Hangman Blind (4 page)

When she reached the gatehouse, however, the porter barred her way with a stick, hefting a torch so he could look into her face.

‘I wish to have audience with Lord Roger,’ she told him, momentarily dazzled by the light.

‘I ain’t got no instructions as such,’ he replied with a scowl.

‘That’s because he doesn’t know I want to see him,’ she explained.

‘I don’t know neither.’ He looked undecided when she refused to budge. Then he called over his shoulder to one of the sub-porters. ‘Here, go and ask yon steward if I’m to let her in.’ He jerked his thumb at Hildegard.

She was impatient now. Her boots were pinching and her cloak seemed to draw rain rather than repel it. Besides, Bermonda was whining for food and warmth and her little whimpers broke her heart.

‘Look, you can see I’m a harmless Cistercian,’ she tried again. ‘What’s the objection?’

‘I’m only doing my job, Sister, just as you do yours.’

Over his shoulder she could see straight into the bailey. There was a great confusion of serfs going back and forth. It looked busier than anticipated. She was desperate to get inside, take her wet clothes off and don dry ones. But the porter, it seemed, was not to be hurried.

‘What’s all this about?’ she asked conversationally while they waited in the flickering light for the sub-porter to fight his way to where the steward was bawling orders at a line of servants.

‘It’s Martinmas,’ he told her. Apparently relishing a chance to display his knowledge, he leant forward in a miasma of raw onion and garlic. ‘Security’s tight just now, Sister. My lord has his family and guests to protect. Everybody’s on the road at this time of year, with the hiring fairs and that. And down in the village they’re celebrating their own saint, Willibrod, and electing a mock mayor.
And
, if that’s not enough, we’ve got some Lombardy prince and his four henchman come all the way from abroad to talk loans!’ He leaned back as if to say: so what do you think to that?

‘It’s certainly a hive of activity,’ Hildegard remarked, ‘and you at the centre of it all.’ She was rewarded by a toothy smile. ‘I can quite understand why you have to be so strict about anyone entering the castle but,’ she lowered her voice, ‘it must be a hefty loan Lord Roger’s after to bring the Lombards all this way up north. I thought he was doing quite well. Why does he want a loan, do you think?’

‘They’re not just here on my lord’s account. They’re doing the rounds of the abbeys.’ The porter gestured northwards, then tapped the side of his nose. ‘Staple,’ he mouthed.

Hildegard widened her eyes. This was news. ‘Is the pope still after a bigger cut?’

‘He wants the lot this time round. To get the better of Clement!’

‘The monks won’t be pleased. They rather favour the French pope, I understand.’

The porter chortled with delight at the prospect of a massacre to come, symbolic though it would be. He probably thinks mutual excommunications have been the best of it so far, she thought, each pope, Urban in Rome and Clement in Avignon, trying to outmagic the other. In her opinion there was worse to come. She turned to matters closer to hand. ‘I can’t stand here till Lauds. Let me through. I’ll put you right with the Lord Steward. He knows me of old.’

‘I can’t do that,’ began the porter, but Hildegard had already sidestepped his stave, slipped through the snickel gate and, her hounds with bared teeth in close order about her, had entered the seething crowd.

The steward was easy to spot. He was six foot three at least, clad smartly in ermine and pers with a chain of office visible round his neck. ‘Ulf!’ she called as soon as she was within earshot. ‘It’s me!’ Rain was pounding down in a fury now, sending people running for shelter, but when he turned she pushed back her hood to reveal her face framed by its gleaming hair.

He stopped in mid-shout and came wading towards her with arms outstretched.

‘My sainted sister!’

Impervious to the bucketing rain, he swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace. ‘When they said there was a nun at the gate I didn’t suspect it was you! I can’t believe my eyes! Are you real? Have they turned you out of Swyne? Is everything all right?’ He gave her a close look.

‘Everything’s fine. Apart from something that happened on the way over. I’ll tell you about that later.’ Hildegard glanced at the crowd scurrying about the bailey. ‘I was hoping for a quiet word with Lord Roger,’ she said, ‘but it looks as if he’s going to have no time if your porter’s to be believed.’

‘Fear not, sweetheart. He’ll see you any time.’

She gave him a sharp glance. ‘Wife number five permitting?’ News of Roger’s recent marriage had reached the priory almost before it was planned.

‘Don’t worry about Lady Melisen,’ Ulf said. ‘She’s Norman through and through. Knows the price of everything. A pleasure to do business with. She won’t consider it worth her while to get in your way. What do you want with Lord Roger?’

‘It’s a long story. Let me get out of these wet clothes. But what’s all the fuss about?’ She gestured towards the melee of porters, sumpter ponies, kitchen staff and serfs. They were now augmented by what must surely be the five Lombardy men sauntering elegantly across the garth towards the refectory beneath a canopy held over their heads by a couple of soaked and grimacing servants.

Following her glance, Ulf grinned. ‘Loan men,’ he confirmed. ‘Smart, aren’t they?’

The black-clad Lombards were looking on the Saxon scrum with some amusement. They were close enough for her to hear them say something to each other in a kind of base Latin. Then they all laughed. Stepping over a trio of roiling villeins locked in combat on the puddled ground, they continued into the Great Hall with a flourish of cloaks. The bearers hoisted the canopy above their own heads and trudged off.

‘You’ve arrived at just the right time,’ Ulf said. ‘The Lady Sibilla’s due any minute and I reckon they’re going to need all the help they can get.’

‘Sibilla?’

‘Lord Roger’s sister-in-law. Sir Ralph’s wife. After your time. You won’t have met her.’

‘I wonder if that’s the party I saw on the way over? If so, Sir Ralph was astride a rather mettlesome stallion. Most impressively caparisoned—’

‘That’d be Sir Ralph all right.’

‘And his lady? Hair black as ebony, and wearing a blue velvet cloak?’

‘And that’d be the Lady Sibilla. And what a size she is! ’Struth!’ Ulf held his hands in front of an imaginary beer gut. Despite his height and job he was as thin as a lath.

‘She didn’t look particularly big to me,’ said Hildegard. ‘Rather slight, I thought. Anyway, the party I saw must have arrived ages ago, the pace they were going.’

‘They did,’ said Ulf.

‘But I thought you just said she was due?’ Hildegard was puzzled.

‘Due. Yes.’ He blushed. Auburn-blond, he blushed easily and his skin was now nearly the same shade as his beard. He cupped his hands round an imaginary stomach and Hildegard suddenly understood.

‘But she was riding astride!’ she exclaimed, rain on her lashes making her blink. ‘And,’ she added in surprise, ‘she must be all of forty.’

‘That’s why Roger’s going to be pleased to see you.’ He tapped the scrip at her belt which he guessed was full of cures. ‘Many hands make light work.’

‘Too many cooks spoil the broth,’ she replied automatically.

Ulf bent his head close to her ear. Rain dripped off his brow on to her shoulder. ‘On to more important matters, sister. I’ve got a nice keg of Guienne in my pantry.’ He squeezed her elbow. ‘How about coming in later to give me your opinion?’

‘Let me see how it goes with Lord Roger,’ she told him. ‘I’m not here for rollicking. I have business in mind.’

Ignoring his raised eyebrows, she left him. With the intention of getting out of her wet garments as soon as possible, she followed one of the servants through a maze of corridors to one of the guest chambers. She was relieved the journey was behind her. Now she could focus on her mission. But she couldn’t help wondering whether it had been a mistake to come out here after all. What with Martinmas, Lombardy bankers and now a pregnant sister-in-law, would Lord Roger be able to give her the time and attention her project deserved?

T
HE GREAT HALL
, just like the bailey, was seething with folk. As well as a host of relatives, friends, hangers-on, castle officials and a couple of mendicant friars, all with their own attendants, there were six tumblers, ten musicians tuning their instruments, and more fancily dressed squires, pages and servants than could surely be needed by one family. And yet, apart from the guests, there was no sign of anyone idling. The staff were run off their feet. Keeping close to the walls, well out of the ale-sodden straw, Hildegard picked her way towards the dais.

Four people were lounging up there just now, three men and a young woman, all very finely attired. They were surrounded by a crowd of liveried servants and sitting in front of a crimson cloth of honour stitched with the de Hutton coat of arms, a device, she noted, that involved what some might regard as an excess of gold thread. In the hearth was a blazing forest of logs.

Central to all, and apparelled with the magnificence of a doge – though sweating somewhat in a new style houpelande of scarlet velvet – was Lord Roger de Hutton himself. He was gloriously red-bearded.

When he saw a nun approaching he sprang guiltily to his feet. Then he recognised her. ‘Hildegard! Is it you? I don’t believe it! Am I seeing things? Did they let you out after all?’ He reached towards her.

‘I hardly had to be let out, my lord: I was never kept in. As such.’

‘It seems to me you’ve been incarcerated for all eternity. But here, most happy greetings, my dear, dear girl!’ He extended both hands and pulled her up beside him. She felt herself smile somewhat demurely when he grasped her round the wrists with such crushing force. ‘You haven’t changed a jot,’ he murmured. ‘I was worried you’d be all wizened and white haired after seven years at that blessed priory. But you’re just as fair and fine as ever. More so,’ he growled, tightening his grip.

‘You haven’t changed much either, you old rogue.’ He was bigger, more physical, that was what was different. He seemed to take up all the space around her. She disengaged herself from his grip. It had been ages since a man had touched her and now two of them had done so in quick succession, bringing all kinds of memories that would only entail a trouble of confession and penance if admitted. She simply hadn’t the time for it.

‘So what’s this thing?’ he was asking jovially, reaching out.

‘It’s a wimple, as you know full well, and I’m not sure I like you tweaking it.’

Suddenly aware of how her changed status cut her off from the usual ribbing that went on in his presence, he said with an embarrassed flourish, ‘But look here, you haven’t met my brother-in-law, Sir William of Holderness.’ He indicated a bad-tempered-looking stranger with a broken nose and clipped beard. His chaperon matched his black expression and he seemed to imagine he owned the place, judging from the way he stuck his boots out to cause maximum inconvenience to the servants.

‘Lady Avice’s husband?’ So this was he of ill repute. Hildegard bowed her head in greeting just enough not to antagonise him. She’d heard such stories it was difficult to believe he didn’t sit in a pit of flames.

‘You know Avice, then?’ he drawled in a dark voice, lowering his brows even further and making her acquaintance with his wife sound like a crime.

‘We shared a tutor here at the castle as young girls,’ she replied, ‘Roger’s uncle was my guardian.’ She gave him a glance as if she were already the Abbess of Meaux. He shifted uncomfortably, no doubt aware of his many sins which she had clearly discerned at a glance. Avoiding her eye, he threw a chunk of raw meat to a fierce-looking mastiff chained to his wrist as if he’d said enough.

‘And here’s little Philippa.’ Roger smiled complacently in the direction of the young woman.

Hildegard remembered Roger’s only daughter as a rather solemn child of ten with long flaxen plaits and a book forever in her hands. Now she was a self-possessed young person with a face of austere beauty. She bestowed a derisory glance on her father at this introduction but said nothing. A girl grown wise as well as beautiful, judged Hildegard with interest.

‘And of course Sir Ralph you know already.’ Roger made an offhand gesture to the third figure lolling on the dais.

Like Philippa, Ralph had changed in seven years. In the old days he had been just a youth, always running to keep up with his elder brother. Pale and lanky, he had been no match for Roger in the rough and tumble of boyhood. She had not recognised him as the perfect knight astride the horse. Now, out of armour, in silk and velvet, he was again unimpressive beside his brother. With his hair cut straight round like a poet’s, he looked so frail he seemed to be woven from gossamer. When Hildegard acknowledged him he merely raised a limp hand in greeting before returning to the study of a small, ivory chessboard. For some reason there was a fur tippet lying across his lap. It’s hardly cold in here with that heap of logs spitting and roaring in a hearth big enough to house a small army, she thought, moving closer into its radiance and stretching out her hands.

Roger took her by the elbow. ‘Let’s get away from this rabble. I want to have a word in private.’

‘Exactly my own desire.’ Pleased that she might get a chance to ask for his help so soon, she followed him up the gallery stairs towards the solar.

On the way he said, ‘You’ll never believe this, she’s got me eating separate from the lads in the hall! She even wants me to employ a fool like the one Philippa of Hainault used to have. Can you beat it?’ He was laughing jovially at the folly of, presumably, his new wife, and Hildegard was just about to make a polite enquiry when there was a shriek and a gaggle of women came fluttering along the corridor in the wake of a bejewelled young woman who looked like nothing more than a child in dressing-up clothes.

‘Ah, here she is now,’ said Roger, coming to a stop. He started to coo like a ringed dove. ‘Melisen, my sweet—’

She ignored him.

To say she was pretty would be churlish, thought Hildegard. From her chaplet of filigree gold to the embroidered basquinets on her feet she was a vision from a
chanson d’amour
. She glittered. She sparkled. And she wore a single blood-hued gem as large as a duck egg nestling in her décolleté.
La belle dame sans merci
. What had Ulf said? The woman who knows the price of everything.

Roger was clearly besotted. Even though Melisen was stamping and screaming like a Calais fishwife, he smiled fondly through it all. Apparently she wanted her entire staff of Saxons thrown out on their thieving ears and a reputable bunch of Kentish maids sent up from her father’s estates near Deal because of a lost brooch filched from off her very gown.

Roger’s face blanched when he understood. He imagined, no doubt, the spies his father-in-law would smuggle in with such a wholesale incursion from Kent and began to chuckle in a hearty fashion that could not have concealed even from a deaf man, his utter desperation.

‘Now, now, my pretty martlet,’ he repeated several times, ‘I’m sure we can sort it out without getting rid of them all.’

The screaming stopped briefly for want of breath and, quickly noticing his wife’s expression and without an iota of guile evident, he said, ‘On the other hand, my sweetkin, maybe you’re right, you always are, you’re so clever, so yes, let’s get rid of them first thing tomorrow, why don’t we? Then you can choose every one of your maids yourself.’ A tentative smile flickered for a moment before he added, smoothly, ‘Why one arth didn’t I think of that?’ He put a hand round her tiny waist. ‘And now, gentle sweeting,’ laying it on, judged Hildegard, who was observing the whole scene with interest, ‘we must down to dine.’

So saying, he began to guide her towards the stairs. But wife number five was not to be so easily placated. She snatched at his sleeve and opened her mouth to start again. Luckily for Roger, before she could launch forth, a maid came pell-mell along the corridor with, in the palm of her hand, the lost brooch, glittering.

‘Here it is after all, my lady!’ said the maid, white faced but triumphant. Melisen picked up the brooch and stared at it as if convinced it was a trick of the light, but before she could demand to know where it was found and by whom, Roger, smooth as silk, took it from between her fingers and pinned it to her bodice. ‘There now,’ he murmured. ‘It was worth all that just to see you look so lovely.’

‘
Lovely
? Is that all you can say about me? You may as well be talking about the weather! I do believe you’ve forgotten how to admire me!’ she snapped. Then she turned and caught sight of Hildegard standing in the shadows.

‘And who on earth’s
that
? Am I living in a nunnery or what?’

‘This is the herb woman requested for Sibilla’s confinement,’ he lied without a blink. ‘But come, sweet, to dine! Our guests are impatient to see you.’

While his lady and her retinue made their way with a kerfuffle of trumpets down the stairs to the Great Hall, Roger took the opportunity to lag behind. ‘In here,’ he ordered, backing Hildegard through a door behind the arras into an empty chamber. ‘I need to ask a boon.’

‘Ask.’

‘As you heard, Sibilla is miraculously with child. I wish her a safe delivery as I intend to make the babe my heir if it’s a boy. No!’ He put up a hand. ‘No time to discuss matters now. All I ask is you keep an eye on the midwife. I don’t want any mishaps. Ulf has never stopped reminding me how skilled you are in the physick arts.’

‘Of course I’ll help. That’s my job. I’d be delighted to do what I can.’

‘That aside,’ he smoothed his belly, ‘look what you’re missing, woman. All this could’ve been yours. What in God’s name made you take the veil?’

Hildegard regarded him solemnly for a moment then dropped her lids without speaking.

‘Still brooding over Hugh?’ he growled. ‘Can’t you forget him?’

When she lifted her glance he was twirling the ends of his beard and eyeing her with a speculative expression.

‘Not brooding, Roger,’ she reproved, ‘but grieving. And the mystery of his death still puzzles me. I would like to know what really happened in France.’

‘But he left you well off!’ he exclaimed. ‘With that sort of dowry you could have had your pick of us Norman lords. One of us would’ve been honoured.’

‘I chose a higher lord, Roger.’

‘Who? Oh…’ He frowned when he realised what she meant. ‘It’s beyond me, all that. Anyway, come in to dine when you’ve had a look at Sibilla. It’s been an age. I can do with some fresh gossip and you nuns seem to get to know everything first. Hildegard, you’ve been sorely missed.’

And as they came out of the little chamber he said, ‘That white habit, you know, it really does something—’ Then he collected himself and said, ‘Let’s talk later. We’re living in dangerous times. It’s not just your gossip I want to hear, it’s your opinion too.’

And when she met his eyes he said, ‘You probably don’t realise it, tucked away as you are, but we’re at the front line here. And I don’t intend to finish up as mincemeat, ground between the French, the Scots and the bishops.’ Then he looked sheepish and surprised her by saying, ‘I know what you’re thinking. I know she’s a silly, vain little creature but when you get to know her you’ll be as charmed as we all are.’

Without offering any opinion on the matter Hildegard allowed him to lead her towards the stairs. Roger explained, ‘Her father’s a staunch supporter of the king. There’s only one thing I have to watch,’ he told her, ‘and that’s my manners. Observe the valour of our efforts but,’ he put his lips to her ear, ‘make no comment!’ So saying, and chuckling with his usual good humour, he called for one of his pages to show her to the place where Sibilla was lying.

The birthing chamber was set at the farthest possible distance from Lord Roger’s private apartments. The castle had been greatly extended since her own day and she was soon lost in the labyrinth of new corridors and extra storeys that had been built on, but eventually the page showed her to a door on a separate landing in the new wing. From the other side came the unmistakable sound of a woman in labour. Holding aloft the lighted stump of a candle, Hildegard dismissed the page then hesitated with her hand on the door as a wretchedly hoarse voice rained down curses inside. Poor creature, she thought, remembering exactly what it was like. Blowing out the candle to save the wax, as had become her custom, she pushed open the door and entered.

Events were farther on than she expected after seeing Sibilla riding earlier that day. The midwife was definitely about to earn her fee. A high bed stood in the middle of the room with a birthing chair, at present unused, beside it. The rush light, illuminating the bed and its occupant, flickered as if a sudden draught had caught it, and the tapestries along the opposite wall shivered, casting grotesque shadows over the room. There was the faintest scent of jasmine on the air, as if someone so scented had just gone out.

There was no time to consider the matter for on the bed beneath a striped and padded coverlet Sibilla was raging with the sort of vocabulary usually confined to the stable lads. The two maids in attendance giggled and smirked but the midwife was undaunted. Shouting words of encouragement, she managed to keep track of every scream until, suddenly, her tone changed. It softened. She began to murmur and to coax. Hildegard held her breath.

‘Gently now,’ she heard the midwife murmur. ‘Come on, girl, gently now.’ And almost straight away she said, ‘Steady now, here he comes.’

Sibilla gave one final howl as she pushed with all her force and then the baby came slithering into the world and the maids were rushing forward with cloths and hot water. The miracle brought tears to Hildegard’s eyes. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees and by the time she rose to her feet the baby was making its first sounds as the cord was cut and it was rapidly swaddled in a clean cloth. The midwife handed it to one of the servants then turned back to the mother.

‘You’ve never had so much attention, my lamb,’ she said as she briskly attended Sibilla beneath the striped coverlet. ‘You make sure you wring it for all it’s worth. You’ll never get a better chance.’ Then she turned to the howling baby. ‘And you, my young bratling, heir to all, so how fare you?’