Dark hunter, p.4
Dark Hunter, page 4
The youth holds open the door into the empty hall. He smiles again and I feel like a thief, sternly reminding myself that it is not me doing the thieving. I smile back and he places my cloak carefully over a stool. The clerk’s quills are put away and his desk is most neat, the ledger to one side and two piles of paper carefully stacked beside it. That suggests he is in the middle of transferring his figures and gives me hope I might find what I need, providing I am left alone long enough to search for it.
The servant disappears through the door to Master Weston’s room. I edge nearer to the clerk’s desk, but he reappears almost immediately. ‘You are to wait here. May I bring you some wine?’ I nod, rejoicing inside. He disappears through the door at the other end, and I slip towards the desk.
I open the ledger, for otherwise I cannot tell which pile is already written into it. My heart beats so loudly it almost drowns out the bells for Vespers, but if He has given me this opportunity, I must not waste it. I find the most recent page and study the last few entries. Quickly closing it, I look to see if I recognise any of them in the first pile. Nothing. Scarcely breathing, I try the second and find what I’m looking for.
But how many receipts should I take? I need enough to show that the false entries are no mistake when compared with those in Master Weston’s great ledger, but not so many that the clerk will notice. I realise I’m being presumptuous, to think that the chamberlain will allow any such comparison, can be forced to show his fraudulent figures. But Sir Edmund is so sure the king will not countenance such appalling treatment of his men that I dare to believe he is right. I take five from the bottom of the pile, checking that they are already in the ledger, before moving swiftly away from the desk, my back to the door through which the servant will return. All I need do now is squeeze them into my pouch. I hear his footsteps beyond the door. The papers keep catching but at last they slide in, and I cough to hide my discomfiture.
‘Here.’ The youth hands me the wine.
I drink it in great gulps, scarcely tasting any of it. ‘Thank you,’ I stutter. He smiles and returns to stand with his hands behind his back beside the door to the entrance stairs. I wish most heartily that I could leave now, that I need not face Master Weston with the key to his ruin lying next to my skin.
But even as I think this, the chamberlain emerges from his room and bids me come to him with arms spread wide. He drapes one around my shoulders. ‘You must sing the “Magnificat” for me. Will you do that?’ He draws me into his room.
I am confronted by a group of men, their long robes beautifully furred and their hair curled. But it is the one sat with legs thrust apart nearest the fire who draws the eye. This one does not look at me but studies a hand well-studded with rings. ‘Is this another one of your strays, John?’ he asks.
‘Hush, Ralph. Benedict has come to save us. He’s one of Wysham’s new recruits.’
‘I see. How reassuring. And he sings as well.’
For all the room’s great heat, I feel as if a north wind blows through me. I am sure they can see through my tunic and shirt to the pouch beneath.
‘Come, Benedict,’ Master Weston says gently. ‘My friends are not as terrifying as they look.’
‘I am,’ says Ralph, whose surname I soon learn is Holme. They all laugh.
‘Where would you have me stand?’ I whisper to Master Weston. He gestures towards the window, away from the seated men. The sun is setting in wondrous hues of rose and gold. I pause, eyes closed, feeling the glory of the dying day, of the Lord’s mercy and infinite wisdom in which I must trust. I begin to sing the words of the Holy Mother, her joy in carrying our Lord, knowing what He would bring to this sinful world. I wonder if these pompous merchants know that He came to scatter their pride.
I hear them talk as I sing and know they care nothing for these beautiful Latin words. Perhaps they have no notion what they mean. But when I am finished, I open my eyes and see the chamberlain has his closed, a smile on his lips. Of course, he is educated while they have little learning beyond what they need, but he is a curious man all the same. ‘Beautiful,’ he breathes, and I cannot help but feel pleased. ‘Sing some more. Forget these heathens! Sing for me.’
I am still there long after night falls, and it is as if there is only Master Weston and me. And yet when I am finished, it is Ralph Holme who holds my attention. As I sip on a smooth Bordeaux that pleases my tongue and warms my belly, I come to understand he has been mayor of this place and is its richest merchant. And I see that the others defer to him, at least until they have had enough of his boasting and jests, which are coarse and cruel. I feel like a pet dog and, sure enough, they have their fill of me too. ‘You must come again,’ Master Weston says with a smile. I am most vexed this cannot be.
I slip out into the street and gulp down some fresh air, patting my chest to hear the crinkle of parchment. I feel lighter than air, carried by the ecstasy of knowing I have done what Sir Edmund asked of me. And yet, a part of me struggles to understand what kind of a world I have come to, where a good man can commit a heinous crime and still feel the love of God.
Last night, going to throw water out into the courtyard, I saw Will pull Edith, the kitchen girl, into the shadows on the ground floor. She didn’t want to go with him, trying to wriggle free of his arm around her waist, but he kept saying: ‘Just one kiss.’ I heard him thrashing and grunting when I came back in. I heard her, too, whimpering like some wounded creature. This morning her eyes are red, and she has lost the flush to her cheeks, even in the heat of the kitchen. Will does not throw her even one glance as we sit at table.
Sir Edmund reaches for more bread. Since I brought him the documents, he has taken to looking at me and shaking his head, as if I am some kind of miraculous being he cannot possibly fathom. ‘We’ll tell Wysham your story tomorrow. He’s going up to see Horsley in the castle today.’
‘What if he does nothing?’
‘Men like Weston should be roasted on a spit. He thinks he doesn’t answer to anyone in a place like this, and I hope to God he’s wrong or I’ll not stay. But that’s enough talking. Take my armour downstairs and give it a good clean.’
I am heartened by his words as I carry his padding downstairs into the yard, returning for the armour itself. The air has a softness to it, the skies filled with birds diving like missiles as they hunt on the wing. I scrub and patch and polish until long after the bells for Nones, thinking about the May Days of my childhood, the evergreen boughs tied to doors and the wreaths of flowers Mother made for us. I would kneel at the window at dawn to watch the maidens and their lads cross the meadow, dipping to wash their faces in the dew before they searched the woods for blossoms. I can still smell the sweetness hanging in the air, the sound of bells and laughter.
There can be only one Queen of May here.
Next morning, the sun pushes through a grey sky edged with angry red as we stumble to Mass. There are more people on the street than usual, but for all it is May Day, they seem fearful, arms clasped tightly round their children, murmuring in tight little knots.
There is no sign of Alice or even Dame Eleanor. But the low murmuring and worried faces have followed us to church and Sir Edmund strides over to a group of townsmen. He comes back with a pinched mouth. ‘Someone took a mad dog out of the Cowgate this morning.’
‘Was it dead?’ Will asks.
‘Christ’s balls, of course it was dead! The question is whether there are more.’
I shiver. ‘That was a brave man who took it away. I suppose he killed it too.’
Sir Edmund nods. ‘One of Ralph Holme’s men, they said, whoever he is.’
I remember Ralph Holme from Master Weston’s house.
Since it is a holy day, most people have nothing to do but spread rumours of the mad dog. That it arrived on a ship. Or was found in a warehouse. That the man who took it away was bent double under the weight of it. That another was seen foaming at the mouth in the Western Lane. But some of the girls and their swains still slip off towards the Cowgate, hand in hand.
We walk back down Soutergate with Sir John, whose nose drips from its red tip. He seems even more grey and furrowed than usual. ‘They say men are gathering across the north of England to take matters into their own hands if the king doesn’t come.’
‘There’s always one or two willing to make trouble.’
‘This isn’t one or two, Edmund.’ We reach his hall. ‘How can I help?’
Sir Edmund hands over the parchment and I tell my story.
Sir John looks from me to the parchment to Sir Edmund. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
I feel my palms grow clammy. ‘You will need to ask to see Master Weston’s ledger. The entries will be under the date given here …’ I stab at the parchment. ‘But you will see that what is written in his book is exactly the same except for the amounts, which will be more than they should be. More than was paid and recorded here.’
Sir John strokes his bottom lip. ‘You are certain of this?’
I nod vigorously, placing a hand on my heart. ‘On my life.’
He looks away, kneads the back of his neck. ‘I knew we were ill-fed and paying dearly for it. But I thought it was the bad harvests. Not that . . . that Master Weston . . . You have done well, Benedict, to work it out, and so quickly.’
I smile, lowering my eyes.
Sir Edmund thumps the side of his thigh. ‘So, what now?’
‘I will write to the king, never fear, Edmund. He will get to the heart of the matter. Other than that . . .’
A door slams and someone rushes up the stairs. A young man runs in looking as if he’s seen the Black Douglas himself. ‘Sir John!’ He whips off his cap, kneading it violently. ‘It’s Alice Rydale.’
Sir John frowns. ‘What of her?’
‘She’s dead.’
I fall to the bottom of the ocean.
Sir John stares at him. ‘You jest.’
‘I do not, sir, I swear. We were walking out towards Lamberton. I know we’re not supposed to go that far, but it’s such a lovely day . . .’ He bites his lip.
‘What in God’s name is she doing out there?’
The youth lowers his head. ‘She’s been stabbed. Many times.’
Sir John’s face is so red, I think he must have a fever. He is on his feet and pacing the room. ‘Does her mother know?’
‘I came to you first.’
‘I see. Good. I’ll go now. Myself. To tell Dame Eleanor.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Sir Edmund pushes himself violently up out of his chair.
Sir John nods before shaking his head in melancholy wonder.
We walk down Soutergate and on into Hide Hill, stopping at a grand house of three storeys on the left, its tiled roof reaching up towards the sky. A freckled youth with some of his front teeth missing sits on the bottom of the inside stairs, head in hands, and I wonder if they know already. But he rises with hope leaping on to his face. ‘Is she found, sir?’
Sir John pushes on up the stairs to the main chamber. It is the first time I have been inside a home with a family living in it since I came to Berwick, and this one is very fine indeed. Though some of the windows still have wooden shutters, those facing south have glass in them and handsome curtains that sweep almost from the ceiling to the floor. The candlesticks and sconces are so well polished they are like eyes all over the room reflecting everything they see. Perhaps that is a pleasant thing in ordinary times. But these are not ordinary times and the flames dancing in them seem hellish. A pair of tapestries, one depicting a dance and the other a hunt, seem to mock us with the cheerfulness of their antics.
Dame Eleanor reclines in a great cushioned chair, her robes as loose as her hair, the bearded man I see now must be her steward beside her, hands behind his back. She grips the arms of the chair so tightly, her knuckles are become entirely bloodless. Sir John’s face is a book anyone can read.
‘I’ – Sir John coughs – ‘I have news about Alice.’
Dame Eleanor closes her eyes.
‘Pray forgive me, but she is dead.’
There is a cry from the window, and I see Lucy Rydale curled on a seat there.
Dame Eleanor takes a long, shuddering breath. ‘She did not come home yesterday. We have waited all night.’
‘And you didn’t send word to me?’ Sir John throws his words at her.
She takes a deep breath, eyes glistening. ‘Forgive me. We thought she would come. I did not imagine . . .’ Her whole body convulses, and she stuffs a kerchief into her mouth. A strange low moaning escapes her all the same.
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
Dame Eleanor rocks back and forth in her chair, the moaning incessant now. It is Lucy who turns awkwardly towards us, her face a rigid mask, eyes grown huge. ‘We went out to the Fields yesterday afternoon to gather blossoms for May Day. Then I . . . I was tired, and Ellie Maynard brought me back.’ She looks up at the steward. ‘We saw you in the cart, didn’t we, Edward, leaving for Lamberton to get meat?’ He nods, and I think him brave to venture out there, so near to the Scots, even for a May Day feast. ‘We did not expect Alice to be much longer but when the gates closed, we didn’t know what had become of her.’
‘Those murdering devils!’ Sir Edmund grips his dagger.
Sir John whirls round. ‘The Scots, you mean?’
Sir Edmund nods. Lucy Rydale lifts a hand, but Sir John has already turned away. ‘I will bring her home.’
The steward stirs. ‘Let me do it, sir. I confess I was drinking with friends for much of the night, not knowing Alice was . . . and Dame Eleanor . . .’ He waves a hand towards his mistress, who laments to herself without heed to anyone else. ‘Anyway, it would ease my conscience greatly if I could attend to her.’
‘I care not which of us fetches her, but you’re not riding alone. No one is to go beyond sight of the walls unless it’s strictly necessary and not without an escort.’ Sir John puts his hand to the door, does not look at those wounded faces. ‘I’ll get my men together. Come with me if you want, Edward.’
We ride out of the Waleysgate in the north of the town, people gathering on the walls as the news spreads. Edward rides near me, face taut, though he is not nearly as old as I first imagined. Perhaps he has known Alice all her life, for I do not know how long he has served the family.
I see where she lies long before we get there, a huddle of girls cradling her head in their laps. ‘Fools,’ Sir Edmund mutters, but I am glad Alice was not left all alone, as she must have been during the long night. Sir John jumps down to walk the last stretch holding his horse’s bridle.
I did not imagine such a great wound in her chest. The blood has long since dried, staining her clothes and skin. It is not Alice who lies there, but some creature from Hell.
The girls stand up. I thought they would be covered in gore, but they have little to show for their bloody vigil. I thought, too, that Alice . . . that the Scots would have violated her, that she would be . . . dishevelled. But her clothing seems intact, apart from the terrible stains. We lift her into the cart, hair falling in stiff clumps, and I am glad when her empty face is covered by a mantle. Only her stained, slippered feet remain to be seen. What is she doing so far from the places she might easily find May Day blossoms? And where are her overshoes?
We make our sombre way back into town, pursued by the irreverent twitterings of small birds, and convey her to the chapel of the Maison Dieu hospital next to the river where she is to lie overnight before being buried beside her father in the graveyard there. The physician has promised to wash her wounds, but there’s no need to bind them.
Sir John also asks him to examine her for evidence of evil-doing. His rage is quiet but venomous as he orders the arrest of all Scotsmen living in Berwick, the meaner sort to be placed in various secure places throughout the town, and the better sort to stay in their homes. I hear him say to Sir Anthony that he is minded to expel them altogether, which I believe would be a terrible thing since many have sought refuge here from Bruce and his band of murderers.
We return to Marygate in silence. There is nothing to say, for those who butchered this innocent girl will surely not be punished, however much they will suffer in the next life.
The next morning, I go to the friary to say prayers for Alice’s soul. It seems only a moment since I saw her standing in the church doorway and I cannot believe such beauty is gone for ever. Walking back down Soutergate buffeted by a chilling wind, I pass a group of men standing outside Sir John’s house. They nudge each other, looking at me, and I feel my mouth dry up. I keep walking.
‘Are you the clever lad who found out Weston?’
I turn to stare at the soldier, scarcely comprehending. I nod slowly. Sir John did write to the king. But Sir Anthony told us Master Weston has sent a flurry of letters south to confuse and contradict my story, for the chamberlain is still a powerful man with even more powerful friends. Sir Edmund draws himself up into a fearful rage almost every evening over it, for only King Edward can command answers from his own officials. But he is so very far away, with so many important matters to contend with.
Nevertheless, it is true that I did find Master Weston out and perhaps I should be satisfied with that. Certainly, the men crowding round me now seem to be most pleased with my endeavours, patting me on the back and filling me with a surge of warmth in the pit of my stomach. ‘Come and let me buy you some ale,’ says one.
‘Gladly, sirs,’ I reply. ‘But my master expects me immediately.’ That isn’t true, but I am unused to such goodwill from other men and do not really know what to do with it. Blushing at all this ill-founded approval all the way home, I have no sooner taken off my cloak than Stephen puts his head round the door of our chamber. ‘You’ve to go to Sir John’s. Sir Edmund’s there already.’
