The Winter King--A Hawkenlye 13th Century British Mystery Read online

‘How strange, when it was the poor young men’s destination,’ the abbess remarked. ‘They cannot have been expected, then.’

  Josse shrugged. ‘Who can say?’

  The abbess was studying him intently. ‘Sir Josse, I sense that you are here on another matter,’ she said, ‘for you have an air of distraction.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ he agreed. ‘Meggie tells me you have an old woman in your care, who you believe may be in danger because of certain visions she has experienced?’

  ‘Lilas of Hamhurst.’ The abbess nodded. ‘Indeed we do, and Meggie, I believe, is with her even now. Would you like to come and meet her?’

  As soon as he and the abbess stepped out into the cloister, Josse knew something was amiss. It was the noise – that great clamour of shouting male voices, interspersed with shrill female laughter, was something you never normally heard inside the abbey’s walls.

  Abbess Caliste, her face set in stern, angry lines, marched off towards the source of the noise, and Josse hurried to keep pace with her. ‘Be careful, my lady,’ he warned. ‘There is violence in the air.’

  She shot him a swift look. ‘Violence or not, something is disturbing the peace of Hawkenlye Abbey, Sir Josse, and the maintenance of that peace is my responsibility.’

  He had no option but to follow her.

  They emerged from the shelter of the cloisters into the wide open space between the main gates and the east face of the great abbey church. It was full of a thronging, surging press of people. They represented all stations of life, from barefoot, ill-fed, gap-toothed peasants to lordly men in warm, fur-lined cloaks and fine leather boots. Among the rags and the brilliant colours, two figures stood out: one was dressed entirely in the black habit of a Benedictine monk, and the other in the plain white wool and black scapular of the Cistercians.

  On the fringes of the pushing, heaving crowd, small groups of the Hawkenlye nuns, monks and lay brethren stood, mouths open in amazement at this extraordinary intrusion. Abbess Caliste, with Josse as close at her side as if he were tethered, elbowed her way to where Sister Liese and Meggie stood, outside the small rear door of the infirmary. The infirmarer was trying vainly to hush the crowd and commanding them to have some respect for the sick and the dying in her care.

  Meggie smiled in relief as she caught sight of Josse, detaching herself from Sister Liese and hurrying over to him.

  ‘They just shoved their way in, all those lords and ladies and the gaggle of hangers-on,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and they certainly didn’t bother with asking anyone’s permission, and—’

  ‘What on earth is going on, Sister?’ the abbess shouted. ‘Who are all these people?’

  Josse’s old friend Brother Saul appeared, panting with the effort of fighting a path through the crowd. Catching Meggie’s words, he shoved his way through to the abbess and cried, ‘We tried to tell the men, my lady abbess, that they must speak to you first and ask your permission – me, Sister Teresa and Brother Luke, that is.’ Briefly he indicated the nun on duty in the porteress’s hut and the lay brother who, judging by the pitchfork in his hands, had been mucking out the stables. ‘We told that lord fellow over there – the tall one in the blue cloak, him with that band of guards lurking round him – since he seems to be in charge, but he said they had a right to be heard, and the people must know the truth, and we—’

  A ferocious shout cut off Saul’s anxious words. ‘Listen!’ a deep, authoritative male voice cried. ‘Hear the words of our holy monk here, who has seen the truth!’

  Spinning round, Josse saw that someone had dragged up trestles and boards to set up a makeshift platform, on to which the Cistercian, the Benedictine and the tall man in the blue cloak were clambering; it was the latter who had shouted. The gang of burly men, who Saul had indicated as guards, had taken up positions around the foot of the platform. At Josse’s side, the abbess made to move forward, her expression thunderous, but, sensing again the threat of violence thrumming in the air, Josse grabbed her hand, holding her back. Waving his arm, he indicated the fascinated, avid faces all around. They had come here for a show, and they were not going to give it up. He said into Abbess Caliste’s ear, ‘My lady, if you try to stop this now, you risk a riot, in which many innocent people will undoubtedly be hurt.’ Even as he spoke, someone pushed forward against the platform, and instantly one of the guards swung a heavy club and forced the man back. Instinctively, Josse put his free arm round Meggie, drawing her close.

  He had always thought of Caliste as a level-headed, wise woman. Never had he been so glad to be proved right.

  Still holding her hand, he felt the tension ease. Shooting him a furious look, she wrested herself out of his grasp. ‘Very well, Sir Josse,’ she said icily. ‘Since there appears to be no choice, we will listen to what this lord would have us hear.’

  The man in the blue cloak had thrust out his chest, a gesture which had set his cloak swinging, revealing a sword at his side. He has a sword, and his men have clubs, Josse thought. They dare to come armed into this holy place. Josse’s apprehension grew. The man looked around the crowd ranged below him, eyes narrowed as he waited for silence. He had a thin, hawkish face, with pale and strangely unblinking eyes, and a long nose that came to a sharp point. Such was his air of command that, quite quickly, he got the silence he wanted.

  ‘I am Nicholas Fitzwalter,’ he announced, ‘as many of you will already know.’

  There were murmurs of assent, and someone yelled out, ‘We know you all right, Lord Nick!’

  Smiling, he suppressed the brief noise with his outstretched hands. ‘I have not summoned you here to listen to me,’ he went on, ‘but to hear the words of another: one who has heard the voice of our Lord God, and who wishes to share His words with you!’

  The startling announcement was greeted for an instant with dead silence. Then a soft buzz of excited comment spread through the crowd.

  Watching the trio on the platform, Josse sensed all was not well. The Benedictine (young, pale and clearly frightened) was pleading with the Cistercian (older, his very stance expressive of authority) and Josse was all but certain the young monk was not at all happy … He let his gaze roam around the crowd, studying the expressions. The mood of expectation seemed to be steadily growing.

  ‘Behold,’ Fitzwalter shouted above the growing hum of excited chatter, ‘I present to you Caleb of Battle! Hear, my friends, what he has to say, for he speaks for God himself!’

  Even Josse, some way away, heard the agonized squeak of Caleb’s reply: ‘I don’t! Oh, I don’t – I never claimed that, no man has the right to speak for God! I just …’ He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  I need to hear exactly what passes between these men, Josse thought. He edged through the crowd until he was standing just beneath the platform, and the abbess came with him. He looked up at Caleb, taking in the extreme pallor and the shiny film of greasy sweat on the emaciated face. The black robe was threadbare, poorly darned here and there, and dotted with crusty stains.

  Caleb was still stuttering his protest. But then Fitzwalter raised his arms and, as if conducting a heavenly choir, roused the great crowd. The rest of Caleb’s attempt to explain himself was drowned in a tumult of clapping, stamping, whistles, yells and catcalls.

  Fitzwalter waited, nodding as his eyes roamed round the crowd, then abruptly shouted for quiet. He nudged Caleb forward, and the young monk stumbled on the rickety platform. Fitzwalter, his frustration evident, said something to the Cistercian, who, grim-faced, nodded.

  The Cistercian moved to the front of the platform. ‘Brother Caleb is struck with shyness,’ he said, one eyebrow raised ironically, ‘which is readily understandable, he being more used to the solitude of his cell than the company of his fellow men and women.’ There were a few guffaws, and someone made a very imaginative suggestion as to how Caleb probably spent his time in the privacy of his cell, which drew a swift riposte from the other side of the crowd and a lot more laughter. The Cistercian let the ribaldry continu
e for a few moments, then, with a smile, said loudly, ‘I am Ralph of Odiham, and I am a monk of Beaulieu Abbey.’ He glanced at Caleb, standing red-faced, hanging his head. ‘I have Brother Caleb’s permission to speak on his behalf.’

  At that Caleb’s head shot up, and he looked fearfully at Ralph. He appeared to say something, but Ralph ploughed on regardless. ‘Caleb has been granted a vision from God,’ he said dramatically, ‘and he says—’

  If, by speaking for Caleb, the Cistercian had hoped to prompt him to speech, the ruse had succeeded. Hastening to stand beside Ralph of Odiham, Caleb cried, ‘I didn’t have a vision, not really! It’s just … I just feel …’ The prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in the thin throat as the young monk swallowed nervously. Then he burst out: ‘It’s a punishment! All this – what we’re suffering – the hunger, never enough to eat, the sickness, the monstrous herd of deer, the red moon – it’s God’s punishment, see, because we’ve been bad!’

  In a very obvious prompt, Brother Ralph said, ‘It’s a judgement on how we’re being ruled, isn’t it, Caleb?’ He leaned and whispered in Caleb’s ear. ‘Go on! Tell them!’ he urged.

  Perhaps Caleb realized that to comply was the only way to end his agony of embarrassment, and be allowed to get down off the platform. With one last, despairing look at Ralph, he muttered something inaudible.

  ‘Louder,’ commanded Brother Ralph.

  Caleb looked out over the crowd. There were tears in his eyes. Then he opened his mouth wide and shouted, ‘These terrible times we’re having – it’s all a judgement on the king!’

  TEN

  While the attention of every man and woman in the abbey’s forecourt was fixed on the young monk on the platform, Nicholas Fitzwalter had caught the eye of an unremarkable man in a dowdy travelling cloak who stood just behind the ring of guards at the foot of the platform. Unnoticed by anyone except the man himself, Fitzwalter jerked his head infinitesimally in the direction of the infirmary.

  Moving slowly and steadily, the man in the dark cloak slid through the crowds and melted away.

  His name was Henri de Fougères and, only a short while ago, he had been on the other side of the Channel. In answer to the people who had demanded to know his business there (few in number, for Henri could adopt a forbidding countenance when he felt like it, and there was a sense of strength and danger about him that discouraged idle questions) he had muttered that he was a wool merchant seeking out new markets.

  In fact he knew little more than the next man about the wool trade. Together with a small group of trusted companions, also in the guise of merchants, he had been sent out some weeks back to begin his clandestine work. His companions had remained in England, but Henri had been sent to France on a very different mission. With communications from some of the most discontented of England’s barons tucked away inside his tunic, he had sought out those in Paris who had the ear of Philip Augustus, in the hope of thus obtaining news of the French king’s current policy concerning his troublesome fellow monarch on the other side of the narrow seas. Henri of Fougères was subtle, highly intelligent and very patient, and he did not leave France until he had what he came for.

  On the way back to the master who had sent him, Henri had put up for the night at a shabby inn in a small Kent village. There he had overheard the ravings of an old woman, and an idea had formed in his ever-active mind. Having proposed the scheme to his master, who had instantly seen its advantages, Henri had returned to collect her.

  The suppression of his fury at discovering she was no longer there had caused him such a crippling pain in the right side of his forehead that he had been temporarily blind. But Henri de Fougères was not a man who was easily dissuaded. He had not achieved his current position – deep inside the trust of his ruthless master – by giving up at the first fence.

  Now, pulling his soft, wide-brimmed hat forward to conceal his face, he opened the small rear door of the Hawkenlye infirmary just a crack, and slipped inside.

  Out in the forecourt, Josse, Meggie and the abbess stood watching a scene of pandemonium. Throughout the crowd, people were turning to each other in amazement. Did you hear what he said? Did he really say that? Surely not! He’s either very brave or totally out of his head!

  Caleb was still weeping, clutching pathetically at Ralph of Odiham’s white sleeve, and the older monk, slowly shaking his head, was staring at him with an exaggerated expression of horror. Then, as if responding to the crowd’s astounded response, Ralph shook off Caleb’s clenched fingers, stepped to the front of the platform and shouted, ‘Poor Caleb is disturbed, and not himself!’

  His deep voice penetrated the first few ranks of the crowd and, seeing he had more to say, people began shushing each other. Ralph waited. When the noise subsided, he said, ‘We are deeply concerned for Brother Caleb. He has just expressed what I must stress is purely his own opinion; one which Lord Nicholas and I do not – indeed, cannot – share.’ He turned and looked pityingly at the young monk, now visibly shaking. There were a few protests and whistles from the braver members of the throng, but Ralph was more than ready for them. ‘I am a man of God!’ he shouted, eyes wide as if to express his innocence. ‘And Lord Nicholas Fitzwalter is a powerful figure!’ It was a timely reminder, and had the effect of silencing the last of the protests. Then, in a calm, carrying voice, Brother Ralph proclaimed, ‘God save and protect our beloved King!’

  Josse became aware of Abbess Caliste, fuming beside him with barely controlled fury. ‘They made the poor man say that, about … about him!’ she hissed. ‘We only heard that Cistercian forcing him to speak out because we were right at the front. Everyone else will believe he said it entirely of his own volition!’ She clenched her hands into tight fists. ‘Then instantly they dissociated themselves from him, leaving him looking like the only person who thinks it! Oh, Sir Josse, how could they be so calculating? So cruel?’

  ‘Aye, I know,’ Josse said heavily. He had been disgusted by what he had just witnessed. Fitzwalter and the Cistercian were ruthless: wanting to put the dangerous words out in the open yet too clever to risk uttering them themselves, they had used the weak, unworldly and malleable Caleb.

  How long, he wondered, would it take for word of this to reach the king? And what would John do? Was there any way that Hawkenlye could offer protection to the poor young monk? It would be hard, if not impossible, given that he seemed to be the protégé of Fitzwalter and the Cistercian, who, Josse was quite sure, hadn’t finished with him yet. There would be other platforms, other places where people would gather to hear the powerful men’s mouthpiece do their work for them, and they …

  Oh, dear God.

  In a flash, Josse remembered what he had come to the abbey to do. Horror swept through him. Spinning round to the abbess, he said, ‘Lilas!’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Meggie sounded horrified; he knew she was thinking the same. Before Josse could move, she was off.

  Even as Abbess Caliste’s hands flew to her mouth, he was grabbing her sleeve, dragging her with him. Ruthlessly he shoved aside men, women, lords, ladies. He lunged for the small rear door of the infirmary, flinging it open. The abbess followed him inside.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

  ‘Follow me,’ she panted.

  She ran down the ward, stopping at a curtained-off recess. She flung back the curtain, revealing a narrow cot covered with a couple of blankets, neatly folded. Meggie stood beside it, head bowed.

  Other than Meggie, there was nobody there.

  A day’s ride away, King John sat in his private quarters in the Tower. He was looking out through a narrow slit of a window at the bright, late-autumn day beyond. The wide waters of the Thames slipped past, the slow, steady movement stilling his ever-busy mind and body, encouraging introspection. He had eaten well, and sampled a new consignment of white Rhine wine, delicately spiced and quite delicious. He was whistling softly to himself, entirely content.

  His confidence was riding high, and he was in the sort of bullish
mood that made him feel invincible. He was still gloating over that summer’s victory over the rebel Welsh lords. With a private smile, he turned his thoughts back to August, when he had led his army across the Conwy River, penetrated Snowdonia, burned Bangor and, in a glorious finale to his magnificent campaign, succeeded in capturing its bishop.

  He wondered if his enemy Llewellyn was still smarting. It had been a sweet moment, when the man had finally accepted the inevitable and agreed to come to terms. Even sweeter was his choice of emissary: Llewellyn had sent his wife Joan, John’s own daughter, to negotiate with the king.

  John grinned at the memory. His daughter had clearly been embarrassed, until the ironic humour of the situation had struck her. She’d pointed out that, if John went ahead with his threat to strip Llewellyn of every last possession, then she’d have no option but to turn to her father, and she reminded him that she’d never been satisfied with anything but the best. She wasn’t his daughter for nothing.

  In triumphant mood, John had ignored those miserably cautious close advisers who had whispered that the surrender was not all it seemed. That, in the light of all his long experience with Llewellyn ap Iorwerth, the king might do well to consider that, just possibly, the Welsh prince was merely playing for time. They say he is close with Philip Augustus, the anxious lords murmured in his ear. Is it not possible, my Lord King, that Llewellyn plans in secret to negotiate with the French in order to strike back?

  King John ignored the doubters. Most of the time, anyway. But he was clever – too clever not to wonder, just occasionally, if there was any basis to the fears. The Welsh lords whom Llewellyn had antagonized, and forced over to John’s side, were mercurial, touchy, easily offended, and basically, John had to admit, unreliable. They were quite capable of deciding they didn’t want to support him after all – they were to a man notoriously unreasonable – upon which they’d all decamp and go straight back to Llewellyn.

  I can do nothing for the moment, except watch and wait, John reflected.