cottage, drag out every hand mill, cart them back up to the abbey and concrete them into the floor. Anyone found with a mill after that would hang.
The townsfolk resisted but were quickly subdued by the armed force of the abbey militia. Later, when the Great Rebellion in London was crushed and Tresillian, the Chief Justiciar of England, arrived in St Albans to inflict retribution on those who had supported it, there were many summary hangings.
Now, today, here was the York contingent, with their own memories of resistance against bonded labour, uneasy in their accommodation, doubtful about putting tainted bread in their bellies.
On top of that, thought Hildegard, aware of the labourers’ smouldering discontent, the mystery of Martin’s death was still unsolved. The failure of the archbishop’s men to find the culprit must seem like yet another instance of the injustice meted out by Church and State to the powerless.
Unsurprised that they were keen to leave as soon as they could, and wondering how it would end, she began to check through her luggage until Thomas returned. It was
impossible to believe that the puzzle of Martin’s death was no nearer a solution than when they had started. Edwin was probably right when he offered the opinion that Martin must have been in a quarrel the morning they left – victim of someone’s sudden rage that got out of hand. The perpetrator was probably far away by now, unheeded and unpunished on some remote manor in the Riding.
If they couldn’t find the culprit soon, blame would descend on the archbishop for failing to protect his retainers.
Their last hope, that one of the Bishopthorpe gardeners had seen something suspicious, had come to nothing. Only two days ago a message had reached them to say that nobody was in the gardens at that time in the morning on the day they left. The master gardener’s exact words were, ‘We don’t work by moonlight. We’re not bloody necromancers.’
As for the rest of the outdoor servants, it was the same story. They had no need to be in the main courtyard while the convoy was getting under way. It was an opportunity to take it easy in their own quarters. And they had grabbed it.
Even Martin’s young wife had had nothing to add.
So that was that.
Now, with Thomas wandering off into the rain, trailing his broken sandals, Hildegard slipped the last of the leather ties through the loops on her bag to hold everything in place, pulled the whole pack tight then sat back on her heels.
She would not be sorry to leave St Albans. Beautiful
though it was, there had been too much blood shed under its soaring arches.
Before she left Meaux, Hubert de Courcy had said something about the archbishop intending to make several strategic stops on the way. She assumed this was one of them: Neville, drumming up support for the King among his brother prelates.
With thoughts on what lay ahead at Westminster uppermost, she hoisted her bag onto one hip and started for the door.
She was no further than the top of the steps down into the main yard when Thomas materialised like a ghost at the bottom.
He was barefoot, his broken sandals nowhere to be seen, his face, as white as his robe, stark with horror.
‘Hildegard! Quickly!’ he croaked. ‘Come at once! Something terrible has happened!’
He led at a brisk run across the puddled yard towards the stables. Instead of leading her inside he quickened his pace until they reached the end of the building, where he veered off into a smaller yard enclosed on three sides by a high stone wall. He ran in through an open door at the far end of this cul-de-sac and when she followed she found they were in the mews.
It was dark. Against two, long, shadowy walls were fixed the perches where, chained, sat maybe twenty birds of prey.
They were impassive. Silent. Eyes fixed steadily on the intruders.
Thomas hurried barefoot to the very end of the passage
to the lodge where the falconer kept his equipment.
It was
The townsfolk resisted but were quickly subdued by the armed force of the abbey militia. Later, when the Great Rebellion in London was crushed and Tresillian, the Chief Justiciar of England, arrived in St Albans to inflict retribution on those who had supported it, there were many summary hangings.
Now, today, here was the York contingent, with their own memories of resistance against bonded labour, uneasy in their accommodation, doubtful about putting tainted bread in their bellies.
On top of that, thought Hildegard, aware of the labourers’ smouldering discontent, the mystery of Martin’s death was still unsolved. The failure of the archbishop’s men to find the culprit must seem like yet another instance of the injustice meted out by Church and State to the powerless.
Unsurprised that they were keen to leave as soon as they could, and wondering how it would end, she began to check through her luggage until Thomas returned. It was
impossible to believe that the puzzle of Martin’s death was no nearer a solution than when they had started. Edwin was probably right when he offered the opinion that Martin must have been in a quarrel the morning they left – victim of someone’s sudden rage that got out of hand. The perpetrator was probably far away by now, unheeded and unpunished on some remote manor in the Riding.
If they couldn’t find the culprit soon, blame would descend on the archbishop for failing to protect his retainers.
Their last hope, that one of the Bishopthorpe gardeners had seen something suspicious, had come to nothing. Only two days ago a message had reached them to say that nobody was in the gardens at that time in the morning on the day they left. The master gardener’s exact words were, ‘We don’t work by moonlight. We’re not bloody necromancers.’
As for the rest of the outdoor servants, it was the same story. They had no need to be in the main courtyard while the convoy was getting under way. It was an opportunity to take it easy in their own quarters. And they had grabbed it.
Even Martin’s young wife had had nothing to add.
So that was that.
Now, with Thomas wandering off into the rain, trailing his broken sandals, Hildegard slipped the last of the leather ties through the loops on her bag to hold everything in place, pulled the whole pack tight then sat back on her heels.
She would not be sorry to leave St Albans. Beautiful
though it was, there had been too much blood shed under its soaring arches.
Before she left Meaux, Hubert de Courcy had said something about the archbishop intending to make several strategic stops on the way. She assumed this was one of them: Neville, drumming up support for the King among his brother prelates.
With thoughts on what lay ahead at Westminster uppermost, she hoisted her bag onto one hip and started for the door.
She was no further than the top of the steps down into the main yard when Thomas materialised like a ghost at the bottom.
He was barefoot, his broken sandals nowhere to be seen, his face, as white as his robe, stark with horror.
‘Hildegard! Quickly!’ he croaked. ‘Come at once! Something terrible has happened!’
He led at a brisk run across the puddled yard towards the stables. Instead of leading her inside he quickened his pace until they reached the end of the building, where he veered off into a smaller yard enclosed on three sides by a high stone wall. He ran in through an open door at the far end of this cul-de-sac and when she followed she found they were in the mews.
It was dark. Against two, long, shadowy walls were fixed the perches where, chained, sat maybe twenty birds of prey.
They were impassive. Silent. Eyes fixed steadily on the intruders.
Thomas hurried barefoot to the very end of the passage
to the lodge where the falconer kept his equipment.
It was
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