The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Page 2

  She set out.

  Holderness, where the priory at Swyne lay, soon merged with the undulating hills and secret dales of the Wolds before the land turned savage as the moors were reached.

  At their northerly point, near no great market town, and served only by the castle of Kilton—itself nothing more than a fort to hold the coast road between north and south—came the ridged-backed ironstone hills of Handale Forest, with the priory of the Benedictines at its heart.

  Handale.

  She arrived at Earl Roger de Hutton’s castle north of York, halfway to her goal.

  “Handale?” he shouted. “God’s bollocks, Hildegard, why do you want to go there?”

  Hildegard, feasted and somewhat feted, for Roger was fond of her, had told him straightaway the purpose of her journey and looked at him with renewed misgivings.

  “What do you mean, Roger? It can’t be as bad as that. My prioress suggested it. My onetime prioress, that is, at Swyne.”

  “I don’t need to be told who you mean, and I’d like to know her motive,” said,

  “I could think of nothing better to do now I’m back from pilgrimage. I feel unsettled. I don’t know what to do. Whether to rejoin the Order if they’ll have me back or to stay out. But if I stay out, then what? She seems to think time at Handale will persuade me to renew my vows.”

  “Or put you off for good,” he grunted with satisfaction. “It’s in the middle of nowhere. You’ll hate it.”

  “Have you been?”

  “No, of course not. Nobody has. Why would they? But strange stories are circulating. The previous prioress left in a hurry not long since. It’s supposed to be a secret, dark, brutish place with nothing good to be said for it.”

  “I’m told she was offered a comfortable corrodiary in York and the new one came in to sort things out—whatever that means.”

  Roger indicated to his page to pour more wine. “You’ll be there as Mistress York, will you?”

  “I have no choice until I discuss my return to the Order with Abbot de Courcy.”

  “Hubert will want you back in the fold. He’ll stop at nothing to get you back.”

  “It won’t be his personal decision.”

  Roger dismissed this. “Stay with us,” he coaxed. “I’ll find a handsome knight for you.” He regarded her with some sympathy. He knew what had happened last year down in Westminster when King Richard had called Parliament to plead for a war fund to defend the country against the French invasion. But the place had been full of spies. A vicious bloodletting had followed. Enmities at court and in the City of London had come to a head in a brutal clash of rival factions. The dukes had made their first open move against the young king, Richard II, and Hildegard had been caught up in it. The king’s position was even more precarious. The struggle for power was not over.

  “King Dickon was in York while you were overseas,” Roger told her. “His uncle Thomas Woodstock has been running the royal council to his own advantage while young Dickon kept away from London, trying to drum up support from the rest of the country.”

  “Was he successful?”

  “Not very. People are sick of war. And he hasn’t fully come round to the idea that he needs an army of his own. He’ll soon learn words and promises come cheap. He seems to think verbal support is enough, without the backing of strong steel. The dukes rarely travel without their armed escorts and enough bowmen to frighten anybody. Dickon needs to do the same if he’s to stand up for himself and protect the Crown.” He gave a snort. “I’ll definitely be turning out if he gives the summons.”

  “Is it likely?”

  He looked grim. “You’ve been out of the country. You have no idea what’s been going on. Those three traitors have raised armies, and the latest news is that the duke of Warwick is standing by at Waltham Cross, just outside London. Is that a threat or what? Thomas Woodstock and that snake Arundel are heading that way with their own musters. Meanwhile, we sit and wait for Dickon to call us to arms.”

  “I heard something like that was intended by Arundel when I arrived at Southampton. He was engaging men down there. He’s done it now, has he? He’s always been an ally of Thomas Woodstock. And they say the king is at Windsor?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s their excuse for threatening him?”

  “They say it’s because they don’t trust him. He’s supposed to have been plotting to murder them in their beds—”

  “Woodstock’s been trying to ruin the king’s name ever since he was made to look a fool at Smithfield.”

  “It’s not Woodstock any longer. It’s the duke of Gloucester.” Roger snickered. “He’s still a prick master, whatever his name. But let me tell you this: They’re spreading a story that the king went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, his real purpose being to barter Calais and Guînes for French help against his own countrymen!”

  “That can’t be true!”

  “It’s true that they say it, but I agree, it can’t be true. He would never do any such thing. He knows the value of both places and would never give them away, let alone do a deal with the French. But folk are so dumb-skulled, they’ll believe anything they’re told. Where’s their evidence for such lies, I ask!”

  “So what are they going to do with their armies? They won’t march against the king himself?” Hildegard looked shocked.

  Roger scowled. “They will if they get an excuse they can pass off as a good one.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t manage it. But tell me, where does Bolingbroke stand in all this? Is he in with them?”

  “He hasn’t shown his hand yet. He’ll wait until he sees which way the wind’s blowing. He’s got three men between himself and the Crown.” Roger ticked them off on his hand. “He’s got his father, the duke. His uncle Gloucester so-called. The fourth earl of March, the king’s chosen heir. Bolingbroke can wait for his father to succumb to natural forces. But how can he get rid of Gloucester? He’s in his prime. And the earl of March is a child, with years ahead of him, God willing. Bolingbroke’s going to have a long wait before the Crown falls to him in any natural way. Make of it what you will. To me, it’s as plain as a pike up the backside. He’ll wait, and when his chance comes, he’ll grab it with both hands.”

  “His father’s still in Castile, crowned in St. James at Compostela, and doing deals left and right, so I heard.”

  “While everybody here is bowing and scraping to favourite son Bolingbroke. He’s all but duke of Lancaster by now. Gaunt should get himself home, or he’ll find he hasn’t got a duchy to come home to. Do you realise, Hildegard”—Roger looked grim—“I’m one of the few magnates here to give the king outright support?”

  “I hope you’ll keep it that way.”

  “I will. And so will Ulf.”

  Hildegard’s expression lightened. “How is dear Ulf?”

  “Married and miserable.”

  “Surely—”

  “Nothing more to be said, Hildegard. You’ll go that way out when you leave here?”

  “I need to get to Handale soon. I’ve been travelling for months. But I will see him. I want to. He’s always in my thoughts. I’ll settle at Handale first.”

  Earl Roger de Hutton, with his uncharacteristic gloom, worried Hildegard. It was over a year since she had been embroiled in affairs of the realm, albeit in a minor role, but now it seemed there was work to be done again. Handale would afford no opportunity to participate.

  On a different level, it was saddening to hear that Ulf was unhappy with his new wife. No doubt things will shake down after the first few troubled months, she told herself. Ulf was probably too used to doing things his own way. She could scarcely imagine the sort of woman who would be able to tame Roger’s wild northern henchman.

  Turning her horse’s head towards the north, she set out on the final leg of her journey.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kilton Castle. Midnight. So exhausted, she could only throw the reins of her horse to a stable lad, untie her bag, and follow the
steward’s servant blindly to a guest chamber. Barely able to kick off her boots, she sank down on a palliasse in her clothes and was asleep at once.

  She awoke at dawn to the sound of rushing water. Dragging herself to the window loop, she peered out and saw that the castle was perched on a soaring crag that fell dramatically to a boulder-strewn beck below. Opposite, thick woods clothed the hillside.

  When she arrived in the night, she had been too tired to notice much more than the towers jutting above the trees into the moonlit sky. Clattering under the arch of the gatehouse into the bailey, she had been aware only of shuttered buildings on all sides and a further arch leading into an inner yard. Now, coming out at the bottom of the tower steps, she saw a rough-hewn garrison, crowded with militia, the smoke from a blacksmith’s brazier billowing across the yard. Birds of prey circled the summits of the towers. The clash of steel on stone filled the air as a detachment of men was drilled. Archers were firing at the butts. No one gave her a second glance from under their steel helmets.

  She sought out the steward in his office. He grudgingly offered bread, cheese, and wine from his own table, then rose to grab a bunch of keys from a hook.

  “You’ll be wanting to be off. I’ll get them to open up for you. You’ll have to proceed on foot. We’ll stable your horse with the others from the priory.”

  Before she could make any remark about this arrangement, he went to the door and barked at a passing servant. “Escort!”

  When he returned, a heavy-looking fellow in a mail hauberk accompanied him. “Go with him,” the steward told Hildegard. Grim-faced, he sat back down and began to add to a list scratched on a wax tablet.

  Hildegard followed the man into the bailey. By the time she had brought down her bag from the turret room, the great wooden doors at the gatehouse were grinding open, and she followed him outside.

  Thick woodland fringed the lane leading down to the coast road, and when they crossed the wooden drawbridge, Hildegard expected the man to set off down the lane the way she had come last night, but instead he led her along a narrow path skirting the moat until he came to an opening between the trees. It was little wider than a deer run. He set off at a brisk pace.

  “Is this the road to Handale?” she asked in surprise as she hurried to keep up.

  He grunted an assent. As he strode on, his only concession was to throw a glance back over his shoulder now and then to make sure she was still following.

  The path was winding and barely perceptible. In moments, Hildegard felt lost. The trees were not yet in leaf. Even so, unpollarded, they grew thickly, poles of ash forming barricades on all sides, bramble roots weaving between the bars of saplings, a mix of hornbeam, hazel, and alder making passage difficult. The deeper they went into this thicket, the darker it became. The branches met overhead and they walked in a gloomy tunnel, downwards, as if into a pit. The only colour was now and then the dark green of juniper and holly, glossy and sinister. No birds sang.

  Hildegard caught up with her escort. “How on earth do you find your way through this thicket?” she demanded. Her hand was already hovering over her knife, for she did not trust him.

  “Keep following,” he ordered.

  I’m hardly likely not to, thought Hildegard, or I could be haunting Handale Forest forever. She peered up through the branches and tried to guess where the sun was to get her bearings, but the sky—what bits of it she could see—was overcast.

  Suddenly, the Kilton man bent double and, pushing his way under some overhanging branches, burst out into daylight. When she followed, he was already marching across a clearing towards a wooden door set in a high stone wall. She saw him bang on it with the hilt of his sword.

  The door had just begun to open when he turned, gave her another nod, and without a word disappeared back into the undergrowth.

  The prioress, Basilda, red-faced, overweight, and perspiring, reclined before a blazing fire in a chamber that stank of bird droppings, incense and sweat. She was enthroned in a cushioned chair, her feet in fur-lined slippers, an embroidered overmantle lined in the same stuff round her shoulders. She looked askance at Hildegard’s plain woollen cloak, the extra one she had been instructed to bring with her.

  Hildegard flung it over the back of her chair as she sat down. It’s like a furnace in here, she was thinking. How different from Swyne.

  Prioress Basilda inched a goblet of wine towards her, then fixed a beady eye on her over the rim of her own one of chased silver. A hawk sat behind her on its perch and eyed Hildegard with malevolent concentration. “So, Mistress York,” began the prioress, “what skills can you bring to us in exchange for our hospitality?”

  Hildegard replied with caution. “Some herbal lore, but not above the ordinary. Some skill in writing.”

  “A fair court hand?” Basilda raised her eyebrows. “Latin? French?”

  Hildegard hesitated. “I make no great claims, my lady.” She would not admit much until she saw how things lay. So far, she was unimpressed. If Prioress Basilda was typical, the priory was slack. Difficult to believe it was a religious house at all. Sweetmeats on a tray, she noticed. A luxury of gold and silver glinting everywhere in the soft light of beeswax candles. Furs thrown over cushioned benches. She would have been better off at Watton with the widows and their little lapdogs.

  The prioress was considering matters with a furrowed brow. “Unlike the Cistercians, God take them, we only have our manors, mills, and churches to bring in revenue. Even so, I have much correspondence. It needs constant attention. You may have noticed our building works?”

  Hildegard agreed that she had. It would have been difficult to miss them. Within the enclosure marked off by the high walls of the priory as well as an outer garth of farm buildings and storage sheds, there was an inner garth. This was dominated by a church at one end, with cloisters running down one side to link up with the refectory, the bakehouse, brewery, and kitchens supplying the domestic needs of the community.

  On the opposite side was the thatched-roofed dortoir where the nuns had their cells. Farther off were two separate buildings for guests. Rearing up above the outer wall, the hoists and scaffolding of the masons were visible, evidence of the large new establishment being built.

  Prioress Basilda gave a sigh of satisfaction. “My new chambers are being built by a master mason from Durham. This one is far too small for the dignity of my office. Divided, it should do nicely as cells for my nuns.” She gestured to include the not overly large chamber, making Hildegard wonder just how little space her poor nuns would be obliged to enjoy. “Well, mistress, you know what builders are like,” she continued. “Constant questions and resulting disagreements. I wish to have it all in writing in case of problems later. You can attend to that.”

  “I’m honoured, my lady,” Hildegard replied. An effort was required to keep the note of irony out of her voice.

  Basilda stared at her. Her eyes were like pebbles washed by the North Sea. “What made you choose us?”

  “I desired somewhere remote from the world.”

  “Hm.” Basilda sounded as if she rather resented her priory’s being described as remote, as if there might be some criticism intended, but Hildegard’s bland expression mollified her for the moment.

  “You will, of course, dine with us and attend all offices.”

  “Certainly. And I wish to make myself useful in any other way I can.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” She picked up a small ceramic hand bell and gave it a shake. It made a musical tinkle. At once, a nun appeared. Black-robed, head bowed.

  “Show our guest to her chamber, sister, and then return to your duties.”

  The nun fled ahead like a wraith along a corridor to the far end of the guest house and the moment she had shown Hildegard to the door of her chamber she turned to leave.

  “Wait, sister,” Hildegard put out a hand. “If we are to see each other over the next few weeks, we should at least exchange names. I am Mistress York—”

 
The nun looked no more than eighteen. She gave a hasty glance over one shoulder. “Forgive me. I am forbidden speech.”

  “Forbidden?”

  The girl whispered in a frightened tone, “My penance, mistress. The prioress decrees it.”

  “Penance pays all debts,” murmured Hildegard automatically.

  Without another word, the girl fled.

  Speculating on the nature of the sin to warrant the punishment, Hildegard put the matter to one side for the moment and opened the door to her chamber.

  It was certainly austere, even to Cistercian eyes The prioress clearly had one view of her own comfort and another for her guests.

  So this was to be the place where she would make one of the most momentous decisions of her life. She looked round with misgivings. Even on pilgrimage, the hospices had not been so bleak.

  There was a wooden clothes chest in one corner, an aumbry for personal items, and a narrow bed with a thin coverlet across one wall. She dumped her travel bag onto it and began to unpack.

  She took out her cures and put the scrip in the aumbry. Then she withdrew spare leggings, an undershift, a missal, a folding ivory case with a mirror in the lid, and a small comb that opened out, revealing a carved bone handle. She arranged them where she could find them. There was also a knife in a leather sheath, and she left that at the bottom of the bag.

  She took off her head covering and combed her hair. It had grown during her sojourn in Spain and she had not bothered to cut it. Now it ran like molten metal through her fingers before she hid it under a clean white head scarf.

  These Benedictines, she was thinking as she completed her few tasks, were somewhat different from the Cistercians. True, the latter had been set up specifically as an antidote to Benedictine love of luxury, and as a consequence their austerity attracted people of some principle, women such as the prioress at Swyne and men like Abbot Hubert de Courcy of Meaux. They would be scandalised by the luxury she had so far seen in the prioress’s parlour at Handale.