She imagined where Pierrekyn would go to seek safety. He had mentioned Reynard’s friend, his namesake, now a corrodian in York. It was likely that he would look for protection there.
Everyone had heard of Pierrekyn Gyles, the king’s minstrel.
For a clerk, Reynard had had some unexpected associates.
The ride took her through thick woodland once she had left behind the farmed land belonging to the abbey. Leaves of oak, beech, ash and rowan formed a veil of fragile green over the wet bark. Now and then a blaze of blackthorn stood out, past its best, a reminder that spring was almost over and summer was approaching at last.
The track led deep into the wild wood. A magpie flew through the branches, calling for a mate; a robin pecked viciously at a newly fledged sparrow, the tiny bird too far gone for help. Death defeated life on all sides, she thought, even here in the beguiling beauty of the woods.
She called in the hounds. If she was to reach York by nightfall she needed to increase her pace.
By now the sound of the hue and cry had faded and except for the beat of her horse’s hooves and the natural sounds of the countryside
she rode on in silence until she came to a division in the path. One lane continued through the woods to join the king’s highway in the direction of York while three others went on to different manors. The fifth was the turning onto the road for Beverley. She reined to an indecisive halt.
If Pierrekyn was on foot he could not reach York before her. Calculating the possible speed of his escape she reckoned that he could not be much further on than Beverley. There was a chance that he might have tried to get into the town when the gates were opened that morning, mingling with the suppliers bringing produce to market. There was one other reason for him to choose this route.
She turned her horse’s head. There was nothing to be lost. If she drew a blank she would ride on to York. Beverley it was. She set off at a gallop.
After only a quarter of a mile her horse stumbled and one of its shoes came flying off. She gave way to a most un-nunlike curse and pulled up. Sliding out of the saddle, she found the shoe in the long grass not far off. With a good two miles to go there was nothing for it but to walk. Calling the hounds in again she set off, leading the hireling by its reins.
There were few other travellers at this time of day. Most would have been up and about at dawn and would now be busy at their destination before returning to their manors before sunset. She was surprised, then, to hear the drumming of hooves in the distance coming from the direction of Meaux.
She led the horse under the cover of some trees and waited to see who would appear. If it was the hue and cry her fears for Pierrekyn might again be justified and she dreaded to see John Coppinhall in his dagged turban riding at the head of his armed retinue.
It was a relief when a figure in the bleached habit of a Cistercian appeared at the far end of the lane. As he came nearer could she see that it was Hubert de Courcy himself and, astonishingly, he rode alone.
Riding fast, when he caught sight of her he tugged his horse to a rearing halt and called down, ‘So, you haven’t found him.’
He has followed me.
The suspicions planted by the prioress – that he was a spy in the pay of Avignon and a supporter of Gaunt – and Roger’s cryptic remarks all came flooding back. Stifling the fear of finishing up like Reynard, she shook her head. ‘As you see. I’m alone.’
U
LF MUST HAVE told the abbot where she was going. He would not realise that Hubert despite his promise to delay matters could have a vested interest in silencing the boy after all, just as he might have had the clerk silenced. Now, when Hubert asked her what had made her leave the rest of the pursuers and strike out alone, she could offer only a feeble explanation.
‘Everyone else is covering the marshes and the Hutton woods. I thought I would try elsewhere.’
‘Nothing more?’ It was clear he did not believe her. He gave her a piercing stare. ‘I wondered whether you thought he might seek sanctuary in Beverley as it’s closer than York. He might have heard about the sanctuary stone in the minster, the one they call the frid-stool. He might hope to seek the protection it would afford.’
She went cold. ‘I believe you can read my mind, my lord abbot. Some would accuse you of necromancy.’
‘Let’s ride on then,’ he said, ‘and see if we’re right.’
He was about to urge his mount forward when she said, ‘My horse has thrown a shoe.’
To her surprise he dismounted, somewhat stiffly, and threw the reins over his horse’s back. ‘Then I’ll walk with you.’
There was no reason for him not to go on ahead. Indeed, it would surely suit his purpose to reach the boy before she did. Apprehensively, she fell into step beside him.
Banks of hawthorn rose on either side of the lane. The buds were just beginning to open and the air was filled with a strong, sweet scent like incense. Every step reminded Hildegard of the bloody wounds the abbot bore but he concealed any sign of pain. She stole
a surreptitious glance at his expression. It was as severe as ever, closed over the privacy of his thoughts. They walked on for some time in silence.
All around them birdsong rose from the hawthorn thickets as they passed. The scent of grass was released in a dizzying haze.
Her suspicion that he had followed her to thwart her protection of Pierrekyn did not abate but an air of peace descended. She felt she could walk beside him for ever.
One mile from the town they reached a place called Molescroft, the site of the first of the four sanctuary crosses that marked the graduated boundaries on the way to the safety of the frid-stool. They did not pause but walked on.
‘If they got as far as this and his pursuers decided to stop him, as is their right, they would risk a fine if he were later proved innocent,’ observed Hubert, breaking the silence. ‘His arrest, however, might be deemed cheap at the price.’
‘Cheap for some,’ she replied.
His dark eyes flashed as if her remark had stung his conscience. ‘I was thinking of Coppinhall,’ he retorted. ‘A fine of four marks for stopping a sanctuary-seeker would be nothing to him. He takes enough in fines and taxes to make him a rich man.’
She had no reply. He was right. As if she had continued her criticism, however, he said, ‘I know the abbeys are blamed for their wealth, and justly so. It seems we can’t help making money. But in return we use it to improve the lives of the poor. We help the sick. We do what good we can.’
He didn’t wait for an answer but went on, ‘I intend to restore the purity of the Rule. The novices in particular are up in arms about the new discipline and see any restrictions on their wildness as unfair but if they’re to be worthy of the Order they need to submit to the Rule from the beginning. If they don’t like it they can leave. As for my brothers, they should welcome the chance to correct their former laxness: gluttony, sloth, backbiting, lack of charity, self-indulgence. Some of them seem to forget why they ever joined the Order. When my eyes were opened to what was happening I was shamed to think I had allowed conduct to decline
so far. I will not have monks in my abbey living off the fat of the land, giving nothing in return—’ He broke off to give Hildegard a sidelong glance. ‘Apologies, Sister, these are problems for me alone to correct. Sermon over.’
They walked on without saying anything more until they came to the line of booths set up outside the town walls. There were people everywhere. Traders shouted their wares. Customers bargained. Banter flew back and forth. The red-brick arch straddling the road was wide enough to allow passage of the wagons bringing produce to market. It was a toll-gate and the site of a further sanctuary stone.
‘So he slips through and his worth increases. Now his pursuer would have to pay sixteen marks to stop him,’ Hubert observed. ‘Still within Coppinhall’s pocket.’
He searched the crowds going in and out. Hildegard wondered how many of them were maintained by Coppinhall and whether Hubert recognised anyone.
‘These fellows at the toll-booth might remember admitting Pierrekyn,’ she suggested as they approached.
They were allowed to go through after a brief inspection of Bermonda’s claws, then Hubert addressed the constable on duty. ‘Anyone trying to seek sanctuary in the minster?’
The man came forward with an interested expression and several of his companions joined him. ‘If you mean a young lad wearing a Cistercian habit several sizes too big for him, the answer’s yes,’ he told him.
The others joined in describing in detail precisely what time Pierrekyn had appeared out of the mist that morning when the gates were unbarred.
‘Right panicked, he was,’ the constable continued. ‘Spent the night in a ditch by the look of him.’
‘What’s he accused of?’ asked another, pushing his way forward.
‘Some petty felony,’ replied Hubert vaguely. ‘Has he gone on without trouble then?’
They exchanged glances. ‘You’ll no doubt find him in St John’s by the time you’ve fought your way through the crowd yourselves. It’s market day.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Hubert to Hildegard.
They went on into the multitude flocking the streets.
‘We’ll get rid of our horses,’ Hubert decided after a few minutes of trying to force their way through. The stables were around the next corner past the parish church. After leaving them they took a short cut into the market place. The minster, St John’s, lay down a lane on the far side. The throng seemed more impenetrable than ever and Hildegard said, ‘The mummers must be here as well.’
Hubert, taller than most, stared intently over the heads of the bystanders. He tapped her on the shoulder. ‘It’s not the mummers. Follow me.’
Annoyed at his peremptory manner she tightened her grip on the leash restraining her hounds and followed, emerging in an open space that had formed in the middle of the crowd.
On one side were four or five men-at-arms wearing a device Hildegard had never seen before. Opposite stood a rough-looking bunch of townsfolk, market traders, a butcher with a cleaver, a carpenter clutching a hammer, and several others wielding weapons of one kind or another. Behind this line, with a face like parchment, was Pierrekyn.
For a moment nobody spoke.
In the silence Hubert walked up to the men-at-arms and planted himself squarely in front of them. ‘This boy is seeking sanctuary as is his right. If you stop him now you’ll pay a hefty fine. Be aware of that.’
‘He might have a right to seek sanctuary but we have a right to stop him – by beheading if necessary.’ The leader of the group tapped the hilt of his sword.
‘Is that what you would do without knowing the details of the accused’s crime?’ asked Hubert mildly.
The mob murmured and the man glanced furtively at his three companions.
‘Let him go, you bully-boys!’ shouted a woman in the crowd. Her neighbours chimed in and took up the chant in an increasing roar of dislike. The tradesmen facing the armed men flexed their muscles. It was clear they were itching for a fight.
Unnoticed, Hildegard hurried to Pierrekyn’s side. ‘Do you know where the minster is?’ she asked.
He shook his head as if too frightened to open his mouth.
‘Come with me then. Quick! The abbot will stop them.’
Grasping Pierrekyn by the arm, she pulled him through the crush, bystanders parting to let them through, and she thought they had made good their escape until a mailed fist gripped her by the shoulder and dragged her to a halt. She looked up into the face of one of the armed men.
‘Go on, Pierrekyn!’ she shouted.
He hesitated. The man released Hildegard as if to pursue the boy but just then Duchess launched herself silently through the air and landed squarely on the man’s back, bringing him to the ground in a clash of steel. He wore a breastplate under his tunic and a casque on his head, and the latter rang as it hit the cobblestones. He gasped as he found the muzzle of the lymer hovering inches from his face. The hound opened her jaw and brought it down in a grip that held him by the throat, revealed in all its vulnerability above the neck of his mail shirt.
Bermonda yipped excitedly and threw herself on the fallen man, worrying at his armour until she found a gap of unprotected flesh.
‘No!’ ordered Hildegard, seeing what she was about to do. The little kennet looked up sadly and uttered a hungry growl. Hildegard went over. ‘Hold him, beauties, hold!’
Pierrekyn was standing in a trance. Gripping him tightly by the arm, she pushed him ahead until they could run freely down one of the side streets towards the minster and the sanctuary of the frid-stool.
Behind her she could hear shouting and the thump of wood on steel but without stopping she dragged Pierrekyn towards the church boundary.
‘Forty-eight marks!’ she exulted, to give him courage as they reached it, and then, when they were at the great studded door of the minster itself, she placed his hand flat on it in triumph. ‘Ninety-six marks if they stop you now! Those men-at-arms won’t want to risk a fine like that!’
He was panting with fear. ‘I thought I was safe once I was inside the town walls.’
‘Get in. Go on. You’ll be safe then.’ She put her shoulder to the doors to heave them open, then pushed him inside. Following, she leaned back to shut them with a grimace of relief.
Two canons looked up from their reading. ‘Sanctuary?’ asked the quicker of the two, sizing up the situation.
There was uproar outside. The second canon hurried over to the doors and hefted a great beam of wood into place.
‘Allow the abbot of Meaux entry,’ she suggested.
The man nodded. He dragged a bench to a window near by so he could look out. ‘A rabble of townsfolk are coming into the yard. Are they the pursuers?’
Hildegard shook her head. ‘Men-at-arms. Whose I know not.’
‘I see them. Two of them,’ he said. ‘And about forty or fifty market traders. They’re turning back, the armed ones,’ he said. ‘Or being turned back.’ He chuckled. ‘But I see your abbot in his white habit striding through the crowd. He’s here now.’
The canon got down off his bench and hurried to lift the beam to allow Hubert to enter.
‘Are they safe?’ she heard him ask as she hurried Pierrekyn down the long nave.
The sanctuary stool, known locally as the frith- or frid-stool, was made of an uneven lump of strange, dark stone with a curve in it like a seat. It stood next to the altar. When Pierrekyn caught sight of it he threw himself towards it with a cry and as soon as he sat down he burst into sobs, holding his head in his hands like a child.
The first canon clucked around him helplessly. ‘Poor young fellow,’ he kept saying. ‘What can I do for him?’ After a moment he disappeared and returned with a brass cup containing water. ‘Here, young master, drink this.’
The noise outside increased. It became a triumphant chant broken up by random cheers and Hildegard felt no surprise to hear a hurdy-gurdy start up, followed by some hearty singing.
Hubert reached her side. ‘Who were those armed brutes?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never seen their colours before.’
His eyes narrowed and he moved away looking thoughtful.
By now several officials of the minster had been summoned and they formed an excited group round Pierrekyn.
‘You’re outside the king’s writ here, boy,’ said the dean, a short, chubby fellow with the sharp glance of a schoolmaster. ‘But I must
ask you some questions before we can accept you,’ he began. ‘First, have you already been convicted of any felony?’
‘Not yet,’ muttered Pierrekyn.
‘And are you armed?’
He shook his head. ‘Just this knife for eating.’ He held out the red-handled knife Sir Talbot had given him. One of the dean’s clerks took it and made a record of it in a book open on the desk.
Looking at Pierrekyn’s dishevelled appearance and the expression on his face, the dean turned to Hildegard. ‘You brought him here, Sister. What’s his reason for seeking sanctuary?’
‘He was arraigned at Meaux after an appeal but the charge was altered and Coppinhall, the Justice, wants him to be indicted by the presenting jury to await a commission of oyer and terminer. The boy doubts he’ll get a fair trial. As do I and several others,’ she added.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ the dean said. ‘Do you know of any reason why he shouldn’t seek sanctuary?’