The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Read online

  She fingered the piece of fabric between her fingers. Someone at Handale must have a torn gown, she thought.

  She moved closer to the two she had followed inside. They had gone to stand against the wall to her left, heads bowed, hoods casting deep wedges of shadow over their faces. In the flickering candlelight, it was impossible to tell one from another. Those in the inner circle were grouped round the prioress near the altar, discussing something in low voices. They were too far along the nave to have just come inside. She turned her attention back to the two by the wall. Was her assailant one of these?

  She listened to try to detect anything in their breathing to show they had been running, but they were both as composed as stone. She cursed to herself, free of nunlike vows, and peered along the wall, but they were the only two here. A closer look showed how optimistic it was to expect to find a tear in their garments. Most were threadbare. And she didn’t know whether it was a fragment of a sleeve or a hood or the edge of a cloak she held.

  Prioress Basilda, as massive as usual in her wooden chair, was being helped out of it by the cellaress and the sacristan. The pimply priest was present. The nuns in attendance were speaking in wispy voices.

  After this, supper.

  She turned to go.

  If the intruder was a nun and not one of the servants or lay sisters, which seemed most likely from her black garments, then she must have missed vespers in order to have had time to enter Hildegard’s chamber while she was absent. Nothing told her who had failed to put in an appearance, and there was no way of finding out.

  Only one course suggested itself. She would have to match the piece of fabric she held with a tear in one of the nun’s habits. It was no use expecting to find a match here She would have to find an opportunity in the refectory. One of these furtive, hooded figures knew she had been attacked, and had, in turn, been toughly resisted. Her face must be blotched with small wounds, thought. Hildegard, smiling to herself. The culprit would have to do something out of the ordinary to get out of the trap she had set herself.

  And so would Hildegard herself, to spring it.

  The barefoot novice who brought the bread round to everyone was there again.

  Thinly clad as usual, she held out a basket of wastel to each of the nuns in turn with her head bowed. She looked too cowed to do otherwise. Chewing on the fine white bread, Hildegard watched her scurry from one to the next, giving a little curtsy to each nun in turn It was plain she lived in fear. This must be the one the masons had referred to as Alys, the one who had found the body of Giles in the woods. No wonder she looked frightened.

  Her attention moved to the other diners. Four sat on each side of the long table, including herself on one side. As usual, no one spoke. In order not to interrupt the reading from the lectern, they merely waved a hand for what they wanted, beckoning, dismissing, never looking the novice in the face. How old would she be? Younger than Hildegard had first assumed. Thirteen? Fourteen? Approaching marriageable age. Assigned to the monastic life by some guardian or a parent reluctant or unable to feed her? And by the look of her, profoundly unhappy.

  Hildegard gestured for more bread. When the girl was near enough, she asked, “How long have you been at Handale, my child?”

  The girl gave a darting glance at the nearby nuns and whispered, “Since Martinmas, mistress.” She saw that nobody was bothering much, so she added in a whisper, “I was sent from Rosedale. I do not wish to be a nun.”

  Hildegard glanced at the dirty feet, the thin shift, the broken fingernails and tangled hair. “Come to my guest chamber before compline,” she murmured. “I would like to know more about this.”

  The novice gave a slight nod and moved away.

  No sign of a torn sleeve. It was difficult to inspect the hems of the cloaks tumbled onto the benches beside the sisters. Three or four still wore theirs, hoods up, faces concealed. One of those four, guessed Hildegard after looking at the smooth faces of those with their hoods thrown back. She rose to her feet.

  There was rustle of speculation. No one got up from her place before the prioress.

  Hildegard moved behind the line of nuns sitting on the bench she had just vacated. She could not see their faces, but she could do something to make them turn. With a sudden loud scream, she pointed into the corner of the refectory. At once, heads swivelled. Three hooded nuns briefly turned to stare at her. Two of them had faces as smooth as alabaster. The third was covered in scratches and had a red mark under her left eye.

  “Mistress York! What is the meaning of this?” The prioress was in a fury and started to heave herself out of her chair.

  “There, my lady! In the corner! I think I see something moving!” she exclaimed. She lowered her hand. She had found out what she wanted. “Forgive me, my lady. I now see I was mistaken.”

  There was a rustling, not quite a murmur, from the nuns. The word dragon was heard.

  “One of you go and have a look. Set our minds at rest,” replied the prioress, giving Hildegard a hard glance as she sank back among her cushions.

  The subprioress got up and peered cautiously into the corner, here she poked around for a moment. “Nothing here, my lady.”

  Hildegard dropped a curtsy. “My dear and reverend prioress, pray forgive me. It must have been a trick of the light Or a mouse.”

  “Sit. Finish eating.”

  Hildegard returned to her place. Her assailant was only two places away. Out of the corners of her eye, she watched the nun pick up a piece of bread and begin to eat.

  “A moment, sister!” The black shape was hurrying to be first out of the refectory as soon as the final amen was uttered, and when she didn’t stop, Hildegard ran behind her and grasped her by the sleeve. “Sister, I believe I have something of yours!”

  The nun was jerked to a stop. Slowly, she turned round. Her hood was over her face, but Hildegard pushed it back to reveal a long scratch down one side of her face and a series of small contusions under one eye.

  Hildegard bobbed her head. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “For causing injury, although I’m sure you’ll realise it was in self-defence.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to look at this.” Hildegard opened the palm of her hand, where the piece of torn fabric lay.

  The nun’s eyes darted from side to side when she saw it. “It’s nothing to do with me!”

  Hildegard still held her sleeve. “But how strange! It seems to match this tear exactly.” She chanced on the exact place where the fabric had been ripped at the cuff.

  The two women regarded each other for a moment. They were of the same height and build, evenly matched.

  “So what do you have to say?” prompted Hildegard.

  “There is an explanation.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  A sudden voice boomed: “Who is that conversing in the cloister?” It was the cellarer. She strode swiftly over to the two women.

  Hildegard turned with a smile. “I am at fault again, sister. I asked a question. Does the rule of silence prevail in the cloisters, too?”

  “Get to your cell, Sister Mariana. Now!”

  “I beg of you, don’t chastise her,” Hildegard broke in as the nun hurried away. “She did not speak. The fault was all mine.” Putting on her most helpless expression, she said, “It is so very strange for me to find myself in a community with such strict adherence to Benedict’s Rule. You and your prioress are to be commended for following the saint with such remarkable zeal.”

  The cellarer looked baffled for a moment, then decided to take it as a compliment. “We do our best,” she replied with a tightening of her lips. “Now I suggest you retire to your quarters until compline and pass the time in the much-needed discipline of prayer.”

  “That is what I’m here for, sister. I do it with a glad heart.” Inclining her head, Hildegard backed away.


  Sister Mariana. So what was she up to? Had she been sent to poke around Hildegard’s chamber by the prioress? Is that why the cellaress had prevented her from blurting anything out? But what did they hope to find? It was a mystery, but one she hoped would be solved very soon, because she did not doubt that the nun would try to explain away her actions before long.

  Meanwhile, there was another visitor.

  It was later that evening and already dark. The cloister lamp was lit, but its faint light did not go far, and the garth itself lay in darkness. Standing at her chamber window, Hildegard glimpsed a small shape materialise from the direction of the buttery, then vanish into the long shadows. A few moments later, there was a slight noise outside her door

  She went to open it. “Come inside. Did anyone see you?”

  The novice shook her head.

  “Here,” said Hildegard, noticing how she was shivering with cold. “Wrap yourself in this cloak for a while. You’ll be going down with an ague next.”

  When she was snug inside the woollen cloak, she gave Hildegard a frightened glance. “I shouldn’t be here. If they find out, they’ll torture me.”

  “Torture?” Hildegard frowned.

  “You’ve no idea. It’s only because you’re not one of them I dare risk speaking to you. Oh, mistress, I don’t know what to do. Please help me!”

  Hildegard leaned against the window embrasure and gave her an encouraging smile. “I will if I can. It’s obvious you’re unhappy. But now you are here tell me how you come to be here against your will?”

  “I’ve got to get away. I’m so frightened. Please say you’ll help?” She glanced nervously towards the door.

  “You’re quite safe here for now. Just tell me how you come to be here in the first place?” Hildegard prompted. “Begin at the beginning.”

  The girl took a deep breath. “My father was a vassal of the earl of Northumberland. We lived in a fortified manor in the Eastern Marches. Father was killed in a skirmish with the Scots when he was in the service of the earl. My mother had already died years ago from the plague. I scarcely knew her. I’m now completely alone.” Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I don’t want to be a nun. I just want to go home.”

  Hildegard went to sit beside her. “Who sent you here?”

  “My guardian. A hateful man. He sits in my father’s house as if he owns it. But it’s still at law. It should come to me and my brother. My father willed it so. My little brother is only nine. He can’t do anything.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He’s in the retinue of Sir Edward Umfraville, but it’s miles away, in the west of the county. I’m sure he doesn’t even know our father is dead. My guardian intends to wait until he has ownership of our property before he lets my brother know about Father. I’m so miserable, mistress. I think and think, but my thoughts run all over and I can find no way out.”

  “Isn’t there anyone who’ll support your claim?” Hildegard asked. “What about your father’s steward?”

  “He would help, but he was dismissed by my guardian on the day Father was buried. I have no idea where he is now.”

  “Then we must find out. The law, fortunately for us, often takes its time. Tell me where this manor is.”

  She named an unfamiliar place that was, Hildegard guessed, deep in Northumberland’s most northerly territory. A border stronghold. First to exchange hands in the dangerous game of barter and attrition being played out in the lawless region between Scotland and England.

  “We’ve got to be quick,” the novice whispered. “They say they’re going to send me to the dragon as punishment if I do anything wrong. That’s where they send nuns and novices who need correction. None of them ever returns.”

  “The dragon? But that’s just a story—”

  “No, the novice who was here before me has been sent there. She’ll be his prisoner until he devours her. I’m so afraid—”

  “Who told you this nonsense?”

  “That man, Master Fulke. He was the one who brought me here through the woods on the last stage of the journey.”

  “Be reassured. I won’t let any dragon get hold of you. I don’t believe in them. And as I’m used to fighting for what I do believe in, you can rest assured that will not happen. These days, the theft of an inheritance is a familiar one, unfortunately, but there’s usually a way out for those who are determined to find one. Abduction is a crime punishable under the laws of England. No one should be forced to marry against her will. It cannot be allowed.”

  “They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve been talking to you.”

  “It won’t come to that. Believe me. Now, I want you to promise me you’ll say nothing to anyone, not even to your best friend. Do as you’re told by the nuns, as if nothing has changed, and if anything happens to alarm you, let me know at once.” Hildegard stood up. “You’ll be missed if you stay much longer. Let me make sure there’s no one around to see you leave here.”

  She went over to the window and peered out through a corner of the blind. The garth was deserted. Trusting that no one was watching from the cloister, she doused the candle so that the girl could slip invisibly back through the shadows. “Go,” she whispered. “Trust me.”

  Poor little creature, she thought as the girl slid nervously into the darkness. Hildegard paced the floor for some time after the novice left, until a plan began to form. She would need outside help, but how to obtain it was the question.

  The doleful bell began its summons again. Compline. She let herself out and crossed the garth.

  “Next morning, she hurriedly broke her fast, then went to see the mesons. Matt sheered her then blurted, Giles probably died because of me. I was hankering after a really good-size piece of beech and he said he knew just where to find one. That’s where it happened. By the great beech.” Matt’s every-ready smile had faded and his eyes clouded over.

  Before Hildegard could offer any remark, Carola put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s a sot-witted thing to say and you know it.” She turned to Hildegard.

  “I’m sure Mistress York would like to see some of your work.”

  “I would indeed.” The two women exchanged a look.

  Matt, oblivious, stood up. “This chair,”—he indicated the one he had been sitting in—“What do you think to it?”

  “Did you make this?” Hildegard ran her hand over the silky wood. It was a fine piece of craft work.

  “Oh, he’s that proud of it. You’d think nobody had ever made a chair before.” Carola punched him teasingly on the shoulder.

  “I haven’t made one before, and that’s a fact, so give me leave to strut in my achievement.” He smiled faintly.

  Carola said, “I hope that there fat prioress appreciates it.”

  “You don’t think I’m leaving this for her to sit on and turn to matchwood, do you?”

  “You’ll be copping it, then. She’ll have you up for stealing priory property.”

  “She owns all the wood God grows, does she?”

  “All that on priory lands, yes.”

  “She’ll get it returned in its former state, then, as a lump of wood. See what she does with that. My craft isn’t for sale to any old barterer.”

  Despite the apparent good nature of their exchange, there was heaviness in their humour. It was apparent that the death of their fellow mason weighed on them all.

  “Show Mistress York your little figures,” suggested Dakin.

  Matt went to a shelf and lifted down some pieces carved from wood: an angel, a grotesque, and a stag at bay, its antlers as graceful as the real thing but in delicate miniature.

  “All wood from hereabouts,” he explained.

  “And this one?” asked Hildegard, noticing another one on the ledge.

  They all looked at it in silence. Matt made no move to get it down.

  It was a dragon, unfinished, but its claws and the scales on its back gave testimony to what it was.

  Dakin broke in. “Mistress
York, come and look at our edifice. If Matt can strut, so can we.”

  He led her outside. “He’s taking Giles’s death hard, both of ’em being of an age and mates, like,” he confided. “We’re all cut up, of course. It shouldn’t have happened. We’re still waiting to hear back from the master. He’ll root out the culprit, sure as hellfire. It’s the waiting for justice that’s getting us down.”

  “I notice the coroner hasn’t shown up yet,” Hildegard said.

  “It’ll be the weather that’s holding him up. Until he shows his face we’re stuck here in this hellhole.” His voice, though not much above a whisper as they stepped inside the shell of the building, echoed round the half-built stone walls with frustrated rage.

  “It seems close to being finished,” observed Hildegard, looking about. “When does the roof go on?”

  “Not yet awhile. Foundations laid last summer. Walls half-built before the bad weather set in. Two storeys. A spiral stair, half-built. The whole to be roofed in slate. We’re making use of the weather to construct the wooden centring to support the stone/work. We can’t get on with the rest of it until the weather improves. Too wet now. The mortar won’t set. Then we have to bash a hole through the enclosure wall so the prioress can have her grand entrance. She wants a wall round her enclave so she can have the privacy of her own garden. And”—he grimaced—“to keep her safe from the wild beast of Handale, of course. It’ll be a neat little setup.”

  “Plenty of work for you to be getting on with.”

  “Nice profit for our master. Carola’s working on carvings for the corbels, along of me. Matt works in wood, as you saw. We tell him it’s because he’s soft. Riling him, like. He knows we mean it in jest, poor sot.”