The Butcher of Avignon (2 page)

By the time she turned away as the crowd began to drift towards the palace she had heard enough to be stunned by the rumours now confirmed: Burley, Tresilian, Neville. All three impeached. Five other knights she knew to be similarly loyal to King Richard also on the list. And the final outrage, the condemnation of the mayor of London, Nick Brembre. A man more loyal to the king could not anywhere be found.

She walked in appalled fury after the heedless mob. The only crime of the accused was loyalty to the young king.

The so called King’s Council was controlled by Richard’s uncle, Thomas of Woodstock. And now the Council had spoken.

If they are accused of being traitors it will lead us to civil war - unless opposition is suppressed as it was during the Great Revolt.
She recalled the bloodbath that had followed the people’s demands for bread and liberty seven years ago.

Horror stricken, she paced the yard as the rest of the onlookers flocked into the gaping entrance to the palace.

Ordinary people would not stand for it. Richard, his uncles said, was under age and could not rule without their guidance. But by now he was twenty, sharp, intelligent and well-educated, aware of the needs of his people. The King of France, ruling absolutely in his own right, though mad enough to believe himself made of glass, was nineteen.

The decisions of the far more able Richard were imposed on him by the King’s Council. Except that it wasn’t any king’s council but an instrument of power seized by John of Gaunt when Richard came to the throne as a child. His ambitious uncle, Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, thought he had a right to the throne himself and was not satisfied to be a mere regent. And yet he was so hated among the people even he had eventually realised he could never win them over. It was the boy king, Richard, whom the people loved and wanted.

Gaunt, pragmatic as always, put aside his mistress, Katharine Swynford, sought a diplomatic marriage with the daughter of the King of Castile and had recently taken himself off to Santiago de Compostela to be crowned there, content, it seemed, with that crown at least. It left the field clear for his youngest brother, Thomas of Woodstock, as ambitious for the English crown as John of Gaunt once was. Only one rival stood in Thomas’s way. It was his nephew, Gaunt’s eldest legitimate son, Henry Bolingbroke, nineteen years old like his cousin, King Richard.

Woodstock clashed with this other nephew just as he clashed with Richard himself. His quarrel was over the dowry of two heiresses, one of whom he had married. Woodstock then tried to put the younger heiress in a nunnery so that he could carry off both parts of the dowry and make himself even richer, until Bolingbroke put a stop to it by marrying the girl himself. The two men were still battling through the courts over the inheritance of the two unfortunate sisters. Ambitious but careful, Henry was the type to bide his time. His intentions towards the crown were still unclear.

Family wars. Will they never end? Hildegard had no family other than her two children and her sister nuns up in Yorkshire at Meaux. Never a cross word with them. A heavy sigh now and then - that was all.

The arrivals, with Sir John Fitzjohn striding ahead in a blaze of light, flooded up the steps into the maw of the palace and, by the time Hildegard started across, the stragglers were already disappearing under the leaping shadows. Heart sore for the fate of King Richard and the future of England, she turned to look back into the suddenly emptied Courtyard.

Without his inner circle of friends and advisors, how would Richard defeat his enemies?

Before she could make up her mind whether to return indoors or seek the tranquillity of the cloisters, a covered wagon came rolling under the portcullis. It continued without stopping and eventually rounded a corner towards the sumpter yards. Several guards running alongside suggested valuable goods inside. They were clearly of Woodstock’s affinity as they wore his blazon on their surcoats. Maybe they’re bringing a gift to the pope, she surmised, and she wondered what Woodstock had chosen to donate. It was clear, his vassal, John Fitzjohn, was here to foster an alliance with the butcher of Cesena.

**

Nuns such as herself who were sent to the palace at Avignon were regarded as little more than supernumaries, willing pairs of hands, here to do the bidding of the men who flocked from all parts of the papal empire looking for preferment. It had been Hildegard’s prioress who gave her the instructions and the permission to travel outside the cloister. The prioress’s instructions, however, would have come from elsewhere.

It had started with the usual meeting in her private chapel in the priory at Swyne, both women standing in the bitter cold, and Hildegard’s heart sinking when she heard she was being sent away on another mission.

The prioress was oblivious to her feelings. Avignon. We
need to know what’s going on in Clement’s mind. We know there’s something brewing against England. You’ll find out who his allies are, what his plans are, where and how he’s likely to attack us.

As always the prioress would know more than she could admit. It was for Hildegard to find out what she could and send back any information that would be useful for the defence of England.

The prioress removed a small missal from inside her sleeve and handed it over.

For the ciphers you will use in all correspondence. You know the drill.

The long and treacherous miles from England had been brushed aside.

You enjoyed travelling over the Alps to bring us the Cross of Constantine. You’ll enjoy this excursion as well. Pope Clement sees himself as the most celebrated prince of our age with the most brilliant court in all Europe.

Her expression held a suggestion of derision, contempt even.

He is said to dine lavishly. Luckily you’ll be there before Lent.

It had been no easy decision for Hildegard whether to comply or not. On the verge of renouncing her vows for good she had hesitated. Before she could make up her mind one way or the other it was taken as given that she would renew them and so continue with her work to protect the king. When she was not absent on the king’s business she would reside at the Abbey of Meaux.

To her secret joy the small house of half a dozen nuns on the other side of the Abbot’s Bridge, separate from the main abbey buildings, was once again her concern. Later, after giving the matter much thought on the long and tedious journey down into the south of France, she had reached the conclusion that her prioress understood her better than she understood herself. Of course she would decide to remain in the Order, she realised. To do what she could to protect the king was an honour and a joy. What better purpose in life could she have? Scruples concerning certain wayward feelings for Abbot Hubert de Courcy were by now, surely, a thing of the past.

With the prioress’s warning to
watch your step
she had set out.

**

Hildegard peered over the heads of the people flocking inside the Great Audience Chamber. It was later the same morning, still early, scarcely day at all and Sir John Fitzjohn had still not put in an appearance. He must be asleep after his arduous journey, she surmised.

To arrive so quickly on the heels of the courier of the previous night meant that he must have ridden like the devil from Westminster, been lucky in his crossing of the Narrow Seas, then ridden hard through hostile territory bristling with the armies of the Duke of Burgundy and other enemies of King Richard. It suggested extraordinary urgency in his mission.

The seemingly endless war between France and England raged in sporadic
chevauchees
from across the water despite the peace treaty. Woodstock must have spent a fortune on papers of safe passage to get Fitzjohn to his destination. Hildegard assumed a secret agreement between Woodstock and Burgundy. The duke held vast tracts of territory from the Narrow Seas down to the gates of Avignon, halted only at the well-defended walls of the independent state of Pope Clement VII himself.

Any deal between Woodstock, a prince of England, and Clement, the schismatic pope, would greatly interest those in England whom the Prioress represented.

Two columns of monks, cowls pulled down, swayed and chanted in the glow of candlelight as they advanced to the foot of the dais at one end of the auditorium. It was stone built and must be six feet high with the throne on top. No-one would be able to get near enough the pope to harm him. His guards stood in a motionless column flanking the dais as added protection from assassins. As yet Clement had remained out of sight. The devout would imagine he was praying for heavenly guidance through the oncoming day.

A host of onlookers were pressing in behind Hildegard but she found space in a niche near one of the five pillars in the waiting hall. At the far end in a double bay in the eastern chevet was a circular enclosure, the
rota,
where the pope’s auditors and men of law ruled on all matters referred to them. Nearby, the litigants sat on benches along the walls and a wooden barrier guarded by a couple of ushers separated the
rota
from everyone else. From where she stood she could see everything clearly and also who came and who left through the great double doors at the other end. She pulled her hood further over her face, looking like just one among the many white and black robed monastics who filled the place.

Now and then a waft of incense was released from the heavily embroidered robes of the cardinals and foreign bishops as they pushed past. Their garments mingled ostentatiously with the threadbare wool habits of the monks, friars and nuns of countless different Orders. Gold thread glinted, with cloth of silver embroidered with roses, crowns and crosses and a wealth of emblems signifying devotion to the cross woven in silk on brocade, on damascene, on silk taffeta, on velvet, sleeves falling in a luxury of white linen to the floor, fabric as fine as spider webs trailing voluptuously from under silk-velvet copes, with trains of scarlet cloth held by acolytes no less sumptuously attired.

Again she observed the monastics in their rough stamyn, the friars, Benedictines, Cluniacs, Dominicans, some barefoot, even, on the stone flags, others, Cistercians mostly, shod in kid boots, fur lined, and doubts tormented her. What, she wondered, has this to do with our true purpose in life? Why are we here, offering respect to this man? While she waited she wondered what the other pope, the real one, elected according to rule but against the wishes of the French, was doing at this moment in his palace in Rome.

No doubt he was plotting with his allies, the Holy Roman Emperor, the German counts, the Dukes of Milan and Verona, the Signoria of Florence and the English and Flemish envoys. There seemed no end to their Schism. Neither one would give way to the other. The possibility of civil war in England would be nothing to a war between rival popes. They sat at the pinnacle of contention between the powers of Europe.

Despondently concluding that no women would be consulted on the constant desire of men for war, she idled her glance over the arrival of a group just now entering the hall.

Cistercians, she noted. Cowls pulled well over their faces. Hands hidden inside sleeves after a quick crossing of themselves. A modest pectoral cross glinted briefly on the chest of one of them as he turned to scan the crowd from under his hood.

Cressets did little to lighten the gloom. Outside it must have been a morning of black clouds and rain. The clerestory windows had darkened. Then more light was brought in as a sign that the pope was imminent. A shuffling followed as everyone pressed forward.

Quite a sea of people now, all looking upwards as if in rapture, an effect caused by the height of the dais, a small trick to create awe, she was thinking, like the priest with his chalice, his wine, his bread, his magnificence and his assumption of authority. Lollard thoughts.
If anyone guessed what I am thinking the inquisition would have me burned in the market place.

Even in Bohemia, that land of free-thinkers, the followers of blessed Wyclif were having a hard time against the Church. Even Good Queen Anne would find it difficult to return home to Prague carrying her translation of the Bible should she ever wish to leave King Richard’s side. But he would never let her go. They were devoted to each other, love’s greatest emblem in an ocean of infidelity and greed.

Still Clement did not appear.

King Richard had been promised the crown of the Holy Roman Emperor if Anne’s elder brother, Emperor Wenceslas, died without an heir. Archbishop Neville had had a little sculpture installed in York minster showing Richard with the Emperor’s crown on his head.
As a token of our love and fealty
, he had told her. Much good it was doing now. She shuddered at Neville’s possible fate.

The crowd’s mood of excitement had subsided as the pope still failed to make his expected entrance.

After what seemed like an age the cressets began to be dowsed as the rising sun pierced the shadows. It lit up the walls opposite, giving them a pink, fleshy appearance, and it caused the glass high up in the clerestory near the roof beams to sparkle like cheap tinsel.

Do these people wait here like this every morning? she asked herself. For what? To see one ambitious churchman wielding his earthly powers? We’re all fools. Except that I have a deeper purpose and hope I shall never be dazzled by false light. Her thoughts strayed to Wyclif, the morning star as he was called, and how his death had been such a blow for freedom of belief in England.

A commotion at the main doors interrupted her thoughts. It heralded the arrival of Sir John Fitzjohn with a troop of followers. The Cistercians, still standing near the door as if not sure whether they’d be staying or not, moved aside to let them enter. One of the monks was forced right in among the group of Englishmen as they found a space against the wall. She noticed his companion’s cowl lift slightly though not enough to reveal the face of the man under it. Fitzjohn briskly made the sign of the cross, looking around as he did so to see if he was noticed, and she saw him nod to someone in the crowd.