The Dragon of Handale (33 page)

Morcar stood, mouth opening and closing like a cod’s. He blinked once or twice. Seeing that there was nothing to be done, he gestured to his men to follow, then slunk away through the cheering ranks of Northumberland’s supporters.

At the door, he turned as if to give a parting shot, but by then most had lost interest in him. Hildegard thought she must have been the only one to see his lips draw back in a vicious snarl as he made his exit.

“A satisfactory outcome,” Ulf observed as he guided Hildegard outside.

“To most, yes.” She mentioned Matt. “I think he was smitten, too.”

“He’ll get over it.”

It had been tempting not to stay to eat and drink their fill in the feast hall, but Ulf had urgent business to attend to.

He looked down at her. “I’m going to search for Petronel before that devil rides off with him.”

“I know. I’m coming with you.”

He tucked her hand in his under his cloak as they crossed to the stables.

C
HAPTER
30

Ulf’s task was to find his stolen horse, then persuade the stable hands still on duty that Petronel belonged to him. While Morcar stood by waiting for his men to bring down his personal baggage and the pack ponies were being loaded up, Ulf was conducted by the prancing little page, Pippin, between the rows of stalls until he came to within a few feet of the last stall, where a horse was covered by a green-and-blue blanket.

Some attempt had been made to keep it out of sight behind a few bales of hay, but Pippin, dancing with delight, pulled Morcar’s colours from her back.

Ulf said something to the stable hands, then gave a whistle. The horse poked its head round the bales, and when it saw Ulf, it started to pull and strain at its halter and snicker with pleasure.

“Let him loose,” Ulf ordered. “See whether he comes to me or to that thief over there.”

Morcar stepped forward, spurs jangling. “What the devil do you mean? Are you calling me a thief?”

Both men had their hands on the hilts of their swords.

The horse master came up. “I heard all that.” He glanced at Ulf. “You’re saying this here fellow stole your horse?”

“I am.”

“When was this, like?”

Ulf told him. He also described the horse with the thoroughness of an owner.

“Go ahead, then. Call him. It’s a fair test.”

Morcar bristled forward. “It’s ridiculous! I won’t participate!”

“Go on,” the horse master urged Ulf. “If he doesn’t know you, you lose him. Can’t say fairer than that.”

Ulf whistled again. With a surge of rippling muscles, the great black horse lunged free of his restraints. His head moved above Ulf, sniffing the air, and then his muzzle came down with a whickering sound and nuzzled into Ulf’s neck. He breathed softly through his nostrils, making sounds of delight, and Ulf flung his arms round the Stallion’s huge neck with a look of joy on his face.

“I reckon that proves it.” The horse master nodded. “Take him.” He turned to Morcar. “It’s not up to me to bring charges. Horse thieving is a serious accusation.”

“Leave it,” murmured Ulf, still fondling Petronel. “He’s got a hard task ahead of him. He’ll need all his energy to get his land back from the Scots.”

“Now we can safely say it’s been a satisfactory outcome,” Ulf said as he led Petronel out into the stable yard.

“Not quite,” Hildegard objected. “I have one or two things to settle back at Handale Priory.”

“You’re not going back there?”

“As soon as possible. You don’t have to come, Ulf. The masons will want to be getting back as soon as they can. I’ll return with them.”

When she left him to find her sleeping quarters in the visitors’ tower, Ulf was standing in the falling snow with his arms round the neck of his great, beautiful beast of a horse, Petronel.

The visitors’ accommodation was in the tower in the outer court, but she made her way past the gatehouse guards thankfully without being noticed. She was just crossing to the tower steps when a rider came tearing in at speed across the hastily lowered drawbridge. He dropped from his mount almost at her feet.

“Mistress, quick, be so kind as to direct me to his grace the earl of Northumberland.”

“In the feast hall. Through there.” She pointed. “What’s happened?”

“Tragedy! A matter of major importance.”

She noticed the royal crest on the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. “Is it the king’s business?”

“It is. You may as well know, as it’s being broadcast throughout the realm. It’s Robert de Vere, marquess of Ireland. He’s been defeated by Henry of Lancaster.”

“By Bolingbroke?”

The man was about to rush on, but she detained him. “I beg you, tell me what’s happened.”

“De Vere was outmanoeuvred by the three armies riding against him. Bolingbroke caught him in a classic pincer grip at Radcot Bridge. They didn’t even engage. The Welsh archers melted away and de Vere had to run for it. Nobody knows where he is. But the army he raised has disappeared. It’s all over for the king.”

So Bolingbroke had made his choice. Now it was up to Northumberland.

“He’s in there!” She pointed again. “You’ll know which one is the earl.”

The courier ran on towards the inner courtyard, and Hildegard felt herself drawn reluctantly after him to witness for herself what effect his news would have. It was momentous. It must mean civil war. Now, surely, the north would rise up in defence of the king. Northumberland could not refuse to go to his aid.

Northumberland was on his feet when she returned to the hall.

Everyone looked poleaxed.

The earl was saying, “If the king had commanded us to raise an army on his behalf, we would have gone. But did he? No, he did not. No message was sent. No courier was despatched to seek our aid. No word came.” He glared round at his followers.

“How were we to know he needed the help of our army?” he continued. “Are we necromancers? Do we read his desires in the lees of our wine cup?”

Northumberland, more verbose than usual, gave his men another baleful glance. He had already been swiftly into his answer to the courier’s news by the time Hildegard had reached the hall. Now she stared at him in disbelief.

But he had not finished.

“I ask you again, my friends, why did the king not call on us? Are we out of favour? We northerners. We are already aware that he regards our continual sacrifice in defending the realm against the Scots in the Marches as of little account. He questions our honesty in deploying our militia. He does not recognise our victories. He starves me of gold to pay you, my men.”

A snigger of disbelief from somewhere in the hall was quickly stifled. It was common knowledge that Northumberland received a chest of gold from the exchequer to cover his expenses every time the Scots attacked.

He did not hear this hint of disbelief and continued in the same vein.

“Our king demands more and then more still, without reward or recompense. He appoints new Wardens of the March on a whim, often fellows without a title among them. And now, when his quarrel with his uncles is too much for him to deal with, he sends this courier! He begs for help! From us! The men he otherwise ignores! No offence to you, my friend.” He lowered his voice and turned to the courier. “You are only doing your job, as must we all. Bringing the news from Radcot, wherever the hell that is. Some heathen place down south, I’m told. But it is we; we are the ones he now expects to sacrifice our Marcher privileges to the Scots and run to his aid! I ask, why us?”

Northumberland took a deep drink from a chased gold mazer, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and continued. “I say, leave southern quarrels to the southerners. Leave it to those who reap the rewards. Leave it to the men who fight among themselves and notice us only when they need our help. Why should we put ourselves at risk in a petty family quarrel? Would they do the same for us if I fell out with my son, young Harry Hotspur?”

Hildegard did not wait to hear more. So that was it. Richard would be left to his fate.

Despite the fact that the north had been in uproar when, only last autumn, the dukes, led by Gloucester, had impeached King Richard’s chancellor, Michael de la Pole, a wealthy merchant’s son from Hull, on what everyone knew to be trumped-up charges of embezzlement, now, it seemed, their memories were short. Not one landowner had spoken in the king’s defence.

Roger de Hutton, she noted, was absent.

She went out into the snow and looked up at the sky. It had cleared. Somewhere up there, King Richard’s star shone, but among all the millions in the sky tonight, it was hard to see whether it was falling or not.

During the night, a howling easterly rocked the three towers of Kilton Castle. The sound kept everyone awake. By morning, the wind dropped and the sun glittered in the bluest of skies. Best of all for the travellers, snow on the moors road had been scoured away from all but the deepest dales.

The two masons were for taking the long route back to Handale Priory. As they could see from the battlements, where they went to make a survey of the terrain, frozen drifts lay deep and treacherous in the gullies between the tree-covered ridges of the woods.

“Be it so,” Hildegard reluctantly agreed. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder.

She had already said good-bye to Ulf. He intended to stay a few days to see if Northumberland would have a change of heart and to hear any further news from the south as soon as it was brought in.

He would, he told her, stop at the priory on his way back to Langbrough, when, no doubt, the bailiffs would have arrested Master Fulke on charges of abduction, theft of goods, and possibly murder.

As they neared the outer limits of the priory, the snow, unlike that on the high moor, lay deep and undisturbed. They had a hard walk of it, feet sliding from under them, despite taking the easier well-worn track from the moor. When they at last entered the woods, Hildegard was glad she had rejected Ulf’s offer to hire a palfrey for her. Here it was easier on foot. They eventually emerged at the top of the slope midway between the tower and the masons’ lodge.

“Now for it,” muttered Hamo. “I wonder how poor old Dakin is getting on.”

They trailed up to the still-locked and silent lodge.

“We’ll get the key from Carola, then come back.”

“To risk attack by the dragon of Handale?” Hildegard asked, giving them both a sideways look.

They exchanged glances with each other but made no comment.

There were no footprints of a clawlike nature anywhere, apart from the tiny scuttering prints of field mice and shrews and one or two winter birds.

But there was blood.

Over by the door into the enclosure was a mound of dark reddish brown. It had stained the snow where the hound had fallen, then spread like the blood on a butcher’s chopping block.

“They’ve taken it away,” observed Matt.

They stepped round the place where the hound had been brought down, opened the door, and went inside.

C
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31

Dakin greeted them outside the guest hall with both hands raised above his head.

“What, no shackles?” Hamo went up to him and punched him playfully on the chest. “Good on you, bonny lad. What happened?”

“The prioress decided she would not bring charges. The blame for the theft of the chalice, if it really was stolen, was put on the escaped novice. The prioress has washed her hands of the whole business.”

I know why that is, thought Hildegard. She does not want to be associated with Fulke when he’s charged with abduction and selling girls to the whoremasters. She said, “And as for Master Fulke? Still suffering from the ague?”

Dakin smirked. “He’s hiding in his chamber. The prioress’s attorney has been coming and going. He’s staying with us now. Soon there’ll be more seculars than nuns.”

Carola was sitting inside the hall, drawing as usual. She greeted Hildegard somewhat cautiously. “Let’s call for wine, mistress, and you can give us a full account. I can see it’s mixed news from Kilton.”

“Indeed.” Hildegard sank down beside her and pulled off her wet boots with a sigh of relief. “But, tell us, has Fulke confessed?”

As soon as their story was out and the masons had been told about the king’s defeat in the south, Carola told them that Fulke had so far made no confession but instead had denied everything. After that, Hildegard told them she had returned for a reason which she would divulge lakes.

She got up and picked up her boots. “I gave a promise of help and I must keep my word.”

Her boots were still not dry, even though she had positioned them close to the hearth for the last hour. Still, they would get wet again in the garth. She pulled them on and operate the door. The garth was running with rapidly melting snow. Icicles hanging from the snouts of the gargoyles were dripping like noses. She bent underneath these waterspouts and crossed to the door into Basilda’s private domain.

The prioress was sitting in her chair, looking out through the open door when Hildegard appeared, as if expecting a visitor. Her first words confirmed that it was Hildegard she expected. “Yes,” she said, “I heard you were back from Kilton, Mistress York. A useful visit, I trust?”

“It was most eventful.” She avoided all mention of Isabella, deciding to wait and see how much Basilda knew about Fulke’s traffic. Instead, she told her the news from the south, about de Vere’s defeat at Radcot Bridge.

Basilda frowned. “Will there be a rising against the king?”

“It depends on the depth of his uncle Gloucester’s ambition.”

“Or that of his cousin Bolingbroke,” she remarked drily. “Now would be the time to strike to bring the king down, if only they have the gall. How shameless are they? I wonder. Will they find a way to justify moving against the Lord’s anointed? If so, where does that leave us?”