The Dragon of Handale A Mystery Read online

  “Come in.” He ushered her inside, then gave a hiss of astonishment when he saw the novice. “Should she be out of her enclosure?”

  “Her prison, you mean.” Hurriedly, she explained about Fulke’s unexpectedly early arrival and the death of the priest. “And now at this very moment, they’re searching the precinct for her.”

  “Leave her with us. I have a hiding place should they dare to come to us. Go. You can trust us.”

  Hildegard played hide-and-seek on her way back to her chamber. The nuns, like hounds searching for a scent, were hallooing back and forth across the garth with little purpose other than to look busy. What alarmed her was what she heard as they swept back and forth. It seemed they had already chosen their culprit without the inconvenience of a trial.

  “A poisoner!” she heard. “How could she learn such devilish arts!”

  “To think we’ve been harbouring a witch in our midst!”

  “They burn witches. And rightly so.”

  Praying that Dakin’s hiding place would be as safe as he claimed should the search spread outside the enclosure, Hildegard took off her boots and pretended to be asleep in her bed when they eventually came knocking at her door.

  “What?” she asked sleepily.

  “The novice, have you seen her?”

  A light shone in her eyes.

  “Who? What? Which one?”

  They opened the aumbry, peered under the bed, knocked on the walls in hope of finding a secret cavity, then left.

  She heard them do the same in the empty chamber across the hall. Lights bobbed back and forth in the garth. Eventually, the bell tolled, beckoning them all for the next office. What was it? Blearily, she realised it must be no later than compline. Silence fell.

  A little while after this, she heard men’s voices and the sound of footsteps as someone entered the building; next came the clank of a sword, a curse or two, and complaints about being stuck here in a priory all night when there was his woman’s bed waiting for him, followed by some coarseness about nuns.

  Two voices.

  Fulke’s henchmen. Bedding down for the night in the chamber opposite. So where was Fulke?

  At least it meant they were taking a rest from the hunt and Alys was safe for now. Did it mean the search would continue the next day? It looked like it. Maybe it would only cease when they found her. But how long could the masons keep her hidden?

  More bells. Hildegard lost count. It was pitch-black outside. She remained sleepless through the hours. Lauds came. She dragged herself out to see what she could glean.

  A hurried service, no more than a prayer, a psalm, a hymn. The sacristan, unused to authority, stood in for the priest. Fulke and the prioress were absent.

  Sister Mariana came brushing close as she filed out after the others, a hectic flush adding to the swelling wound Hildegard had inflicted, her eyes darting, dilating in terror in the trembling candlelight. Or was it triumph? It could look much the same. Was it possible that in her febrile state of mind she had poisoned the priest for some twisted purpose of her own? It was certainly true someone here must have done it. Her glance rested blankly on Hildegard as she passed.

  The rest of the night was furtive with shadows, doors slyly opening and closing on voices echoing from hollow rooms, dawn bringing with it no relief from the passion of the hunt.

  Emerging with pretended innocence at prime, Hildegard, a knife now on her belt underneath the townswoman’s shawl, the second cloak pinned, asked, “What was the disturbance last night? People came to my chamber, asking questions. Is the priest really dead? How did it happen?”

  Downcast eyes. More singing and garbled prayers. Rain. Daylight slowly seeping inside the enclosure. Like water, greying everything.

  The night’s rain will have washed away any trace of our footprints in the mud, she thought as she followed a fluttering group headed by Fulke in his blue cloak as they crossed the grass to the mortuary. He went inside ahead of everybody else.

  Four lay sisters came up, staggering under the weight of a stretcher on which lay the body of the priest, shrouded, a rosary twined between his lifeless fingers.

  Prioress Basilda was carried in her chair across the wet grass by Fulke’s two roughneck henchmen. A servant ran alongside, holding a waxed canopy above her sacred head.

  The thickset lay sister Hildegard had seen guarding the entrance to the kitchens followed with a handful of conversi. More singing round the body in the echoing, windowless house of death.

  Then Fulke, poised in the doorway, gazed outside with a wrinkled forehead, trying to work something out.

  The cellarer appeared behind him and pointed to the barricade of bushes growing at the foot of the wall. Fulke and his followers swarmed in the direction she pointed out. They found the wall door behind the bushes. When Fulke raised his hand, they came to a stop and milled about like a small pack of hounds.

  Hildegard took the opportunity to mingle on the fringes of the group, suspecting that the presence of this door into the dragon-infested wood held something of horror for most of the nuns by now.

  Then she went cold.

  Fulke was bending forward to peer at something. He reached out and plucked a woollen thread from between the wood of the door and the rough brick surrounding it. “This—” He held it up.

  The answer came from one of the nuns. “I’ll warrant it’s a thread from that witch’s shift!”

  Murmurs of agreement followed. The cellarer glanced at this infringement of the rule of silence, but the prioress, transported in her chair to the centre of the group, was by now less concerned with rules. “Let me see it!”

  Fulke placed the wisp of fabric into her outstretched fingers.

  “So she condemns herself by flight! The little witch must have come this way. But we’ve caught her. She won’t get far in Handale Woods!”

  To gasps of horror, everyone watched as Fulke pulled open the door.

  Despite their fear, they craned to see what lay beyond. He and his two henchmen, burdened by the prioress, closely followed by the cellarer and the kitchen guard, stepped through. The rest of the nuns drew back.

  “My lady prioress—beware of the dragon!” one of them called.

  The nuns clustered at the door, but none dare step through.

  Hildegard felt her breath stop. Dakin, she thought. She crossed herself.

  CHAPTER 11

  The rain stopped as abruptly as a pump switching off. It struck everyone as magical. The wood must be enchanted. It lay mist-wreathed and glittering in the dawn light.

  The two men struggled with the chaired prioress across the stretch of wet grass in front of the masons’ lodge. They dropped it down as soon as they got a chance. Dakin and Matt were so intent on their work that at first they did not look up, not even when Fulke strode up to the entrance and poked his head under the eaves.

  His shadow must have fallen over the stone block Dakin was working. Only then did he raise his head. “Master!” he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly, “Have you come to see how well we’re getting on with the embellishments for the prioress’s new house?”

  Instructions shouted from the unfinished structure echoed across the grove. “Down a bit, Will. No, up a bit. That’s it. Hold it!”

  Fulke looked towards the sound. Will, working the windlass, was on top of the building, looking down. He was raising a block of stone to the top of the wall while Hamo stood patiently below guiding the holding rope. At his feet was a bucket of mortar, already mixed and quite contrary to what Dakin had told Hildegard about their procedure.

  Fulke turned his head to look back at Dakin. “What’s that?” He indicated the stone on the bench in front of the mason. It had only just begun to be worked, by the look of it.

  “This,” announced Dakin with apparent pride, “is a rendition of the dragon of Handale.”

  “You’ve seen it, then, have you?” Fulke queried, glancing over his shoulder into the woods.

  Dakin said nothing but resumed h
is work with the chisel.

  Fulke went over to Prioress Basilda.

  Furious, red-faced, and helpless in the prison of her chair, she was peering impatiently into the lodge. “Ask him about the girl, Fulke.”

  There was a crunch from above as the stone block was dropped into place on top of the outer wall, and she glanced up as if fearing the whole edifice, the dream house befitting her grandeur, should come toppling down on top of them. Then she turned back to Fulke. “Go on, ask him! What are you waiting for?”

  Fulke gave a disparaging look at Dakin. “Well?”

  “Well what, master?”

  “Have you seen a novice from the priory?”

  “I’ve seen several about the place.”

  “You have?”

  “When I came in yesterday to pay my respects to my workmate, Giles of—”

  “Not then. Now. Last night.” Fulke looked exasperated. He gestured to his two men. “Go in and search.”

  When he heard this, Dakin rose to his feet. The claw chisel in his hands took on a more menacing appearance.

  “I mean”—Fulke smiled, showing his teeth in the nest of his beard—“when we have most humbly begged your permission … master,” he added, as if to make less of the noise of rapidly drawn swords behind him.

  Dakin smiled most affably. “By all means. It will be an honour to show you and the lady prioress our workplace.” He made a wide gesture of welcome and stepped to one side.

  The prioress grunted irritably. “You go, Fulke. Give it a good going-over.”

  Dakin moved forward to bar the way to Fulke and the two men at his shoulder. He addressed the prioress directly. ‘Of course, should any damage occur, it will be charged to your ladyship’s account.”

  “Of course,” agreed Fulke with a scowl. To his men, he said, “Hear that? You know who’ll be settling the final bill.”

  The men nodded, sheepish, now thwarted in what they might have regarded as a bit of fun, turning over somebody else’s possessions and trampling them a bit.

  Hildegard, heart in mouth, watched the three of them enter the lodge.

  At once, a female voice was heard from within. It was raised in protest, and the three men slunk back out again.

  Dakin bowed in what could only have been humility at his mistake. “I beg forgiveness, master. The daughter of the master mason of Durham Cathedral is within.”

  Carola appeared. She put on a fair performance of outraged dignity. “This intrusion shall be reported to my father, Mason Schockwynde. He will demand recompense for such gross impertinence. My lady”—she looked across to the prioress as if just having noticed her—“I beg you, be my witness. These men must be called off. My father will not countenance such trespass. These are the guild’s private quarters.”

  Before the prioress could think of a reply, Dakin laid a restraining hand on Carola’s arm. “Mistress, I fear it is I to blame for the intrusion. It is I who gave these visitors permission to inspect our lodge. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

  She brushed him aside. “It is against all the rules of our guild,” she replied shortly. “Only those admitted to our mystery are allowed to set foot in the precinct.”

  Dakin became a supplicant. “That may be so and I know it right well, but as you have the power to interpret the rules in the absence of our master, I pray you oblige the benefactor of Handale Priory in his request. A novice has gone missing and he fears for her safety.” He paused. “She may have been abducted. Such heinous crimes are not without precedent in these dark days.”

  Carola turned to Fulke with all the authority of her position. “Then pray enter, master.” She glanced at the two henchmen with drawn swords. “However, our guild is not a military one. The two men-at-arms must remain outside.”

  Fulke by now was storming with impatience. Without a word, he ducked under the eaves and strode into the lodge. For a few minutes, he could be heard banging about inside.

  The group in the grove, kitcheners and the like and the frightened nuns staring out through the open door in the enclosure wall, waited to see what he would find. The prioress, already convinced that the girl could not be here and must have escaped into the woods, gestured to Fulke’s men to hoist up her chair again.

  Before they could do so, Fulke emerged, scowling. “Let’s get off after her.” He nodded towards the trees.

  His men began to follow but the prioress shrieked after them, “Who’s to carry me back, you dolts! Don’t leave me here!”

  Fulke frowned. “Convey her to her chamber and be quick about it.”

  The two hoisted the chair and, staggering, carved a path through the onlookers. When they reached the door in the wall, there was a delay because somehow, this time, the chair would not fit, and the prioress was almost pitched out as they tried to manhandle it through the gap. Nuns scattered on the other side, and the kitcheners, disconsolate because no capture had been made, followed as soon as the gap was unplugged.

  Fulke fumed in the interim.

  Hildegard went up to him, the better to distract him from further thoughts about the novice’s hiding place. A glance at the path into the woods showed no sign of its having recently been walked. “Master Fulke,” she began, “dare you risk entering the wild wood with the fire-breathing dragon at large?”

  “Who said it was a dragon?”

  “So I’ve heard. Am I misinformed?”

  “It may be a dragon, mistress. It may be a fire-breathing stallion, a story I’ve heard,” he countered, “but, yes, I dare risk entering the wood. My duty obliges me.” He was about to turn back to the lodge.

  “But master,”—she put a hand on his arm—“how will you defend yourself against such a great danger? Look what it did to the poor apprentice.”

  “My safety is my concern, mistress, not yours.” He was evidently not completely satisfied with his search inside the lodge and was still staring towards it, but then another thought struck him, or maybe it was something about Hildegard herself, a comely townswoman, softly spoken, her hand on his arm, because he turned back with a sort of smile on his face. “So, what brings you to Handale, mistress?”

  “I am a widow, master. I am in mourning.” The latter was true. She felt she would never be out of mourning for Rivera.

  “I see.” He cleared his throat.

  “I am here to consider where and how I might best bestow my fortune.”

  Fulke looked thoughtful. He bowed. “I trust you will feel free to avail yourself of my experience in such matters, widow.”

  “I am most grateful for your kindness, master. It is a welcome offer in a time of much confusion. Will you stay long here?”

  “I have business elsewhere after this little matter is sorted out, but I shall return within the next day or two and trust that we may converse more deeply on your dilemma?”

  “I shall deem it an honour and indeed I look forward with great eagerness to your return. It’s quite a marvel to me that you should be able to give so freely of your time to this little community and to we helpless women. The prioress must ever be in your debt out of gratitude and obligation.”

  “More like I myself am in debt to the prioress and her nuns for their piety, widow. God be praised for their devout ministrations on my behalf in easing my way to heaven.”

  Hildegard inclined her head and slowly withdrew a string of beads from the embroidered bag on her belt. She saw Fulke glance at them, assess the worth of coral, amber, and French ivory.

  He gave a complacent smile.

  “I shall return, widow.”

  By now, the two-men-at-arms were marching across the grass towards them. Fulke, still smiling, threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were following, then began to shove his way through the trees.

  Dakin had been intent on chipping at the stone block through all this. Will was still sitting on top of the wall, where he must have had a good view of things on both sides of the enclosure wall, and Hamo was attaching the bucket of mortar onto a pulle
y with half an eye on what was going on behind him. Carola and Matt had gone back inside the lodge.

  Hildegard saw Fulke and his men disappear from sight before turning to Dakin and pointing into the woods to indicate that she would follow them. Dakin put down the chisel for a second and clenched his fist in a salute. Hildegard set off quietly in the steps of the three bloodhounds in their futile chase.

  That gesture of Dakin’s interested her. It was made without forethought and was the usual sign of comradeship between the White Hart rebels. The pewter badge lost by Giles when he had been attacked was also a sign of allegiance. It was an enchained hart, seated, the emblem of King Richard.

  Hildegard made sure she kept out of sight, allowing Fulke and his men to get far enough ahead so that if they turned, they would not see her. It was easy to follow them by sound alone. They made no attempt at stealth, confident that the difficulty of forcing a path through the thicket would prevent the runaway from finding an alternative route and making good her escape. Indeed, it would have been difficult for anyone to force a way through, let alone a barefoot girl, because there was no break in the barrier of uncoppiced saplings.

  Mounds of brambles, fruit withered on the spiky stems, formed an additional barrier. Ivy trailed haphazardly on all sides. Fallen trees sometimes barred the way. The path, recently trodden by Dakin and his fellows, and Giles before that, and at least one other, showed up clearly.

  The sound of the beck, in spate after the rains, was loud from below the hill.

  The men were slashing at the undergrowth with their swords and, unbeknownst to them, making Hildegard’s path easier than before. Even so, she was careful not to gain on them.

  She reached the glade where the body of Giles had been found. The men, walking ahead, did not pause, however, but continued, to all intents as if they knew where they were going. Now and then, she heard Fulke’s voice, giving instructions, the grunt of a response, then again the slash of their swords. Suddenly, the sound stopped. Hildegard crept forward.