The Butcher of Avignon (40 page)

It turned out to be quite a large retinue, prepared for travel by the look of the sumpter wagon that followed. She stared more intently. A litter was slung between two horses. The cardinal on a high-stepping grey was surely Cardinal Fondi. The litter must be carrying Carlotta and her daughter.

When the cavalcade reached the gatehouse a figure in white stepped out to meet them and, with a wave of one hand, watched the horses jostle under the arch onto the lane outside. She daren’t even imagine it was Hubert.

The cavalcade continued to ride out through the walls. She was high enough to see them take the road on the other side going east. Fondi’s pennants fluttered above the wall of the enclave for some distance. He was travelling away, then. Not back to the villa on the other side of the bridge - but taking the road to Urbino.

Escrick Fitzjohn and Athanasius had long since disappeared but some men-at-arms sauntered back, looking about as if they expected Hildegard to appear from out of the ground in front of them. Where was Escrick? Her ears strained to hear the sound of anyone clambering onto the roof but it was the intermittent shrieks of the hawks and the whine of the wind round the gargoyles that assaulted her ears without end.

It was desperately cold. Her teeth would not stop rattling. She pulled her hood over her face and breathed into it to get warm. If she could only stay up here long enough among the stone gryphons, the basilisks and the manticores, and all the other beasts of nightmare the masons had imagined, they might believe she had escaped from the palace altogether.

She could stay for as long as she did not need to eat or drink. Her scrip contained her usual small flask and a morsel of bread and cheese. They would last. Things were not so bad. When it was dark she would make a move. If only she could stop herself from looking down.

**

Time dragged. It gave her plenty of time to think about Escrick Fitzjohn. His strange pursuit of her was like an obsession. She was blamed for everything bad that had happened to him since they first met. His dreams of what he would do to her when she was in his power were made worse by the erotic attraction he seemed to feel for her. She shivered with a fear that was more than physical.

He had made a remark about the guild of pages that bothered her.
We have them safe.
What did he mean by that?

Were they imprisoned in the tower as the miners had been imprisoned? Would Sir John stand for that? It would be a gross insult to have his own body servants imprisoned by a foreign power. Maybe Escrick only meant that his brother held them?

She recalled the brutality Sir John had doled out to Edmund for the slightest misdemeanour. She remembered Edmund’s white rage and feared for what he might do if he found himself imprisoned. If he fought back he would be brutally restrained by the greater forces of Fitzjohn’s men-at-arms.

She thought of Bertram, so steady and sure with the practicality of a merchant’s son. Of little Elfric and his grief at his brother’s murder. Of Simon, the youngest, and his determination to keep up with the older boys. Of Peterkin. This was surely something he could not talk his way out of. She tried to reassure herself with the thought that they were not children. They would know how to behave to keep themselves safe. They were not ignorant striplings as Escrick imagined. They were apprentices for war.

King Richard was ten when he shouldered the burden of kingship, limited though the Council made his control. Richard’s own father had been fourteen when he commanded a battalion in the French war and led his men to victory against the odds at Crecy.

Richard himself had been fourteen when he led the rebels out to Mile End to avoid a massacre. A boy could marry at fifteen and take on the responsibilities of fatherhood, sign legal documents, own property. The guild was not made up of infants. They would find a way.

Her thoughts turned to Escrick again. He was the one who found Maurice in the treasury. Had killed him in cold blood. Had been forced to wait for Clement to view the body after the long night service and the end of lauds. Had been unable to take the knife from the fingers set in the grip of rigor mortis. It was Escrick who had gone to the mortuary a few hours later and when the hand relaxed had slipped the knife from Maurice’s dead grasp. His personal reward for a service rendered.

He was the stranger at
le Coq d’or
who had offered a jewelled dagger, in ignorance of its true secret, to the highest bidder. Taillefer had stolen it back and tried to make his escape and been killed under the bridge on the raft of debris that had built up against the bank and made a sort of fragile bridge of its own. He had not needed to go onto the bridge of St Benezet and had not fallen from it but tried to escape along the river bank onto the only refuge he could find.

And the Scottish nun? By then Escrick knew Hildegard was in Avignon and on his trail, tried to silence her and, in the darkness of the night, had made a dreadful blunder.

She wondered if, in fact, he realised that the jewelled dagger was more important to his master than the price of rubies. His heart would have stopped if he realised he had made another disastrous mistake by stealing it for merely personal gain.

She thought of the figure in white who had come out just now to say adieu to Fondi and his contingent.

It was Hubert de Courcy. Saying farewell to his ally, his fellow Clementist, the enemy of King Richard. Fondi. His job done. The supply of poison safely delivered. Now back on the road to Urbino.

Hubert. Her feelings got the better of her for a moment and tears flooded her eyes. Blinking them away she became more determined than ever to escape back to England. She would see Mr Medford. Show him the poison. Tell him every detail of what had taken place. The fight to save the king would continue. Woodstock must be defeated.

Night fell like a shroud over the palace. Hildegard felt colder than ever. A brief respite came when the wind dropped around midnight. Even so she could scarcely move by the time she decided to force her frozen limbs to life and risk climbing back inside the palace.

**

With her hood up and her dark cloak fastened by its usual silver pin, she looked like any other monastic coming from the night office in the chapel.

Conscious that her Cistercian habit of white stamyn might draw attention, she pushed its long sleeves out of sight and made herself less conspicuous by merging with the tail end of a group of black-robed Benedictines. When they filed along towards the guest wing she followed. Her first task was to find out what had happened to the guild of pages. Her second task would be to collect the phial of poison from her chamber. And her third task would be to find a horse and ride for England.

It was unfortunate that Hubert de Courcy and his two Cistercian brothers should be leaving the chapel at the same time as the Benedictines. They suddenly appeared from out of a side door and she could not avoid walking past them. Head down, she carried on after the others. When she came to the door leading into their dormitory she hesitated, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but when she turned to glance down the passage Hubert was standing at the end staring after her.

She swiftly bent down as if she had dropped something and when she stood up he had disappeared.

With a sideways glance into the dormitory she made her way to the end of the passage and descended a flight of steps. They led into one of the yards and keeping to the shadows she walked round the edge until she came to a door that seemed to lead back inside. Another flight of steps took her as she had hoped to the entrance to the wing where Sir Jack was staying.

All she had to do was to avoid coming face to face with him. With a vague idea that she might ask one of the kitcheners what had happened to the pages, on the assumption that the boys would have to be fed, she decided to try the kitchen first but before she could get inside she had to pass the porter in his lodge.

**

He was visible through the open door. A single cresset burned in a bracket on the wall behind him. He had a short sword lying on the bench where he was sitting but it was in a worn leather sheath and looked as if it had not been used for some time.

He was busily cleaning his nails with the tip of his meat knife. After a while he finished with that and began to sing a tune about a husband cheating on his wife. He thumped one fist on his knee to keep time. After a few verses he got bored with that and began to pick his teeth with the same knife he had used for his nails.

Eventually he flung the knife down and glanced round with a loud sigh. His chair creaked as he leaned back in it, yawning and stretching. Hildegard, hidden behind the door and observing his performance through the crack, willed him to go to sleep but, despite his yawns, he was as lively as a cricket. He stood up and began to pace about the entrance hall, stretching now and then, shuffling a little series of dance steps from the farandole that by and by brought him towards the open door. He leaned against the door post and gazed longingly out into the courtyard.

A lot of noise was coming from over the other side and he watched for a few minutes as if making up his mind whether to go out and join them. It was evident a hunt was going on.

Hildegard shrank back into the shadows. She wondered if she could say anything to the porter to bluff her way past but she was worried that the rumour of her escape from the clutches of Clement’s personal body guard would have been told in such a way as to make her capture an enticing prize.

She waited impatiently to see what he would do next. If he stepped outside she would be across the floor and down the stairs before he turned back.

To her chagrin he returned to his lodge, rubbing his hands against the cold and blowing out his cheeks. When he sat down he pulled some dice from his sleeve and began to throw, playing against himself. When he won he cheered audibly, other times he uttered a soft curse but whether it was the same ‘he’ each time or whether he changed sides to even the odds against himself she could not tell.

I certainly can’t stand here all night, she decided when his game began to bore her. With her hood well over her face she waited until he dropped one of the dice and had to bend down to search for it under the bench and then she stepped to the door of his lodge as if she had just walked across the yard.

‘Greetings, master. It’s a raw night,’ she announced boldly in French.

He looked surprised. ‘What are you doing out? Lost your way after matins?’

‘Not at all. I’m told Sir John was suffering from the gripe earlier. I’ve brought the potion he asked for.’

‘First I’ve heard.’

‘It’s not the sort of thing he broadcasts. The workings of his bowels he regards as private.’

‘You’re right there. Butt of too much ribaldry already. Butt, get it?’ He stood up, slapping his backside and chortling at his own joke. ‘I’ll come with you, sister.’

Her heart sank. ‘I need to get water from the kitchen first.’

He pointed with his thumb. ‘Down there. I’ll wait here for you.’

‘My thanks, master.’

Before she could get away he told her, ‘There’s activity over the other side of the courtyard tonight, all right. You must have seen it. They’re ransacking every hole and corner for that witch. Reckon they’ll be starting over here next.’

‘Doubtless.’

She walked away, stiff-backed with fear in case he called her bluff. When she gained the stair that led downwards she let out a long breath.

With no time to waste, she hurried into the unlighted kitchen where the spit boy was a sprawled shape beside the glowing embers of the fire.

Crouching down beside him, she whispered, ‘Young master, wake up.’ She had to repeat it several times before he opened his eyes.

With her fingers softly on his lips she said, ‘Shush now…I have a question. For our lady’s sake, where is the esquire of Sir John being kept?’

In the firelight the boy looked half-asleep and was too drowsy to think clearly, but it worked in her favour because he muttered automatically, ‘Under lock and key in the store where the sacks of grain are kept. But here -’ he sat bolt upright. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘No-one. You have seen no-one. This is but a dream. Go back to sleep.’

After a glance to see if the person bending over him had a knife to stick in him, he sank back into his rags and covered his head to demonstrate agreement.

**

The store rooms were down a short adjoining passage. It was pitch black once she left the glow of the kitchen fire but out of the darkness she unexpectedly heard a voice.

It was Edmund and it came from a door on her right. She was about to knock softly upon it when she heard him say, ‘On the count of three. One, two, and -’ exactly on the count of three four voices broke into a raucous song. It was so loud and sung with such deliberation she guessed it was some kind of ploy. Its timing could not have been worse.

With a hurried glance behind her she was about to look for a hiding place when the sound abruptly stopped.

‘That’s not bad but we need something to drum with.’ Edmund’s voice.

Before the chorus could start up again she knocked on the door, louder than intended, and called, ‘Edmund?’

An uncanny silence fell on the other side.

She knocked again a little more quietly. ‘Edmund, it’s me, Hildegard of Meaux.’

He must have pressed his lips to the other side of the door because she heard a whisper of sound, then the question, ‘Are you alone? Answer only yes if you are.’

‘Yes.’

There was a scuffle. ‘Praise be! We heard what happened. You turned yourself into a witch and vanished. Are you all right?’

‘So far. What about yourselves?’

‘We’re about to break free. We have a plan to lure the guard down here. Our moves are planned the way we planned the game with the pig’s bladder. Simon, as smallest, will escape unnoticed in the turmoil and race to the stables where he’ll saddle horses. We’re going to storm the bridge and get across to Villeneuve.’

‘They’ll expect you to do that. You’d be better to escape along the bank towards Pont Saint Esprit where you can make a river crossing. You’ll be in the Kingdom of France almost as soon as you leave the palace.’