Read The Red Velvet Turnshoe Online
Authors: Cassandra Clark
The Red Velvet Turnshoe (9 page)
‘Quite a partnership,’ observed Talbot. ‘I never could get my head round a song.’ He stretched his long legs and flexed his muscles, ready to listen to more.
Pierrekyn glanced across at his two companions. He gave a secret smile and paused with his fingers poised over the strings until there wasn’t a sound to be heard. Then he began to play.
It was a plaintive melody, a lament for the death of a knight, which began: ‘There were three ravens on a tree …’ It went on to tell the story of a knight killed by a gang of robbers, and how his faithful hawk and his hounds protected his body until the appearance of a magical fallow doe, which carried his body to a lake and buried him, then died there beside him. It told of love and death. And there was scarcely a dry eye when he finished.
Despite the plaudits that followed and the cries for another song, Pierrekyn was suddenly unsmiling. He rose abruptly to his feet as if to break the spell he had created and, thrusting his lute into its bag, grasped the boy by one arm and pulled him towards the taproom where the dice-players gathered.
The three mercenaries, unlikely as it seemed, had been drawn to stand in the doorway to listen to the performance and now they called out to Pierrekyn as he pushed his way past. The smallest of the trio said something to his comrades and peeled off to follow him.
‘I hope Pierrekyn isn’t going to give that little lad strong ale,’ remarked Talbot.
Hildegard fixed her eyes on the door, waiting for them to reappear, but there was just the usual milling of folk in and out, and loud guffaws from within over some game or other. Talbot noticed her expression.
‘I’ll go and see what he’s up to. We don’t want him drawing unwelcome attention, do we?’
He was back in a moment. ‘He’s intent on losing all his earnings in a game of dice. He sent the child back to his guardians with a handful of florins.’
Believing this was a good opportunity to explain a little more, Hildegard bent her head towards the knight and, speaking in a rapid undertone, she told him about the corpse in the wool-shed.
‘It was the body of a clerk from England who brought Pierrekyn out of Kent while on business there on behalf of Lord Roger,’ she explained. ‘The boy’s music charmed everyone and Roger decided to let him wear his livery.’ She faltered. Until now she hadn’t thought to question Roger’s decision to send Pierrekyn away. Continuing, she said, ‘When Reynard’s body was found it was assumed that the boy must know something—because of their intimacy.’
‘Do you mean he’s seriously suspected of murder?’
‘We have no reason to think he’s guilty but the mob obviously decided otherwise when they heard the bare outline of the facts. That’s why we had to get him quickly out of the duchy of Male and into another jurisdiction.’
‘Meanwhile, the question remains: guilty—or innocent?’
She nodded. ‘He cannot fail to be under suspicion until the real murderer is identified. If no one else is accused the only way that Pierrekyn will return to England will be in chains.’
‘But if he is guilty he could well abscond, leaving Lord Roger’s steward with his neck at risk?’
She nodded again.
‘Trust me,’ said Sir Talbot. ‘I won’t let him out of my sight.’
So saying, he got up and strolled through into the taproom where the game of dice was causing some excitement.
P
IERREKYN’S FACE WAS flushed and angry. His lower lip jutted. He was making a token attempt to struggle out of Sir Talbot’s grasp but the knight gripped him by the scruff of his neck in one capable hand.
IERREKYN’S FACE WAS flushed and angry. His lower lip jutted. He was making a token attempt to struggle out of Sir Talbot’s grasp but the knight gripped him by the scruff of his neck in one capable hand.
Avoiding Pierrekyn’s kicking feet he was laughing genially. ‘Obey me, you little wildcat, or you’ll rue it. You were losing every penny you earned to those fellows. They dice and fight and dice again. They do nothing else. You’ll never beat them. And if you do they’ll relieve you of your winnings in a most unpleasant manner.’
He forced Pierrekyn down onto the bench next to Hildegard.
‘You talk to him, Sister. He’s behaving like a numbskull.’
‘Numbskull? Me? That’s rich coming from somebody who risks having his brains knocked out of his head whenever he goes to work!’ Pierrekyn retorted.
Sir Talbot laughed. ‘It’s me who does the knocking, I can tell you. The other fellows will bear me out if they can still spin two words together through their broken teeth.’
The three mercenaries came up. The more forthright one clapped Sir Talbot on the shoulder. ‘You rescued him just in time, sir knight. We were about to step in ourselves. Can’t have these Flemings running rings round one of our own.’
They were English, or, at least, two of them were. The third was a Scot, a big, brawny fellow with a wild red beard and an expression that, like those of his companions, showed he would take no truculence from anybody.
‘Join us,’ invited Sir Talbot. ‘I notice the other travellers are somewhat wary of you.’
Indeed, nobody trusted mercenaries. One of the pilgrims had
even been heard to whisper when they were first hired, ‘Today – paid to keep us from harm. Tomorrow – paid to slit our throats. It’s all the same to them.’
even been heard to whisper when they were first hired, ‘Today – paid to keep us from harm. Tomorrow – paid to slit our throats. It’s all the same to them.’
‘They’re devils from hell,’ agreed a friar, as everybody nodded their heads. ‘Best to keep away!’
The men, however, seemed affable enough in their rough way and were deferential to Hildegard if not to the other religious Orders. They made frequent sport of a couple of crutched friars in their conspicuous cloaks with the large red crosses sewn to the backs, some obscene joke passing back and forth between them. But they had made no jokes at Hildegard’s expense.
‘So you’re another mercenary just like us?’ observed the leader in a provocative tone to Talbot as they took their places at the trestle.
‘Just got up more fancy,’ added the shorter of the three in a thin voice. His hair was thin too and lay in lank strands across the top of his balding head.
Sir Talbot sprawled at his ease, quite unruffled by the men’s tone. ‘Certainly I am,’ he agreed. ‘I bear arms for fame, fortune and my lady’s love. What better purpose does life offer?’
They seemed to accept this and lost no time in explaining that they were going down to join Sir John Hawkwood’s White Company in Tuscany.
‘We’ve heard it’s getting lively,’ their leader announced with relish. On the way they had decided that they might as well have the journey paid for by the cowardice of the merchants and the pilgrims as they were all travelling the same road.
‘I’m Jack Black,’ he told them, ‘and these two devils are Harry and Donal.’ He glanced at Hildegard as if expecting criticism but she held her tongue. ‘Aye,’ he said, piercing her with his hard, black gaze as if reading her thoughts, ‘but somebody has to do it.’
She grimaced. ‘My heart goes out to the peasants who scratch a bare living from the soil then have their crops stolen by Hawkwood’s army. I’ve heard his men are like vultures.’
‘The peasants don’t suffer. They all run for shelter to the towns. They’re safe as houses. And if they don’t run it’s their own lookout,’ grunted Harry, his gaunt face full of bitterness. ‘We’ve got to eat
and, if their rulers want us to do their work for them, where’s the harm? We deserve the spoils of war since we’re the ones who run the risks.’
and, if their rulers want us to do their work for them, where’s the harm? We deserve the spoils of war since we’re the ones who run the risks.’
It wasn’t just the theft of crops, it was also rape and the wanton destruction of entire communities that made the mercenaries so hated, as the man well knew. Hildegard saw no point in getting into an argument with him.
The trio worked as a team, specialists in siege warfare. It was their job to dig tunnels under a town’s fortifications and set explosives so that the rest of the army could get in through the breach. From the look of their personal equipment they were well paid for such work.
‘So you’re the fellows who decide where the siege tunnels should lie?’ asked Talbot with interest.
‘Harry here’s the one to decide. Like a rat, he is, underground,’ agreed Jack Black.
‘It must be a glorious thing to wage single combat under such conditions,’ mused Talbot. ‘No wonder the combatants in such encounters are honoured by becoming brothers-in-arms.’
‘We keep our distance from all that. We’re not knights nor never likely to be.’
‘We’re useful crossbow men if it comes to it,’ pointed out Harry. ‘And Donal here’s a devil with an axe or mace.’
‘So where are you fellows from?’
‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies,’ Jack Black replied firmly for all three. ‘What about you, sir?’ he countered.
‘I’m a Sussex man myself.’
‘And your squire?’ Harry put in.
As one they turned to stare at Pierrekyn and a silence fell. The moment was over in a flash. Pierrekyn merely displayed his tunic with Roger de Hutton’s emblem on it, then spent the rest of the evening digging thoughtfully at the table with the tip of a small knife.
The quayside at St Jean-de-Losne was a busy transit point where some of the merchandise was to be transferred from wagons onto river boats.
As they approached, the weather darkened. For days the countryside had been black with rain. They seemed to move in a perpetual night. Daylight lasted for only a few hours, a grey presence filtered through a mass of cloud.
There were vast numbers of barges being loaded for transportation down the Saône. Some of the merchants decided to travel on with their merchandise by boat, rather than attempt the quicker route through the Jura and the Jougne pass and on through the Alps. Others were undecided. The dangers that lay ahead were a constant topic. Some wanted to go on by river rather than hazard the mountains, while others were keen to get to their destination as soon as possible.
‘It’s a choice of being knee-deep in mud or knee-deep in snow,’ said one.
‘God’s will is clear,’ declared another, looking out at the rain and opting to stay.
Others expressed regret that they had made a bad choice in Dijon when they could have continued on through the easier terrain of the Rhône valley instead. Now their fate, it seemed, depended on the snows. Would they come or wouldn’t they? Nobody knew what to do for the best. They were in a continual fret.
Hildegard’s group decided to push on, regardless of both weather and terrain.
The atmosphere between Sir Talbot and Pierrekyn was another thing that worsened with the weather. Everything about the knight seemed to draw some barbed comment from the boy. When, every morning, Talbot practised swordplay in the yard of wherever they were lodged, robustly impervious to the rain, Pierrekyn would stand and watch from the shelter of the thatched overhang, with a jeering expression that the mercenaries for one would not have tolerated.
Hildegard wondered how long it would be before Talbot struck back. He showed no sign of anger, however, but kept a courteous smile for everyone.
She accidentally came across him one morning while he was exercising in the yard before the rest of the travellers emerged. He pulled on his tunic at once, murmuring apologies. She let out a long
breath as she walked away. His lady, the fair Rosamund of whom he often spoke in most reverential terms, was a fortunate woman, she decided. As a knight competing at the highest level in the tournaments he would have to be in magnificent physical shape, she knew. He was an athlete in his prime.
breath as she walked away. His lady, the fair Rosamund of whom he often spoke in most reverential terms, was a fortunate woman, she decided. As a knight competing at the highest level in the tournaments he would have to be in magnificent physical shape, she knew. He was an athlete in his prime.
His sincerity towards Rosamund was not in doubt. Before they set out from Bruges he had asked Hildegard to accompany him to a goldsmith’s and she had taken him to the one who was making up the brooches for Melisen. From among the stock on display he had purchased an intricately wrought gold buckle and asked for an inscription to be added:
je suy vostre sans de partier.
je suy vostre sans de partier.
During quieter moments of the journey he sometimes took it out to look at it and once or twice had asked for Hildegard’s reassurance that it was a good choice.
He was, he told her, the youngest of four sons and had no wealth other than what he could earn himself. The patronage of a wealthy woman, married as Rosamund undoubtedly was, stood as just one of the many prizes he risked his neck for.
Pierrekyn was apparently irked by Talbot’s chivalry and envious, too, of his moral certainty. There was safety in being sure of where one stood in the pecking order. Talbot’s very confidence must be a thorn in the boy’s side. Between himself and starvation lay nothing but a talent for music.
They reached Salins. It was a long, narrow town, with closed shutters, situated at the bottom of a winding, limestone gorge that would eventually take the travellers up into the Jura.
An endless train of wagons passed through the town both night and day, either bringing logs to the boiling houses that stood over the brine wells where the salt was evaporated, or else carrying away salt in the form of crystals packed in great pine barrels. These weighed around a quarter of a ton and the rumble of the loaded carts over the cobblestones was a continual deafening roar.
The darkness and the noise added to the sinister character of the town. Hildegard was made nervous by it, aware that Escrick Fitzjohn might be close. She imagined she saw him in every shadowed alley, down every street, as the carts thundered past.
It didn’t help that the inn, the only place that could put them up, was a brawling den full of drunks and beggars. Unfortunately for them the Domus Dei, a hospice run by the Canons Regular, had no room. The town was bursting at the seams as people poured in, only to be stalled by the weather: those from the south fleeing the threat of avalanches, those from the north wondering whether to brave the floods ahead. Meanwhile they hung about the town in ever more rowdy and discontented groups.
The pilgrims in their own party were aghast at the drunken, brawling mobs and stayed in a frightened huddle in the belief there was safety in numbers. Their fear increased when those merchants starting out from Flanders began to leave, taking their retinues and men-at-arms with them. The ones remaining were ill equipped to protect anyone but themselves.
The situation wasn’t helped by the attitude of the mercenaries.
There were many more now, swarming south to join the free companies in Tuscany. Wherever Hildegard looked they were swaggering about, demanding the innkeepers fulfil their every whim. They commandeered the cellars, took first pick of the meagre fare in the kitchens and left the crumbs to the weak. There were girls on offer too, as always, a sorry bunch, pock-marked, slatternly, resigned to an existence without hope or respite.
How different it is to the priory at Swyne, Hildegard thought. How different to the abbey of Meaux. Its cloistered tranquillity had never seemed more sweet. It seemed now, above all places on earth, to be the sweetest.
To the credit of the three mining mercenaries they remained aloof. As siege specialists they despised the foot soldiers, the pikemen and their followers, but harboured respect for a couple of newly arrived gunners and treated the longbow men with deference.
Harry, the ferrety little sapper, saw himself as above the rest because of his expert knowledge. He was the one who could tell at a glance how the land lay, what sort of rock they had to deal with, what foundations particular castles were built on. Without him the tunnels would be dug in the wrong place, as he never failed to remind them.
‘I can read the terrain the way you read a woman’s body,’ he boasted to Sir Talbot, making sure Hildegard could overhear.
The Scot seemed to be the jack-of-all-trades, a one-man army in his own right, a tough backstop in any fight that broke out, as they frequently did. He was, not least, a cook. He carried a flat baking stone, which he heated every morning over the fire in the kitchen, then he would take it outside and bake flat cakes of bread on it in order to feed his companions. Eventually he began to share this bounty with Hildegard, her knight and squire.
Soon, every morning was started in the same way and they would break their fast together. It was an unlikely alliance, but Hildegard welcomed it. Escrick Fitzjohn would think twice before trying anything while she was so well protected.
Jack Black was the instigator of this unexpected accord. Hildegard assumed it was because the militia held a superstitious belief that a nun brought good luck. At first she found him affable enough, despite a hint of irony whenever he addressed her, and until she heard him holding forth, she found it hard to imagine he was an expert in the lethal skill of setting explosives. But it was a fact. His comrades vouched for it.
He spoke with a chilling precision when he described the exact amount of explosive needed to destroy specific ramparts of stone. He even claimed to be able to work out, to the ounce, how much was needed to blow a man and a horse limb from limb. His favourite pastime was to cast an eye over the pilgrims, assess their weight, then work out how much explosive he would have to use on a particular man to do what he called ‘a good job’.
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