The Butcher of Avignon (7 page)

Sitting opposite, at a table apparently reserved for lay visitors, was a wealthy merchant’s wife by the look of her. Oblivious to the noise around them, she and Hubert were conducting an animated private conversation.

In confusion all Hildegard wanted was to get out without being seen. Her only hope was that Hubert would leave first. What was she to say to him that wouldn’t sound like an accusation? What are you doing
here
? What are
you
doing here? She could not meet him just yet. What would she say? It suddenly dawned on her why the prioress had sent her to Avignon. It was to keep an eye on him. To find out what he was up to, attending Pope Clement, indeed. Is that where his allegiance truly lay? Was this what the prioress had secretly intended? Because his loyalty was still in doubt?

Her glance dragged back and forth. She must leave. She had to. He was still talking to the merchant’s wife, if that was what she was, with no apparent sign of wanting to leave.

Hildegard tried to convince herself that it could not be him. It must be his double.

She forced herself to her feet and began to push her way through the crowd until she was close enough to see him clearly between the servers with their loaded trays, close enough to hear the familiar voice.

He was speaking French. The sound of his voice, like velvet, like silk, was still capable of sending a thrill through her. Used to seeing him around the abbey at Meaux, conversing in English to the inhabitants, she had learned to forget his origins, about his father, a French ambassador at the court of Edward III, the love affair with an English lady-in-waiting, and how Hubert was their eldest son, half French therefore, her prioress had warned.
Never forget that.

As she stared the words of the prioress echoed over and over in her mind.

We must always ask ourselves, Hildegard, where does our abbot’s allegiance truly lie? With Pope Urban and we English, or with the anti-pope and the French, our sworn enemies?

It seemed that, over the last year or two, Hubert had shown that his allegiance lay with King Richard, but why had she assumed that it was so? Where was the hard evidence for it? His presence here could surely mean only one thing. He had accepted Clement’s illegal rule.

He must have been sent by the Prior of St Mary Graces, she realised. The mother-house of the Cistercian Order was in Meaux in northern France, close to Paris, and he would be expected to attend the French pope on behalf of the English Chapter. He could not have been sent, as she had been sent, to bring back information useful to King Richard. Quite the contrary.

And his conversation with the merchant’s wife? She reminded herself that the English abbey at Meaux owed its existence to the wool trade. Wool quotas were essential for the upkeep of the abbey. Here was the perfect place to meet French importers wishing to do business. Natural to meet the wife. Natural that he would not want to slight her, would want to give her his undivided attention. As he was now doing.

But her thoughts were in turmoil. She knew she was making excuses. It didn’t look as if he was talking about wool quotas, anything but, especially when the woman, in reply to something he said, threw her head back and with a languid smile ran her bejewelled fingers down her long, white throat as if by chance drawing attention to her cleavage.

I should get out, thought Hildegard, aghast at a sudden heat of feeling against him. But she could not move. She was immobilised by conflicting emotions.

‘Excuse me, domina, may I - ?’ A servant was trying to get past and she stepped hurriedly to one side. ‘My pardon, m’sieur.’

With an effort she forced herself towards the door, to escape to safety as it seemed, until, at the last minute, she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder just as Hubert turned his head and caught sight of her. His dark eyes seemed to turn to needles. He did not move. His expression froze. He did not greet her. He merely stared.

Someone came between them and blocked her view. She took it as a reprieve and a chance to escape. She was not ready yet. Not ready to counter his cool manner and find she was right for being suspicious.

He would dash her suspicions aside, of course, cleverly, forensically choosing his words, but he could not deny his presence here. And Pope Clement was the enemy of the English. Hubert’s presence was all the evidence against him she needed.

**

The sentry on duty at the door of the tower steps was impassive. ‘What makes you think there’s any prisoners like that in here?’ he growled in a thick regional dialect.

‘Because I was present when you guards arrested them in the slype passage.’

He looked uncertain.

She pressed her advantage. ‘I believe they would be less inclined to try another escape if I could talk to them and bring the spiritual consolation that might resign them to their present condition.’

This persuaded him to kick open the door behind him and call to someone inside.

A second guard appeared with a mug of ale in his paw. ‘What?’

‘She wants to pray with the prisoners.’

‘Let her then.’ This only after a brief, critical look that assumed a complete knowledge of Hildegard and everything she stood for. ‘Let her quieten them down with tales of hell fire. That’ll do us.’

The first guard, responsibility safely taken off his shoulders, stepped aside, asking for form’s sake, ‘No knives, swords or other weapons about your person?’

Shaking her head, Hildegard entered the tower.

**

It was dank inside. A spiral wound all the way to a holding cell at the top. When she pushed open the door the two Englishmen were sitting on a pile of straw playing dice.

‘Oh it’s you again. How did you cozen your way in here?’ It was not an unfriendly greeting, merely northern bluntness.

She took it as such and explained that as their countrywoman she was worried about them and had an interest in their predicament.

‘By, you’ve got some neck, stepping in here. Have you come to get us out?’

‘I might have. Why were you brought to Avignon anyway?’

‘It is Avignon, then?’

‘It is.’

‘That’s what that sotwit guard tried to tell us in his devilish lingo.’

‘It’s like this, we’re miners, see?’ the other one interrupted.

‘All right.’ She staunched her puzzlement for the moment.

‘We work underground. Specialists, like.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘We have the knowledge. They want the knowledge. Ergo, as you nuns might say, we are valuable assets to them what wants to make profit.’

‘What do you mine?’ she asked.

‘Anything that lies a way underground. We’re not your open-cast fellas. We dig deep. No point in having the roof cascade in on your head burying your men and your silver, is there?’

‘Hence, us.’

They spoke alternately.

‘By the way, I’m Jack of Tyndale.’ A strong hand was extended. ‘And this here gormless idiot is Peter Beckwith.’

They shook hands.

‘I’m Hildegard of Meaux.’

Her interest was quickened further when one of them offered the greeting used by the White Hart rebels who were prominent in the ill-fated Peasant’s Revolt seven years ago. Pockets of resistance still continued in many parts of the country by men loyal to King Richard whom they revered. Their loyalties were usually given to the ideas of the late lamented John Wyclif too. It was a test, she could tell. Anyone who didn’t sympathise would fail to give the proper response.

To his
God save King Richard
she replied, ‘And the true Commons.’ Hands were once more shaken all round.

‘So now, tell me, why did you think you were in Prague?’

**

It was a convoluted story, at least in the manner in which Jack and Peter told it. They worked in Northumberland, mining for coal, they worked in Wales, after silver, and they had worked in Devon at the silver mines in Combe Martin and Bere Ferrers and also down in Cornwall trying to extract still more tin from the ancient mines down there.

‘Didn’t understand a word they said to us. Especially in Wales. But it never mattered. We all got on. One miner respecting another, like, each with his own ways and willing to share what skills he had.’

‘That’s why we didn’t balk at being asked to go to Bohemia. We thought we’d pick up the lingo quick enough and find out how they did things.’

‘And the money, that was a great enticement.’

‘Who asked you to go all that way?’

Glances were exchanged. ‘It was shifty-shifty,’ admitted Peter. ‘First this fella comes to us after a word with the master. Friendly, like. Wanted to know how we were getting on. Interested in the workings.’

He exchanged a quick look with his companion and Hildegard guessed there was more to the story than she was being told. ‘Well, we take him down, shows him round, he rides off and that’s that. Or so we think.’

‘We hear nothing more - ’

‘Until he comes back a few weeks later. “Come up and meet my lord,” says he. Thinking it was one of the earl of Northumberland’s vassals we agreed. Then he sends militia to fetch us. Armed escort. “He’s down south now,” he says. “And I’ll tell you who my lord is. You can trust him to hell and back. It’s a Hull lad. Now he’s Chancellor of England.”’

‘”What?” says we, “Michael de la Pole?”’

‘”No less!” he answers.’

‘What did you think to that?’ she queried.

‘Nowt at this point. It explained the rewards and we thought it likely to do with the Cornish mines, mebbe. They were wanting to dig deeper but struck a problem with drainage, like. And we knew we were the men to solve it.’

‘So you went down to Westminster?’

‘Took ship out of Hedon on the Humber.’

‘Quickest way, barring sudden weather, but we were blessed by good fortune, us. We got there in short time. Things were looking good.’

‘We were met at Three Cranes quay by some men-at-arms who knew the same fella who’d brought us down. Then we were being lauded in the City. Best Rhenish. Good lodgings. Nothing too much trouble.’

‘Met them city guildsmen. Mayor Brembre was one. “Lads,” he said, “I want you to know we are all King Richard’s men here and there’s something afoot and you might be the lads to help us.” Then he explained.’

‘After, he says, “Name your price.”’

‘So we did.’

‘So what did he explain to you?’

‘That he wanted us to go on a special mission to Prague to do some work for the Emperor. Hush-hush, like.’

Hildegard considered they knew more by another of their complicit looks but it was clear they were going to go no further by the way they both clamped their mouths shut. She tried a shot in the dark, based on the merest whisper of something she had heard in Westminster last autumn. ‘Tyndale,’ she said, ‘where you come from, Jack. I believe there’s a rumour they found silver there. It is a silver mine, is it not?’

His glance dropped to the floor. ‘So what of it?’ He raised his head. ‘To be honest, domina, it’s not much of one. You might already have heard that it’s on the verge of being mined out.’

‘So you were being asked to transfer yourselves to the silver mines in Bohemia at Kutna Hora, famous for the silver ore they produce.’ It wasn’t a question and they did not treat it as such.

John merely murmured, ‘I see we understand each other.’

‘That explains Prague,’ she replied. ‘It does not in any way explain Avignon.’

**

Peter adopted a fighting stance. ‘You won’t believe this next bit, domina. After we’d been feasted and feted we were given instructions to report to the Steel Yard to pick up a Hansa ship into the Baltic.’

‘Best way over to Prague, cutting out the duke of Burgundy and all his cursed armies.’

‘But before we could get near the gates a fella rides up to us, ermine, plume in his cap, a couple of armed guards riding beside him, a convincing type, looked just like one of them guildsmen we’d met. “My good men,” says he, “our plans are askew. You must now take ship to Calais instead. Welcome on board.” He points to a neat looking cog at the dock side.’

‘Then he showed us letters of safe passage with our names on them.’ John looked a tad sheepish and Hildegard wondered how much he could read, if at all. It would not be impossible to do the job he did and be to all intents illiterate. She did not pursue the matter but merely nodded with understanding. ‘So you went on board?’

‘We did. How could we know it was a trick? It was only when the lines were cast off that we began to feel something was up. The crew, for a start, not an Englishman among them. We assumed they were Bohemians until we picked out a few words that were definitely a sort of French.’

‘Nobody spoke to us. Nobody looked us in the eye.’

‘We were treated all right. Vitteled, given plenty of good strong wine. Slept. It was when we came into harbour just before the anchor went down, a group of ruffians surrounded us - ’

‘And forced us to go ashore in barrels. Big ones. Not your usual ale tuns.’

‘We thought it was to avoid customs. Fair enough.’

‘Like washing barrels they were,’ Peter explained in outraged tones. ‘I could stand up in mine.’

‘And then it was onto carts and the journey began. Every so often the lid would be opened and food shoved inside with flagons of ale to follow.’

‘Pittle water it was, not like our stuff.’

‘But better than nowt.’

‘And then you arrived here and were let out of your barrels and took it for granted you were in Prague?’

‘You'll be thinking we’re a couple of sotwits but I tell you, domina, we were held in darkness and lost count of the days and nights, couldn’t tell them apart, nobody spoke to us in English, we had no way of knowing where we were. Or whether we’d get out alive,’ Jack gave a grimace.

‘We were blindfolded and let out to piss now and then. Didn’t even see each other until we got here.’

‘By, I don’t mind saying this but I was right glad to see his ugly mug gawping at me when they let me out.’ Jack cuffed Peter on the shoulder. ‘A right mess you’ve got us into, Beckwith.’

‘Me? I like that! Who said it was a good idea from the first? Make our fortunes in one fell swoop, you said.’