The Butcher of Avignon (41 page)

There was a silence. She thought she could hear a whispered discussion.

‘Is that where you’re headed?’

‘That’s my intention, yes, after I’ve attended to a little business.’

‘Then we’ll have a horse ready for you too.’

‘How are you going to lure the guard?’

‘Like sirens luring Ulysses,’ came the reply, ‘by the sweetness of our singing.’

The rest of his words were lost as a light blazed behind her. With a clutch of fear she saw a white shape gliding towards her on sandalled feet. A flaring cresset made shadows leap across the walls.

‘Hildegard? What in hell’s name are you doing here?’

She backed against the wall. It was Hubert de Courcy. Now all was lost. There was nowhere to run and he would hand her over to the guards unless she could get away.

Waiting until he was almost up to her, she suddenly reached out and dashed the cresset to the ground. He stumbled, taken by surprise, but, trained in combat as he was, he immediately blocked her escape with his body as she charged against him. Flames from the cresset leaped around their feet as they struggled. He kicked them to one side.

‘Stop, Hildegard! I’m here to help.’

‘Get out of my way!’

‘Listen to me! The guards are crossing over to this side of the courtyard -’ When she tried to speak he held one hand over her mouth and put his lips close to her ear. ‘Listen. They’ve scoured every inch on the other side of the palace. The fact that you’ve vanished without trace is making them talk about witches. There isn’t much time. We’ve got to leave now.’ He released her.

‘We?’

‘I’m coming with you to make sure you get safely back through France.’

‘Hubert, you’re a Clementist - ’

She could feel his astonishment as he jerked back. ‘Never!’ he snarled. ‘I’d rather make a pact with the devil. Now come on.’

‘Fitzjohn’s pages -’ she indicated the locked door of the store room. ‘They’re prisoners.’

‘I know. That’s why I came down. To see what I could do to release them. I didn’t expect to find you here - ’

Just then the sound of metal-shod boots rang on the floor above.

‘Too late!’ Hubert grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after him back along the passage. When they reached the kitchen, men were already clattering at the top of the steps, maybe tipped off by the porter. Hubert pulled her back as he swerved into the wine cellar next door.

‘Hide among the barrels. They can’t move every one. If they do we’ll take them by surprise and go down fighting.’

Without arguing she ran deeper into the cellar and began to climb up onto the stack of wine barrels, high enough to be out of sight of any arcing torchlight. She had to lie full length, her body almost touching the curved brick of the ceiling.

Then, suddenly, unaware of the approaching guards, the boys began to sing. It was very loud even from a distance. They were bellowing at the tops of their voices. The guards changed direction. A fist thumped on a door. The guards were shouting now as well.

How many were there? It was impossible to tell from the noise they made. It could have been three, it could have been ten.

Not ten, surely? No more than three, to be hoped. The boys could handle three.

Suddenly mayhem broke out. The door must have been pulled open. Something happened causing a loud thump. A loud yell followed, then the sound of lightly running feet. Simon. A confusing melee of shouts and crashes followed. Prepared to find a nun despite the noise of singing, the guards were clearly astonished at their reception. Hildegard heard their shouted arguments:
follow them, don’t let them escape
! And:
keep on the trail of the bloody nun.
And a more plaintive voice asking:
has she changed into a pack of devils?

Escrick’s familiar voice growled above them all, silencing them. ‘Let Jack sort out his own problems. One of you go after the lads, to show willing.’ Receding footsteps hurried after the boys up the steps.

Escrick’s voice darkened. ‘We go after the nun. We find her. We kill her.’

Footsteps approached the wine cellar.

There must have been three of them. One despatched to pursue the boys. Two remaining to enter the wine cellar and begin their search.

**

Hildegard could hear the sounds getting closer. They were banging on the wine barrels with the hilts of their swords as they probed between them on both sides of the stacks.

A stranger’s voice muttered, ‘No sign of anybody, captain.’

Escrick shouted a curse. ‘She’s got to be in here.’

‘Bloody invisible, then.’

‘She can’t just vanish!’

‘Maybe she got out through the kitchen when we turned off to see what that racket was about?’

‘Mebbe you’re right.’

She heard them, still banging randomly on the wine casks, walk back towards the door.

And then a terrible thing happened. One of the barrels moved. Dislodged by the hammering of their sword hilts, it shifted on top of the stack. The sound brought them to a halt.

‘Hear that?’

‘She’s here. Somebody is.’

Heavy footsteps trod towards the wall of barrels close to where Hildegard was hiding.

The flaming torch one of them carried swung from side to side and in its sweeping glare she caught a glimpse of Hubert as the barrel he was lying on was dislodged and he was falling down between the toppling barrels to land with a thunderous crash on the cellar floor.

A dark shape loomed over him.

‘And who have we here?’ It was Escrick. His tone was gloating. ‘Is it a spy I see before me?’

**

Down below in the circle of light Hildegard saw Hubert rise to his feet but before he could do anything Escrick smashed one mailed fist into his face. Hubert staggered but came back with bunched fists but before he could return the blow the other man-at-arms grabbed him from behind. Once, twice, Escrick hit him in the face again until blood poured down his face. Hubert said not a word.

She watched as the guard jerked Hubert so hard back he nearly lost his footing. ‘A Cistercian?’ He spat. ‘You’re supposed to be one of us, brother. What are you skulking down here for?’

Escrick grabbed the front of Hubert’s robes and pulled him upright. ‘I know all about the Abbot of Meaux, don’t you worry, mate,’ he growled to his companion. ‘And where he is that bitch nun will be. Come on, abbot, you’d better tell us and save yourself from really getting hurt.’

Still Hubert remained mute.

Hildegard could not tell what happened next because they moved out of her line of vision. She could hear it though. The thwack of a fist into muscle. The hiss of metal as a sword was drawn. Punches, many of them. The heavy breathing of Hubert’s assailants. No other sound.

Then the guard spoke. ‘Any last words, my lord abbot?’

‘Wait!’ It was Escrick. ‘Let’s take our time and see whether his saints will swoop down to rescue him.’

The guard began to laugh. ‘I like that, captain! You’re full of good ideas!’

‘We’ll see it as a scholarly discussion on the power of angels. Does that suit you, de Courcy?’

‘I’m a papal legate,’ she heard Hubert say in a muffled voice. ‘Think twice before you go too far.’

‘I know you. You’re a spy. I’ve had my eye on you since you got here. You and your bitch, your doxy, that so-called nun, Hildegard. You’re both spies and you know what happens to spies when they’re caught.’

The truth came to Hildegard regrettably late. Of course Hubert was a spy. But not on behalf of Clement! It was obvious now. Why had she doubted him? Hubert, she whispered. Why could I not guess why you were here?

There was another muffled thump and a gasp of pain quickly repressed.

Escrick rasped, ‘Before you get down on your knees to pray, abbot, you’ll tell us what you know about this disappearing nun.’

Silence.

The thump of a fist.

‘I tell you, she tasted good when I almost had her earlier. That’s a feast I’m looking forward to.’

No response.

‘Talk, damn you. Where is she?’

‘You’d better do as he says,’ added the guard.

‘Or what?’ Hubert’s voice.

Another thump.

‘Where is she?’

Again nothing from Hubert.

‘That’s it. I’ll make him talk. Grab him by the - ’

Hildegard could stand it no longer. Levering herself onto her side so that she could get some purchase on the barrel next to her own she pushed with both feet until, with a roar, the barrel rolled off the one beneath and, crashing down, brought others with it so that the entire cellar was suddenly rumbling with crashing barrels, each weighing several tons as the carefully balanced stack gave way. Some splintered open as they hit the ground. Wine gushed out.

She prayed Hubert would be quick enough to get out of the way.

Wood continued to crack as the barrels fell, wine spraying over the floor. She heard the howl of a wounded man and a screamed oath reverberated throughout the cellar.

She slid rapidly to the ground. Hubert was flattened against the wall of barrels on the other side, trying to drag more of them down, while Escrick and the other guard, encumbered by their mailed boots, slithered in a tide of spurting wine and rolling, roiling barrels bursting in all directions.

‘Hubert!’ she screamed above the commotion.

Slithering over wet flagstones, he took hold of Escrick and hurled him to one side. There was a crack as he hit his head on one of the barrels and slid awkwardly down into the lake of wine. Kicking the other man out of the way Hubert headed for the door. He urged Hildegard to go ahead of him then paused on the other side. She grabbed his sleeve but he was only dragging down the wooden beam that kept the door shut.

Then they were racing for the steps to the lodge and out into the courtyard, leaving the porter gawping after them as if witnessing a nightmare come to life.

**

Hubert grasped her by the arm. ‘To the stables. Quick!’

She pulled away as soon as they were out of sight of the main yard and jerked to a halt. ‘Hubert, I have to go back.’

‘What?’

‘I must. I have to dash up to my chamber for a moment. I need something from it.’

‘No time. I’ll buy you anything you’ve left behind.’

‘No, this is something you cannot buy. It’s the poison. I have to take it to Medford as proof of Woodstock’s treachery.’

He frowned when he saw that she would not give way. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No, go and make sure we have horses. I’ll join you. Please, Hubert, there’s no time to lose.’

Reluctantly he turned towards the stable yard, growling, ‘If you’re not down in five minutes I’m coming in to get you.’

With wet garments impeding her movements she ran back through the side door in the cloister that led directly up to the first floor of the guest wing. In the quiet time between lauds and prime most guests were trying to get some sleep and seeing no-one she fled along the passage to her chamber.

As soon as she opened the door she knew something was wrong.

**

It was the smell that assailed her first. Sweet and sickly, with an undertone of some worn and acidic matter, worse than rotting fruit, it swept over her making her gag.

The chamber was in velvet darkness except for a trail of moonlight across the floor. Peering into the deepest blackness, she eventually made out a lighter shape the size of a human face beside her bed.

‘Is there someone here?’

There was only a heavy, dragging silence in response.

‘Who is it?’ Her voice rose. ‘Who are you?’

There was no movement from across the chamber.

Groping along the wall with trembling fingers, she found the taper on the shelf beside the door. Found the tinder. Struck once. Failed to ignite it.

The shape by her bed did not move.

She tried again. A spark. Trembling between her fingers, the taper took the flame and flared up. Light everywhere. Wavering. Strengthening. Illuminating the shape beside her bed.

It was Athanasius. He was sitting on the prayer stool with his back propped against the wall. He did not move or greet her as the light washed over him.

Grasping the taper as both illumination and defence, she edged towards him.

‘Magister, what are you doing here?’ She stood over him then struggled to make sense of what she saw.

He would not answer. Could not.

In the yellow light his face was contorted in the rictus of death. His lips were fixed in a snarl. His eyes had rolled up horribly in their sockets and gazed unseeingly on a corner of the room. His body was set in a grotesque parody of ease. He was bare foot and his feet clawed rigidly as if frozen in the act of rising.

On his lap was her own travel bag, contents scattered. And in his hand was the clay pot with a broken seal.

Backing away, trying not to breathe in the toxic fumes that emanated from it, she fumbled behind her for the door with her thoughts running on.

Medford would not get his proof of Woodstock’s treachery after all.

She had no evidence against him.

It would be her word only and a story that sounded fanciful.

A momentary vision of King Richard, his serene and handsome face at the precise moment before he breathed in the poison, floated before her and she thanked his patron saint and all the angels for their timely intercession.

**

Aware that the witch hunt still continued, she fled down through the shadows until she reached the court yard and then, heart in her mouth, still shocked by what she had seen, on across the yard to the stables.

A shadowy group of figures met her, Hubert striding forward to pull her briefly and hard into his arms. ‘Thank Benet you’re safe.’ His lips brushed her cheek. He stepped back. ‘The boys were already waiting. They’ve trussed the stable lad lightly with twine so he won’t be blamed. He’d helped Simon saddle the horses by the time we turned up. Gregory has clean robes to slip into so neither of us smell like vintners.’

‘Blessed be. But your face?’ She reached out but did not touch.

‘It’ll heal. Let’s go.’

‘I’ll tell you about Athanasius as we ride.’

‘First change into this domina.’ It was Brother Gregory. ‘I trust it’s not too big for you. I should gather it up and tie it with this belt.’ He produced one from his pack. ‘We were about to leave here ourselves before this fracas delayed us.’