stapylton asked as the boy returned with the promised wine.
“Not unless I’m suddenly given dispensation from my prioress. I’m here on another matter.”
He made a sad face. “You’re missing something remarkable. It’ll be a good one this year. Lots of special effects. Everybody line perfect or I’ll know the reason why! I’m sharing pageant-master duties with Master Danby of the Glaziers’ Guild,” he explained with a certain amount of pride. “In fact,” he added in a confidential tone, “he’ll be coming over himself to inspect my candles for his guild’s church any time now. Maybe he’ll whet your appetite and you’ll find a reason to stay?”
“I wish I could, but it’s unlikely. At any rate, I’m pleased things are going smoothly for you.” She took a sip of what turned out to be an excellent Rhenish and probably came direct from the shipman with no intercession from the toll keeper. “I heard you had problems last year with a few rowdies?” she continued in order to make conversation before they got down to business.
Master Stapylton frowned. “With the feast falling on the anniversary of the Great Rebellion people were a bit edgy last summer. Some of ’em see Corpus Christi as a rallying point in the calendar. But memories are short and this year I believe everybody’s set to enjoy themselves in the proper manner.” He chuckled. “Of course, the archbishop has had his nose put out of joint as usual, but that’s the only unpleasantness we’ve had so far!”
Hildegard raised her eyebrows to encourage him to go on.
“Too secular, not celebrating in the proper manner! There was talk,” he continued, settling himself, “to keep the church procession on the day itself, as now, and shift the pageant to the day afterwards, but we’re resisting that with all our might. It just wouldn’t be the same. It would take the shine off things in our opinion.”
“I expect you’re right. Maybe you can persuade Archbishop Neville to hold the procession the evening before, on the vigil of the feast?”
“That’s been mooted, but the church isn’t happy either. Nor are we. That’s when the guilds hold a vigil in their own churches. It brings the members together. Good for our sense of fellowship. Good for the candle trade as well!”
“I expect the church feels as you do about moving?”
“The truth is we’ll just have to jog along in the old way, procession and pageant all ram-bang together. It shouldn’t be a problem with a bit of goodwill on both sides.”
“I’m sorry I shan’t be here to see it. I never have seen the pageant. It was not much of an event when I was a child.”
“It’s all the thing now and quite a sight, what with the lighted torches just before dawn, the first wagon setting up outside Holy Trinity for the Creation, and all the rest coming down to the twelve stations round the town. Near on fifty guild wagons are taking part this time. Each with their own play to perform. Finishing at midnight with the greatest spectacle of all, the Last Judgement. Magnificent. And to set the seal on it the Host under its golden canopy emerges out of the minster in a blaze of light and processes round the streets. You can imagine what state the actors are in by the time it all comes to an end!”
“And the audience as well, I should imagine. Do they follow the wagons round or stay in one place to watch?”
“Some follow their own guilds. The wealthier merchants usually stay put in their stands. They don’t want to be pushed about in all the hurly-burly, obviously. The mayor and his aldermen are having a stand erected near Common Hall up past Ouse Bridge.” He leaned forward. “There was talk of young King Richard putting in an appearance this year. We’ve heard nothing to confirm it, though.” He pulled a face. “It might be all that trouble in April with the plot against his life that’s put him off travelling up here. I heard he sobbed his heart out when he heard what they’d done to that Carmelite who tried to warn him of Gaunt’s plotting.”
“Yes, I heard about that. It was a mysterious and terrible business all round. Quite heinous whoever the perpetrators were.”
“Rumour has it that it was Gaunt’s way of warning the king to do as he’s told.” He sat back and gave an odd smile. “Maybe it’ll be Gaunt himself to grace us with his presence—if he dare show his face!” He broke off and rumbled somewhat in his throat. “Well, no disrespect to the duke, of course.” A worried look crossed his face as if suddenly aware that his words might have fallen on the wrong ears.
Hildegard hastened to reassure him. “They’re trying to say that Duke John put down the rebellion in the north less brutally than Justice Tresillian in the south.” There was a raised inflection in her tone to show that she understood this to be a mere rumour.
“That’s what they tell us,” he agreed neutrally. He threw back the last of his wine. “But this isn’t what you’re here for, sister, and I’m keeping you from the rest of your business. As far as I’m concerned the pageant is an excuse to enjoy ourselves and celebrate the sharing of bread and wine.” He gave a jovial if forced smile and refilled their cups. “Now, to the matter of a price for your beeswax.”
* * *
Hildegard was unsurprised by the views the chandler had carelessly revealed. After the Rising three years ago the rebels had been brutally punished, here in Yorkshire as well as in the south. It wasn’t just Chief Justice Tresillian who had presided over the bloody retribution—hanging and quartering the rebels when they were dragged before him—the Justiciars in the north had put down the rebels with equal brutality, although individual killings had not been so assiduously recorded. Many people had simply disappeared.
As for the unfortunate Carmelite friar who, this April past, had warned King Richard of a plot against his life allegedly being hatched by the Duke of Lancaster—the king’s uncle, John of Gaunt—he had suffered a hideous death as a reward for his warning. Abducted as he left the king’s presence, he had been tortured by his captors in an obscene way too terrible to speak of, and the poor fellow had died several agonising days later as a result. His abductors were known but were too powerful to be brought to account.
Hildegard walked slowly back along the street. By the time she left, the glazier Master Stapylton had mentioned had not turned up, but they had concluded their business in a most amicable and mutually profitable manner.
Despite the troubles he had touched on York seemed a cheerful place, with a palpable air of excitement in the streets due to the forthcoming celebrations. There was little sign of violence. The suspicion that there would be keenly felt absences, however, was inescapable. Husbands, sons and others had disappeared without a trace after the rebellion. Now, three years on, although their places were filled by a town full of visitors, a private sense of loss was still felt by many.
Even though the situation was bleak, Hildegard took some comfort from the business with the chandler. It meant that something had been salvaged from the terrible destruction at Deepdale. She had gold. They might even have enough to start again.
Managing to carve a path through the crowds she chanced to find herself at the top of a busy street called Stonegate. There was a small church nearby. Dedicated to St. Helen, patron saint of the Glaziers’ Guild, its doors were invitingly open. The scent of incense wafted out into the street. Aware that she had missed all the offices of the day since fleeing Deepdale, she was about to enter to offer a prayer to St. Helen when a man appeared in the doorway, blocking her entrance.
Evidently he had not noticed her because he was calling back over his shoulder as he came out. “Hurry up, Jankin, we don’t have all day. De Hutton’s steward will be fretting and sending out search parties for us.”
The next moment he turned and stepped forward into the sunlight straight into her path. “Sister! My apologies,” he exclaimed with a deep flourish. “I beseech your forgiveness. I didn’t see you there. Do come inside.” He stepped back to allow her to enter.
From the doorway she could see the inside of the church ablaze with sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass windows. A scatter of jewel-bright colours filled the nave. When she stepped inside and lifted her head she noticed a small square of coloured glass depicting a shield above the inscription:
da nobis tuam lucem domine.
Give us thy light, O Lord. It was the glaziers’ motto.
The man who had made way for her was still standing at the door and she turned to him. “Forgive me, master, but I couldn’t fail to overhear you mention Lord Roger’s steward just now. Am I to understand he’s in York at present?”
“Indeed he is. I’m to provide some glass for him. Or rather, for Lord Roger de Hutton’s chantry.”
“His chantry?” A look of alarm crossed her face. “I trust Lady Melisen and her baby are—”
The glazier gave a reassuring chuckle. “Thriving, both of ’em. She was in my workshop not a week since, looking at the vidimus. No, it’s not for the baby. Lord de Hutton wants prayers said.” He peered into her face. “You’re acquainted with the steward from Castle Hutton, are you?”
He was clearly impressed when she nodded.
“He’s an old friend,” she told him, not going into details. “I would be honoured if you would give him my greetings when you see him—”
“Better than that,” replied the glazier. “Come along with me now and tell him yourself. My workshop is just a few steps along the street here.”
He was a genial-looking fellow, expensively dressed in a summer cloak lined with taffeta, the badge of his guild displayed on one shoulder, a silk turban on his head. A little on the stout side, somewhat red-faced, with a coarse-looking beard sprinkled with grey, fastidiously clipped, he now inclined his head. “Forgive me, sister. We don’t stand on ceremony in this town of ours. Maybe you need permission to mix so freely with us poor sinners?”
“I make up my own mind what I do.” Seeing his startled expression she added, “Within the Rule, of course. And nothing would please me more than to have a few words with you and the lord steward.”
Now would be a chance to get Ulf by himself and explain what had happened to Lord Roger’s property. If she could tell him the full story it might help soften the blow when Roger learned of it.
“But this chantry?” she continued as they went outside after she had made a hasty offering. “Is it for the repose of his own soul that Lord Roger’s going to such expense?” It was the first she had heard of any such thing. Brother Thomas hadn’t breathed a word.
“Sadly no. It’s for his father, Earl Robert. He died this Candlemas past.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. The news hadn’t reached us.” She frowned. She knew Roger had been fond of his father, even though the old man, in his nineties, an extraordinary age, had rarely left his castle on the coast up beyond Hartlepool for the last twenty years. To have a chantry built expressed the depth of Roger’s sorrow. But it showed the depth of her sequestration in the wilds that no word of it had reached her.
They walked along the street a little way and eventually entered a short alley leading into a yard. They came to a stop outside a house with a glaziers’ sign above the door: two crossed grozing irons on a blue ground. They had been followed from the church by a lad with rumpled hair whom Hildegard took to be the master’s apprentice. When she saw him in a proper light she judged him to be about twenty, nearing the end, then, of his apprenticeship with only a year or two to go.
The glazier followed her glance. “My apprentice, young Jankin,” he confirmed. “And I’m Master Edric Danby,” he introduced himself, adding proudly, “Guildmaster.”
A townsman of some standing then.
“I’m delighted to have a chance to talk to you. We sisters are somewhat starved for news. I didn’t realise what an excitement the Corpus Christi pageant was going to be. The crowds are already impressive—”
“And that’s Sister Hildegard’s voice and quite impressive itself!” called a man’s voice from close by. Ulf, Lord Roger’s steward, appeared in the doorway of the house, his head bent to avoid hitting it on the lintel. “What the devil are you doing out of Deepdale?” he demanded with a grin.