The Law of Angels (14 page)

Ulf agreed. “Fuss over nothing. It’s a mistake for men to marry women so much younger than themselves. Melisen’s only a year older than his daughter. Naturally he’s jealous when there’s a handsome young fellow on the scene. Master Danby’s just the same.”

“I hadn’t noticed Danby was jealous of anybody.”

Ulf considered the matter. “You’re right. He’s too much the other way. I meant the age difference. Old men and women half their age? Danby’s maybe too complacent.”

“With regard to the journeyman you mean?”

“Who knows, although I imagine Gilbert has far too much common sense than to put his livelihood in jeopardy. It was an odd atmosphere in there though, if that’s what you’re hinting. Was it to do with Lady Melisen’s request or was something else going on?”

“It’s probably the usual jealousies. I imagine Mistress Julitta can’t be happy about a child like Dorelia taking precedence over her, just because she happens to have snared a guildmaster. She doesn’t seem the type to be happy in second place. Baldwin seems to be under her thumb though. Did you see how she never let him away from her side? He’s a different man when he’s with his fellows.” She told Ulf what had happened at the booth when the mage did his disappearing act.

“She’s probably wise to keep him on a short leash if he’s liable to go on the rampage,” he replied. “Still, it’s Danby I feel sorry for. He’s a decent type. I hope the new wife isn’t making a fool of him. Since he remarried he doesn’t seem to know whether he’s coming or going.”

“Is Dorelia his second wife?”

“His first died a year ago. There’s a little daughter somewhere around. I believe he’s on the square. He certainly saved Simon de Quixlay’s bacon.”

“What do you mean?”

While the horses of Roger’s large retinue were being brought up the street by the grooms he explained.

“You were in your hermitage while all this was going on. It began with a quarrel between two aldermen, John de Gisburne and a fellow called John Langton. They started arguing the toss over who should be mayor. Gisburne was disliked because of his allegiance. Everybody believes it gives him an unfair advantage. He has his fingers in a lot of pies and he’d been commissioned to supply an Oxford college with lead—”

“Lucrative stuff then.”

He nodded. “He’s not short of a penny or two, but there’ve been murmurs—the provenance of his lead, for instance. That’s never been proved and he point-blank refuses to appear before his guildmaster to explain himself. There’ve been other things as well, making it look as if he sets himself above the law.”

Ulf peered over the heads of the grooms until he saw his own squire leading his horse in the crowd. “It’s not only guild business, Hildegard,” he said hurriedly as the horse was brought up. “The year before the Great Rebellion down in London a group of citizens broke into the guild hall here in York and forced Gisburne out of office. They persuaded Simon de Quixlay to stand as mayor instead. It was a bit of a riot. The Justiciar had to step in and twenty of the rioters were sent to London and imprisoned in the Tower.”

“The Tower?” she asked in astonishment. “As bad as that?”

“It got worse. Some supporters followed them down and holed up in a place called Tottenham Manor, and they finished up in the Tower as well. The whole pack of ’em were eventually released, five months before the Rising. Of course they came straight back and elected Simon de Quixlay all over again. It’s old history,” he told her, taking the reins from his servant.

“I heard nothing. It must have been when I was living as a recluse.”

He nodded. “Grieving for Hugh.”

She brushed that aside. “You said Danby saved Quixlay. What happened there?”

“The rebellion in London happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Within days riots broke out up here as well and the walls and gates of the Dominican priory were smashed, along with damage to St. Leonard’s, the friary and a few other places. That same day de Quixlay summoned the bailiffs and the commons to the guild hall. He insisted on a new ordinance imposing a fine of forty pounds on anybody who tried to transfer any plea made for alleged crimes inside the city walls to the court of King’s Bench down in London.”

“Which must be what Gisburne did—to get his enemies put in the Tower?”

“That’s exactly it. But de Quixlay was adamant. He said if anybody commits a crime here then we’ll be the ones to try them, not some foreigners down south.”

“And Danby?”

“He made a speech in support and swayed everybody against Gisburne’s faction. But that wasn’t the end of it. In the July following the London riots Gisburne and his gang got hold of the keys of Bootham Bar and broke into the city. Then they rode round trying to persuade men into their own livery—”

“Persuade?”

“Most strongly.” He grimaced.

The de Hutton retinue was preparing to move off.

Ulf swung hurriedly into the saddle. “They even broke a fellow’s legs for refusing to join them. Gisburne was bound over to keep the peace—and he hasn’t held office since.”

“So he’s given up on being mayor?”

Ulf glanced down with a grimace. “Let’s hope so. We’ve had enough of him. There is talk he’s now going to build a chantry that’ll outdo the one Roger’s planning.”

She put out a hand to detain his horse as the retinue began to move off. “Apart from Danby,” she asked, “who are Simon de Quixlay’s supporters?”

“Most of the guildsmen as it happens. Danby carries a lot of weight with them. Not just with glaziers, but with the masons, carpenters and mercers as well. All those who want a quiet life so they can get on and make a profit! But de Quixlay’s a popular fellow in his own right. He got the butchers on his side by backing them when they objected to ‘shameltoll.’ It was an unfair toll, he said, and he gave it short shrift.”

The horses were creating a great commotion of jingling bridles, stamping hooves and general kerfuffle as they started to take the de Hutton retinue back down the street. But Hildegard had one more question. She walked along beside Ulf as he allowed his mount to join the cavalcade. “Ulf, do you know if Gisburne has anything to do with the Duke of Lancaster? Is that his unpopular allegiance?”

“Funny you should ask that,” Ulf replied. Leaning down from the saddle he said quietly, “Gisburne has recently been given the lease on a couple of manors up by Knaresborough way.”

Knaresborough Castle and the land around, as she well knew, belonged to John Duke of Gaunt, of Lancaster.

He gave her a lopsided grin. “Civic quarrels, sister. Nothing to do with us! Be thankful you missed it all!” He waved his riding whip in a salute and urged his horse after the others.

The head of the cavalcade had reached the end of the street when Ulf turned and called out, “Come to Naburn Manor, Hildegard. We have a Tuscan chef!”

Then, with great tumult, they were gone.

Hildegard frowned as the street fell quiet. Put two ambitious people in contention, she thought, and you have the seeds of war. This Gisburne sounded like bad news with his powerful connections. De Quixlay’s strength seemed to lie in his popularity with the people. She remembered John of Gaunt and how he was hated and how by contrast young King Richard was so beloved. Maybe the mood of the town was not as she had first imagined.

After she took her leave of the glazier with his silent wife and began to walk back along Stonegate her thoughts strayed to foxes.

Gilbert’s reply to her question had been ambiguous to say the least.

What did he mean “she should know the answer to that one”?

Chapter Eleven

The scriptorium was empty again. Some time after compline, when the only lights were the candles at the ends of the corridors and the one she carried, Hildegard went inside and fumbled around on one of the desks for the writing tools. She took up a sharpened quill from a box, dipped the point into the inkwell, swirled it around and began to write.

After the usual flowery greeting required when addressing an archbishop, she wrote as briefly as she could:

I beseech your Grace to grant me the great honour of an audience at your earliest opportunity on behalf of my prioress at Swyne. I await your Grace’s reply at the convent of the Holy Wounds in York.

She left it at that after the usual valedictory flourish. He would guess at once what it concerned.

Running the chalk over it, she folded it twice, melted some wax over a small flame to seal it and that night placed it under her head while she slept.

*   *   *

As soon as she heard the bell for prime, she went to find the small boy who had been helpful last time. He was still barefoot.

“Are you not to have any shoes, then, young master?” she asked.

Blushing and wiping sleep out of his eyes he nodded. “The sister says when she has the time she’ll make sure I get some.”

“When she has the time?”

“Her being busy and what-not.”

“I see. Well, in the meantime, while you’re waiting, you may save enough pennies to purchase your own shoes. Here’s another message for you to take to the courier if you will and tuppence to go with it.”

He took the letter, and the two pennies, bowed and ran off.

Busy, she scoffed. Busy praying. Well that wouldn’t put shoes on the child’s feet. She decided she had better ask in the town for a reliable patten maker.

*   *   *

Almost as soon as he left she was called down to the lodge by one of the novices. “Visitors outside the porch,” she informed her, adding, with a suspicious look from beneath her veil, “two
men.
”

“Thank you, my dear sister,” Hildegard replied more grandly than usual. So they were here already. She hurried down the corridor while trying to betray as little haste as possible.

Two men she recognised as conversi from Swyne stood just outside the convent doors. They were grinning broadly. They were not allowed to set foot inside, they told her. “Not so much as the toe of one boot on the edge of a tile,” one of them added. She smiled. They were the last ones to wreak havoc among a gaggle of nuns. They carried something in a sack.

“Produce from Swyne,” one of them announced with a wink when he saw her glance alight on it.

“Thank my lady prioress if you will. Tell her I shall make sure it reaches its destination.”

They had ridden through the night. She offered them something to break their fast but they refused, saying they had to get back. They left with cheerful waves. They seemed to like it when they thought the prioress was up to something.

Hildegard took the sack along to the scriptorium as it seemed to be the most unfrequented corner in the whole place. It was tied at the neck by a piece of rope and inside was a softer wrapping. Not wishing to remove the whole thing from its cover in case somebody should unexpectedly come in she merely pulled it to one side.

For centuries the cross had been kept in a magnificent, jewelled reliquary, locked by means of a delicate gold key. She shuddered, remembering what had happened to the key. The reliquary was probably still in the possession of the Gran Contessa of Florence, who had sent her man Escrick Fitzjohn to steal it from the custodian. Unluckily for her, a sacristan, its guardian, had removed the cross beforehand in order to keep it safe from thieves.

Now the cross was housed in a flat wooden box of English oak that looked new and, she supposed, had been made at Swyne. When she had brought the cross back from Tuscany she had had to hide it in among her clothes and carry it the whole way in a bag on her shoulder like any old souvenir from a pilgrim’s travels.

She took the box to the narrow window where there was a better light and peered inside. It was just as she remembered, a rough piece of wood, crusted with age. It looked like nothing.

On the back would be the inscription that proved it to be the cross the Emperor Constantine had kept by his side for his own private devotions after his conversion, the cross he had carried into battle when he had defeated his enemies at the Milvian Bridge near Rome, a cross associated with miracles.

A cross, furthermore, that was believed to bestow untold worldly power on its owner.

She ran her fingers underneath until she felt the shallow indentations she remembered. When she turned the cross over she read the inscription:
in hoc signe vinces.
In this sign you shall conquer.

A velvet cloth, the colour of blood, lined the box.

Satisfied that all was in order she rewrapped the entire thing and thought for a moment about the best place to hide it until the archbishop sent word for her to bring it to him. There was nowhere she could be certain it might remain undiscovered. She decided to keep it by her side at all times. It would fit inside her leather travel bag as it had done before.

*   *   *

Brother Thomas arrived later that morning. He too, like the conversi, had an expectant air and was clearly pleased to get out of the abbey on what must seem like an adventure.

“I came over as soon as I could. I hope I’m not too late. What’s it all about?” he asked, pacing the lane outside the nunnery, having suffered a similar rejection by the porteress as the conversi.

“I have instructions to take a certain object to the archbishop to let him have a look at it,” she told him as she paced by his side. “Don’t ask me why, I can’t tell you. But that’s what the prioress has asked me to do. And she gave a special warning that I must on no account leave it with him. I thought it best to have a witness to what goes on.”

“It sounds special then, this object. Is it a relic of some sort?”

She looked into his honest face and decided to tell him the truth. “It’s the Cross of Constantine.”

A look of awe passed over his face and he quickly crossed himself. “So you really did bring it back from Tuscany? The cloister was buzzing with rumours about that. One of the archbishop’s men started the story. We thought he was spinning a yarn to impress us.”

“He was telling the truth.” She told him briefly of the appalling events that had taken place.

“I can see why you feel you need an escort,” he said. “Although any meeting with Alexander Neville is best done with an ally beside you.”