The Dragon of Handale (39 page)
Read The Dragon of Handale Online
Authors: Cassandra Clark
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Women Sleuths
It was into this relative silence that a shout came from the outer garth.
It turned out to be the sacristan on her way back from the bell tower. She ran up, breathless with alarm. “I can hear noises coming from the dovecote!” Superstitious enough to believe it was the murderess’s trapped soul risen from the dead, she called out for somebody to go and see what it was.
As Hildegard was within earshot, she made her way over. “The dovecote?” she asked.
The sacristan pointed but would not go any nearer.
Accompanied by the masons, Hildegard and a few others went over to investigate. They could all hear it: a man’s voice, his shouts fading for a moment before being vigorously renewed.
They stood outside.
“Somebody’s locked in!” stated Hamo with a sudden grin. “Guess who!”
Not locked in, as they discovered when they looked for the key; it was more that they were locked out. Hamo banged on the door.
“Come out, Fulke!”
He must have recognised their voices, because suddenly the door flew open and he came tumbling outside, covered in bird droppings, gasping, “Has she gone?”
He stared wildly round. His hair was awry and a gash on his forehead puckered and leaked blood into his normally dapper beard. He was trembling from head to foot. His clothes were a mess.
“Where is she? Don’t let that murdering bitch near me! For God’s sake, protect me!” He stumbled forward into their midst, as if they could make a shield to keep him safe.
He soon admitted that Desiderata, all the while flirting with him when she brought food to his prison, had lured him into one of the store sheds with the promise of what he could not resist. As soon as they were alone, she had produced a claw chisel from her sleeve and attempted to smash it into his face. Thanks only to his quick reflexes, he had dodged and suffered only a glancing blow. He had taken to his heels and locked himself in the first safe place he found.
“She’s mad. What have I ever done to her?” he moaned. “Don’t let her anywhere near me, for Benet’s sake.”
“She won’t do that,” Hildegard told him. “She’s dead.”
When all the confusion was over, with the conversi busy putting things to rights next morning, Ulf and his men turned up at the priory on their way back home from Kilton Castle. He was conducted to the refectory, where he found Hildegard sitting with the masons, having a farewell drink. He knew the master mason already. Schockwynde, still looking shaken told Ulf the entire story, what he knew of it, from beginning to end.
The masons were ready to leave for Durham, and their pleasure showed. Schockwynde had promised to send some men back when the weather improved to finish the prioress’s building works. One aspect of the plans had bothered Carola. It was about a small cell built within one of the walls, with only a small opening through which food might be passed. When the master took this up with the prioress, she blandly agreed it would no longer be required.
Carola also told Hildegard about her suspicions over Dakin’s apparent involvement with Fulke. Now she knew his only concern was to find Giles’s killer.
“I thought he had decided to go in with Fulke to make some money,” she admitted. “We knew Fulke was up to something, and Dakin believed he could turn it to his own advantage. We are handfast.” She smiled somewhat shyly at Hildegard. “My own father approved, but Master Schockwynde told me I could do better for myself. Dakin thought he would win the master’s approval if he had wealth of his own.”
“I wondered about that,” admitted Hildegard. “But have you changed Schockwynde’s mind?”
Carola nodded. “I pointed out to the master that he had fallen in love with my mother and some would say he could have done better for himself, too, and married a duchess. Given his lineage.” She smiled. “He admitted he had loved mother from afar for many years when she was married and would go on doing so even if she became a kitchen maid.” She smiled again. “He’s pompous at times but as soft as a brush at heart.”
After they left, Hildegard went up to get her bag. She had already packed and ready to leave, and as Ulf loaded her things onto a pony, he grinned at her in disbelief. “I thought you came here for peace and quiet so you could make up your mind about what to do next?”
“That’s what I was hoping for!” She smiled across the animal’s back. “One thing’s sure: I won’t be joining the Benedictines.”
He came round to help her into the saddle of the palfrey he had brought along for her. When she was astride, she said, “I suppose I’d better return to Swyne.”
“It’s the feast of Saint Nicholas the day after tomorrow,” he reminded her. “Come with me to Langbrough. Let’s give little Alys a Christmas to remembers. We’ll lock the doors against the world’s madness, and you can put off all decisions about your future until the twelve days of Christmas are over.”
She gave a sigh of happiness. “That sounds wonderful.”
Just then, a courier came trotting through the gate. He was beaming. “Thank Saint Benet, they’ve cut a track through those woods at last. I’m looking for a Mistress York?”
“You’ve found me,” Hildegard replied.
He didn’t dismount. “Good. That means I can get straight on to Durham in time for the winter feast. Here.” He pulled a vellum out of his bag with the great seal of Meaux attached and thrust it into her hands. “No reply requested.” He saluted and in a moment had set off into the woods again, back towards the moors road.
With sudden misgivings, Hildegard tore off the seal. Aware of Ulf’s eyes on her, she hurriedly scanned the page that opened out.
The message was short. To the point. No greeting.
I understand you are back from pilgrimage to St. James’s Compostela. Attend me at Meaux. It was
signed
Abbot Hubert de Courcy.
Ulf was staring at her intently. He had recognised the abbey’s seal. “What does he say?”
“You can guess.”
He turned his head. “Yes, I suppose I can. That’s that, then.” Without a word, he went over to Petronel and hoisted himself into the saddle. Turning the horse’s head towards the gates, he urged him on and his men began to follow. Hildegard watched him leave.
The group was almost out of sight down the opened woodland avenue when she stuffed the summons to return to Meaux into her bag and pressed her heels into the flanks of the mare.
“Wait for me, Ulf!”
He turned at the sound of her voice. When he saw her about to follow him the smile he gave lit up his face. “Home, then?”
She nodded. “And good-bye to Handale!”
EPILOGUE
December 29, 1386, the Tower of London
King Richard was invited to remain in the Tower of London after the defeat at Radcot Bridge. In effect, he was a prisoner. He is said to have spent one full night in the company of his cousin Henry Bolingbroke, eldest son of the duke of Lancaster, and Thomas Mowbray, Henry’s shadow and hereditary marshall of England.
King Richard’s twentieth birthday was only days ahead, on the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6. His cousin was nine months the elder. They were not here to celebrate birthdays.
Bolingbroke: “You think we daren’t touch you because of your anointing.”
Richard: “And because of my sword.”
He draws the sword. Bolingbroke draws his. Richard is an elegant swordsman. He practises every day, as his tutor, a veteran of Poitiers, Sir Simon Burley, recommends, and but for the fact that Mowbray sidles up behind him and grabs him by both elbows, he would easily have defeated Bolingbroke’s swaggering, boorish sword thrusts. Thus his cousin, ever the opportunist, and with Richard’s arms safely pinioned, is able to stroll up and force his sword from his grasp.
Bolingbroke: “Now what are you going to do?” He touches him under the chin with the point of his sword.
“Kill me. Be a regicide. See how England loves you then. You’ll be dead men.”
“We won’t be so crass.” He presses the point of his sword against Richard’s chin again.
Mowbray looks pale now Richard is at their mercy. Suddenly, there is no limit to what might happen. But Bolingbroke has no qualms. He has proved a bully in the lists, and now that he has his victim in his power, he wants to make the most of it.
“Kneel, you piece of effeminate filth.”
“Kneel to you?” Richard laughs.
Bolingbroke goes closer and says into his face, “Kneel, or I’ll put my sword up your perfumed arse.”
Such is the venom in his bloodshot eyes, his face red, carroty beard bristling, Richard’s mouth drops open.
“Have you forgotten what they did to our great-grandfather Edward?” Bolingbroke smirks.
“It’s not true. No man in this realm could be so vile as to do that to their king.”
Now it is Bolingbroke who laughs out loud. “Couldn’t they? Do you want to try me? What do you say, Thomas?”
Mowbray stutters a reply.
“See?” Bolingbroke pokes Richard under the chin with the point of his sword again. It is razored steel. Even a scratch brings a dribble of blood onto Richard’s clean white shirt. “Imagine this up your fundament, O King!”
“You filthy animal, Harry.”
“Kneel when you address me, coz. C’mon. Down!” To encourage his cousin’s obedience, he waves the sword in Richard’s face. “Or shall I give you a quick haircut? How many slashes will it take to shear your golden locks? This is good steel here. Good steel, isn’t it, Thomas?”
“It is indeed. Very good.”
“Hear that, you white-arsed sot wit?”
“You seem very interested in my backside. Isn’t your wife enough for you?”
“Kneel!”
Slowly, Richard kneels to his cousin. His glance is fixed on Bolingbroke’s boots. Fury is in his heart. He will kneel now because it is expedient to do so. But later he will make Bolingbroke do more than kneel.
He raises his chin. “Is this how you mean, Harry?”
When Bolingbroke looks down into the fair and noble face, he feels an urge to smash it. Even now, on his knees, Richard is still king.
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