The Law of Angels (21 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“I heard about it on my way back through Fulford. They were all talking of nothing else. Some people are already leaving the city. They say it’s not worth celebrating Corpus Christi if they’re going to burn for it. There’s a perverse logic to their reasoning. I’m just relieved to see you’re unharmed.”

“And the girls, Thomas?” Hildegard asked him.

“Melisen has taken them both under her wing.” Thomas was sitting in the widow’s chair by the window later that night, the widow already having gone up to bed.

It was a warm night. The casement was open to let in some cool air. Out in the streets normal life continued unchanged. Revellers could be heard with the occasional sudden run of footsteps as the constables gave chase. Curfew was impossible to maintain at a time like this. The whole town was jittery. Extra constables had joined the watch. Mayor de Quixlay had acted at once. A proclamation had already been read out at several strategic points in the streets, announcing that information leading to the arrest of those who had caused the explosions would be rewarded.

There was little doubt in the civic mind at least that it was by human agency that the mercer’s booth had been set on fire. The general view was that fabric just didn’t explode of its own accord. Apocalypse or not.

“And now for that other matter.” Thomas leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Lord Roger’s men scoured the woodland all the way to the city walls and found no one. What they did find was evidence of horses having been tethered among the trees not far from the palace walls and the passage they had forced along the river bank through the undergrowth.”

“Are they sure about that?”

Thomas nodded. “That man of Sir Ulf’s was positive. He’s something of a woodsman and claimed the path had been forced only hours before.”

“It may mean nothing more than poachers,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t necessarily let Bolingbroke off the hook.”

“And then there’s this.” He delved into his scrip and produced a small, dull object and handed it to her.

She thought it was a belt buckle at first but then realised after a closer look that it was a pilgrim badge. At least, it was like the badges made from pewter or lead peddled to the pilgrims at the shrines. They were mass-produced in moulds and usually showed a variety of images associated with the particular saint of the shrine, the three arrows crossed through a crown for St. Edmund martyr, the wheel of St. Catherine for instance.

This one, however, was in the shape of a hart with a small chain round its neck. The sign worn by King Richard’s followers. She turned it over in her fingers.

“It could have been dropped by anybody,” she said after a pause. “A lot of people wear them. It’s not a crime. It’s a sign of loyalty. Somebody might have been living rough along that stretch of woodland.”

“Nobody would be so foolish as to live outside the law so close to its remit.”

“So what do you think?”

“The evidence of riders forcing a path away from the palace could suggest that Bolingbroke may not be involved. And this, if dropped by one of the riders, might mean another allegiance entirely.”

She knew what he was getting at. “If,” she repeated. “If.”

She turned the badge over again. There was nothing else to observe, not even a thread of cloth to show what sort of garment it might have been torn from.

“Many people wear these,” she remarked at last, handing it back. “King Richard’s supporters, sometimes the rebels who fled to the countryside after the Rising, of course, but let’s suppose there were recent horsemen in the woods and let’s suppose they stole the cross. Let’s also suppose the company of the White Hart are responsible—heaven knows, they’re rife around here—but then ask yourself: How would they know about the cross? And, aware of its existence, the question remains: Why would they go to the bother of stealing it?”

“For the same reason Bolingbroke might want it. To seal the validity of a claim on the Crown.”

“But this is Richard’s sign and he already wears the Crown.”

“To possess the cross would strengthen his hold.” Thomas looked certain. “We all know he’s threatened by Gaunt—by prophecies warning that he’ll lose his crown and that Gaunt has a better claim. Many are beginning to mutter that there’s something in it. A sign to appeal to the superstitious would swing the people more firmly in Richard’s favour.”

“You see the king’s popularity on the wane?”

“Don’t you?”

“I was somewhat out of touch in Deepdale. Even so, it’s true I’ve heard grumbling against him since I got to town. Some sound like justifiable criticism of the broken promises after Smithfield. But he is the rightful king … to claim otherwise is treason. Gaunt knows that.”

“But does his son accept it?”

“Back to Bolingbroke.” She sighed then added, “It’s unlikely that the White Hart would steal the cross when the king could simply demand to have it handed over.”

“Good point. But would your prioress comply, even if the request came from the king himself?”

It was late. The sky was streaked with lurid purple even though sunrise was still a few hours away. Thomas stood up. It was clear talking would get them no further at present. “I’d better be getting along. These speculations are leading us into a quagmire of confusion. And I mustn’t miss matins.” His expression was sombre. “Have they any suspicions about who would set the booths on fire?”

She shook her head. “Only rumours. The general view is that it’s somebody who wants to spoil the festivities, but if that’s the aim it’s failed. Apart from those few who were queuing to leave soon afterwards, everybody else is standing firm.”

“‘They’re not going to frighten us off with a bit of fire,’ yes I’ve heard that line.”

Thomas went to the door with a solemn good night. As he crossed the yard Hildegard thought she saw the door to Master Danby’s workshop snick shut. There were no lights on over there. She went back into the kitchen and stood to one side of the window but everything remained in darkness. Assuming the events of the past few days were getting the better of her nerves, she closed the shutters over the kitchen window and made her way at last to bed.

The Feast of Corpus Christi was three days off. Time enough for the murderer to continue his random acts of arson if he chose.

*   *   *

The gates swung back with a bang to release the heat and roar of the raging furnace within, it was the mouth of hell, tongues of flame licking towards her, pulling her into the devouring heart of the fire. The banging came again. A voice called.

“Sister? Are you awake? Quickly!”

Hildegard sat up in confusion. Her glance flew round the unfamiliar chamber and it was a moment before she remembered where she was.

The widow’s voice came again. “There’s someone to see you.”

Scrambling from under the thin sheet she pulled her habit over her night-shift, tied the belt in a firm knot and went to the door. When she opened it the widow was standing at the bottom of the stairs wringing her hands. “For you, sister. It’s the constables.”

Turning back she pulled on her boots and returned to the stairs. Standing below were two men armed with staves. They wore the blazon of the City of York. They looked up as she appeared. “Sister Hildegard of Meaux?”

“Not exactly,” she corrected as she made her way down the stairs. “I’m of the priory at Swyne.”

“Near enough,” one of the constables said. “We want you to come with us to the Common Hall.”

“Why? What’s happened.”

“It’s to do with yesterday’s fire,” the second one told her. “Other than that you’ll have to come along to find out in person.”

With a constable on either side of her Hildegard was escorted into the yard. She had a hazy impression of a group of people watching from outside the glazier’s workshop, Gilbert’s blond hair bright in the hot sun, Danby’s orange turban. It seemed it was already mid-morning. She must have slept like the dead last night.

The men marched her one in front and one behind down the short alley into Stonegate and then proceeded to carve a way through the already busy streets towards the river. The Common Hall was where the mayor and aldermen had their council meetings and held hearings for those taken on suspicion.

When they entered it was bustling with activity. The mild-looking man she had seen only the other day inspecting the pageant scaffold with Ulf was standing at the far end on a dais surrounded by several officials. She was led to the bottom of the steps and he broke off what he was saying and came to the edge. “Is this the one?” he asked the constables.

“It is, sir.”

Simon de Quixlay looked her up and down. “I’m told you were one of the first on the scene at yesterday’s fire?”

“I was.”

“We’d like a serjeant-at-arms to ask you a few questions.” He nodded to a man standing at a writing desk nearby. “The clerk will take down your statement. Carry on,” he said to the two constables. Job done they went off. A serjeant-at-arms beckoned her over.

“Well now, sister,” he said in confiding tones. “Would you care to help us clarify events?” Without waiting for her assent he went straight on. “Maybe you’ll enlighten me as to how you came to be on the scene?”

“I was walking up towards the booths when one of them burst into flames. I ran up to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Walking up, you say?”

She nodded. “Past the shops.”

He looked interested. “And then you ran towards the fire? That’s a strange thing to do, isn’t it? To run towards a fire? Surely it was obvious you were running towards danger? Most people would run the other way if they had any sense.”

“I don’t know about other people,” she replied, irked by his tone. “I only thought to run towards it.”

“To see if you could help,” he repeated.

Again she nodded.

“And where exactly did you run from?”

“I told you, from the street.”

He gave a chuckle that was meant to sound affable but his eyes were like gimlets. “From the street. So some way away then?”

She agreed it was some way.

“And exactly where in the street were you when you saw the flames?”

She took a breath. “I was standing close to where the preacher was giving his talk.”

“Ah, the preacher. This would be one of Wycliffe’s followers?”

“It sounded like it.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you have witnesses, do you? I mean, you would have been noticed in such a crowd.”

“I doubt it. Why should I be? There was a great press of people round him. I was just one among many.”

“A Cistercian though,” he pointed out. “We don’t get many Cistercians listening to barefoot preachers, do we?”

“I have no idea of the figures involved. It would need a proper survey before I could answer that.”

He leaned forward. “I can assure you, sister, we believe there’s nothing wrong with listening to preachers in this town. We encourage it. I can even assure you that the preacher would have his license from Mayor de Quixlay. There is nothing wrong in listening to a licensed preacher. Not for us.”

“I’m glad of it. He was making sense.”

The serjeant looked sceptical that she should hold a view like that but he turned briskly to the clerk. “Did anybody mention seeing her in the street?”

The clerk referred to his notes and then shook his head.

The serjeant quirked an eyebrow at her.

She responded with a comment that she had been looking at leather belts at a stall farther down and that maybe the vendor would remember her. “Unless I then sprinted up the street through the crowds to reach the booth to set it alight, as you seem to be suggesting, I could not have reached it any earlier than I did. More’s the pity,” she added, “as then I might have been able to prevent it happening in the first place.” How? she thought. How could anybody have prevented it? Unless they had prior notice.

The clerk was scribbling furiously. He handed a note to a messenger standing by who in turn hurried off down the hall and handed it to the chief constable. From there it would presumably pass down the line until the vendor himself was hauled in to vouch for her, or not.

“You’re at present lodging at the Widow Tabitha Roberts’s house in Danby’s yard?” asked the serjeant, abruptly.

“That’s right.”

“If you decide to change your abode you’ll let us know. My gratitude for your help.”

She was surprised he was allowing her to go without asking what she had seen when she arrived at the booth. As she turned away a man came up to her. It was the one who had thrown himself on the burning stall-holder and then helped drag the second one from the booth. He walked along beside her to the doors.

“I was the one told them you appeared from down the street. They’re only doing their job,” he said. “That poor devil they took to St. Leonard’s is still in a bad way. I thought I’d take a walk over there. Would you come with me?”

They went out into the street under the cold eyes of the chief constable. It was a short distance along the path between the wall of St. Mary’s Abbey and the river. While they walked the stranger said, “I was wondering if you managed to notice anything I might have missed, given that you were one of the first on the scene and didn’t seem blinded by panic. The recollection of most of the bystanders is muddled because of their fear and their haste in trying to get away.”

“I saw very little. The sound of the explosion followed by a whoosh of flame drew my glance. Then I saw the crowd scatter. Then that man emerged with his clothes and hair alight. And then you—” She gave him a swift glance. “That was a quick and courageous thing to do.” He was thick-set, built like a blacksmith, yet he walked with the sort of physical confidence that might come from time spent in the wars.

He didn’t enlighten her. “I was in the right place at the right time. His lucky star was shining. But what I want to know is how it seemed to you, the way the fireball exploded. I didn’t really notice much after seeing that, being otherwise engaged.”

“It seemed to set the awnings alight and that’s what caused the real damage. I don’t think it was such a big explosion. It was where it came from that did most harm. By the look of things the poor woman who died had been unrolling a bale of cloth for a customer. The flames must have run along her arm when the cloth caught fire and set light to her kirtle. Meanwhile the awning over the booth was ablaze and must have descended like a hand of flame over her head. She didn’t have a chance.”