The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Page 13

  After this threat—there was no other way of viewing it—Hildegard made her way outside.

  She sat down on the hard truckle bed that had given her such restless nights. It was difficult to know what to do for the best. It was a hard ride from Durham with the roads as they were. Schockwynde could not arrive for several days. Fulke, on the other hand, might only have to come from his tannery in Ruswarp and would be here the sooner. If he had any sense, he would remove whatever was hidden in the tower at the earliest opportunity.

  The look that had crossed the prioress’s face when his name was mentioned puzzled her. She had looked disappointed in her benefactor. Was there a crack in their complicity?

  Was it connected to that “other business” Fulke was engaged in? Maybe something irrelevant to the loss of a novice? She could not believe he would give in so easily. Yet he would never find her. He would eventually realise that the effort he might be putting in was wasted when the law came after him.

  This “other business,” however—did it have anything to do with his activities at the tower, something that concerned Basilda, or was it nothing to do with the disappearance of the novice, maybe a private matter that simply involved making use of the tower? Was this what was worrying the prioress?

  The entire matter was a mystery.

  It was as puzzling as the presence of armed men waiting on the moors road the previous night. Dakin had asked twice which route she and Alys intended to take. His interest might have been prompted by mere curiosity, or it could have been because he needed to pass the information on to someone else—someone who wanted to abduct the girl a second time? Someone like Fulke himself, maybe?

  She considered the possible reasons Dakin might have for getting involved with Fulke. Money was the obvious one, the love of it being the root of much evil. But what if Alys was right when she thought Dakin was in love with Carola? It was certain that the imaginator treated him with condescension bordering on scorn. If his emotions had been reciprocated, then he would need money, plenty of it, to put forth his suit. Only time would tell. Those night riders might have had nothing to do with events at Handale. Or with Dakin. Or Fulke.

  It was all guesswork.

  Even so.

  She changed out of her clothes into clean ones—first a linen undershift, then an overgown in a different colour. As she pulled the green fabric over her head, she felt some pleasure. It would be hard to go back to wearing a plain Cistercian habit after this.

  Her thoughts returned to the present.

  The best thing about the whole business was the promise Ulf had made before leaving her at Kilton Beck this morning. He would find out more about the manor Alys believed she had inherited with her brother, then give Hildegard time to find out what she could from inside the priory. Then he would return with three or four men.

  They had arranged to meet the day after tomorrow near the ford where the beck crossed the coast road and flowed on to Killing Grove and the sea. From there, it was a scramble back along the beck into the woods and a short climb to the tower.

  She retied her head scarf, shook out the folds of her cloak, pulled it on, and refastened it with a silver brooch. The day was colder than ever. The frost remained. It powdered the gargoyles jutting from the priory walls and made their grotesque features stand out in livid detail.

  The hut leaned against the farthest wall of the herb garden. To reach it, she had to find a way through the kitchen gardens between the beds of kale and winter cabbage. Frost put a silver patina over the fleshy leaves. Even the stalks of grass at the edge of the path were stiffened by the cold. A path wound through a wicket gate and approached the herberer’s hut between beds of rosemary and thyme. It would be difficult to approach without being seen.

  When she reached the door, it was open, and she found the herberer sitting inside with her feet in a wooden bucket. Aromatic steam rose into the cold air.

  “Greetings, sister.” Hildegard stood on the threshold.

  “Come for a bit of peace and quiet, mistress?” Eyes like green glass beads stared up at her.

  Hildegard chuckled. “Something like that. May I enter?”

  The herb woman nodded towards a bench against the wall. She was the oldest person Hildegard had seen at the priory. A stick was propped against the wall, within reach of the old woman.

  “I’m not surprised you want to escape from them. They’re moon-mad, at the full like the tide. Three days they’ll foam and fret. As above, so below.”

  “Heaven must be in disarray at present, sister.”

  “So it be and so be this realm of ours, and I do not mean only Handale. The king is in danger and nobody heeds it. Least of all these women here with their clacking over sin and punishment.”

  “How do you know the king is at risk?”

  “Aren’t all kings, at all times, the focus of men’s ambition?”

  “That’s probably true—”

  “Probably?” The old nun rocked back and forth in amusement. “There’s nothing probable about it. It’s as certain as the stars in their courses. And when the king is a young man with no friends, it cannot be changed—except as with any disease of the body. By rooting the contagion out. The realm is but a living thing, prone to sickness, to the actions of the planets and eventual decay.”

  “Sister, this may be true. Those who support the king must arm themselves and go to his aid. But these nuns can do nothing.”

  “They do what they do. The tanner is not as clever as he thinks. Let’s hope he chooses customers who favour the king.”

  Sighing with relief, the old nun lifted her feet from the bucket of water scented with lavender and other herbs. She dried them on a piece of clean linen, wrapped them in a woollen cloth, then squinted up at Hildegard. “You’re here to ask me whether it’s the plague or the action of some evildoer?”

  Taken off guard, Hildegard blurted, “The priest—”

  “Of course, the priest! Who did you think I meant? He chose his own destiny. God grants free will. It’s the planets try to set us on the wrong course and lay traps to test us.”

  Afraid that the conversation would turn into a theological discussion which would get them nowhere, Hildegard asked, “How did he choose, sister?”

  “By the roving of his eye, that’s how.”

  She unwrapped her feet, gave them a rub, and pushed them into a pair of pattens. Taking her time, she hung the damp linen on a peg above the brazier, where a weak flame gave off a little heat. She got up in a fluid movement, reached for a poker, and riddled the coals; then she lifted a pot off the gridiron, shook it to raise the sediment, and began to stir. When she replaced the spoon, she turned as if in surprise.

  “Still here, mistress? What more do you need to know?”

  “I need to know who would poison him for a roving eye.”

  “The moon will soon be at the full. That’s the whole of it. The only answer is to pray.” She turned her back, and it was clear she had ended their meeting.

  Hildegard had an impression of the sort of cures the old nun used from what she saw hanging from the roof beams, but before she left, she asked, “Do you grow all the herbs they use in the kitchens here?”

  She received a sharp glance. “All.”

  “And do the nuns come to fetch them themselves?”

  The old woman jerked up her head. “They do.”

  “There are many here that might kill a man.”

  “Over time.”

  “Unless made into an elixir?”

  “True.” The old woman gazed out past Hildegard to where the garden lay in a sudden shaft of winter sunlight. “Beware the moon at its full.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The list of poison plants was long. Some, of course, had dual properties and were only lethal in large doses, but the ones that could kill instantly were rare. Hildegard could find no sign of any such as that growing in the gardens. Her knowledge was no more than any village herbalist; she was no apothecary. Even so, she was sure ther
e was nothing here that could kill a man as suddenly as the one that must have been given to the priest.

  Except if it were made up into a strengthened dose, she reminded herself. But who, apart from the herberer, would know how to do that?

  She made her way to the priory church. The sacristan appeared as soon as she heard the door creak open. If she was always so prompt to appear, anyone would have found it impossible to approach the wine or the chalice, let alone slip a lethal dose into them.

  Hildegard’s voice echoed down the nave under the high vault. “Sister, forgive this intrusion. I seek your help.”

  “I’ll help if I can,” the sacristan replied directly. The hostility shown by prioress Basilda did not extend to everyone. She raised her head from her task of polishing one of the holy vessels as Hildegard approached. “What is it, mistress?”

  “I’m greatly perplexed by the young priest’s death.”

  “As are we all. But I can reassure you on one thing. It was not the plague. Rest easy on that. We’re not going to be digging plague pits yet. These sisters may be frightening themselves with talk of witchcraft, but they’re not far wrong when they say he must have been poisoned. There is no other explanation for so sudden an attack.”

  “The cellaress suggested apoplexy.”

  “Aye, she would.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s enough now. How else may I help you?”

  “I can’t work out how it could have happened. I mean, could it have been self-inflicted?”

  She saw the horror on the sacristan’s face. “That would damn him to hell for eternity. No, he must have been dosed by someone.”

  “Did he have enemies?”

  She shook her head. “That boy? How would he find enemies, living here so blamelessly?”

  Remembering the words of the herberer, she was going to ask if the priest had liaisons with the sisters, but before she could put the question, the nun said, “Whoever did it must have flitted in here like a shadow once the holy vessels were in place. Those nuns are saying she wore a magic cloak. Can you credit the nonsense they have in their heads?”

  “So you believe he died from poison administered by human agency?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “And the next question is how.”

  “I can’t help you. I’m as perplexed as everyone else. No one has anything to do with the vessels but for me and my assistant, and I’d vouch for her with my life.’

  “Do you lock the doors when you’re not in attendance?”

  The sacristan shook her head again. “There is always someone in attendance. Me or my servant. Night and day.”

  “So how could it have been achieved?” She went over to the altar, where the chalice was displayed. “Is this ready for mass?”

  “No,” the sacristan replied, “but that’s how it is once the wine is poured in.”

  “Where is the wine kept?”

  “Under the altar in this flagon.” She reached down and pulled a brocade cloth to one side to reveal a stone flagon, some spills, a tinderbox and spare candles, and one or two other oddments. She let the cloth fall back into place.

  “So anyone wanting to add poison to the wine could come up here when nobody was watching, unstop the flagon, and drop something in it?”

  “They could if nobody was watching. Unlikely, as I’ve explained. But why? That’s the question. Why would anybody want to do a thing like that? He was harmless enough.”

  “I’m told he had a roving eye—” Hildegard began.

  The sacristan gripped her by the arm. “Do you realise what you’re saying, mistress? This is a house of correction. It is the last place on earth where looseness of any kind would be tolerated.”

  “But if—” Hildegard persisted.

  “Never, never.”

  “Do you have an alternative explanation other than jealousy for someone wanting him dead?”

  “I don’t. But it’s not what you suggest. Never.”

  Hildegard tried another approach. “Can you remember who was here the day he died?”

  “You have a strong interest in this matter—”

  “I feel I owe it to his dear mother to find out what happened.”

  “He had no mother.”

  “You mean he was an orphan?”

  “I mean he had no mother. He was the devil’s own and working his way out of shame to his ultimate salvation.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You wouldn’t, not being of a monastic order. Life is more than buying and selling and being the grand wife of a merchant.” She gave Hildegard’s garments an up-and-down look.

  “I’m hardly grand,” Hildegard murmured as she caught her meaning.

  “True, but you have no understanding of the teachings if you believe that all there is is this world of physical presences.” She extended an arm to embrace the church with its trappings of gold and gilded wood. “There are other forces at work.”

  The wall paintings showed lurid scenes of martyrdom. Hildegard averted her glance. Unbidden, the memory of Rivera rose before her. She would never be free of him. “The force of destiny, I suppose you mean?”

  The sacristan folded her arms. “And the force of divine will.” She gave Hildegard a grim smile. “Since you ask who was here, let me offer the courtesy of a reply. That day, only yesterday, was the feast of Saint Thomas, was it not?”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “And my servant was in here with me. She was polishing the sacramental ornaments and had replaced the chalice where it is now, just as you see it.” She indicated the gold and wrought-silver vessel. “It was never out of my sight. As we were busy, two sisters came in to ask if everything was ready. I started to light the candles—”

  “But in doing so, you could not have been watching the others.”

  “By then my servant was standing beside me, holding the tinderbox and some spills.”

  “And the two sisters?”

  “Yes,” the sacristan responded with a thoughtful frown. “One of them came to ask me some trivial question or other while the other one remained by the altar. I did not pay heed to her. They often come in to pray and to gaze on the cross.”

  “But on that particular day, only those two came in?”

  “Let me think.” Slowly, the sacristan began to sniff out a trail. “Yes. I’m sure of it. Only those two at that time, although earlier, before we started to make our preparations, there were several in and out.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Before lighting the candles, I’d poured the new wine into the flagon. It came up from the general cask in the kitchen, ready for the priest, who would consecrate it after pouring it from the flagon into the chalice.”

  “So poison could have been added to the wine in the kitchen, or after it was poured into the flagon, or even,” she added, “after the priest poured it into the chalice?”

  The sacristan was reluctant to agree. The reason became clear when she admitted that she had tasted a sip when it first came up from the kitchen. “To make sure it was not sour,” she added.

  “So it was when the wine was in the flagon that someone could have poisoned it, or after it was transferred to the chalice?”

  “More likely the former. After the priest had poured it into the chalice, there would have have been too many people around.” She was still frowning. “I still fail to see how anyone could have got at the flagon. It was kept underneath the altar until it was needed. I would have noticed if anyone had pushed back the cloth under the altar.”

  “And the sister standing at the altar while the other one engaged you in conversation, who was she?”

  “Let me think. She had her hood up. It was the other one, Sister Desiderata, who sticks in my mind.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Always putting her nose into matters that don’t concern her. If you want to find out more, she’ll no doubt have an opinion. And yes, I remember now. She was giving me advice
on how to light the candles. As if I haven’t been doing it these last ten years without her guidance.”

  “Desiderata and an unknown companion. Do they always go around in twos?”

  “The prioress decrees it. They are safer that way. And she fears absconders. They watch each other.”

  Sleet was beginning to drive across the yard. It forced the nuns to take shelter in the cloisters. Black robes concealed identities, and only by looking closely could Hildegard see the differences between one and another. Sister Mariana stood out a little by reason of her height, which was slightly above the average.

  At this moment, she was the centre of a discussion on the subject of whether animals had souls. Hildegard felt a yawn coming on. She lingered on the fringes and, with no wish to draw attention to her interest, tried to make a guess as to which one was Desiderata.

  A sallow-faced nun stood on the edge of the group, twisting a rosary between her fingers while one of the others harangued her over her views. Her opponent was a short woman, young and rosy-cheeked, with a wisp of fair hair escaping from her coif.

  She was mocking the other’s ideas, and suddenly, for no reason Hildegard could discern, the argument became heated. The two women began to shout each other down. Mariana looked on with a troubled expression. The fourth member of the group stood by, head down, face obscured by her hood, and did not join in.