The Red Velvet Turnshoe (15 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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She stopped suddenly, imagining she heard a footfall. The person in the arcade must still be here, she thought. She started to walk again, and again she heard a slight echo like footsteps matching her own. Something moved behind a pillar. It was no more than a shadow but it lifted the roots of her hair. Fear of being pursued by Escrick Fitzjohn flooded back. With a dash of impatience, she went over to the pillar where she had seen the shadow and looked behind it.
Nothing.
She was about to continue on her way when a sudden draught swept the hem of her robe. It was like the opening of a nearby door. Unable to account for it, she stepped out of the nave into the darker shadow under the arcade where there was a side chapel dedicated to
one of the saints, a life-size figure draped in purple with his own severed head lying bloodily at his feet. Behind this was a door. When she went over and pushed it, it did not move.
She hurried outside. The little piazza was deserted. Shuttered buildings on three sides blocked out the sky, giving the church a submerged look. She glanced uneasily back inside. It was dark now. Nothing moved.
 
‘For God and profit’ was the slogan at the top of the Vitelli ledgers.
At least Ser Vitelli didn’t equivocate.
He ran a strict household and listened without making any comment when his
fattori
started their usual rant about local politics and the forthcoming election of the council. There was no knowing which of the many factions he supported. He seemed prepared for any change of fortune; his stores were well stocked, his teams of horses in good condition, the loyalty of his household, no doubt enforced by the sacredness of the blood-bond, firm. His spies, she was sure, were equally loyal. The question she was forced to ask herself was whether all this was sufficient to discover the identity of Talbot’s murderer. It was true the company had couriers travelling constantly along the route to the north, passing close to the scene of the crime, but at this time of year when all clues would be obliterated because of the snows, their chances of finding anything seemed slim.
That evening, after work was finished for the day, a visiting
castrato
came to entertain them with a choir from the guild of musicians. He was a tall, shaven-headed Turk and took his place at the foot of the altar steps with great presence.
Pierrekyn sat beside Hildegard on the wooden bench reserved for guests and when the man began to sing the first antiphon the boy’s mouth half opened at the purity of his tone. By the time he reached the fifth and more elaborate ending after the magnificat, Pierrekyn looked dazed and, eventually, after the last amen had faded, he turned to Hildegard.
‘I would kill to be able to sing like that.’
Startled at his use of the word kill, she replied, ‘No doubt he’d prefer to be free like you.’
His lip curled. ‘Free?’
She felt a twinge of alarm. Had the boy been in bond and run away from his master? Was that the mystery of his appearance at Castle Hutton? ‘Are you bound?’ she whispered in a voice quiet with compassion.
He shook his head vigorously and his green eyes flashed.
She was not convinced. ‘Change will come. It must. There are too many crying out for an end to wretchedness and a fair share in earth’s bounty. The Rising proved it.’
He swung his head so he could look into her eyes and for a moment a look of complicity flashed between them. Then distrust took over and he gave a short laugh. ‘Yes, Sister, in heaven, or so we’re told!’
‘I do not mean in heaven,’ she whispered. ‘I mean in this world – as you must know I mean.’
Again he turned to look at her. Then he rose to his feet and made off towards the
castrato
as if in fear of what might be said next.
 
It was the Thursday before Easter. In England King Richard would be offering Maundy money to the poor. Here in Florence every church in the city was open and believers thronged around the steps in a continual coming and going. Hildegard made her way through the now familiar streets to Santi Apostoli.
The renovations were still going on and the workmen were busy as usual, their arias echoing among the rafters as they painted, but there was something different. She sniffed the air. It was the unexpected scent of beeswax. The door into the sacristy was open.
As she quickened her pace, a figure appeared. It was a monk in the black robes of a Dominican, one she had not seen before. He could have been eighty or ninety, the skin of his face like old leather, eyes sunk deep in a skein of wrinkles. He was leaning on a stick but lifted his head when he heard her footsteps.
‘Salve, Suora.
They told me you were coming.’
‘Salve, Fra
.’
He continued in Latin and she replied likewise.
‘What is it you want with me, my child?’
‘I have a request, Father.’
‘So I understand.’
He beckoned and she followed him into his small cell but, moving with unexpected briskness, he swept the red curtain to one side with a clatter of wooden rings and led her through the kitchen, straight out into the yard.
They were met by a dazzle of light. The bench was pushed against the wall to catch the rays of the spring sunshine. As the old man invited her to sit he ruffled his fingers through the leaves of the pot of rosemary, releasing its sharp scent into the air.
He turned to her. ‘And so?’
Taking her time, and suspecting that he already knew what she was going to say, she told him about her priory in England and the request made to her prioress that had brought her to Tuscany. When she mentioned the cross and how it was believed by the archbishop to have its rightful home in York, he nodded. Waiting until she had finished, he fixed her with a thoughtful look.
His eyes were small, dark points, very bright in their nest of wrinkles. He took a breath and his mouth turned down. ‘And what do we have in return?’
‘You would have the satisfaction of knowing that the cross has been returned to its rightful home.’
‘You are not the first to come seeking the cross of Constantine. Or, rather, the power it is said to bestow on the one who owns it.’ He threw her a shrewd glance. ‘Your prioress is aware of the legend?’
‘She is. But she does not seek power for herself.’
‘Kings and princes would pay vast amounts of gold for it.’
Hildegard’s heart sank. The bill of exchange in her belt suddenly seemed insignificant. ‘Maybe we can offer something for your poor,’ she replied cautiously, remembering the prioress’s warning not to mention gold unless it was absolutely necessary.
The sacristan was shaking his head, however. ‘We will not sell the cross. Not for a king’s ransom. It is not for sale.’
There was a long silence. A bee buzzed among the flowers of rosemary in an ecstasy of pleasure. Hildegard could not hide her disappointment.
The old monk began to chuckle. ‘Let me show you something, my child.’
With a struggle he pulled himself to his feet and, leaning on his stick, hobbled back into the building, calling for her to follow. By the time she stepped back inside he was already taking a key from a chain round his neck and opening the aumbry standing against the wall. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and by then he was pulling something from inside the cupboard.
It was wrapped in a rough linen cloth, which he drew off to reveal an astonishing object. It was a reliquary, about twenty-four inches long, made of beaten gold and studded all over with precious stones. Hildegard recognised rubies, emeralds, garnets and sapphires among others. A small gold key was attached to a chain. Inserting it in the lock, he turned it and lifted the lid, inviting her to peer inside.
She expected to see the cross but there was nothing there except the carved bed where it might have rested.
‘Yes, empty!’ He laughed. ‘Do you believe I would leave so precious an object lying around after having brought it all the way from Rome?’
‘But the reliquary itself is worth—’ she began.
‘Worth only a value in the same currency. Replaceable. Gold and precious gems will continue to be mined. The goldsmiths will go on practising their art. The cross, however, can never be replaced. It is unique, without price. That’s why we cannot sell it to you.’
‘I understand. But I can’t deny I’m not disappointed, Father. It would have been a privilege to behold what I’ve travelled so far to see.’
He allowed the lid of the reliquary to drop shut, locked it and replaced it in the aumbry. ‘The common people believe that to touch this flash of gold and jewels would be to unleash a curse on them. To kings and princes, on the other hand, its provenance is so well known that nobody would want to brand themselves a common thief by taking it. It is as safe here as it can be.’
‘But the cross,’ she murmured, ‘that is what is truly precious—’
‘Indeed,’ he smiled. ‘And I am not so trusting that I would flaunt
that
in the face of thieves. I have hidden it. And of course you shall see it.’ He patted her wrist. ‘Such a long journey, facing so many dangers. I would not deny you some reward, my dear child. However, I
believe it would be prudent to speak first to the guardians of the cross before making any decision. They will not object to your seeing the cross for yourself – but they will object to your archbishop’s wish to buy it, believing, as I do, that it is beyond price.’
The old man seemed adamant. His next words, however, took her by surprise and he gave her a quick, mischievous smile before he said, ‘I may have a compromise to suggest.’
She lifted her head.
‘We will never sell – but why should we not allow you to hold it in stewardship for a time?’
‘Stewardship?’
‘Take the cross back to York for a fixed period, with the understanding that you will return it at a date to be agreed.’
Hildegard put out a hand. ‘Father, will that be possible?’
‘I shall argue most strongly on your behalf.’ He grasped her hand as in a sacred pact.
Hildegard was overwhelmed. ‘To be so trusted deeply honours us. You may believe we shall keep our word.’
‘Then I shall ask you to return when I have spoken to the college of canons. I shall give you their formal reply. Return after
la colombina
has flown.’
A
FLUTE BELONGING to one of the kitchener’s children lay on a ledge in the yard. The time could not pass quickly enough until
la colombina
took to the air. Hildegard picked up the flute and tried a few notes. It gave out a thin, high-pitched sound. Rustily remembering a few phrases, her fingers awkwardly copied the melody Pierrekyn had been playing when she had walked in on him.
She knew what it was but it was a tune not to be acknowledged unless you knew you were among friends. Now, alone, she began to play.
It was an anthem sung by the Company of the White Hart whenever they assembled. They had sung it at Smithfield on the day of Wat Tyler’s murder. It was a song of solidarity and rebellion with a plaintive beauty that suited her mood just now. A sweet though somewhat martial air, it finished with a triumphant top note that always summoned a rousing cheer from the listeners. It did so now and she spun round in astonishment.
It was Pierrekyn. He came across the yard towards her with a white face.
‘You are full of surprises,’ he exclaimed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Many people do.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘It’s a rebel song. You can lose your head for knowing it.’
‘I think it should be heard often – for more than its beauty.’
He looked startled then laughed nervously. ‘Ironic – a song about freedom when I’m cooped up here in golden chains. Vitelli’s guards won’t let me out.’
‘Don’t you have everything you need?’
He flung her a withering glance.
‘Show me the music room,’ she demanded, taking him by surprise.
When it was clear she was going to insist he grudgingly led the way across a loggia and into a small, high-ceilinged chamber at the back of the building away from the sound of the counting house.
It had a painted wooden ceiling depicting a group of knights and damsels dancing in a meadow, the walls covered in tapestries on similar themes. In one corner stood a gilded chest but apart from that there was little else. It was a place where they would be unlikely to be overheard.
He sat in the window niche and began to tune his lute. ‘What would you like me to play?’
‘That isn’t why I wanted to come up here. I wanted somewhere where we could talk in private.’
‘That sounds grim, or are you afraid you’ll forget how to speak English?’
She smiled. ‘You seem to be learning the language. I often hear you talking to Ser Vitelli’s
fattori.’
‘Franco’s the best. We have a deal. He teaches me Florentine, I teach him English. He’s determined to beat Matteo.’
Without a pause she asked, ‘And is this where you hide the velvet turnshoe?’
His mouth opened and closed, but before he could think of an answer she asked, ‘Well, is it?’ She was determined to get the truth from him.
He looked out of the window without answering. It gave Hildegard a chance to peek quickly round the chamber again. All it contained was the painted chest. There was nowhere to hide even something as small as a velvet slipper. Then she noticed the bag where he kept his lute.
‘You told me it was a memento from your childhood,’ she insisted. ‘That isn’t true, is it?’
He seemed to brace himself and she had never seen him look so frightened. She expected another lie but instead he muttered, ‘I would have to be a king to wear a shoe like that.’
‘That’s what I thought when I saw it.’
King Richard’s name hovered between them, unspoken, with no necessity for either of them to say more. Everyone knew the portent of his lost coronation slipper.
They held each other’s eyes.
‘I didn’t steal it,’ he burst out.
‘So where did you get it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say—’
‘I felt something inside the lining when I picked it up. Is it a document of some sort?’
He neither confirmed nor denied it.
‘It’s no use trying to deceive me, Pierrekyn. I knew there was something hidden in it the moment I picked it up off the floor at the inn.’
She could see he was battling with the desire to trust her and an equally strong intention to preserve his secret.
‘Pierrekyn, you can trust me. Are you in trouble? Maybe I can help. At least take the risk. Whom did you get the turnshoe from?’
With evident difficulty he pushed aside his doubts and began to speak in a husky, hesitant voice. What he told her appeared to have nothing to do with her question.
‘It’s like this,’ he began. ‘My mother died of the plague two years after I was born. I don’t remember her. They say she was a good woman—’ He stopped, his resolution deserting him.
‘Go on,’ she encouraged.
Staring hard at the floor he said, ‘My father brought me up until I was sent to song school at the age of seven. He was a rough fellow but his heart was in the right place. He did his best. The truth was, he never knew what to make of me. He was a weaver. Singing wasn’t something in his world except after a few stoups of ale on feast days. He was hanged in the first year of King Richard’s reign because of his opposition to the second poll tax. And my elder brother,’ he closed his eyes briefly, ‘was also hanged – after they’d tortured him for as long as they could keep him alive.’
He hesitated as if still unsure how much to reveal. Then, finding confidence from somewhere, he began to speak more rapidly in a tone of anger and grief. ‘The same men who hunted down my father went after my brother. He didn’t stand a chance. They had all the
power of the law behind them. I was an oblate living away from home. That’s the only reason I missed meeting the same fate.’
His eyes never leaving her face, he continued. ‘When I heard what had happened I vowed revenge. But I was only a child, what could I do?’ He spread his arms. ‘After Smithfield, I was older, and when the dukes took out their hatred on the people again, I knew I had to do something. Their reprisals after the Rising were savage. The Justices connived with the magnates. Even the king himself was trailed around from one hanging to the next as if he condoned them. The rebels became the disappeared, men and apprentices, women and girls, the old and revered, all vanished, fleeing to the woods as outlaws or ending up in a ditch with their throats cut. It wasn’t only Wat Tyler, John Ball and Jack Straw. It was ordinary people, Saxons, their deaths unrecorded because no one knew what had happened to them and there was no one left to remember them.’
He clenched his fists. ‘This is all because they dared to demand the right to speak freely, to pray in a language they understand and to direct their lives without some lord or abbot keeping them in bondage and taxing them to the point of starvation. How many lives lost?’ he demanded. ‘Nobody knows. But they deserve justice and remembrance.’
He gave her a fierce glance, tears standing in his eyes. ‘I expect I’ll go to join them when you hand me over to Gaunt’s bully-boys. But I warn you, Sister, I’ll die fighting. I’ll take as many down with me as I can!’
Illumined by his passion, he looked at her with an expression both fearful and defiant.
‘I shan’t hand you over to anybody,’ Hildegard said gently. ‘You have my word.’ She leaned closer. Now was the time to get the truth from him when he had nothing more to lose. ‘Tell me again. Did you murder Reynard of Risingholme?’
‘No, I did not. He was the best of men.’ Abruptly Pierrekyn’s eyes filled and then, losing the last shred of control, he began to sob in a sudden outpouring of grief and rage.
Without thinking, Hildegard gathered him in her arms just as she would have done with her own son in such straits. ‘My dear child,’
she whispered, ‘my poor dear boy. Have you been harbouring such feelings all this time?’
She waited until his sobs decreased, then gently released him. He scrubbed his face with his knuckles, shamed, blinking his wet lashes. ‘Do what you have to,’ he muttered. ‘I’m living in hell.’
‘I’m not about to do anything, least of all betray what has been told me in confidence. And whom should I tell when I’ve no idea whom to trust and whom to fear? There are as many factions plotting against each other here as in England.’
‘Are we in danger?’
‘Ser Vitelli appears to support Hawkwood and the latter is ambassador to England in that he undertakes commissions on behalf of King Richard. But we must ask ourselves, who is Hawkwood’s maintainer at the English court?’
‘The Chancellor—?’
‘Exactly. Gaunt himself.’
Pierrekyn looked fearfully towards the door. Then he took a deep breath. ‘I have something dangerous in my possession. It’s been preying on my mind ever since we left England.’
Going over to his lute case he groped around for something buried at the bottom. All bravado had deserted him by the time he returned to kneel in front of her. He had never looked so touchingly young. Holding out a small bundle, he said, ‘My chance of making good use of it fades with every passing day. But I must do something! I have to – for Reynard, at least, or his life will have meant nothing.’
He held out a piece of cloth wound around several times. She knew at once what was inside. She pulled the cloth away to reveal the red velvet turnshoe.
‘Inside the lining there’s a piece of parchment,’ Pierrekyn told her. ‘Reynard thought the turnshoe would be a good hiding place. A friend who used to be at court gave the shoe to him. Reynard was copying a certain document shortly before he was murdered. Somebody knew what he was doing. They saw it as dangerous and killed him for it.’
She turned the shoe inside out. The stitches looked new and were roughly executed. ‘What is this document?’ she asked.
‘It’s a true account of events at Smithfield. It tells what really happened when Tyler was killed. It’s written in English by a monk from the monastery in Guisborough. His name is Walter of Hemingborough. When we were in Kent we found out that another account was in circulation, written in Norman French. It’s been rumoured that it’s the true story. But of course it’s not. It’s a pack of lies. It gives a false picture of what happened by changing just a few phrases. They’ve based it on the English version, that’s all you can say for it. The name of the writer has been changed as well. Walter didn’t sign the original himself. He made it clear he was writing on behalf of Wyclif and the people, by signing it:
anomenalle.
’
‘In the name of all.’
‘Yes. The false text changed the name to
anonimalle
– as if to say “anonymous”.’
‘Whereas
anomenalle
is a pun that everyone would understand.’ She frowned. ‘What was it Gaunt called Wyclif at his trial at Blackfriars when they tried to indict him on a charge of heresy—?’
‘Nomen.’
‘Exactly. He said, “Avaunt, Nomen!” The name stuck. He banished Wyclif and his nominalist theory in that one phrase. I can understand why Brother Walter would use it as an alias.’
Pierrekyn was watching her carefully. ‘Did you know about the false text?’
She nodded. ‘Like all the magnates, Lord Roger was instructed to have it read aloud to his household and in all his vills and manors. Not to comply would have been seen as treason.’
‘And he did so?’
‘It was either that or lose his head. There were riots in the north as well as in the south. Many knights, caught on the wrong side, had their lands confiscated. Gaunt even had the nerve to summons the men of York to appear in London at the King’s Bench, to try to stop the right of assembly.’
Pierrekyn was looking fearful at having said too much, but he nodded. ‘I know about that. Reynard was in a fury over it. He went to York to support those who wanted to be tried by a jury of ordinary citizens and not down in London where they’d automatically
be found guilty by Gaunt’s hireling Justices.’ He threw her a sharp glance. ‘So what’s de Hutton’s part in all this?’
‘He knew the rumours and suspected that the text was a pack of lies but he had no choice but to ask someone to read it out.’
Roger had asked Ulf but the steward had pleaded some cause to prevent him. It was the Chamberlain who had read it out, his habitual lugubrious tones adding a satirical edge to the words, aptly expressing his own views as well as those of his master.
‘When he finished Roger looked around at his attendants. No one spoke. Without saying anything, he simply turned on his heel and left the chamber.’
‘Reynard said he was out of the common ruck.’ Pierrekyn gave a half-smile. ‘There’d be nothing Gaunt’s followers could indict him on. He’d done as he’d been ordered.’
The danger, as they both knew, was that the false document, written in Norman French to appeal to the magnates, was believed by those who were not present at Tyler’s murder, and ordinary people, wishing only for a quiet life and with only hearsay to go on, believed it too. They did not understand the depths to which the power-hungry would stoop in order to hide the truth and attain their ends.
So many copies of the false account had been made and disseminated by Gaunt that its message had already begun to overtake the original. It bolstered the lie that Tyler’s followers had malign intentions towards the king. It was naive to believe that truth would out. Unless something was done to counter it, the truth could lie hidden for decades to come. Maybe for ever.

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