A Parliament of Spies

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: A Parliament of Spies
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E
ltham Palace. Morning. A tall fair young man strides down the narrow corridor towards the sound of splashing water. Steam billows through the half-open door ahead.
He is wearing soft kidskin ankle boots that make no sound on the polished tiles. His brocade gown, wide sleeved, embroidered with silver harts and gold crowns, is swinging loosely open as he hurries towards his bathhouse.
The flickering fires of the cressets that line the corridor are not more bright than he is. He glitters, sheds light as he strides along, his red-gold hair, his lucent skin, his shimmering garments, brighter than fire. Tapestries on both sides sway with his urgent haste, their own gold thread bringing the scenes of the hunt to life, a falcon stooping to its prey, a stag among the trees with huntsmen closing for the kill. The embroidered leaves seem rustled by the wind as the tapestries billow from the wall.
A real wind from an open window tuckers underneath as he reaches the door and one of the tapestries bulges to meet him.
He catches a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye and gives a shout. A narrow-bladed knife appears in his hand. He launches himself at the unseen assassin. Stabs wildly into the swirling fabric. Stabs again and again. The gold and silver threads protect his assailant like thin armour. Then from within the folds a shape lurches forward and he raises the knife to finish them.
But a shout stops him. Knife raised.
‘My Lord! No!’
Swivelling, he sees Robert.
White-faced, he is lunging forward, arms outstretched. ‘Stop! Dickon! My Lord! Stop!’
The newcomer throws himself against the King regardless of the knife, yelling again, ‘Stop! Stop!’
‘What?’
‘It’s Agnes!’
The tall young man, fair and pale anyway, blanches. Sky-blue eyes darken. He steps back in horror.
The bundle behind the tapestry struggles to free itself. Topples towards the two men. Robert tears the tapestry aside. ‘Agnes?’
A figure resolves itself into a young woman with long pale hair and a gorgeous gown of yellow silk.
She falls into his arms.
The King steps forward, the knife useless in his hand. ‘Is there blood?’
Agnes is sobbing with fear and relief. ‘You missed me, Your Grace
…
’
He slams the knife back into the jewelled sheath on a gilded belt under his gown.
Without another word he pushes on into the bathhouse and vanishes into the billowing steam.
Agnes is still sobbing in her saviour’s arms, shaky with relief, furious with herself. ‘I thought I was dead
…
’
‘Fool. You know he fears assassins.’ He kisses her roughly, with relief, with lust. ‘No harm, angel – you’re safe. But what were you thinking?’
‘I just wanted to jump out and surprise him,’ she whispers, allowing herself to be kissed. ‘I meant it as a joke.’
‘My mad Bohemian,’ he whispers. ‘We have to look after him. This is the one place he feels safe and then you frighten him like that. Oh, sweeting
…
’ He holds her more tenderly and begins to laugh.
‘I’ll never ever do anything like that again.’ She is still shaking.
‘He’ll never forgive you.’
 
When they enter the chamber with the wide tiled pool at its centre and a blonde-haired girl gravely swimming in the water, the King himself is already stepping down to join her. He smiles when he notices their expressions.
‘What else can we expect when we surround ourselves with mad Bohemians?’ he asks Robert. ‘Anne is quite as crazy.’
He glances over to his wife where she floats serenely on her back, long hair flowing in elfin knots around her head making her look like a mermaid.
‘You may leave us.’ He dismisses them both, calling, ‘I
forgive you, Agnes. I’m greatly at fault. I pray you forgive me.’
He is already planning to give his wife’s madcap lady-in-waiting a balas ruby in recompense for the scare he gave her. For the scare he himself received, he will give thanks later in his private chapel to his protector, St Edmund.
He turns back to his wife. Then stares in horror.
Her face is deathly white.
She is floating in a pool of blood.
B
ishopthorpe Palace in the county of York. Three days after the feast of St Giles. Dawn.
Alexander Neville stood in the great courtyard watching his servants load his sumpter wagons. In the pale light of early morning they scurried about the yard, readying for the long journey ahead. The wagon boards groaned as goods were packed into every available cranny. One cart carried fresh bread racked in warm rows under crisp linen cloths. Behind that was a wagon loaded with cheeses, another with dried fish, and one with salted pork. There was a water wagon. An ale wagon. And one for the archbishop’s wine. There was a wagon for the hawks, hooded falcons, peregrines, merlins, followed by a wagon for the falconer and his men, and behind that, strangely, a small cart with a wicker cage on board and inside the cage a brood of pigeons, softly cooing.
After that came the dog cart, wet muzzles poking between the corded withies. A wagon loaded with swords, shields, body armour, racks of mail, hauberks
and helmets, greased and ready for use. A cart full of arrows, sheaved twenty-four together. Steel-tipped. Barbed. Then a cart for spare wheels followed by a string of pack horses.
At the head of this convoy stood Archbishop Neville’s own char, its gilded hood glimmering in the light of flares. Finally, after the line of sumpter wagons came those for the archbishop’s retinue, his chaplain, his page, his steward, his chamberlain, his personal servants, his grooms, his cooks and kitcheners and his yeomen of the board and their necessary cutters and broilers, choppers and spit boys. His ordained. And his unordained. His inner circle.
‘Forty persons in all, Your Grace,’ murmured his chamberlain with satisfaction. ‘Are we into Mass now?’
The archbishop glanced round the yard at his well-appointed cavalcade. ‘We are. Conduct the Pope’s fiends in before everybody else.’
With this he strode off some way for a word with his secretary, Edwin Westwode, all the while maintaining an eye on the papal envoy and his tax-gathering henchmen.
As soon as he saw them enter the church and the rest of the York retinue disappear inside, Alexander Neville superstitiously touched his cross and his mitre and followed them.
Hildegard and her priest, Brother Thomas, both ready to join the convoy on its long journey to London, were standing at the back of the church swamped in billowing clouds of incense, with Thomas trying not to cough and Hildegard praying that his asthma, the coughing spasms, would not assail him before the service ended.
Fortunately the archbishop, swift in his incantations, eager to be out on the road and down to London, eager for battle to commence, offered up swift prayers. ‘And for King Richard,’ he concluded, ‘pray God guide and bless him all his days. May this forthcoming Parliament bring peace and purpose to our realm. May all factions be joined in amity. May the Queen be delivered of a son. May the French invasion be thwarted by the power of your divine hand. O Lord, have mercy on us all.’
‘Amen,’ sang the congregation without dissent.
A young woman with a pert and pretty face was standing at the door as they came out, craning her neck to see inside. As the last of the servants left she turned away with a puzzled frown.
 
By now the sky was the colour of polished pewter. A stiff breeze had sprung up and seemed likely to keep the rain off. It brought the scent of woodland into the courts and chambers of the palace, evoking a lingering nostalgia for the waning summer. But that was the past. It was autumn now and momentous times lay ahead. Everyone flocked to the carts to find their places if they had one and check their boots if they hadn’t. The red-haired blustering cook inspected his char with misgivings while his personal servant, stifling a groan, bent with cupped hands to heave him inside.
‘Hold it!’ The chamberlain, after a hurried word with the papal envoy, held up one hand. Silence fell. Thomas, a tall, gangling young man with a bony intelligent face, stood on tiptoe in his sandalled feet and peered over the heads in front.
‘What’s happening, Thomas?’ Hildegard asked.
‘It seems the envoy wants a recount,’ he told her. ‘There’s been a mistake.’
‘I would have thought counting was the one thing he was good at, given the practice he’s had adding up our taxes.’
The envoy, attired in garments of sumptuous elegance, was counting heads himself now. He took his time.
Eventually he turned to the archbishop with a thin smile of triumph. ‘Forty-one, Your Grace. I’m sure your chamberlain agrees?’
The latter, after another swift tally, reluctantly nodded.
Nobody moved, except for a few corner-eyed glances to see who was present now who hadn’t been present before.
The kitchens at Bishopthorpe Palace were empty. The fires were out. The spit unturned. The stone flags swept clean.
The retinue destined for London was eager to be on its way.
Now this.
The archbishop, famed for his rages and fully justifying his nickname of Fiery Neville, walked off a few paces, stared hard at the ground, then walked back, his face blank save for a jumping nerve at the corner of his mouth.
He took a swift step forward as if to strike an assailant, but instead folded his hands inside his voluminous sleeves and in familiar fruity tones announced, ‘I beg Your Holy Eminence to revolve this matter in the court of your mind.’ He inclined his head with a judicious display of respect. ‘I
beg you, pray arrive at a more accommodating conclusion. One only?’ He raised his eyebrows and paused for a full beat before adding, ‘My retinue is pared to the bone, Your Eminence. There is not one servant I can travel without.’
It sounded final. But, strongbox bulging with the tax he had extorted from this – in his opinion – barbaric outpost of Pope Urban’s empire, the papal envoy showed that he was impervious to special pleading no matter how sonorously delivered.
‘I don’t make the rules, Archbishop. I merely apply them. You are one too many. You must leave one of these men behind.’ His glance shifted round the growingly hostile servants. He assessed them with his dark foreign eyes, glance flickering this way and that. It swooped past Hildegard in her white habit but then just as suddenly swooped back.
‘Is that a nun? Get rid of her.’
Archbishop Neville didn’t so much as glance in Hildegard’s direction. ‘The nun comes with us.’
Meaningful glances were exchanged among the lower servants.
The envoy gave a very foreign shrug. ‘Choose somebody. Anybody. But choose you must. Forty persons in your retinue. No more. The Pope wishes it so. Humility in all things, Your Grace.’
Neville scowled. ‘You choose, Master Fulford,’ he addressed his red-faced master cook. ‘Get rid of one of your kitcheners. We’ll have to survive the journey with a little less fine dining.’ He shot a mean look at the envoy.
Fulford was just about to heave himself down from his char when there was a high-pitched wailing and a ragged
lad came stumbling into the courtyard from the direction of the kitchen gardens. His wild glance alighted on the archbishop and he ran forward as if to sanctuary to throw himself at Neville’s feet.
He was in such a panic he could scarcely get his words out and the archbishop had to reach down and raise him up to standing. Then, in a tone of surprising kindness, he asked, ‘Now then, little fellow, what’s all this that can’t be sorted?’
The boy clung onto the archbishop’s arm, his grubby fingers all over the embroidered satin, and his mouth worked until at last he stuttered, ‘My Lord Archbishop, forgive me – I beg forgiveness …’
‘You are forgiven, lad. Now come on. Out with it. We’re waiting to leave.’
‘In there, My Lord …’ The child, trembling, pointed back towards the kitchen yard. ‘In the brewhouse, Your Grace. Something in the vat. A monster. A hideous thing that leered up at me and would have dragged me in as well had I not fallen back and thus escaped its clutches.’
He began to sob.
The archbishop gave a despairing glance. Everybody was pressing forward to peer at the boy and assess the truth of what he was saying. Before panic could erupt the archbishop held up his free hand. ‘Who knows this lad?’
There was a murmur from the outer ranks and an alert-looking servant pushed to the front.
‘I know him, Your Grace. It’s my kid brother.’ The servant, despite his rough clothes, dropped with some grace to one knee.
‘Is he given to fantasy?’
‘Never, My Lord.’
‘You had better go and inspect this so-called monster. And then you may as well stay behind. Meanwhile …’ Neville turned with an angry rustle of taffeta-lined velvet, ‘my retinue of forty persons …’ he glared in the direction of the pontiff’s man, ‘will proceed without further delay to London!’
There was a spontaneous cheer. The wagons refilled with travellers.
‘Doesn’t he want to know what this monster is?’ murmured Thomas in Hildegard’s ear. ‘I know I do!’
‘It’ll be some trick of the light. The boy shouldn’t have been in there in the dark, should he, the little scamp?’ She noticed the envoy turn to his groom, so she climbed onto her palfrey and jiggled the reins.
There were one or two murmurs about the monster but boys will be boys, and hardly anybody gave a backward glance as they headed for the arch under the gatehouse that would lead them at last to the open road.
No more than a couple of wagons had passed underneath before they were halted by the return of the servant and his kid brother.
‘My Lord!’ The servant dropped to his knees with the same grace as before. ‘I crave your attention …’
‘You have it.’
‘There is no monster in the vat, Your Grace.’
‘Of course there isn’t.’ Neville glowered.
He stood. ‘But there is, albeit, a man.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
The servant crossed himself.
Neville took a step forward. ‘Is he dead?’
‘It looks like it, Your Grace.’
‘What, drowned?’ The archbishop, with his bone-achingly distant destination in mind, his irritation at the delay to their departure, the nit-picking of the envoy, suddenly let out a roar. ‘Nobody drowns in my vats! I won’t have it!’
There was dead silence.
The servant who had brought the news stared at the ground.
More temperately Neville asked, ‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I do. It’s Martin the saucier, Your Grace.’
While Archbishop Neville consulted one of his bailiffs there was a horrified uproar of questions from his retinue.
Travel cloak billowing behind him, Neville marched at the head of a group of officials into the kitchen yard, down the path to the bakehouse, crossed into the brewhouse and stared into the vat.
It was true. A youngish man with thick curly hair was lying in the water among the crushed barley. His eyes were shut. His clothes floated round him giving him buoyancy. He looked peacefully asleep.
‘Get him out.’
Two servants struggled to lift him over the side of the wooden tub then deposited him on the floor in a puddle of ale. Neville bent, felt for a pulse, evidently failed to find one and rose to his feet looking grim.
Hildegard pushed her way through the onlookers. ‘May I?’
She knelt and lifted the man’s eyelids, checked his pulse to make sure, looked inside his mouth, scrutinised his body for knife wounds, found nothing to arouse any
comment other than to confirm the archbishop’s verdict. ‘He’s dead, certainly, Your Grace.’
Water was dribbling out of the man’s mouth. He was turning an odd colour. His jaw lolled open.
‘Perhaps you might turn him over to see if you can empty his lungs.’
The bailiff’s men did as she suggested. Water spewed out of the man’s mouth. He remained motionless, showing no sign of life.
‘Bailiff?’
‘Your Grace?’
‘We must leave. Take him to the mortuary. I charge you with finding out how this mishap occurred.’
 
When they followed the archbishop outside morning had broken. Standing in the pearly light Neville delivered a short prayer for the redemption of Martin’s soul then ordered everybody into the wagons.
Hildegard went back into the malthouse. The bailiff and a few men who were staying behind were already lifting the body to carry it away. She stared at the vat. Wide enough for a man to lie in full length. About three feet deep. With enough liquor in it at this moment to drown a man. She leant over the side. It would be easy to topple in should you be trying to stretch out to reach something, or if somebody came up behind you without warning and tried to force you over the side.
Apart from the door they had entered there were two other doors on the other side of the chamber with an unglazed window between them through which trickled a little light from outside. She went over and gave one of the
doors a push. It was locked. The second one opened easily, however, and led out into a garden that stretched down a shallow slope towards the beck. There was a wall round it, high enough for anyone agile to climb over, but then they would find themselves on the bank side and it led nowhere.

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