The Butcher of Avignon (31 page)

She shook out the contents onto the window embrasure where it was brightest.

Mouse droppings were small and grain like. She was familiar enough with them from around the grain stores at Meaux.

In the blue light of early morning she saw that the ones here on the sill were larger and darker than expected. It was no mouse that had left them. Could a cat have got in? A cat was a clean creature and would have tried to cover its excrement. She poked at the crumbs with a finger nail. They turned to dust. They must have lain under the bed for a day at least.

She decided to check her suspicion, unlikely as it was, by finding an excuse to play with the squirrel and observe its habits.

**

Montjoie did not like women in his exclusive man’s world. Everything about him demonstrated disdain. It was probably true that Bellefort did not much care for them either, but this was more likely due to a difference of preference than from outright antagonism.

Montjoie was a short, spare man with a thin face and fastidious features. He would have been undistinguished, with his height and build, but for the richness of his apparel. Gold brocade sleeves trailed to the ground, a magnificent surplice embroidered with infinite skill and a deep red velvet skull cap made him impressive.

He played irritably with the rings on his fingers after he was introduced to Hildegard as if her sight of them might have reduced them in value.

Hubert was impassive.

He must have guessed that conversation would be almost impossible between the cardinal and Hildegard because he did not allow the silence that followed their greeting to last more than a moment before he broke in smoothly with some arcane scriptural remark that only a scholar would have understood. It established a bond that could exclude a mere woman and Montjoie, so misnamed, must have taken it at face value because he even attempted a narrowed smile of triumph at Hildegard’s apparent exclusion.

Supercilious. A bigot, she registered. Too vain to stoop to murder?

In her experience murderers committed their acts out of impotence, if they were not outright mad. They could find no other way to survive on their own terms without destroying someone. How they chose the victim who stood in their way was personal and often unexpected to the casual observer.

Who stood in Montjoie’s way? Whom might Montjoie consider worthy of the vulgarity of murder?

On first meeting he seemed rather the type to choose the law to destroy someone. Law was neater, cleaner. And cleverer than the knife.

He clearly valued cleverness.

Whether he would take the trouble to get someone saved from punishment by recourse to law was another matter. She could not see the light of compassion in his egotistical features. The priest of the bridge had been saved by a compassionate intervention.

Murder then? What had he to gain? In the matter of Maurice’s murder there could be any number of motives, as a demonstration of loyalty to Clement being the most obvious.

Imagine, he had stumbled across the would-be thief when returning with the pope after mass, maybe to discuss some church matter, some interesting legalistic question that only so-called great men would understand, he had discovered the thief, and killed him to protect his holiness. That was one way of explaining it. The pope in setting his men onto discovering the murderer might then have used them as a ploy to direct suspicion away from his own man.

Unfounded, she reproved herself, switching her attention more carefully to what Hubert and Montjoie were discussing.

Dull nonsense, she decided after a moment. Hubert was simply marking time so she could have a good look at the cardinal and make up her mind about him. Then, if he was complicit in her game, he would work round to that night on the bridge.

‘And praise God that in His wisdom He is sending us more clement weather,’ Hubert eventually remarked.

‘Clement? He has surely a hand in the matter too,’ murmured Montjoie with coy humour.

‘Without doubt. I remember in horror the walk across the bridge a night or two ago - you remember, when we had been privileged to dine with his Holiness,
en prive.
’

Flatterer, thought Hildegard. Why not say ‘in private’ instead of all this
en prive
stuff.

But Montjoie was at home with it. ‘That was a most satisfactory evening,’ he purred. ‘To be honoured with an invitation to confer with His Holiness in the privacy of his inner chamber - ’

‘Only spoilt by the walk back to Villeneuve,’ Hubert interrupted, smoothly bringing him back to the point. ‘We were in such straits we were almost driven to stop at the chapel half way to seek shelter and offer up a prayer to St Nicolas but, undaunted, we decided to press on. Did you go straight across too?’

‘Most certainly.’ Montjoie gave a shudder. ‘I’m not at my best when soaked to the pelt. I hurried back as fast as my lazy servants could carry me. Even so I had to have hot water brought to me so that I could lie in a tub for a while to recover. I’m happy to say my villa, although not as vividly decorated as Cardinal Fondi’s,’ he paused, ‘has enough comfort for my humble needs.’

‘Fortunate, God be praised,’ murmured Hubert with the air of a man fascinated by such revelations.

**

‘So what do you think to him? Not much, I can tell by your face.’

‘I thought I covered my feelings rather well.’

‘In front of him, maybe, but not now. Just look at you!’

‘If there was any justice he would be manacled and made to kneel in a puddle to plead in seven languages for his humble life.’ She shrugged. ‘Justice is blind. Nothing links him. To my regret.’

‘I’ll check with his servants to see if he really did cross straight over.’

‘I’d bet on it. I’m afraid it only leaves Grizac.’

‘Poor old Grizac.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He strives so. He’s a man who had everything, by birth and family connections, and what has he done with it?’

‘He is a cardinal, Hubert.’

He gave a disdainful shrug.

The gesture did not fit with his own apparent ambition but she let it pass.

‘Apparently he wrote some good music when he was in York but somehow he’s one of those people who always seem to be hurrying to keep up with themselves. Since being made bishop of Avignon when Clement took over he’s done nothing very much. He doesn’t even write music any more as far as I know.’

‘Is he not charitable?’

‘I grant you that. He gives lavishly to the poor.’

As she turned away she said, ‘Thank you, Hubert. I must say you played Montjoie like a master angler enticing a fish onto your line.’

‘I always do my best for you, Hildegard.’

As he raised a hand in farewell he said, ‘You’ve changed again. I never know what you’re going to be like towards me. You’re more variable than the weather.’

**

If you only knew, she thought as she trailed off to the couriers’ office, I’m always the same underneath. It’s only suspicion and doubts in these terrible times that make me seem to change towards you. And you are such an infinitely skilful fisherman. I fear the hook.

They could not dwell in the same building without some heart-stir like a sickness, nor meet without some well of healing opening up by being in proximity. Yet suspicion cut them asunder. And the bonds of allegiance bound them to different masters. And nothing could come of it.

**

The esquires were crossing the yard, Edmund and Bertram, followed by Elfric and Simon and when they spotted her they changed tack and soon surrounded her. Nobody broke step. In the busy courtyard it must have looked like a natural configuration to anyone watching.

Edmund. Scarcely moving his lips. ‘We spoke to the sentry.’

‘So did I. What did he tell you?’

‘He saw nobody else go onto the bridge except for the cardinals and your friend Abbot de Courcy.’

‘What were his words?’

‘He said: after them lot went over nobody else showed themselves until one or two left the
Coq
and ran under the bridge, out of the wet.’

‘That’s where the girls who don’t work at
le Coq
ply their trade, is it?’

Edmund, blushing, nodded. ‘Nobody was there because of the weather.’ He added sheepishly in the voice of the sentry, ‘No point in plying your trade with no punters, is there?’

‘Quite!’

What a night to be unable to get back into the palace. All because somebody forgot to leave a gate unlocked.

‘Did he say anything about hearing the uproar from
le Coq?
’

‘No. He said it was too windy to hear anything and he only found out about it when it was light and folk wanted to bring their carts across.’

‘Do you think Taillefer was one of those who ran under the bridge?’

‘Not for that he wouldn’t.’

‘I know about Yolande.’

‘There you are then.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Fraid so.’

Without changing pace the boys peeled off to wherever they were originally heading.

Hildegard went down to have a look at the side gate. The guards nodded her through into the street.
That interfering nun. Where’s it got her?

She paced round the outside of the walls. When she came to the little postern, the side gate, it was locked.

She returned to the palace, back through the gatehouse, located the same gate from the inside. No key. When a servant went shuffling by with a sack of something she called a question to him.

‘Kept locked, domina. Second steward has the key.’

She went to find the second steward.

‘A matter of some discretion, master, may we step outside?’

They went into one of the nearby courtyards where the vast amounts of produce needed to feed the hundreds in the palace was stored.

‘The little side gate in the wall, I know you were helpful to the young lads wanting to get out into the town for a bit of fun. How did it work? Did you leave it unlocked most of the time or did they have a key?’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know how you found out - ’

‘And I’m not going to tell you. Discretion is the word I used.’

‘Thank you, domina, most grateful, my genuine thanks. I’ll tell you this. I used to open it before midnight and lock up again just after lauds. What went on in between is not my concern.’

‘If they didn’t get back before it was locked?’

‘Then the young sinner would have to go back to where he’d been bedding down outside till the gatehouse was opened up, get me?’

‘Indeed. Did it often happen?’

‘What?’

‘That somebody would be accidentally locked out?’

‘Ah, I understand. This is about young master Taillefer. Poor soul.’ He crossed himself. ‘He was unlucky. With it being the devil’s weather that night I thought they’d all stayed in the palace so I didn’t bother to unlock it at all.’ He paused. ‘That’s funny.’

‘What is?’

‘I never thought to wonder how he got out till now.’

Hildegard thanked him and walked away before he could have any more inconvenient wonderings.

A door that could be left unlocked to allow people who were in to get out. And a door that could also be left unlocked to allow those out to get in? It meant that anyone from outside who knew about this arrangement would have no difficulty in getting inside the palace whenever they chose.

**

That mysterious time in the early hours between matins and lauds when most people were asleep. A night of rain. A raging wind. The river in flood. And two figures running under the bridge. Was that the key?

**

And now the squirrel. Red and sleek as a chestnut. Small paws like human hands. Observant eyes that seemed to hold an answer as the child whispered her stories to him.

‘Flora, your squirrel is so sweet,’ said Hildegard, ‘but he’s a creature used to living in the wilds. Does he make an awful mess everywhere?’

The child pointed to a broom and a small pail in a corner of the chamber

‘Do get someone to remove it all, cara.’ Carlotta frowned and brushed her skirt as if the squirrel had suddenly spoiled it.

**

Hildegard was unable to prevent an icey shiver running up her spine as her suspicions were confirmed. She watched the little girl carefully sweep up after the squirrel and brush the droppings into the pail.

Someone carrying the squirrel had entered the nun’s death chamber.

Surely it can’t be Fondi, she admonished herself. He’s a friend of Hubert.

And Hubert was a Clementist.

She tried to remember if Fondi had been told that she and Hubert were not returning to Avignon that night when they went out hawking for the day.

She went to find Hubert in the small ante chamber Fondi used as a scriptorium where he appeared to be writing a letter. And without mentioning squirrels she asked him when he had told Fondi they were going to be away for the night.

‘I didn’t tell him. How could I? He was here in his villa and anyway, until we were actually riding our horses out onto the palace foregate it would have been premature. I wasn’t sure you’d come with me, let alone stay overnight.’

‘He thought I’d return to the palace that night then?’

‘I’ve no idea. He probably didn’t even know we’d left.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Nothing.’

**

At last the couriers’ clerk had received a message for her. It was not from England, however, but from Aquitaine.
As English as makes no difference
she could hear the miners claim.

It was couched in ambiguous terms in order not to incriminate her or her accomplices when it was read by the censor. It began, ‘Dearest sister mine’ and continued as if written by a merchant accompanied by his wife, referring to ‘the companion of my heart’ and their trade which was going well, the gist being that they had found a spice merchant travelling in a hurry and had gone with him through France until they reached English territory. They had even gone on to Bordeaux with him and were now waiting for passage in a wine ship but, it continued, her brother was strongly tempted to stay with the English army and make his fortune by using his special skills to improve the appearance of a few Burgundian castles.