Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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She set to work. The ends of his fingers were a bloody pulp. The inquisitors had done a thorough job. Delicately she wiped away any loose skin, staunched the flow of blood that was started up again then applied a mixture of honey and a few other things taught secretly to her many years ago. Then she had to cut strips of cloth and bandage each of his fingers separately.

Afterwards he apologised for his oaths.

She smiled. ‘I’ve heard far worse. And from nuns too.’

A little life came back into his eyes. Unable to hold anything, he looked helplessly at the bread and broth. She told him to shut up and do as he was told, then to open his mouth to eat the broth she was about to feed him like the babe in arms he was and then, when he had polished off the last of the bread which she was also going to feed to him, gobbet by gobbet, she wanted to know everything that had happened.

He did as he was told, taking the bread soaked in broth from between her fingers with closed eyes. The strength began to seep back inside him.

‘You’d never do this if I had the use of my hands,’ he murmured.

‘I wouldn’t need to.’

‘True.’

His brown eyes flickered with a show of spirit as she urged him to eat it all.

‘Worse than my mam,’ he told her when she finished by brushing the crumbs off his tunic, ‘but twice as beautiful.’ He levered himself into a different position. ‘Tell me, domina, when will I be able to use my hands to lift my sword against those bastards?’

‘Soon enough.’

‘They wanted to know about our methods. Fancy that.’

‘What methods?’

‘How we took the mine down so deep. How we drained the water out at those kind of depths. That sort of thing. One daft fellow asked if we’d ever got down far enough to see the flames of hell. That’s one question I did answer. “Raging hot they are and as big as mountains.” He was excited about that. Wants to go down and see them for himself. They didn’t translate when I told him I hoped it’d be sooner than he thinks. Then they wanted to know what sort of deal the Emperor had made with Chancellor de la Pole.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘I told them nothing. Anyway, how the hell would I know what Wenceslas offered de la Pole? We got Good Queen Anne in exchange for a go at their silver mines. Mother of the next king of England. I reckon that’s prize enough for us.’

He held up his bloodied bandages. ‘For every nail there was a question. For every question there was no answer.’ He shuddered in the aftermath of his ordeal and pretended it was the cold.

Hildegard wanted to hold him against her as if by doing so she could protect him from further violence. Instead she urged him to keep talking, as the best cure for shock she knew. ‘Tell me what’s happened to Peter.’

‘When they brought me back they made sure he had a good long look at my hands. He went as white as a sheet. I said, “Fear not, I told ‘em nothing. Stand firm for the brotherhood. “I will,” he said. He gave me the clenched fist. For King Richard and the true Commons, domina, as I know you understand.’

‘I do. You’re brave lads. England’s best.’

‘I gave them nothing. My only fear is, will he stand firm?’

‘He will. Trust him. He’s rock solid.’

‘I wouldn't blame him if they found a way to destroy him and make him talk.’ Tears came into his eyes but he could not brush them away because of the pain in his useless hands when they knocked against anything so he had to allow them to trickle down his cheeks into the bristles on his chin. Hildegard turned away so he would not know she had seen them and be shamed.

She left soon after that, saying she would return shortly with something else to sustain him and she hoped it would be more than food and wine.

‘What wine?’ he called after her. A cackling laugh followed.

**

When she reached the guest quarters where Sir John Fitzjohn was staying it was Bertram who greeted her. He conducted her to where Fitzjohn’s steward was sitting in a cramped ante chamber no bigger than a kennel for the hounds. He was a thin, dark, morose fellow and glowered when Bertram appeared. ‘What do you want?’

‘My lady of Meaux begs audience with her countryman Sir John,’ he announced.

‘She does, does she?’ The steward looked her up and down as if he was about to give a sniff of dismissal when he chanced to catch her eye. He shambled to his feet. ‘Domina, Sir John has nothing to do with nuns. He has his own chaplain.’

‘This is not a church matter. I beg only a little of his time on private business.’

Grudgingly he ordered Bertram to go inside and inquire if Sir John had any thoughts on the matter.

In a trice the boy was back. With a covert smile of triumph he announced, ‘Sir John will grant the holy sister a brief audience. Please follow me, domina.’

Hildegard turned to the steward. ‘Thank you, my lord steward, I am obliged to you.’

In the passageway Bertram turned a grinning face to her. ‘We got the better of that old goat, domina. He makes our lives hell. But be warned, Sir Jack is no better and he’s in a foul mood today.’

He opened the door into a fairly impressive chamber with a high ceiling covered in plaster mouldings displaying the papal insignia with windows down one side giving a distant view over the battlements towards the red roofs of Avignon.

At one end, turned towards the door, stood the imposing figure of Sir John. He was wearing body armour, a leather hauberk showing underneath a tunic of some heavy fabric, cambric or worsted, with the blazon of the earl of Woodstock embroidered finely upon it. His sword belt was lying on a bench next to him within reach but he wore a tooled leather belt low and wound twice round his hips in the latest style.

His blond hair was shoulder length and brushed straight back from his face to reveal strong bones and a confident expression. At some time his nose had been broken but it did not detract from his good looks, merely enhancing them and giving a ruggedness to features that might otherwise be thought too regular.

Edmund, the dutiful esquire, had already stepped from behind the door and, looking well-turned out himself, offered a deep and courtly flourish. ‘Domina, may I conduct you into the presence of my lord, Sir John Fitzjohn.’

Hildegard followed. Then Sir John was standing over her.

**

‘Anyone from England is welcome here, domina. Have you news from Westminster?’

‘None that you will not already know, my lord.’

He smiled faintly. ‘You overpraise my intelligencers.’

She noticed now that he had a thin line of carefully razored blond hair on his upper lip and a slight cast in one eye. He was still physically daunting. She was reminded of his younger brother, Escrick, also a bastard son of John of Gaunt, and thought how different they were in appearance, Escrick dark and brutish, with a chip on his shoulder that made him unpredictably dangerous, and this smiling fair-haired and courtly knight.

A few pleasantries were exchanged although he did not offer her a seat or anything to drink from the silver wine flagon on the table at his side.

Picking up his goblet he drank deeply, staring at her over the rim, before asking, ‘So what may I do for you, domina?’

‘I have some information. It is something of which you cannot be aware, given the honour in which you stand.’

A small scowl flickered over his face and he gestured impatiently for her to continue.

‘It has been brought to my notice that two men have been brought to Avignon against their will.’

A long pause followed until he drawled, ‘What’s that to me?’

‘I believe you are aware of these men and that perhaps they were brought as a gift from England for his Holiness?’

‘I brought several men in my retinue but as a gift?’ He feigned amused astonishment.

‘I believe so. A gift, yes, because of what they know.’

‘Go on.’ His initial charm was fading.

‘They are two miners. I have seen where they are being held. They are suffering the most abject conditions. One of them has already been tortured.’

His lips tightened. ‘I ask again, what has this to do with me?’

‘They are your countrymen, my lord. They arrived in your retinue.’

He glared at her and she saw the colour rise to his cheeks. He turned on Edmund who was obediently standing by and cuffed him sharply on the side of the head. ‘What are you gawping at, dolt? Go and find a job, you idle devil.’

Edmund bowed his head quickly but not before Hildegard saw the dart of rage in his eyes.

Before he reached the door, Fitzjohn called him back. ‘On second thoughts, stay here and learn something if you can get anything into that fat head of yours.’

Edmund came back and stood beside Fitzjohn with his glance fixed on the floor and his cheeks flaming in anger.

Fitzjohn turned to Hildegard. With an air of exaggerated politeness he said, ‘I am at a loss, domina. You come to me in order to inform me that two Englishmen have been abducted and are now being tortured by my host, his holiness Pope Clement?’

‘One tortured, so far,’ she corrected.

She did not want to add oil to fire but she needed to make things plain. ‘As an Englishwoman I find it a most heinous insult to our king that his subjects should be punished by a foreign power, one whose authority our king does not recognise. I understand that you are in ignorance of this treatment, of course, otherwise you would not countenance the stain on your own honour and that of your country.’

He pulled at his stripling moustache for a moment. Took another drink from his silver goblet. ‘Torture?’ he said at last. ‘No, that will not do. But you see the difficulty of my situation, domina?’

She waited for him to continue.

‘Let’s assume they were brought over here in my entourage somehow or other. As a woman, as a nun, you will not understand the delicate nature of our policy towards our host.’

Hildegard showed no sign of how she felt at his words.

He mistook her silence for encouragement. ‘What steps can I take that will not offend his Holiness? Can I go to him and say, “Clement, this will not do?” No, of course not. These men you mention, whoever they are, must have earned their punishment. We are now, I’m afraid to say, within the jurisdiction of the papal court of our most holy father, Pope Clement. Do you see that?’

‘I see my countrymen being tortured for no fault of their own. Your men, Sir John, ones you brought over here.’

‘They say that, do they?’ His eyes narrowed.

‘They have no idea who brought them here.’

‘So as I said before, what has this to do with me?’

Hildegard waited. They both knew the truth.

Fitzjohn’s expression hardened. ‘Understand this, I will not jeopardise the interests of my lord, earl Thomas of Woodstock, the Duke of Gloucester, no less, for the sake of a little discomfort suffered by two miners. They should tell the pope’s men what they want and then go free. This mulish resistance to a perfectly acceptable exchange of information is absurd. What is wrong with the men that they should refuse to cooperate? Are they traitors to England’s prince?’

Before she could summon an answer he ground on, ‘It seems like it. They deserve all they get! If they don’t want to serve the prince and his interests then I’ll send men down myself to see if our methods are more persuasive than those of the pope. Now, if you’ll excuse me, lady, I suggest you stop meddling in things that don’t concern you and get back to your prayers. I have pressing matters deserving my attention.’ He gave a dismissive bow.

Edmund, glance averted from his lord, stepped smartly in front of her, and indicating that she should follow, briskly marched from the chamber.

When the door closed behind them Edmund would not look at her but tried to lead her back down the corridor with his head averted.

‘Edmund, wait.’ She put out a hand to detain him before they turned the corner to where the steward’s dog kennel was. ‘Does that happen often?’

His eyes were glistening with rage. He nodded.

‘It was uncalled for.’

‘It can be worse.’

‘This is not ended. None of it. Trust me.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I may need your help and that of your guild of pages. Is there somewhere private where we can meet?’

**

Hubert’s strong profile was visible between the banners held aloft by the pope’s retinue of clerks and choristers as they processed through the crowds of petitioners into the Great Audience Chamber. He was standing on the opposite side of the nave with the other Cistercians to witness the proceedings.

Hildegard had convinced herself that his coldness towards her was what she desired. She had no with to restart their little amour if that’s what it had been. It would be wrong on every level. She could not help recalling, however, Hubert’s declaration of desire two years ago under the soaring arches of Beverley Minster. That had been no trifling fancy. His words, vibrating with the intensity of his feelings, had left her in no doubt of the depth of his emotions. Now, it seemed as much a chimera as the page’s promise of riches. Put not thy trust in mortal things.

Well, fools might. She wouldn’t, she hadn’t, and Hubert could go to perdition as he had told her to. It was better this way. She had no right even to remember anything of that period of her life when her vows had been so shaken by the feeling of desire he aroused.

The chamber, large as it was, filled rapidly as more and more petitioners tried to enter. Soon it was crammed to the walls.

Most had been waiting since before dawn, some even feeling their way in the darkness straight from lauds. Patience, it seemed, was a virtue much practised.

Many Scots had arrived, she noticed, Clement being their chosen pope with preferment in his gift. A canon of Eglinton, for instance, lecturing in Paris, was one of the first to present his petition. It was for a benefice in the gift of the abbot of the convent of St Andrews. He excused the fact that he already received the profits from the priory of Blantyre by saying that he would resign it in favour of St Andrews, the richer one, she supposed.

She listened to the words droning on over the heads of the crowd but her thoughts were elsewhere. A plan had to be quickly made and it had to be foolproof. Lives were at stake.

The words of the petitioners drifted around her. The rich livings offered by Clement were dependent on the gifts of gold he received and the fealty he could expect in return. They were dependent on the sort of fidelity to him that would extend his empire.

The canon got his wish and must have been overjoyed to find he need never go short of the trappings of worldly wealth again.

Another petitioner followed, a priest seeking the benefit of a convent in Arbroath, and was less successful on the grounds that he already held the prebend of Dunkeld which he did not wish to relinquish. He left, chuntering to himself about injustice.

Then three Scots appeared together and put their pleas to the canons simultaneously. Clement intervened when he saw his influence diluted by their ambition. Better for him to spread his influence rather than concentrate it in the hands of one or two who might be seduced by the offer of richer pickings elsewhere and take a large chunk of his estate with them. She saw him bend his head and mutter something to one of the clerks who turned to his roll and began to scribble rapidly.

Hildegard could see John Fitzjohn among the crowd. His four men-at-arms were ranged about him. At least they were not trying their persuasion on the miners yet. Fitzjohn had not, to her knowledge, submitted his petition which he would have to do in public. It would be dependent on John and Peter being free with their trade secrets. It would be no good offering knowledge if it could not be laid hold of and used.

The purpose of such a gift was still a mystery. There must be new discoveries of silver or maybe even gold somewhere within the Papal States. The miners may not have heard about any new deposits, despite their confidence. As for what Woodstock wanted in return, it could only be the knowledge that he had a wealthy ally should it ever come to a military showdown with King Richard.

While her glance was ranging around the chamber she accidentally caught Hubert’s eye and quickly turned away.

The number of petitioners did not seem to dwindle. Half way through the morning another team of clerks took over, fresh and efficient, unstoppering their ink horns with relish while the others headed hungrily for the Tinel and the first sitting at dinner. Fitzjohn went out accompanied by one of his men, a big fellow, empty scabbard hanging like a broken arm. Both reappeared a few moments later looking relieved.

At least Fitzjohn had not yet sent his men to test the will of the miners.

An air of tedium began to settle over the onlookers. They stood stupefied listening to the petitioners as if comparing the gifts received by others with their own aspirations.

In this very hall, she thought, glancing round as she edged towards the doors, it is likely that the man who murdered Maurice is smiling and looking devout and maybe even scribbling down the details of some priest’s acquisitions or attending to his duties to his lord. He could be anyone here. He is going to get away with it. And there is nothing I can do.

She reached the door and was about to go through when a voice stopped her.

**

‘All right. Enough of the black looks. I didn’t mean what I said.’ A familiar voice in her ear. It was Hubert.

The scent of fresh mint and sandalwood swept over her as if to draw them together. She took a startled step back. Even then he seemed to be standing right over her.

She made to move away but he reached for her sleeve and gripped it so tightly she couldn’t escape without drawing attention to herself.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Hubert. Let me go,’ she demanded in a fierce whisper.

He held on. ‘Listen to me.’

‘Why should I if it’s to insult me again?’

‘Insult you?’

‘To tell me to go to hell, as you did not two days ago.’

‘I said no such thing.’

‘Oh no?’

‘Perdition. I said perdition. I swear, I only meant – ’

‘I have no interest in what you say you meant.’ She tried to prise his fingers open to free her sleeve to no avail.

‘I’m stronger than you.’

‘So, go ahead, take advantage of the fact. It just goes to show what you’re like.’

He moved closer, pulling her against him as he did so, murmuring, ‘And what am I like?’ He added in a deeper voice, ‘Hildegard? Answer me.’

‘Let me go, Hubert. Are you trying to cause a scene in public?’

‘Who cares about the public, if that’s what you call this mob. I don’t care what they think and I’m sure you don’t.’

‘I have to live here among these people, at least for a time.’

‘So do I.’

‘It’s up to you if you care so little for your reputation.’

‘It’ll make no difference to my reputation. They’ll assume you’re my concubine. It’ll give you more status.’

‘Get away from me!’

‘It’s the custom here, hadn’t you noticed?’

‘What is?’

‘Every churchman of standing has a lover, a handsome boy or a beautiful woman. It’s the necessary pass to gaining preferment. It demonstrates that they can be bought. Slack morals apply across the board. Would you deny me the chance to become a cardinal?’

‘This is monstrous! Let me go!’

‘We’ll soon be back at Meaux.’

‘And do you intend to make concubines the custom there?’

His teeth were very white when he smiled, face razor-boned, hawklike, skin tight, unlined. He murmured, ‘If we follow Pope Clement maybe he’ll insist?’

She tried to move away again but the crowd was surging into the next ante chamber taking them both with it and it was impossible to force a way out, especially with Hubert grasping her sleeve.

She turned back to him in fury but with her voice low. ‘Do you want to cause a scandal and get me dragged before the court?’

‘It would never come to that. Not here.’ Despite his words he slowly released her. ‘Is this really how it’s going to be?’

‘How else?’

She swivelled, bumped into someone, nearly stumbled, but managed to avoid the hand Hubert put out. In a moment the crowd had shuffled between them and she made her escape.

When she got out into the corridor she was trembling. ‘Damn him,’ she muttered. ‘Damn him, damn him to perdition and damn him to hell, both.’

**

She could not trust him. Despite that strange remark if we follow Pope Clement he seemed to have no doubt he was on the path to preferment. And she could help! She felt like spitting bolts of iron. It certainly explained his presence here as more than the conventional one of following orders. He had so far failed to mention the terrible events taking place at home. Burley. Neville. Tresilian and the rest, indicted on charges of treason. Beheading their possible punishment.

It showed his indifference to the fate of the king and of England itself if such men as these could be attacked and receive no comment from him.

He was here in Avignon, at the behest of Clement. He was what she had long suspected, a spy, and now he had returned to the heart of the secret network that spread throughout Europe with England as its target. He was about to climb to the next rung of the ladder in the pope’s hierarchy.

Obviously she could not trust him. It was futile even to think it.

**

And who could she trust now? She had to help the miners to safety. She could not sit by and let good, honest, loyal men be tortured for their innocent part in the games played by the enemies of King Richard. Beset by enemies, she could think of only one source where she might find allies.

A tug on her sleeve as she stood uncertainly in the ante chamber made her turn. As if summoned by her thoughts, it was Peterkin.

‘I’ve been trying to catch up with you since I saw you listening to the petitioners.’ He beamed. In a conspiratorial voice he added, ‘Come up to the next floor after tierce and wait at the top of the steps if you will.’

He drifted back into the crowd like a wraith.

**

Edmund and the guild of pages. She would listen to Edmund and see how she might help him against Fitzjohn. The least she could do was to counsel patience. His time as an esquire would soon be over. He would come of age. Then men like Fitzjohn would have no power over him. She would do what she could although she did not hold out much hope that Fitzjohn could be persuaded to treat Edmund more reasonably. He was not so different as at first appeared to his younger brother, Escrick Fitzjohn. Chips off the old block. As like their father John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, as made no difference.

She made her way up the spiral stair that led to the friar’s cell, thinking how the attendants were able to get in anywhere, they were so much part of the busy daily scene.

They could ask questions among the other members of the retinues. Find out who had been where and when. No-one bothered much about them. She had already seen Peterkin obtaining information for Fitzjohn in the kitchens. She did not doubt that he had been sent there on purpose now she had seen more of what went on.

They could certainly find out a few things for her too if she asked them. From the French pages, perhaps, who were here at the time of Maurice’s murder. And maybe it was even one of them who had issued what might have been a dare to Maurice. Maybe he was now in fear that he would be found out and accused of murder.

With the lavender-soaked cloth pressed to her face she made her way along the passage at the top of the steps until she came to the nail-studded door.

The stink of fox. That was what came suddenly to mind. But it was a gryphon that had brought death, not a fox.

**

The old monk was reading at his lectern, peering myopically with a polished glass that enlarged the letters on the page.

‘And so the mystery remains,’ he murmured, half to himself but audibly enough. ‘Like a book forever closed to us. So be it.’ He raised his glance and looked across the chamber. ‘We are told that so far everything in the treasury has been accounted for. Is that not good news, domina?’

‘If it was a dare to get inside the treasury then it is only to be expected that nothing was taken.’

‘And that is now your considered view?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You sound uncertain?’

‘It is a great sorrow to me that a young life should be thrown away on a dare.’

‘Ah, yes, mortality, that most transient of states, how lightly we hold it. It is like playing with a bird, sometimes it quickly flies away and is gone forever.’

He spoke in the tones of one who could not see himself in the role of the bird but only and always as the one with the power to play.

This was such a sudden insight into his character that it broke over her like shattering glass: his indifference to the death of a young man with his life before him. Maybe he did not know what it was to lose someone close to his heart.

Maurice must have kin, a mother wondering how her boy fared away from home, a father perhaps, sisters whose thoughts embraced him. She had seen his brother Elfric and his grief-stricken face and could not forget it.

She realised she was staring at Athanasius as she tried to understand the workings of his heart when she heard him saying, ‘…but our search for the pretty little dagger must still go on, of course.’

She gazed at him in confusion before she properly understood. ‘Yes,’ she replied belatedly, ‘I suppose it is a costly thing. Clement would not want to lose such an item as that.’

‘Quite so. You will do what you can to find it.’

**

He takes a lot on himself to be giving me orders, Hildegard grumbled to herself as she reached the fresh air outside his chamber. I’ve come across arrogance before, she thought bitterly, Hubert de Courcy for instance, but Athanasius is more deeply dyed in his own superiority, less given to self-doubts than Hubert.

It made her reconsider the old man’s role here. Was he simply a corrodian, living out his last days on a papal pension as she was led to believe?

Most corrodians offered something in return for their bed and board. If not money, then service. What did Athanasius offer?

**

Before keeping her meeting with Edmund she wanted to look in on the prisoners to find out if Peter was back from his visit to the office of the inquisition. The guards, she was pleased to note, had been reduced to one. It was the fellow on duty earlier. He was beginning to accept her, even though he put on a suspicious face when he examined the bread, cheese and flagon of wine she was carrying.

‘Go on in, then,’ he growled gesturing up the stairway.

Fearing what she would find she climbed the familiar steps and pushed open the door at the top. To her relief Peter was sitting up in the straw and seemed unharmed.

‘What did they do?’ she asked.

‘Gave me a thorough questioning but without any of the business with the finger nails. Mebbe they think I’m the soft one.’ He grinned. ‘That’s how I’m playing it. They’re getting nowt from me but stories.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘They think I’m an addle wit.’

John, still clearly in pain, asked, ‘So when do we get out of here, domina?’

‘I have a plan,’ she whispered with a glance towards the door. She was aware that the guard had followed her up. She put a finger to her lips.

The guard poked his head into the cell. ‘You lucky lads,’ he observed when he saw Hildegard pouring out two beakers of wine. ‘Better treatment than I get at home.’

Hildegard lifted her head. ‘Would you like to share a beaker with us, captain?’

He wasn’t a captain but he blossomed and sidled into the cell. One hand came out to take the clay pot. ‘Merci. A Dieu!’ He gulped it back in one as if fearing to be caught, and returned the empty pot.

‘You’re welcome,’ she told him. ‘I know I can trust you to look after these two poor fellows for me.’

He said something she translated along the lines of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,’ and leered in a way perhaps intended to be friendly.

After a moment or two he sidled out again.

‘This, what you just mentioned,’ murmured John with a glance towards the door. ‘What does it entail?’

‘Liberty. I can tell you no more. It depends on several factors. Trust me though.’

‘We need only to get out of the palace. We can find our own way after that.’

‘You’ll need to get out through the town walls as well. The quay lies only a short distance from the river gate to the North. If you make your way there you’ll be able to buy passage on a wine boat or some such. I’ll see what I can fix up.’

‘It’s how we get out of here that’s the problem. How many guards are on?’

‘Only the one now. They’re beginning to feel you’ll cause no more trouble.’

Peter growled something and John said, ‘Don’t fret, old son. Once we’re out of here we’re as good as home.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘We’ll head up to Aquitaine, of course. Good old English soil. Then we’re home and dry.’

**