The Red Velvet Turnshoe (8 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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After the usual greetings it baldly stated:
Go not to Rome but to Florence. We are told that you will find what we seek in the possession of the sacristan of the church they call Santi Apostoli. God be with you.
There was the familiar flourish of the prioress’s signature.
Florence? After her initial shock she reminded herself that at least the journey would be shorter. She would be back at Swyne – back at Meaux – the sooner.
 
When she returned indoors she found Sir Talbot at once. ‘Were you informed of our destination?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I go where you command, Sister. Those are the terms of my employment.’
‘We go to Florence then.’
He nodded, unperturbed, his ruddy features cheerful, and after a quick calculation he said, ‘It’s a journey of under twenty-five days in the height of summer. I reckon it’ll take forty days at this time of year. And as I’m to conduct you back over the Alps as well, forty days to return.’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘By the time we’re back on
this side of the mountains, the tournament season will be about to start. The journey should keep me in trim,’ he added. ‘Are you well prepared for the rigours ahead, Sister?’
‘As well as I ever will be.’
 
She went up to tell Pierrekyn to be ready to leave at first light and found him fingering the strings of his lute in silence. Seeing him occupied, she took the opportunity to check over her own belongings again.
At the bottom of her scrip she found the piece of embroidered silk that had been handed to her on the quayside at Ravenser.
It was a puzzle. There was no doubting what it was. Sir Talbot himself was wearing something similar round his own neck under his gambeson although his was new looking and lacked embroidery in the corner. Long ago the Templars wore similar tokens to the one she held. Borage held the same meaning among all the chivalry.
Courage.
Was it a token from someone who wished her well? The person who had hired Sir Talbot maybe? Or was it a warning? She tucked it back inside her scrip and glanced up to find Pierrekyn watching her.
‘A love token, Sister?’ he asked in mock reproof.
‘Amor vincit,
Master, as I’m sure you agree.’
He laughed aloud and, remembering just in time to keep his voice down, whispered, ‘I don’t think you’re a nun. I think you’re a spy.’
When she replied it was in a whisper but the warning was clear. ‘Don’t ever let anyone hear you hint such a thing, not even in jest. Have you any idea what could happen if such a rumour got about?’
‘Why should I care – if you’re spying for the wrong side?’
‘And which one is that?’
‘Ha! You think I’m going to fall into your trap, do you?’ He shut his mouth and ran his fingers over his lips to show they were sealed. Then he began to play his silent tune again.
Hildegard rose to her feet. ‘I’m going out. I’ll bring you back something to eat.’
There was one visit she had to make before they left. With the change of destination it had become important. She had to see Ludovico. His
famiglia
had their headquarters in Florence. One of the twelve priors who ran the city was his
capo,
Ser Vitelli. His help might be vital.
T
HERE WAS A sharp wind from the east. It snagged the pennants on the lances of the militia, pulled at the hoods of the travellers milling at the south gate, and made the tarpaulins on the goods wagons billow and crack as they began to trundle down the hill away from the town.
As Hildegard had expected, dawn was the best time to leave. The constable was yawning his head off and paid little attention to what in his eyes must have looked like the usual trail of folk leaving the town – merchants, always merchants, their baggage trains a source of revenue, the drivers and their guards too numerous to count properly, and among them the white-cloaked pilgrims and the riff-raff who followed them, pardoners and friars and others leaving Bruges on personal business.
The constable reeked of ale. All the better she thought, as they jostled past him. Pierrekyn’s face was concealed by a parti-coloured hood purchased, with some forethought, by Sir Talbot in the market yesterday. Now, knight and squire were already through the inner ring of guards. Hildegard had suggested they go on ahead and rejoin her as soon as the convoy was on the move. That way they would draw less attention to themselves. Her hounds remained close at her heels.
Sir Talbot had hired a horse. It had been skittish when it was brought out from the stable, too full of oats and proud of its power over the unskilled riders who usually sat him, but the moment Sir Talbot threw his leg over his back he surrendered at once to a master. Pierrekyn, too, was walking obediently by Sir Talbot’s side as if bewitched into good behaviour.
Holding her breath she saw them start out under the portcullis. They reached the outer gate with its gathering of militia. Then,
with a sigh of relief, she saw them pass through. Soon only the erect figure of Sir Talbot was visible as the milling foot-travellers closed in behind.
Her own turn came. The constable barely glanced at a nun in a blue cloak. She followed the stream of foot passengers through the gate and was soon safely on the road to the south.
 
As she walked with the other pilgrims, always keeping Sir Talbot and Pierrekyn in sight, Hildegard thought about Reynard’s murder and how she might question the boy further. She wondered how much she could confide in the knight when she did not know who had hired him. But she could not help but notice how kind he was to the horse, leading him some of the way, allowing Pierrekyn to ride beside the wagon while keeping an eye on him, now and then gently reproving him for pulling at the horse’s mouth, and giving praise whenever he could, all with the greatest good humour.
Later that morning a wagon drove alongside her and as it drew level the driver called down, inviting her to climb up if she wanted. ‘Always room for a Cistercian, Sister! Make the most of it. Your feet are going to be sore blistered if you’re planning on walking all the way to Rome!’
Thanking him, she climbed aboard. He didn’t waste time in conversation. There were too many pilgrims following the road to make them interesting any more. Instead he chatted to his lad and whistled now and then between his teeth with satisfaction at his lot.
Sir Talbot and his squire continued to make good progress. They managed to get further ahead when the wagon she was on was held up because somebody decided to unload their belongings and travel with friends they’d spotted in the crowd. With much cheerful shouting the wagoner heaved down their luggage, to be grasped by eager hands and hauled up onto another wagon following theirs.
As they started to move off again Hildegard was startled to find a man clambering up beside her.
She recognised him at once, even with the hood half over his face. It was the beggar from the market place, the one who had made off to the alehouse with her alms as soon as he had the coins in his
hands. Now he pushed back his hood to reveal his face completely. She drew in a sharp breath.
‘Aye, you remember me all right, don’t you?’
Her heart began to hammer and one hand slid to her knife.
He gave a sneering laugh. ‘You won’t be needing that yet, lady. Do you think me stupid enough to try anything with this mob so close at hand? Not to mention those bloody brutes of yours.’
He scowled at the two hounds. Duchess and Bermonda were trotting beside the wagon, all their attention on the stranger with his head so close to that of their mistress.
‘Escrick Fitzjohn, what do you want of me?’
‘I remember you posed the same question last time we met.’
‘You mean when you broke into my chamber at Castle Hutton in the middle of the night with a blade in your hand?’ She faced him squarely.
‘The answer’s still the same,’ he said. ‘Just a little matter of redress.’
He lifted his left hand and ran a finger down the side of his jaw, tracking the scar that deformed his features. Pricks of blood seeped from an unhealed sore. Reaching out, he ran the same finger across her cheek to the corner of her mouth.
As she dashed his hand away he jumped down from the wagon. There was the same smile on his face she had seen before. She shivered. The wagon carried on. Soon his ragged shape mingled with those of the other foot-travellers and even when she craned her neck he was nowhere to be seen.
She scrubbed at her cheek with her sleeve. He had been outlawed for murder and must have fled to the low countries as many did. Surely it was chance that he had caught sight of her leaving Bruges. She shivered again at the thought that he might have followed her, remembering the hooded figure on the quay at Ravenser, waiting for the third ship to leave. The idea was too fanciful to entertain for more than a moment.
Oblivious to what had happened, Sir Talbot and Pierrekyn rode on ahead.
 
Eventually they reached their first night’s halt, a sprawling inn, purpose built for the trade to and from the south. They were offered a straw
pallet each and as much pottage as they could eat, rough fare but welcome. The main highway from Flanders and Paris converged on the town and many merchants joined the convoy while others saw their merchandise sent onwards along the Seine before returning home. In all the traffic along the route there was no sign of Escrick Fitzjohn.
Hildegard didn’t mention her encounter to Sir Talbot. It would involve telling the knight what had happened last autumn between Lord Roger, his ambitious sister-in-law Sibilla and her husband, Roger’s brother Sir Ralph. Their plotting to dupe Roger’s eldest son of his inheritance by passing off a servant’s child as their own had been revealed and the couple had retired to their stronghold near Scarborough Castle and were lying low to give Roger time to forgive and forget.
Now, it seemed, their outlawed house-servant, Escrick Fitzjohn, was on the loose. He had murdered one of Roger’s maids and one of the brothers at Meaux, in addition to many other heinous acts for which he deserved to be punished, but instead of showing remorse and asking for his sins to be forgiven, it seemed all he wanted was revenge on the person he held responsible for revealing his crimes: Hildegard herself.
It was like a bad dream to discover him travelling the same road. The fact that he had vanished only added to her sense of danger.
She slept badly throughout that first week. Sharing a dormitory with other religious travellers, one of whom snored lustily every night, left her yawning and exhausted. Even so she made sure she kept up with Sir Talbot and Pierrekyn on the road and that her hounds were always to heel. Unaware of her fear but with the code of chivalry never far from his mind, Sir Talbot insisted she ride the hireling as often as she wished but she often chose to walk instead, feeling less conspicuous with her feet on the ground than sitting high up above the heads of the other travellers.
 
And so the days unfolded. Bruges, Troyes, Dijon. There was a rhythm to the journey that soon took over and seemed to obliterate any other thought beyond the next destination. If the limbs of the travellers ached during the first few days, as the weeks unfolded they became hardened to the continual exercise.
Sir Talbot in particular relished the opportunity to stride out on foot at the head of the cavalcade, or meander off into the trees on the pretext of scouting for robbers. He was astounding in his physical fitness. His unbounded energy was the envy of many.
So far there had been only rumours about the bands of thieves known to prey on the baggage trains carrying merchandise back and forth to the fairs in Champagne and beyond – their prevalence putting up the cost of insurance – but for safety three mercenaries had been engaged at the last halt to escort them through the notorious tracts of forest separating Champagne from the duchy of Burgundy.
Big, rough, well-armed fellows who clearly despised the merchants and their companions, they rode mettlesome horses fore and aft of the convoy while maintaining a professional distance from everyone.
Pierrekyn trudged along with his lute across his back, saying very little, or sat on the tailgate of one of the wagons and let his fingers pluck a tune from the strings, sometimes singing to himself.
A different person emerged then, one who was vulnerable and full of fun. He was painstaking in learning new tunes, practising the same phrase over and over again when he thought he was out of earshot. Most evenings he would flex his fingers at the fire then entertain the travellers after their repast. The merchants were particularly generous to him and soon he acquired a pouch filled with many different currencies.
One evening he spread them out on the table in front of Hildegard. ‘Teach me their value,’ he asked. ‘I know you talked to Ser Ludovico about such matters. They look like nothing but buttons to me.’
She explained the difference as well as she could between soldi, denarii, fiorentini and gulden. ‘The comparative values are difficult to work out as they change almost every day. Each town sets its own values on its coins. This grosso for instance,’ she poked one of the coins with a finger, ‘had to be launched in Venice recently as a multiple of several smaller silver pieces because they’d become almost worthless. But you can get a cup of burgundy for one of these.’ She
pushed another coin towards him. ‘And this silver farthing will buy you a pie.’
‘I’ll put you to the test.’ He swept up the coins and went to the back of the house where the innkeeper kept his barrels. When he returned he held a flagon of burgundy crooked under one arm, two clay beakers and a couple of steaming rabbit pies. He set them down on the table between them.
‘You were right, Sister,’ he said with a rare smile. ‘And here’s your earthly reward. Now tell me, having got me safely out of Flanders for reasons best known to yourself, what are you going to do with me? Am I to come all the way to Florence with you?’
‘I insist on it.’ By the time they arrived Ulf would surely have sent word that Reynard’s murderer had been found and the boy would go free.
‘Just so I know you’re not going to discard me in some godforsaken mountain hamlet without a farthing to my name.’ He poured a generous cup of wine for each of them. ‘I almost believe I can survive this hellish journey,’ he said after a long drink. ‘Here’s to you and nuns in general!’
She raised her cup. ‘And to you and the brotherhood of minstrels.’
Sir Talbot joined them. ‘Aren’t you going to give us a song this evening, Master Pierrekyn? Or do I have to order you to pick up your lute?’ Full of good nature, he thumped the boy heartily on the back to encourage him.
In response Pierrekyn produced one of his dazzling smiles. ‘My pleasure is yours, sir knight.’
Talbot watched him set up with his instrument on a stool by the hearth. ‘He’s a fresh, perverted sort of lad,’ he observed. ‘But I suspect there’s good in him, somewhere. I’ve half a mind to take him back to Paris with me. He’d do well there. They don’t begrudge paying for their music. I’m just wary about the looks I’d get. My lady might have something to say to me!”
‘I wonder about his future,’ Hildegard confided. ‘He needs a master if he’s to join the guild and make his living from his playing.’
There had been no sign that Pierrekyn would harm a man, let alone plunge a dagger into his chest, but who would take him on with a suspicion of murder hanging over him?
A small boy of no more than ten had joined the convoy at the last town and now, clearly a fan of Pierrekyn, was standing close by, watching the minstrel’s fingers carefully as if memorising their movements. When Pierrekyn noticed him he gestured for him to come closer.
‘Are you going to sing for us then, young princeling?’ she heard him ask. The boy nodded as if that was his precise motive for pushing himself to the front. She watched the two heads bend close as they discussed their repertoire. Then they began.
The child had a pure unbroken treble and Pierrekyn let him trill alone to his heart’s content for quite a while with only the soft continuo of the lute as support, until he began to add his own husky tenor to the tune, weaving intricate melodies round the piping voice, echoing it in a lower register and reversing the phrases until the audience were spellbound with the magic of two such contrasting voices weaving in harmony.
When they brought the song to an end there was a burst of applause and a few folk banged their mazers on the wooden tables for an encore. Gold and silver coins cascaded at the singers’ feet.

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