The Dragon of Handale (3 page)

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.

Her thoughts snagged and came to a stop on the image of Hubert de Courcy. Handsome, austere, driven, with a steely intelligence, he was a man haunted by the sins of his past. His attraction, however, never failed to draw from her recognition of her own failings, ones of unmitigated physical desire and something more which she could not describe. Even when in the arms of the spy Rivera, she had been conscious of Hubert’s existence, of his approval and disapproval. Every thought of him resulted in a feeling of guilt for the great wrong she had done him.

The bell began to toll for tierce.

Intending to take a shortcut from the one side of the garth to the other, she opened a studded door and ended up in a small stone cell. Crossing to the other side, she found herself in yet another small chamber.

It was in darkness.

About to turn on her heels and retrace her steps, she heard a scuffling sound inside, and thinking it was a rat, she began to back hurriedly out. Then something about the sound drew her attention. It was human. Peering into the shadows, she was astonished to see someone crouching there, shrouded in black.

“Who is this?” She stepped forward, the better to make the person out.

The door behind her groaned on its hinges and the cell was plunged into blackness.

The creature in the corner began to make snuffling noises. They resolved themselves into a defiant protest. Hildegard could distinguish only one or two words. “No! I won’t!” and “Please, don’t!” and then “No, no, no!”

She edged back to where the door had closed behind her, only to find it locked. This could not be so. She pushed her shoulder against it, but it did not yield. “Let me out!” She hammered with both fists. Behind her, the creature fell silent.

“Open this door, someone!”

Her shouts brought a response from the other side. “Keep quiet, curse you!”

“Open the door!”

“The prioress will blame me for your racket. And you know what’ll happen then, you sinning bitch!”

A bang on the door with a hard implement reinforced this threat.

“I don’t know who you are and you don’t know me. But I assure you it’ll be the worse for you, not me, if you don’t open this door immediately. I’m a guest here and I demand to be released!”

A hush fell on the other side. Slowly, the door ring began to turn.

When the door opened, a wan face peered up at her from under a black cowl.

On seeing a respectable-looking townswoman confronting her, the woman fell to her knees. “My most gracious lady, I am deeply at fault.”

Hildegard kept one hand on the door to allow light to be shed into the corner of the cell. She looked back, to see a creature crouching on the bare stone with her knees up to her chin. Two frightened eyes stared out of the darkness.

Worst of all was the bloody slash of a wounded mouth. It was a nun, a young woman of no more than twenty or so.

When she saw Hildegard standing in the light, she rubbed a hand over her face, smearing the blood across her cheeks, and began to rock back and forth, emitting a keening sound, halfway between a prayer and a curse, that sent chills up and down Hildegard’s spine.

“My dear sister—” She went over and bent down beside her. A shadow loomed over them and the older nun stepped inside.

“She knows why she’s here. Leave her to the contemplation of her sins, mistress. Come out now. I beg your pardon for my rough welcome.”

Hildegard reluctantly rose to her feet. It was not her place to interfere with the running of the priory. Even so, she was disturbed by the poor girl’s distress. “Does she eat?”

“She’s on bread and water and she and her confessor know why.” The woman held the door open.

It was too late to attend the service at tierce. It began to rain. She walked back and forth in the cloister until everybody came out. Strict silence seemed to be observed. In moments, the nuns walking two by two had disappeared into the nearby
dortoir.
Not sure what to do, she pulled up her hood and set off across the garth with the intention of exploring the rest of the enclosure, when she felt someone tug at her sleeve.

It was the young priest. Head bare, pimply-faced, a boil on his neck, he looked raw with cold. She wanted to offer a cure for the boil but did not want to patronise him. Rain hurled itself in gusts between them.

“M-mistress,” he began nervously, “The prioress has asked me to warn you about leaving the precinct.”

“Leaving?” a smile hovered round her lips. The woman must be a mind reader. “But I’ve only just arrived!”

“N-no, I mean, in a case you should decide to take a walk in the woods. If the weather improves,” he added.

“A walk?”

“It is not safe.”

She raised her eyebrows to encourage him to continue. He looked uncomfortable and seemed to be finding it difficult to be more forthright.