Authors: Cassandra Clark
She couldn’t resist giving them both a hug before she went out. Doused thoroughly in pennyroyal they were sprawled asleep on their straw pallets almost before she was through the door.
Justice had to be done on Maud’s behalf. Hildegard was determined to do what she could. Surely the lord of Pentleby manor, like Lord Roger, would object to his property being destroyed and his villeins murdered. He would demand redress. The men would be apprehended. Witnesses would have to be called. It would all take time. She was prepared, however, to pursue the matter to the bitter end. They could not be allowed to go unpunished.
Then there was Petronilla’s guardian to be contacted whether the child wanted to speak to him or not. Reluctantly she had named a merchant in Knaresborough.
Hopefully Hildegard climbed the narrow stairs to the serjeant-at-law’s chambers.
Again, however, he had nothing useful to tell her. Secretly Hildegard doubted whether he had sent anyone to investigate, but she daren’t annoy him by suggesting so. It would not be top of his list now that the town was full of strangers. With many out to cause trouble, and with the feast day imminent, there was even less chance that the necessary procedures would be followed with any particular haste.
Her mind full of worries, she left the warren of rooms, came out onto the street and began to walk back towards the bridge. At first she noticed nothing amiss. A crowd of people, men, women and children, were running on ahead up the street in a sort of loose pack. They were shouting something but were too far away for their words to be audible. A few others were starting to come out of their shops to see what was happening. Several ran on to join the rest.
Hildegard increased her pace. The mob ran out onto Stonegate and when she rounded the corner she saw a group of onlookers at the entrance to one of the yards. They were craning their necks to peer down the passage.
Clearly something was up. Realising it was the yard where the chandler, Master Stapylton, had his premises, she increased her pace until she reached the edge of the crowd.
A constable was already beating onlookers back with a stick urging them to move along. “Nothing to see. It’s all over. Go to your homes now. Come on, shift yourselves!”
People scattered before his blows and then re-formed behind his back. Two women, evidently just back from market judging by the produce sticking out of their panniers, were standing nearby. One of them gave the nun a shake of the head. “St. Florian’s been busy, sister.”
“Why, what’s happened?” She was puzzled. Florian was supposed to put out fires.
“Fuss over nothing,” said the second woman with a sniff.
Hildegard frowned. “But it looks like trouble, mistress. Look at the crowd. And isn’t that smoke?”
“Indeed it is.”
A wisp of blue smoke hung between the tenements.
“There’s been a fire in one of them workshops,” the other woman explained.
Hildegard was uncomfortably reminded of the fire at Deepdale. “I trust no one’s been hurt?”
“Apparently not. Lucky for folks with property in the yard there’s a well there with water still in it. By the look on things they’ve got the better of the flames. Nothing to do with Flavian in my reckoning!” She gave a nod to her friend, bid Hildegard the time of day and moved on.
A man standing nearby had been listening in. He gave an unfriendly chuckle. “Nearly had Stapylton’s candles up in flames it did.”
Hildegard turned to him. “Was it at Master Stapylton’s workshop then?”
“It was.”
“At least the fire seems to be out,” she replied, annoyed by his tone.
“It’s a miracle, as you folk might say. First a big whoosh of flame like an explosion then the timbers are set alight. If they hadn’t got to it straightaway all them houses would have gone up in smoke. Nobody would have got out alive.”
“These things happen,” murmured Hildegard, appalled at the picture he conjured up.
“Aye,” he grunted with pleasure, “especially with the day that’s coming up.”
She gave him a sharp glance. “What do you mean?”
He tapped the side of his nose like a conspirator. “Corpus Christi? Think on, sister, think on! The third year after Master Tyler’s death come feast day?”
“Are you suggesting it was arson?”
“Am I?”
“But what’s it got to do with the chandler’s?” she asked.
He gave her a sudden, wary look and dragged a smile onto his face. “Puts a damper on the candle show round town if there are no candles for their eucharist procession. Damper? Get it?” With that he wandered off, chuckling at his own feeble joke.
Hildegard frowned after him. It was difficult to know which side he favoured from a tone of such slanted venom. Could it be true though? Had somebody fired the chandlery as a sign of protest? If so, they had surely chosen the wrong man. Stapylton had seemed to favour the rebels.
Three years ago there had been rioting in all the main towns of the north, just as in the south.
It was true that the workshops of those in the candle trade had been set on fire in London because of their believed support for the holy sacraments. To supply the church was trade, however, and not necessarily an indication of a craftsman’s allegiance.
In the Ridings, the rebels, mostly apprentices and small merchants, adopting King Richard’s emblem of the White Hart, saw Wycliffe and the church reformers as their allies. Both sides wanted an end to what they saw as the superstition and priestly ritual used to bolster the power of the church. The chandlers were in some respects the innocent victims of the rioting that followed.
An explosion in a chandlery, unless it was an accident, suggested that “the hurling time” was not forgotten here in York.
Hidden away in the grange at Deepdale for the last year with nothing more urgent on her mind than the growing of crops and the general welfare of her nuns, Hildegard felt out of touch. She found it difficult to gauge the mood of the town. Its air of seething excitement might be entirely innocent, arising from the imminent Corpus Christi feast day. It might, however, conceal a violent discontent.
The alarm now over, people were beginning to drift away from the entrance to the yard and she found herself being carried with them towards a busy stretch of the street called Pavement. Canvas booths were being set up by an army of traders in readiness for the festivities. Banners fluttered above the heads of the onlookers. A gaudy huckster or two was already pacing the makeshift boards, playing to the crowd.
She found herself drifting close to a platform in the middle of the row. Standing on it was a man dressed as a mage. In full spate, his patter was attracting a large and noisy crowd.
He certainly looks the part, she thought, as she paused to listen. Black hair, clearly false, bushed out from under a spangled hat, and he wore a flowing cloak stitched with silver stars that glittered with every movement of his arms. He was making large claims for a greyish powder contained in the glass phial he held aloft. Necks craned. Apparently it was a potion to restore manhood that could not fail.
Hildegard lingered on the fringes of the crowd to hear what outrage he would come out with next. Two middle-aged men in front were discussing the possible effects of the powder and urging each other to make a trial purchase.
The mage noted their interest. “I despise money,” he announced. There were jeers, which he ignored. “There are many things worth more, my friends. Health, for one! The golden sun in the morning, for another. The patter of”—he paused and let the audience fill in the pause before adding—“rain on leaves. And love!” he continued swiftly. “Love! Where would we be without it? This”—he waved the phial about—“will give you love. Buy it now. Give it a try. I urge you. It’s worth a thousand crowns but I can let you have it for half that—no! For one fifteenth!”
There were guffaws from the crowd at this reference to the hated poll tax. The mage—cat’s eyes, a long nose, sallow cheeks and a liar’s lips—gave a complicit smile. He lowered his voice. “Let me tell you a little secret, my friends.”
Everyone leaned closer.
“The cardinals of Rome have paid ten thousand crowns for this same substance.” He displayed the phial again. “The nobility of France paid
ten times
that amount. And all the seigneurs of Spain have dipped into their coffers of gold and silver and offered up entire fortunes—”
“If they’ve paid you so much why are you wearing them old things on your feet?” demanded a voice at the front.
Everyone craned to see the mage’s boots. It was true they were worn down, but, like his cloak, they were sprinkled with silver stars that glittered when he moved.
“I’ll tell you why, my friend,” said the mage, “because I give away what I earn.”
“In that case, give us the love potion!” demanded the same wag.
“But like any man,” continued the mage imperturbably, “I have to feed my body and pay my way. Therefore … what do I ask of you? What little do I ask? I’ll tell you. I ask only two groats!” He shook the phial so they could see the powder more clearly. “Two groats!”
There was sceptical muttering from his audience.
He went on. “By the greatest good fortune I have a friend who is a famous traveller. My friend—a scholar, by the way—found this powder in the ruins of Troy. He had it sent to me by a secret courier. This friend also sent a little of it to John of Gaunt and Mistress Swynford—and you’ve all seen the results there!”
Laughter followed. Everyone knew Gaunt had lost count of the children he had fathered, in wedlock and out, some with his known mistress, Kathleen Swynford, others as a result of many other liaisons.
“I’ll have some of that!” shouted a grey-haired fellow, pushing his way forward in a welter of cheers and ribald comments.
“Two groats only! Who can’t afford that?” The mage reached into one of his sleeves and drew forth an identical phial, and on receiving a couple of coins, which slipped at once into the pouch chained to his belt, he bestowed the phial on the eager purchaser.
Several hands reached out now the ice was broken, and he did brisk business for some time, never ceasing his praise of the stuff he was marketing and the great good fortune of those who were now in possession of it.
“Ten days!” he declaimed, “you must remain celibate for ten days to give the potion chance to work its charm.”
Ten days, thought Hildegard. The mage would be long gone by then and unlikely to be called to account when his powder failed to deliver.
With a wry smile she was about to walk on when she noticed a familiar figure in the crowd. It was the master glazier’s brother. Baldwin.
His face was as black as thunder. His two companions wore similar expressions as if the mage had personally insulted them. She wondered what it could be about. Surely they couldn’t be taking him seriously? She saw them begin to mutter among themselves and throw violent glances his way. Maybe they have already tried the love potion, thought Hildegard, and discovered that it does not work for them.
As she moved away she noticed the mage glance into the crowd and catch sight of the men. He was an expert actor. Maybe few others had noticed the slight stiffening of his gestures as he handed another phial to a customer. But straightaway he raised his hands to address his audience.
“And now, my dear friends, for something you have never witnessed before. May I request a volunteer from the audience?… Anyone?”
One and all fell silent.
“A lad capable of holding up a velvet curtain? Is there one strong enough in York or are all your men weaklings?”
A youth at the front half scrambled and was half pushed by his companions onto the stage to defend the honour of his city. He stood there, looking back at the audience with a dumb expression, like a sheep to the slaughter.
The mage’s eyes were sharp as he gazed as if randomly over the crowd, but Hildegard thought he took especial notice of Baldwin and his companions. They were unarmed as was the law within the walls. Even so.
She watched him raise his hands for silence making the silver spangles glitter in the sunlight.
“I shall now endeavour to do a most dangerous act. If it should go wrong I am a dead man.”
Baldwin narrowed his glance with contempt.
“I shall, with all the arts I have acquired in Outremer, make myself become as incorporeal as the very air itself!”
There were catcalls. The mage ignored them. He first positioned the boy centre stage with a curtain held out, then, after repositioning him several times as if the merest inch was vital, he took a small copper dish from among the paraphernalia in a bag at his feet, put a candle underneath it and set light to the wick.
The flame burned almost invisibly in the bright sunlight. All eyes were upon it. The boy who had been asked to hold up a piece of cheap purple cloth was craning to see over the top of it with as much interest as everyone else. The tension increased. No one knew what to expect. Someone gave a nervous laugh. The flame flickered but remained alight.
The mage too had fallen silent and shut his eyes. He seemed to have fallen into a trance. Suddenly there was a spurt of fire from the copper dish.
Thick black smoke funnelled into the air and spread rapidly among the crowd. People at the front started to cough. There was a scramble to get away from the stage.
When the smoke cleared the mage had gone.
Chapter Nine
The boy was still standing there with the purple curtain held in front of him, but in a moment Baldwin had clambered onto the stage and pushed him to one side.
A gasp went up from those who were not too blinded by the smoke to see. Contrary to what they expected, there was no mage hiding behind it. Baldwin yanked aside the canvas flap at the back of the stage and jumped down. He could be heard cursing as he fell among some barrels. By now his cronies were barging onto the stage as well. There were confused murmurs from the crowd.
From her position on the edge it was easy for Hildegard to slip between the booths. She came out into a passage between the back of the row and some tenements in time to see Baldwin and his men searching with baffled expressions among a miscellany of rubbish. Of the mage there was no sign. There was little space among the barrels and sacks for a man to hide himself.