Hangman Blind (10 page)

‘I feel close to tears myself,’ Hildegard whispered to Ulf.

‘Roger should have stayed half an hour to see all this. He’d have been mighty pleased.’

‘Except for the fact that his murderer is one of these doleful mourners,’ she reminded him. The back of the nave was filled by men-at-arms. Their weapons lay in a heap in the porch. There was no sign of anyone with a freshly blacked eye.

The priest, a quiet fellow who usually kept himself to himself, was unable to resist the lure of power when he had his church bursting at its seams, and no doubt he considered a little penitential praying would do the assembled some good.

After an hour, when he still showed no signs of desisting, Hildegard whispered to Ulf that she had an idea she wanted to follow up. Before she could leave, however, Melisen made an appearance. Accompanied by half a dozen maids and her squire in a smart tunic of black velvet, she was attired from top to toe in a mourning veil so fine that the paleness of her skin and the beauty of her haunted glance seemed to be artlessly accentuated. To most of those here, thought Hildegard, she must be a figure to soften a heart hewn from the same Purbeck marble that now fills the coffin. In one hand she clutched a beribboned kerchief with which she dabbed her cheeks beneath the veil and in the other she gripped a cross studded with pearls.

Hildegard watched as the young widow made her way down the nave towards the bier. The congregation fell back respectfully, making an avenue through which, eventually, sobbing and halting, she reached the rail in front of the altar. Pulling two maids down with her, she crumpled to the floor in a cloud of black silk.

She certainly knows we’re all watching, thought Hildegard. The widow crossed herself, then, with a few sobs, allowed her maids to help her to her feet. But then she turned, and with a loud cry staggered over to the coffin and flung herself across it with a sob that must have wrung every heart in the place.

Well, well, said Hildegard under her breath as she slipped outside. In the porch she hesitated, trying to remind herself that compassion was a virtue. But another voice told her that stupidity was not.

She set off towards the Great Hall. It would be empty now, she was thinking. Most people were still inside the chapel. Could Roger have as many enemies as he suggested? Their grief seemed genuine. A look at the scene where he was poisoned might help narrow down the search for the culprit. There might be clues to be found.

Before she could get halfway across the yard, a rabble of five or six men-at-arms, wearing Sir Ralph’s silver-and-green blazon, came roaring round the corner from the direction of the stables. They were in high spirits, massacring some song from the previous night. At the same moment, one of the congregation chanced to come out of the church. She had noticed him a few moments ago, standing in the side chapel with a companion, both men cowled like friars, muttering prayers.

Now, she saw him stop in his tracks. With his face still covered as if the air was too much for him, he uttered a sharp comment about showing respect for the dead. The gang, drunk as a sack of frogs, decided that an unarmed friar was easy prey so they surrounded him, loudly demanding by what right a thieving mendicant could lecture them on how to behave. They were free men one and all, they said. There were cheers.

Undismayed, the friar replied in a direct manner. He said, ‘By what right?’ He seemed astonished. ‘Why, by the right of my right fist of course!’ He jabbed the ringleader so soundly in the face that he fell back, scattering his companions like skittles. The friar folded his fist back into his sleeve and sauntered away across the yard.

His companion had just come out of church in time to see this rout and he gave a chuckle of satisfaction. Ignoring the men, who were picking themselves up from the ground and grumbling about their muddied cottes, he came over to Hildegard and said, ‘Sister, I have a puzzle. Can you tell me who my host is now Lord Roger is dead?’

‘The lord steward, I imagine.’

‘But after that?’

‘Some think Sir Edwin is the rightful heir.’

‘But he is banished?’

‘So I’m told.’

‘And how might his claim be viewed by the generality?’

‘As just, I would imagine.’

Thanking her, he walked off with a noticeable military swagger.

At a slower pace and deep in thought, Hildegard followed.

The doors to the Great Hall groaned as she pushed them open. Inside, a scene of devastation greeted her: straw soaked with the night’s beer and piss, tankards upended, half-chewed bones thrown down, lost garments draped at random, dogs jumping up on the tables to finish what their masters had started, and a few blear-eyed drunks still lying about in various states of consciousness.

The kitchen staff, however, looked daisy fresh and were sitting around the table in front of the fire-screen, working their way through the leftovers, and speculating about their future employment. When they noticed Hildegard, they sprang to their feet and pretended to be busy.

‘Be at rest after last night’s labours,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to chivvy you.’

‘Can I get you anything, Sister?’ asked one who took it upon himself to take charge.

‘A small beer would be pleasant,’ she replied. She sat down close to where Roger and the family had been sitting earlier. Nothing had been cleared away and trenchers and earthen platters lay scattered where they’d been dropped in the confusion of Roger’s fall. His two-handled mazer, intricately wrought, and for that reason unmistakable, lay on its side, the contents drained. Her glance sharpened.

A greenish stain surrounded the vessel. Over the intervening hours it had dried into the cloth covering the table. She looked at it more closely. Surely the wine they had been drinking would have stained the cloth red?

Further down the board the two friars, their features in shadow beneath their hoods, were sedulously tearing strips off a jugged hare and murmuring secretively to each other. Some of the servants were beginning to clear up around them but they took no notice. For the moment no one was looking in her direction. With nostrils dilating, she bent her head to the cloth and sniffed it. There was a faint and lingering scent, barely discernible. Not quite trusting her senses, she sniffed again. Was she imagining it?

Her beer was brought. For a moment she eyed it with misgivings before telling herself she was a fool. She drank thoughtfully. Her instinct to give Roger an antidote, made up of poor man’s weather glass and various other cures she always carried in her scrip, had been fortunate. His symptoms clearly suggested poison: the abruptness of the attack, his frightful colour, the vomit. It was lucky he had expelled it before it was able to do its work. But how could anyone have poisoned him with so many people watching?

Belladonna, she surmised. Something like that could have been mixed with his wine, She thought of Melisen and recalled her dilated pupils. Certainly she was close enough to Roger’s mazer to be able to slip something into it. And yet everyone had their eyes on her all night.

She recalled how meticulously Melisen had insisted on having the wastel bread assayed during the feast. Why would she make such a fuss about that? Was it to deflect suspicion from the wine? All the dishes brought to the board were tested by the clerk in the kitchens. It was true that traditionally the wastel was tested with a certain amount of ceremony and Melisen was a stickler for having things done properly, so Roger claimed, and it would have been nigh on impossible to poison the food without bringing down the whole household. Ergo: it had to be the wine. But how? Surely that would have been just as difficult? It had been poured from a common pitcher. She remembered how Melisen had even raised the two-handled mazer to Roger’s lips herself. Then she drank from the same place.

‘Drink to me,’ she had said, ‘and I will drink to thee.’

Roger’s thirst had seemed insatiable. Was the sharing of the goblet deliberately intended to deceive? But how could she possibly have poisoned the goblet with all eyes upon her? Perhaps more puzzling still, what on earth could Melisen gain from Roger’s death?

H
ILDEGARD COULDN’T SLEEP
. Her bruises ached whichever way she arranged herself on the horsehair mattress. It wasn’t only discomfort which kept her awake. It was the thump of drumming from outside the castle walls. In theory this was the big autumn festival in honour of St Martin, but in reality the villagers were paying homage to their own St Willibrod, the Saxon saint, a celebration in defiance of their Norman masters. The feast also coincided with Samhain, a far more ancient cult, and, truth to say, poor St Martin scarcely got a look in.

Now the tenants were preparing to slaughter all the surplus animals so that, instead of teetering on the brink of starvation through the winter, they would have salted meat to see them through the cold, dark months. The shriek of pigs having their throats slit was audible above the raucous sound of horns and whistles, and along with the noise came the non-stop chanting of the men in their drinking bouts. It was hardly safe to walk abroad at this time of year. To make it worse the Lammas lands, she knew from experience, would be covered in smoke from a multitude of open fires. There would be races involving dangerous-looking tar barrels spouting flames, which had to be carried unlikely distances by the reeling contestants, and all in all, it would be mayhem. Now was just the beginning.

By contrast, inside the castle, silence lay like a pall. With everybody up most of the night and with the further excuse that it was supposed to be a time of rest from daily labour, those who could had taken the opportunity to stay in their beds. Unable to sleep, however, Hildegard eventually got up, threw on a cloak and made her way along the empty corridors with the idea that Ulf might still be about. She badly wanted to ask him more about the enemies Roger thought he had. She couldn’t believe they had both gone along with his ruse to make everybody think he was dead. As a plan for drawing out the poisoner it had failed miserably. They were no nearer finding out who had tried to poison him than at the moment he fell. In the meantime, the poisoner was free to try again, maybe with someone else for all they knew.

In a niche below the kitchen stair she found Burthred curled up under a threadbare cloak with the two hounds beside him. About to wake him, she thought better of it. He looked as if he needed a rest, poor mite. There were dark circles under his eyes and one skinny wrist lay protectively over the hounds’ backs. She smiled softly, gave Duchess and Bermonda a pat when they looked at her with expectant eyes, and went on into the hall where the offices for the castle officials were to be found.

Ulf’s door was open and, as she had guessed, he was still up. He smiled when she appeared and pushed some papers to one side. ‘Can’t you sleep? Nor can I.’

‘I’m exhausted after that ride yesterday, then being up all night and—’ She broke off. She couldn’t tell him she had found it painful lying in her bed just now, covered in bruises. There were more important things to discuss.

‘That blessed drumming,’ he said, unaware of her thoughts. ‘It’s keeping me awake as well. Still, it’s only for a night or two. They need to let off steam now and then, poor devils.’

‘These enemies of Roger’s,’ she began, ‘are there as many as he seems to think?’

‘My fire’s gone out.’ Ulf gestured towards the ash in the grate. ‘Let’s turf the chamberlain out of his little den and sit in there so we can talk. He’s always got a blaze going.’ He led the way to the chamber next to his own. On the way he whispered, ‘He’s what you healer women call melancholic. Hardly ever leaves his rooms. It’ll do him good to take a brisk turn round the bailey.’

They found the chamberlain in a stifling hot chamber surrounded by towers of castle parchments. They gave off a smell of tanned leather. He was meek when Ulf told him to go for a walk.

‘There’s no point in sitting uselessly here in the warmth when I can be out and about. The cold will probably do my rheumatics some good.’ His voice was barely audible. ‘You know what’s best, steward, as always.’ The chamberlain’s pale face made him look ill. ‘Your need is obviously greater than mine. I expect you have really important matters to discuss with the sister. Things I know nothing about. What do I know?’ He turned to Hildegard. ‘I can’t imagine why Lord Roger puts up with me.’

‘Well, he won’t have to now, so you needn’t worry about that.’ Hildegard was brisk. She hadn’t time to dole out false sympathy.

The chamberlain dragged on a lush fur that fell to his ankles and, putting on a brave face, went out.

Ulf was chuckling. ‘That’ll blow a few cobwebs away,’ he said as he gestured towards a comfortable-looking chair by the fire then sat on a bench opposite. Throwing an extra log on the fire until it roared up the back of the chimney, he frowned into the flames. ‘Enemies,’ he murmured. ‘It’s as good an approach as any: name them then whittle them down, one by one, until he falls into our hands like a rotten apple from a tree.’

‘He?’ Hildegard interrupted.

Ulf’s head jerked up. ‘Who have you got in mind?’

‘No one in particular. I simply think we shouldn’t limit our search at this stage.’

‘I thought you meant Melisen for a minute.’ Ulf seemed to find it difficult to go on, but then he said in an undertone, ‘I don’t meant to be disloyal to Roger but he can be his own worst enemy. I mean, how would you feel if your husband kept joking that you’d be out on your ear if you didn’t produce an heir?’

‘You think she might have tried to ensure her future by acting first?’

‘Well, as the chamberlain just said, “What do we know?”’ Ulf shrugged.

‘Would Melisen automatically inherit Roger’s fortune if he died?’

‘Unless he’s secretly made some other provision, yes, I think she would have a good case.’

‘Motive enough, then?’

Ulf frowned. ‘It seems scarcely credible. She’s just a silly young girl. And I believe she does care for Roger in her way.’

‘She certainly flirts with him. But it’s not the same thing as love.’

Ulf reached for a flagon of the chamberlain’s wine and poured them both a beakerful. Hildegard looked at him over the rim. ‘There’s the problem of opportunity,’ she said. ‘His eyes never left her all night. How could she have put anything in his mazer?’

Just then there was a knock on the door and a servant poked his head round. ‘My lord, the guest-master would like a word.’ Ulf nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Let me deal with this while you sit here, Hildegard, and keep warm. I’ll be back in a trice.’

He had no sooner gone than there was another knock. This time it was Sir William. He looked surprised to see the nun sitting in the chamberlain’s chair.

‘So what’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘What do you think’s going on?’ she riposted.

‘How the devil would I know? You’re the one who listens to everybody’s secrets. All I know is Roger’s dead. Did I bring the Black Death in? No, but I would say that, wouldn’t I? So who the devil brought it in? Nobody else’s dead, are they?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘So why isn’t the chamberlain sitting in his chair?’

‘He’s gone for a walk.’

‘Sir William snorted. ‘If I were Roger I’d’ve sacked him long ago.’

‘If you were Roger you’d be lying in a coffin in the chapel,’ Hildegard reminded him, quickly fingering her beads.

‘Quite right, sister,’ said Sir William. ‘Forgive me.’ He did not look contrite. Flinging himself on to the bench on the other side of the fire, he stretched out his long legs and gave her a baleful look. ‘Go on, then, question me.’

‘I really have no intention of questioning you. I’m sure you’re not in the mood for questions so soon after your brother-in-law’s—’ Hildegard coughed, to avoid another lie but her mind was beginning to race.

Why had William come inside when he saw that the chamberlain wasn’t here? Did it mean he had something to tell her? He was looking surprisingly sober after last night’s roistering, but now he was glaring into the fire as if there was something serious on his mind. She stretched out her own legs in their leather buskins to re-establish a little space.

‘Is there anything you would like to tell me?’ Hildegard asked in a soft tone when he didn’t speak. She waited the normal length of the confessional pause but William seemed to have lost the use of his tongue. His lips worked but no words came forth. He looked so murderous she had to brace herself to speak again.

‘I’m aware of your closeness to your brother-in-law,’ she prompted gently.

Still nothing.

She eyed the jug of wine.

Before she could offer him a drink to loosen his tongue he suddenly jumped to his feet and strode from the chamber. Ulf was just coming in.

He watched him go. ‘What the devil did you say to him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He’s flying along the corridor as if the bats of hell are after ’im.’

‘I can’t imagine William being afraid of bats.’ Hildegard looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder if he knows I’m not supposed to take confession?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I have a feeling that’s what he was building up to until his courage failed him. What on earth could be on his mind?’

They both looked at each other in silence.

Ulf spoke first. ‘It would never do him any good. There’s no legal way he could get his hands on Roger’s lands.’ He shook his head.

‘Not even through Avice? She is Roger’s sister, after all.’

She gave a start. ‘What about Edwin? He must be the legal heir. I mean, he would be if Roger really were dead.’

‘But he’s banished. So it’s up for grabs.’

‘I can’t believe Roger would banish his own son.’

‘Nor can we. But there it is. Roger’s word is law.’

‘When he knows his father’s dead – should the deception continue – surely he’ll come back to claim what’s legally his?’

‘Ah, but possession is nine-tenths of the law. He’d realise he’d have to bring an army and take it back by force.’

She gave a sigh. ‘This is speculation, isn’t it? We can count Edwin out as he wasn’t here. We can count William out because, although he had the opportunity to tamper with Roger’s drink, he doesn’t stand to gain anything. And we can count Melisen out because, although she could gain, she couldn’t possibly have had the opportunity. So where does that leave us?’

‘Having another beaker of the chamberlain’s wine,’ Ulf said, upending the flagon. ‘I wouldn’t count any of them out just yet. Certainly not William. That was the exit of a guilty man just now – or I’m sitting in Avignon with a crown on my head calling myself pope.’ He gave a hollow laugh.

‘And then there’s—’ began Hildegard, but there was a knock at the door.

Ulf scowled. ‘For God’s sake, it’s like Beverley market in here. How does the chamberlain ever get any work done? No wonder he’s so miserable.’ He called, ‘Come in, then.’

When the door opened Master Sueno de Schockwynde was standing there. He looked most apologetic. ‘I heard the sister was here, steward, and actually I’d rather like a private word with her.’ He fiddled unhappily with the end of his liripipe.

‘Be my guest.’ Ulf gestured him inside and, with a covert glance at Hildegard, took himself out.

Master Sueno was a bundle of nerves and quite unlike his urbane self of the previous evening.

‘Please, master, do take a seat,’ she invited. ‘A cup of wine for you?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’ He wouldn’t look at her and once on the bench he stood up again and paced about the room in a fret. ‘It’s this,’ he began at last, but haltingly, his back turned, as if what he had to confess were so shameful he couldn’t be viewed while he said it. ‘I was invited to Castle Hutton…’ He paused again. ‘Oh well, I may as well be blunt. I was invited here to discuss an unlicensed crenellation.’

He went to perch on the edge of the bench. ‘To be honest,’ he blurted, ‘I thought we’d get away with it. But some swine reported us. Now we’ve got the king’s men on our backs. I came to see Lord Roger in order to discuss our strategy. It looks well.’ He brightened. ‘Quite the best crenellation I’ve done. A pattern for many years to come. But will the king’s council see it that way?’ He sat back in a gloom. ‘They’re barbarians to a man, and most have never stepped foot in a viable building in their lives.’

‘Westminster men, are they?’

‘All right, I give you Westminster.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve seen the plans. But what is all that timber about? Sixty-seven feet of it! With hammer beams! Please! God forfend they ever build it. Our little crenellated manor, on the other hand, is a gem of contemporary design in local York stone. It lies in a sequestered position, perfectly adapted to the vernacular. Yet they object! Just what is their objection based on, exactly?’

‘Roger’s death is most inopportune, then?’

‘It’ll be the ruination of me if we’re hauled before the powers. Who’s going to trust me again? I’m a dead man.’

‘Metaphorically speaking. As compared to Roger.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied irritably, but then, realising his gaffe, corrected himself. ‘Don’t imagine I’m not upset about him. He was as uninformed as most people about the art and science of building but he knew his limitations and left me with a free rein. He was a joy to work for. Now what am I to do?’

‘Perhaps in the circumstances the king’s men will wait until a new owner is able to discuss matters?’

Master Sueno perked up at once. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. If there’s nobody for them to talk to they won’t be able to talk. If they can’t talk then the building stands.’

‘For the time being.’

‘That’s enough for me. We’re so far off the beaten track they’ll probably forget we’re here at all.’

‘I’m sure someone could persuade them to forget.’

He began to beam. ‘Sister, you understand the ways of the world so well. You’ve been most supportive.’ He got up. ‘I shall come down to Meaux with the cortè ge and then make my way to Swyne.

You may be sure I shall satisfy my obligations to your prioress most generously.’

‘She will no doubt receive you with her customary warmth.’

With a little bow he left.

‘Well, well!’ Hildegard exclaimed when Ulf immediately poked his head round the door. ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Obviously.’ He chuckled. ‘Builders! Masons! What a bunch! Gold solves everything!’