The Butcher of Avignon (4 page)

Suddenly raising his head he snapped open his eyes and looked straight into hers. ‘Go then, domina. Pray do as I ask. Find out what you can. Brook no delay.’

* *

It suited her to find out more. She had chance to think over what the old man had said about Fitzjohn’s presence. Maybe she was too quick to see plots against the king. It wasn’t surprising after last year in Westminster when Richard had almost been deposed by Woodstock and the council and now, after confirmation of the recent impeachments of his closest advisors, was in danger again. But this was Avignon, far from England. Woodstock and Brittany made much more sense.

First, though, to satisfy the old monk’s curiosity about the theft. The obvious place to pick up any news about the break-in and possible death of the thief was in the kitchens. The servants at table always managed to overhear what was intended to be secret. She made her way there without hurry.

Under a soaring conical roof of grey brick that served to draw the fumes and smoke from the massive tiered fire place were dozens of work benches and chopping tables with kitchen workers swarming round. When she walked in the place was buzzing with gossip. Settling on a bench where she could help slice vegetables, she was soon ignored. True, much of the conversation was lost on her as the kitcheners spoke the language of Oc but because of the many regions the monastics came from it followed that other tongues were spoken by the servants of visiting churchmen overseeing food for their masters and she listened carefully.

With a little difficulty she was able to pick out the French of Paris and the language of Brittany, the Florentine of Italy, familiar since her time there searching for the ancient Cross of Constantine. She also heard the dialect of Bruges and the Castilian familiar from her pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, as well as the more ubiquitous Galician from that region. Little Latin was spoken and she was having difficulty in understanding what the fervour of the verbal exchanges meant until a youth she recognised as one of Fitzjohn’s retinue entered.

Freckle-faced and cheerful, at first he could not make himself understood at all. Then someone took pity on him and one or two managed a version of Norman French the lad could grasp.

‘This young fellow, he wants bread for ’is master,’ one of the kitcheners announced in triumph after a brief conversation with him.

‘And ’oo is ’is master?’

‘The English knight Sir Jean Fitzjean.’

‘Give ’im bread. Take it.’ Bread was thrust into the page’s eager hands.

‘Want wine?’

He nodded,

‘Go to cellar.’ An empty flagon was handed over.

The page was by no means interested in being bustled away to complete his errand. Clutching the bread and the empty flagon he sat down on a bench adjacent to Hildegard and grinned round at everybody. In passable Norman French he asked what all the fuss was about.

‘This death. You not want to know.’

‘I certainly do,’ said the boy. ‘Somebody got their gizzard cut, they say. I certainly want to know about that.’

Hildegard listened intently. Was death, in fact, the thief’s just desserts, or was it yet more rumour-mongering?

Translation into one or two dialects followed. A variety of theories were put forward. Then one of the cooks with his ladle in his hand stepped forward. Unconsciously, he echoed Hildegard’s opinion. ‘None of you devils knows a pig’s pistle about it.’ He flourished the ladle. ‘It was one of the ’orse boys got himself caught. Bribed to go thieving in the treasury. That’s the long and short of it.’

‘I didn’t know we even had a treasury,’ piped up an untidy barefoot scullion.

‘You know nothing.’ The cook slapped the side of the child’s head in disgust. ‘The greatest hoard of gold in Christendom is stored in this very palace.’

The boy’s mouth dropped open.

‘It’s to show Urban in Rome that we ’ave the means to buy the best Genoese crossbow men in the world. That should stop ’im in ’is tracks.’

Men, fighting again, thought Hildegard wearily.

‘So who was this fellow and who put the horse boy up to it?’ asked the English page with a surprising focus while the scullion was still goggling.

‘That we shall never know,’ intoned the cook.

‘Not unless the dead speak,’ somebody added

‘Fools, then, if it was the guards cut his throat.’ The English page gave a superior glance round the circle of faces. ‘Otherwise he might have told us himself.’

Glances were exchanged. The boy had grasped the essential fact that nobody had wanted to question. But he hadn’t finished. ‘So why do you think he was bribed?’

‘Nobody said he was bribed,’ somebody murmured unconvincingly.

‘You’d ’ave to be bribed to set foot in that place,’ said one of the cooks. ‘They’ve got all kinds of man traps and springs set up in there to keep their treasure safe.’

Poisonous snakes were mentioned. A magic spell that at a touch would curse the family of a thief for a thousand generations. A bat that could eat your heart out and then bring you to life and start again while you watched.

The page left soon after that, clutching a full flagon and looking pleased. Eventually Hildegard followed.

Magic aside, a more measured opinion was that the guards on duty outside the treasury had slit the thief's throat when he resisted an invitation to the guard room before being handed over to the Council of the inquisition. The man who bribed him - if he existed - must be offering up prayers of thanks that his accomplice had been silenced.

**

Imagining that the old monk feigning sleep in his cell would now expect her to go and find the guard in order to discover who had wielded the murder weapon, if, indeed, this was the truth of the matter, Hildegard crossed the Great Court to the guard room at the side of the Porte des Champeaux.

A surly looking fellow, armed to the teeth, a broad sword swinging at his hip, was lounging in the entrance. He gave her a dismissive glance when she approached but, undeterred by a mere look, she gave him a pleasant greeting, adding at once, ‘We sisters will be afraid to sleep in our beds at night, captain, now that we know a thief was inside the palace. And we’re all wondering whether he was in fact killed when the guards tried to take him into custody, as everybody seems to think?’

‘The thief’s dead,’ he confirmed. ‘That’s all you and your sisters need to know, domina. He won’t be bothering you any.’ He gave her plain woollen habit an up and down look.

‘But another story says he had an accomplice,’ she persisted, inventing a little. ‘Where is he now? Did the guards catch him?’

‘Take my word for it, the thieving young blaggard was alone in there, filling his pockets. There is no accomplice.’

‘But what an extraordinary thing,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘to have the audacity to steal from his holiness. Surely the treasury is guarded night and day? Would he not know this? Surely he would fear to be caught?’

‘Some men are fools, sister, as I’m sure you know. He got himself by deceit into the private apartments of the Holy Father, cunningly avoiding the attention of the guard on duty.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘It is.’

‘That’s no mean feat,’ she murmured.

As if to discount this the guard sniffed. ‘Once inside the
chambre du pape
any fool could conceal themselves behind a tapestry or a piece of furniture. All he had to do then was show patience until the pope went into his chapel for the night office.’

‘But is the treasury in the very chamber of the pope himself?’ she asked.

‘It was thought to be the safest place. Where could be safer, you might think. There is only one entrance to the vault and that itself is under a paving slab in his chamber. The thief could remain concealed until the pope was sound asleep then simply haul open the paver and sneak down the steps in amongst the treasures. It was getting out again that was his undoing. A chink of sound, a guard more alert than the dumb wit who took first duty and that was the end of him.’

‘So it’s true, it was a guard who stabbed him?’

‘I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply explaining how it could have been done. To my certain knowledge none of us had a hand in it. I should know, I was one of them that found him.’

‘And he was dead when you found him?’

‘As a door nail.’

‘A most frightening experience for you,’ Hildegard replied, her curiosity apparently satisfied. She turned to go then hesitated. ‘But, master, who on earth was this thief? I hear he was a stable lad.’

‘They’ll say anything, folks. Nobody knows anything and them that say they do are lying.’

The guard resumed his surly expression and she knew she could not push him further. ‘Greed,’ she observed. ‘It drives men to acts of utter madness.’

**

‘This is something to whet my appetite,’ mused the old monk when she returned. His name was Athanasius. More than that she had still not learned. The cuff of his thick brown robe was black with ink stains. He had been sitting on a bench with his writing table on his lap when she entered.

He glanced up with a shrewd glance after she finished her story. ‘A mixture of rumour and fact,’ she apologised.

‘A fake stable lad. And a fake pope.’ He gave her a flashing smile that was strangely cold. ‘So, what do you think to that, domina?’

Aware of a trap she merely looked beyond him at the wall. The burning place in the market square swam in her imagination. Of course Clement was a fake pope but she wasn’t going to say such a thing to one of his monks.

When she didn’t reply he gave an ironic shrug. ‘The fake stable boy you cannot deny. Why a stable boy?’

‘I have no opinion, magister. I am surprised to hear that anyone could penetrate such a carefully contrived stronghold in which to hold the fortune of his holiness and his followers.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The old monk’s eyes gleamed. ‘And?’

‘I’m also somewhat surprised that a guard would cut a man’s throat without first questioning him.’

‘Most ill-judged,’ he nodded. ‘And?’

‘Also that he is said to have used a knife, more like a street cut-throat than a professional guard.’

‘Which to me, dear lady, suggests that the rumour you mentioned, of a dispute with an accomplice, may be correct?’

‘It’s hardly the time and place for two thieves working together to have an argument.’

‘Quite so. And are you prepared to leave matters as they are? Or shall we winkle out the identity of this thief, his disputable accomplice and the events surrounding his unfortunate demise?’

‘I’m curious to hear what the other guards say.’

‘So am I.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Will the thief come to be seen as a martyr or a miscreant?’ He gave her a sharp glance. ‘A many sided question, you will agree?’

She supposed a view could be taken on the thief - depending on what you thought about the pope having a treasure vault in the first place. Some might see it as violating the vow of poverty, and as ill-gotten. Not all would see it as the necessary means by which to further the interests of the Faith. Unwilling to get into a discussion that might lead to her undoing she preserved a careful silence.

There was another thing that puzzled her. It was minor, however. It was why Fitzjohn had bothered to send his page to nose out the truth. Like the magister, was he merely driven by curiosity? She had no doubt that the boy had been sent to find out what he could.

Athanasius swiftly changed the subject, almost taking her off guard. ‘I hear you come from the priory at Swyne in the East Riding of Yorkshire?’

Surprised he had heard of the place, she raised her head. ‘In my early days as a novice and for some little time later, yes, I was at Swyne.’

‘Then we have a mutual acquaintance of some distinction.’ He said no more but became deeply interested in the writing on his tablet.

Unhurriedly he inscribed a few more words, replaced his quill in its holder after wiping the nib, stoppered his ink horn, folded the single piece of parchment into four, heated a lump of wax over a candle, smeared a thick blob onto the fold and pressed the seal of his ring into it.

When it had hardened he handed the missive to her. A glance at the intended recipient showed it was to a prior somewhere near Paris. The name meant nothing to Hildegard.

‘This can go by general courier. Take it down there for me, if you will. You may need to make yourself familiar with the routines of the couriers here. Anything of a private nature may require a different route about which you may wish to question me some time?’ A slanted glance. The question hung in the air as he placed his writing tablet on the bench, folded his hands into his sleeves and seemed to settle to sleep.

Hildegard stuffed the letter into her own sleeve and went out.

Who could he know at Swyne? The only person of distinction was the prioress herself. He might have heard of her. They could be old colleagues, survivors of ancient church battles. The prioress had spent a litigious early life, at one time even prompted to visit the pope in Rome to press some suit.

Now Hildegard considered what she would tell her when she wrote to her. With probably little interest in the drama of the treasury thief, the prioress would certainly be interested in the presence of a vassal of Prince Thomas of Woodstock at the court of Pope Clement.

**

Rumours about whether the thief had an accomplice began to take shape. Whether this unknown accomplice had turned on his, at this stage, equally unknown companion was an opinion that vied with suspicions about the story now being given out by the guards. They were adamant they had seen no accomplice. There was no second thief.

For some, this put their honesty into question. There was even speculation about the reason for them not being taken into custody themselves. Of course, said the pundits, they denied that they had killed the thief. They would, wouldn’t they? But, it was also argued, to kill him would not have been a shrewd move on their part. They weren’t sotwits, were they? Yet if it were true that there was no second thief, who was to blame for the murder?

The rumours told Hildegard one thing: nobody knew anything. For some reason the papal officials was keeping a tight hold on what facts they must have.