The Dragon of Handale by Cassandra Clark Page A

merchant. A nobody in the scale of things. But a man with that overweening pride in his own righteous actions. Was this true, or just her imagination? She watched him and tried to gauge the truth of him.
    A man of mature years but not yet old. A man of whom it might be said, “He is in the prime of life.” A man seemingly given to many pleasures, full-lipped, high-coloured, dapper in his deep red capuchon, vibrant blue cloak, ermine-trimmed to flout the sumptuary laws, and not averse to a good gold ring or two. Was that a balas ruby? That one a sapphire? Unlikely, Hildegard corrected herself. More likely cornelian. Large, though. Well set. As indeed was everything about Master Fulke. Well set. Well set up.
    As the service proceeded, she wondered where his wealth came from, living here, near the sea—a trader perhaps? An importer of goods from the northern countries, from the Baltic? Furs, maybe, timber, hawks, to be sold on, north and south, to Scotland maybe. Arms?
    Why not. Big money.
    For some reason, she remembered the garrison at Kilton Castle. It would be one of Northumberland’s southernmost strongholds, a protection for the coast road and the traffic on it. Tolls, maybe. Intelligence: who was travelling, where they were going, why.
    She thought of King Richard. His attempts to rouse an army in his own defence. And the dukes, his uncles, determined to stop him.
    Back to Fulke. The strong man is bound so that his lands may be plundered. Why had he chosen that psalm in particular?
    The weedy-looking priest lifted the chalice above his head so that everyone could witness the miracle. Hildegard waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Not then. The priest lowered the chalice and took a sip. His eyes widened.
    He glanced up towards the cruck-beamed roof.
    Something had alarmed him.
    Then his face twisted into a grimace.
    He bent double.
    One hand stretched forward, the chalice tipped from his grasp, and the consecrated wine spilled in a bloody flow over the altar cloth. He lurched and fell with a terrible shriek.
    For a moment, he writhed in pain, half-lying across the altar; then he gave another convulsion and slowly slipped to the floor, dragging the embroidered cloth with him.
    Everyone gaped in silence. Then the cellarer staggered forward. She fell to her knees beside the priest and lifted his head, let it loll in her lap. She pushed up his eyelids, sniffed his breath. She opened his mouth and pulled out his tongue. A horrified glance upwards as the prioress loomed from her chair.
    Gripping onto the wooden arms, she bent forward. “Dead?” Her tone was aghast.
    The cellarer nodded. “So it seems.” She got up from beside the inert body of the priest and reached for the chalice. Nothing remained in it, its contents now seeping into the altar cloth like blood. Worse than blood. It was plain what she suspected.
    Hildegard stepped forward. But the priest was clearly dead. She could do nothing by revealing her own small knowledge of such matters. No antidote would restore him. She stepped back.
    She watched to see what Master Fulke would do. He was standing in a bull-like pose, his face reddening, his fists bunched. His glance flickered over the circle of faces staring from under their black cowls. He turned towards the prioress. Moved like a man in a nightmare towards her.
    “Come away, my lady. The shock. Do not upset yourself. Come away to your chamber. Let your nuns deal with this.”
    He took her by the arm, ushered her from the scene. They plodded together towards the prioress’s own private door behind the altar. Hildegard slipped after them in time to catch the end of a phrase.
    “… today of all days.” Fulke continued: “I must leave at vespers.”
    Reassessing her plan to rescue little Alys from Fulke’s clutches, Hildegard decided she could not wait in her chamber for the girl’s knock on the door. If Fulke was leaving while everyone was at prayer, she would have to act now. Suddenly,