Carola also told Hildegard about her suspicions over Dakin’s apparent involvement with Fulke. Now she knew his only concern was to find Giles’s killer.
“I thought he had decided to go in with Fulke to make some money,” she admitted. “We knew Fulke was up to something, and Dakin believed he could turn it to his own advantage. We are handfast.” She smiled somewhat shyly at Hildegard. “My own father approved, but Master Schockwynde told me I could do better for myself. Dakin thought he would win the master’s approval if he had wealth of his own.”
“I wondered about that,” admitted Hildegard. “But have you changed Schockwynde’s mind?”
Carola nodded. “I pointed out to the master that he had fallen in love with my mother and some would say he could have done better for himself, too, and married a duchess. Given his lineage.” She smiled. “He admitted he had loved mother from afar for many years when she was married and would go on doing so even if she became a kitchen maid.” She smiled again. “He’s pompous at times but as soft as a brush at heart.”
After they left, Hildegard went up to get her bag. She had already packed and ready to leave, and as Ulf loaded her things onto a pony, he grinned at her in disbelief. “I thought you came here for peace and quiet so you could make up your mind about what to do next?”
“That’s what I was hoping for!” She smiled across the animal’s back. “One thing’s sure: I won’t be joining the Benedictines.”
He came round to help her into the saddle of the palfrey he had brought along for her. When she was astride, she said, “I suppose I’d better return to Swyne.”
“It’s the feast of Saint Nicholas the day after tomorrow,” he reminded her. “Come with me to Langbrough. Let’s give little Alys a Christmas to remembers. We’ll lock the doors against the world’s madness, and you can put off all decisions about your future until the twelve days of Christmas are over.”
She gave a sigh of happiness. “That sounds wonderful.”
Just then, a courier came trotting through the gate. He was beaming. “Thank Saint Benet, they’ve cut a track through those woods at last. I’m looking for a Mistress York?”
“You’ve found me,” Hildegard replied.
He didn’t dismount. “Good. That means I can get straight on to Durham in time for the winter feast. Here.” He pulled a vellum out of his bag with the great seal of Meaux attached and thrust it into her hands. “No reply requested.” He saluted and in a moment had set off into the woods again, back towards the moors road.
With sudden misgivings, Hildegard tore off the seal. Aware of Ulf’s eyes on her, she hurriedly scanned the page that opened out.
The message was short. To the point. No greeting.
I understand you are back from pilgrimage to St. James’s Compostela. Attend me at Meaux. It was signed Abbot Hubert de Courcy.
Ulf was staring at her intently. He had recognised the abbey’s seal. “What does he say?”
“You can guess.”
He turned his head. “Yes, I suppose I can. That’s that, then.” Without a word, he went over to Petronel and hoisted himself into the saddle. Turning the horse’s head towards the gates, he urged him on and his men began to follow. Hildegard watched him leave.
The group was almost out of sight down the opened woodland avenue when she stuffed the summons to return to Meaux into her bag and pressed her heels into the flanks of the mare.
“Wait for me, Ulf!”
He turned at the sound of her voice. When he saw her about to follow him the smile he gave lit up his face. “Home, then?”
She nodded. “And good-bye to Handale!”
EPILOGUE
December 29, 1386, the Tower of London
King Richard was invited to remain in the Tower of London after the defeat at Radcot Bridge. In effect, he was a prisoner. He is said to have spent one full night in the company of his cousin Henry Bolingbroke, eldest son of the duke of Lancaster, and Thomas Mowbray, Henry’s shadow and hereditary marshall of England.
Bolingbroke: “You think we daren’t touch you because of your anointing.”
Richard: “And because of my sword.”
He draws the sword. Bolingbroke draws his. Richard is an elegant swordsman. He practises every day, as his tutor, a veteran of Poitiers, Sir Simon Burley, recommends, and but for the fact that Mowbray sidles up behind him and grabs him by both elbows, he would easily have defeated Bolingbroke’s swaggering, boorish sword thrusts. Thus his cousin, ever the opportunist, and with Richard’s arms safely pinioned, is able to stroll up and force his sword from his grasp.
Bolingbroke: “Now what are you going to do?” He touches him under the chin with the point of his sword.
“Kill me. Be a regicide. See how England loves you then. You’ll be dead men.”
“We won’t be so crass.” He presses the point of his sword against Richard’s chin again.
Mowbray looks pale now Richard is at their mercy. Suddenly, there is no limit to what might happen. But Bolingbroke has no qualms. He has proved a bully in the lists, and now that he has his victim in his power, he wants to make the most of it.
“Kneel, you piece of effeminate filth.”
“Kneel to you?” Richard laughs.
Bolingbroke goes closer and says into his face, “Kneel, or I’ll put my sword up your perfumed arse.”
Such is the venom in his bloodshot eyes, his face red, carroty beard bristling, Richard’s mouth drops open.
“Have you forgotten what they did to our great-grandfather Edward?” Bolingbroke smirks.
“It’s not true. No man in this realm could be so vile as to do that to their king.”
Now it is Bolingbroke who laughs out loud. “Couldn’t they? Do you want to try me? What do you say, Thomas?”
Mowbray stutters a reply.
“See?” Bolingbroke pokes Richard under the chin with the point of his sword again. It is razored steel. Even a scratch brings a dribble of blood onto Richard’s clean white shirt. “Imagine this up your fundament, O King!”
“You filthy animal, Harry.”
“Kneel when you address me, coz. C’mon. Down!” To encourage his cousin’s obedience, he waves the sword in Richard’s face. “Or shall I give you a quick haircut? How many slashes will it take to shear your golden locks? This is good steel here. Good steel, isn’t it, Thomas?”
“It is indeed. Very good.”
“Hear that, you white-arsed sot wit?”
“You seem very interested in my backside. Isn’t your wife enough for you?”
“Kneel!”
Slowly, Richard kneels to his cousin. His glance is fixed on Bolingbroke’s boots. Fury is in his heart. He will kneel now because it is expedient to do so. But later he will make Bolingbroke do more than kneel.
He raises his chin. “Is this how you mean, Harry?”
Table of Contents
Half Title
Also by Cassandra Clark
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Half Title
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter
23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue