The Dragon of Handale (36 page)

The coroner, a rotund, cheerful-looking man, belying his gruesome calling, went over to the health, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth. “Mistress, I will not sully your sensibilities by detailing what befell us.”

“Suffice to say it will have ramifications for our dear beleaguered sovereign,” said Schockwynde, butting in.

“For King Richard!” exclaimed Hildegard with a sudden feeling of dread. “But what on earth’s happened? You can speak plainly to me. You know me of old, master. My sensibilities have been tried and tempered. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s this.” Schockwynde, eager to blurt it all out, lowered his voice. “A royal courier was sent from the king to his barons of the north, begging for assistance against the rebels, his uncle dukes. We know this from letters found in his bag. But”—he lowered his voice still further—“he did not reach the earl of Northumberland, King Richard’s main hope, and why not?” He drew back, the look of horror on his face arousing Hildegard’s impatience.

“Why? Tell us!”

“The courier left Archbishop Neville’s palace near York in good order, but he never reached his destination. He was murdered at an inn on the moors.”

“Murdered most horribly, though I say it myself,” the coroner interjected. “One of the most vicious and obscene injuries a man can receive.” His cheerful expression had become bleak. “I am continually surprised by the cruelty of one man to another, but this was particularly heinous.”

“Its symbolic intention is clear,” added Schockwynde. “Recall the rumours about the murder of the king’s great-grandfather at Berkeley Castle? With the sword inserted…” He gestured.

“It stands as a clear message to the king,” the coroner averred.

Hildegard stared in revulsion. “They’re warning that what will befall him if he does not bow to his uncles’ authority will be what happened to his great-grandfather, King Edward the Second?’

C
HAPTER
33

The news stunned and alarmed the masons when they heard it. Their horrified response demonstrated, if proof were needed, their unshakable loyalty to the king. Hildegard saw the news as another piece in the puzzle. It explained Northumberland’s lack of support for King Richard. The truth was that he had never, in fact, received Richard’s request for help. Any one of the king’s many enemies could have put a price on the courier.

The big question remained, of course: If the courier had arrived safely with his message, would the earl have mobilised his army and marched south to the king’s aid or not?

By now, the defeat of the royal supporters at Radcot Bridge had also spread through the priory. It ran as fast as flames through thatch.

A mood of feverish uncertainty took hold. For the first time since the Rising in 1381, personal allegiance had again become a game of jeopardy. To be caught on the wrong side could be a serious business once more. It could mean the loss of rights and lands … and life.

Master Fulke was not forgotten in all this. The bailiffs had set a time for the charges to be read, after which, if everything went according to plan, Fulke would be escorted to a cell in Whitby jailhouse.

The bailiff’s men escorted him from his not-too-arduous imprisonment. Neatly attired in an expensive black cloak and velvet overmantle, with a jaunty capuchon tied into a stylish knot on his head, and his beard combed, he looked every inch the wealthy, respectable merchant he pretended to be. Signs of the ague had quite disappeared. By contrast, the masons looked a disreputable bunch in their work-stained leather jerkins and unkempt hair. The bailiff looked them over and Hildegard could tell where his natural sympathies lay at the start.

Fulke tried to take command of the situation at once. “Continue,” he said as soon as the bailiff read the charges. “Let’s get on with it. I need to see my attorney as soon as we leave here.”

“How do you answer?” asked the bailiff, refusing to be hurried.

“Not guilty, of course. What do you expect? I had those goods for sale legally and aboveboard.”

“Aboveboard? We have information that they were very much below board.” The bailiff gave a nasty chuckle. “You brought a quantity of war feathers and bow poles into the country from Norway without paying duty Where are your bills of lading?”

Fulke raised his shackled wrists. “If you’d release me, I’d show you.”

“Back in Ruswarp, I suppose?”

“You suppose right. Where else would I keep my records of trade?”

“The earl’s steward knows nothing about any records.”

“Is he the one lodging this charge?”

“He is.”

Fulke looked momentarily deflated; then he snarled, “And who informed him, I’d like to know.”

“You will. By and by.” The bailiff smirked. “We’re getting somewhere, then. You admit there was something to inform him about?”

“I admit nothing!”

The bailiff’s clerk was writing furiously. The bailiff had more to say. He gave Fulke a confident smile. “We’ll send someone to fetch your records, Master Fulke. But first, there’s another charge here. It concerns girls who have been passed on to a fellow in—”

“Save me!” Fulke raised his shackled wrists to heaven in a dramatic gesture of supplication. Then he turned to the bailiff. “This comes from that novice who absconded, doesn’t it? That raving fantasist. She said she’d do this to me, the vindictive little bitch. Where is she? You must have found her to be able to—”

“What had she got to be vindictive about, Master Fulke?” The bailiff suddenly seemed to be enjoying himself.

Fulke threw back his head and gave a worldly smile. “Ask the prioress. She knows what she was like.”

“We’ll do that, so we’ll soon have an answer to that one. We’ll also be asking questions in the Whitby stews. And there’s one lady Isabella, abducted and sold to the Earl Morcar as a prospective bride for a considerable sum, we’re told and—”

“This is insanity. You can’t tell me it’s against the law to act as a marriage broker?” Fulke gave a disgusted look and turned away. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m not saying another word until my law clerk gets here.”

“We’ll go to him, so you needn’t bother calling him yourself,” replied the bailiff, indicating to his own clerk to put his writing desk away. “That’s it for now—”

“Just a minute!” Dakin stepped forward. His fists were bunched. “I accuse this man of murder—”

Schockwynde pushed himself importantly forward. “Hold back, fella. There’s a due process.” He spoke to the bailiff as one professional man to another. “An apprentice of mine was done to death a week ago. Foul play is suspected. The coroner here has come to examine the body—”

“And you have evidence that it wasn’t a natural death?”

“I’ll say! The man’s throat was ripped out.” Dakin burst forward and had to be restrained by the guards.

The coroner spread his hands in a placating manner. “I must see the body first, before we go any further. I take it it’s in the mortuary?” He turned to Dakin. “After that you, can accuse this fellow of murder if that’s what it looks like.”

“And you’ll have to lay before us the evidence for your accusation,” stated the bailiff sententiously; “otherwise, you’ll be in trouble, making false accusations against an innocent man. Let’s repair to the mortuary. Lead on!”

With a nod of the head, the bailiff indicated for the coroner and the master mason to follow him, but when Dakin infiltrated the group, he was not turned away. The rest of the masons trailed along a few yards behind, their faces grim. A muttered exchange between Hamo and Will was too quiet to be overheard.

It was clear they thought Fulke would wriggle out of the accusation if he could and, knowing that they had no evidence worth a tattle, they knew he would find it none too difficult. Dakin had also put himself in the wrong by making an accusation with nothing but blind grief to back it up.

Hildegard was frowning as she followed them.

They stood round the body in a silent group. The nun who had been keeping vigil pulled back the sheet. Even in the dim light, the sight of the wounds drew a gasp from everyone.

“He’s certainly dead,” observed the coroner, recovering first. “He’s suffered a particularly frenzied attack, by the look of things.” He bent closer to examine the striations of congealed blood in the wounds disfiguring the corpse. Everything was frozen by the snows, whose chill still lingered in the stone-built chamber.

Fulke was gazing in something like horror at the body. The bailiff stood eagerly at the coroner’s elbow. Schockwynde turned away and looked likely to vomit. Dakin had a face of stone, as did the other two masons. Carola went hurriedly to the door.

“And the story is that this beast of Handale attacked him while he was walking in the woods?” murmured the coroner as he placed the tip of his dagger into one of the wounds. “A good three inches,” he murmured, withdrawing the dagger and peering at the tip.

The bailiff was following his every move. “What did he use as a weapon?” he asked in an awed tone. “Those wounds are too wide to be from a knife or even a sword.”

“Well, they were certainly not made by claws,” murmured the coroner. He straightened. “But maybe by a claw chisel?” He gave Dakin a stern glance. “You use claw chisels in your work, I presume?”

“Of course we do.” Dakin looked blank.

“Do you keep a close watch on them?”

At this, Dakin dropped his glance and stared at the ground for a moment. When he raised his head, he looked the coroner in the eye. “I’ll not deny it. Working out here with nobody much coming by, we leave them where we use them. Someone could easily walk into the lodge and take one.”

Hildegard bit her lip. She had done that very thing herself when she had needed something to prise the lock off the tower door.

The coroner bent over the body again. “May as well check that they’re all there when we go back,” he suggested in a mild tone.

“They are. I know for a fact. We moved all our belongings into the priory in the expectation of leaving. Nothing was missing.”

“When did you do that?” asked the bailiff.

Dakin looked at him with an expression of growing astonishment on his face. “We did it,” he said, “shortly before a deerhound was found outside the enclosure gate with its throat and belly ripped open and its entrails spilling onto the snow.”

“We’ll need to compare wounds if you’re hinting both hound and man were killed by the same kind of implement.”

Dakin looked from the coroner to the bailiff. “Where was Master Fulke when the hound was killed?”

Fulke had no alibi. The prioress was asked to invite the concerned parties into her parlour, where she could either corroborate or deny Fulke’s claims.

“First, to go back to the illegal imports,” announced the bailiff, digging his clerk in the ribs to prompt him start writing. “Master Fulke has the right to be told how the earl’s steward knew about them.” He eyed the prioress with an invitation to proceed.

Her answer was short. She avoided Fulke’s stare. “I told him,” she replied.

Fulke swore. Then he lunged forward with the clear intention of inflicting harm on the prioress, who, seeing this, did not move a muscle but merely stared him down. Fulke was dragged halfway across the chamber by the bailiff’s two bodyguards and slammed up against the wall. He was pinned there and his betrayed glance never left the prioress’s face.

“Why, Basilda?” he croaked. “Why betray me? You got your cut!” He clearly intended to bring her down with him if he could.

Imperturbably, she told the bailiff, “Yes, it’s true. I did receive money. I wanted to lure him in far enough to provide the earl with hard evidence.” She gazed brazenly round the group, as if to challenge anyone to disagree. “If I’d acted too soon or called a halt to his activities, he would never have been caught, would he?”

“There’s something in that,” agreed the bailiff. “Did you know what he was smuggling?”

“I didn’t. We suspected it was arms. We also suspected he intended them for the duke of Lancaster’s son, Henry Bolingbroke. Knowing the accused’s allegiance as I do.”

“Why, you two-faced—” Words failed Fulke and his mouth dropped open.

The bailiff frowned. “Now, where were you, Master Fulke, two nights ago?”

Fulke recovered sufficiently to snap, “At home. In my bed.”

“Can anybody back you up?”

He gave a resigned smile. “Not then, no. I slept alone.”

“So what was to stop you coming back here and slaughtering the deerhound?”

“Why in bloody hell should I do a pointless thing like that?”

“Whose hound was it?” asked the bailiff with interest.

“We believe,” replied the prioress, “that it was one of two belonging to our miller. He has been informed and, snow permitting, should arrive soon to identify the beast.”

“No dragon,” murmured Schockwynde. “Beast though it was. But it couldn’t claw itself to death, so there has to be another creature at large.”

“And I assume you have no alibi for the night the apprentice was murdered, either?” asked the bailiff, turning to the accused.

Dates were checked Fulke gave a smirk. “I do have a witness to my whereabouts, as it happens.”

“In bed again?”

“Just so.” He nodded. “But not my own. I beg discretion, however, when ascertaining the fact from the lady concerned. Her husband has a reputation to uphold.”

Encouraged to share his secret, he murmured a name to the bailiff, who raised his eyebrows at what was clearly a piece of juicy local scandal. He nudged his clerk. “No need to record that.” Turning back to Fulke, he said, “I hope for your sake she backs you up.”

The bailiff had done what he had set out to do. He had plenty to get to work on and enough to keep Fulke in custody. The latter gave Basilda a malevolent glare as he was led out.

When the others followed, they stood outside in some confusion.

“That’s a turn-up,” observed Hamo. “So who did him in? We’re back where we started.”