She smiled at this.
The message itself was written in a flowing hand that they must have paid a scrivener to produce. It ended with flowery wishes for her safe return home ‘after her long pilgrimage’ and promised to attend her to pay their undying respects. It was signed ‘your ever loving brother in this world and the next’ with a name that might have been deliberately blotted.
When she found the guild of pages in their secret lair she told them that the miners were safe.
‘At least that matter has ended well. But it’s still a mystery to me how they managed to get themselves kidnapped in the first place,’ remarked Bertram, furrowing his brow much as his own father probably did.
Hildegard told him how it had come about. ‘They assumed they were targets because their skill was something Fitzjohn’s lord could use as barter.’
‘So what did he want in exchange?’
Hildegard gave a sudden start.
Apart from the money to raise an army what else was useful to Woodstock?
Poison.
The acknowledged poison-masters were Lombards. They were skilled and knew of concoctions that could kill at the slightest touch of a doctored garment, or cause death by a single sniff from a perfume bottle, or by kissing a poisoned ring, or by all the old methods of adding some lethal ingredient to food or drink. Some poisons worked slowly, others in an instant. Some copied known symptoms and were never detected. Some were so sudden and violent they were blamed on the Plague. The Lombards were masters of them all.
Both popes, to their shame, were reputed to have access to the latest potions of the poison-makers and employed their adepts, secretly, in their palaces. As she had seen, Clement took the greatest care over his food and drink as, to be honest, most monarchs did these days.
The poison from Clement’s treasury must have been precious and rare to be hidden in the hilt of the dagger. What if it had been a poison so refined that it could never be detected?
Woodstock, through his vassal Sir John Fitzjohn, would want above all else to obtain such a weapon against his enemies.
A poison that would be undetectable. And the victim? The answer made Hildegard dizzy.
Woodstock desired one thing above all else. To be King of England.
And one man stood in his way.
Richard.
Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Bertram was asking in a tone of bafflement. ‘Why would the pope want to get hold of a couple of miners, no matter how good they think they are?’
Hildegard focussed her thoughts to answer the question. ‘It’s to do with the English alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor, Clement’s great enemy.’
The boys stared.
‘When King Richard was married to the Emperor’s sister, Anne, at the age most of you are now, she came with no dowry. Ordinary people were up in arms and thought it was a bad bargain and she was unpopular at first until everyone saw what she was like.’
‘They call her Good Queen Anne wherever you go.’
‘Now, yes. But at first they thought it a bad bargain because they didn’t know the truth, that it was a secret arrangement between the Emperor and Chancellor de la Pole.’
‘God save de la Pole,’ murmured Bertram. ‘My father says he’s the only one of the lot to talk sense.’
‘Well, de la Pole has been anxiously aware of the shortage of silver to make coin and keep trade flowing for some time. He knows the country needs a new source. Bohemia is famous for its silver mines as you know. Anne’s dowry came down to this - it was to give King Richard a share in the silver ore extracted at Kutna Hora.’
‘So that’s it!’ Bertram nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it would have to be something to do with the revenue. If he can get his hands on a source of silver King Richard will at last have the means to raise an army.’
‘To protect us against invasion?’ Elfric surmised.
‘And against his enemies the barons. His uncle Thomas Woodstock has his own army. The king has nothing to use against him.’
‘Remember the massive fleet the French assembled last year,’ reminded Edmund, ‘everybody thought London was going to be under siege. Everybody expected to be slaughtered in their beds. We had nothing to defend ourselves with except for a few warning beacons on the south coast and some ditches round the walls dug by Londoners themselves. And why were we in such parlous fear?’
‘Because the King’s Council would not allow Richard the money to raise an army and equip a fleet,’ Bertram cut in.
‘He has no money of his own,’ agreed Hildegard. ‘He has nothing that isn’t granted to him by the Council.’
‘And the King’s Council is run by Gaunt and Woodstock.’
‘So you’re saying that with access to Bohemian silver King Richard will have enough money to provide ships and a paid militia to defend the country against all enemies and make himself independent?’ Bertram summed up.
‘Quite so.’ Hildegard nodded.
‘But why miners?’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Don’t the Bohemians have any of their own?’
‘Those particular two are skilled in deep mining, knowledge the Emperor needs.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because his mines are almost worked out near the surface so he has to dig deeper. Pope Clement and no doubt the French king thought that by kidnapping them and stealing their special knowledge they could do three things. They could spoil England’s alliance with the Emperor, ruin our trade because of lack of coinage, and gain the means to further their own mining interests.’
‘So those two were pawns in a very big game?’
‘So it seems.’
Bertram looked as if nothing would ever surprise him again. ‘That makes such sense,’ he remarked.
‘And is that why my brother died?’ Elfric spoke. ‘Because he knew about the poison that the pope was going to exchange for the miners?’
‘You’ve got it,’ said Edmund putting an arm round the boy’s shoulders.
‘I still don’t understand,’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Maurice was murdered before Fitzjohn and the miners even got here. Did Maurice know Fitzjohn was after it?’
‘And what would Maurice have done with the poison when he got hold of it?’ Bertram asked.
‘Was somebody else after it, domina? Did they order Maurice to get it first? Is that what it means?’
‘It must do,’ Bertram was emphatic.
‘It would certainly add to Fitzjohn’s rage,’ Edmund exclaimed. ‘Somebody getting there before him.’
**
As Edmund said, somebody had got there before him. Hildegard wanted to hug the boys for their persistent questioning. They still did not have all the answers but the problem was clearer now. The link between the Fitzjohn-Woodstock faction and the poisoned dagger was slim, nothing but circumstantial, and yet the more Hildegard thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Maybe it was the fact that Maurice was English that made the connection plausible. What they needed though was evidence.
‘Are you sure Sir Jack has never mentioned poison?’ she asked Edmund.
‘I’d know if he had because I’d be looking for it to tip into his wine goblet,’ he replied rubbing his sore head.
Elfric seemed proud to think his brother might have been involved in important matters and not killed on some trivial pretext. It seemed to dignify his death and make it more bearable.
‘He would only have agreed to get the poison for a good reason,’ he confided to Hildegard as they left. ‘He would never do anything bad.’
Hildegard prayed that when the truth was revealed Elfric would not have his faith in his brother turn to ashes.
**
The rains returned. The discomfort such weather brought only added to the austerity of Lent. It was bleak. People trudged about the main court yard whenever they had to venture outdoors swathed in cloaks or if they did not possess one, in blankets, heads covered, faces barely visible, and feet, red raw in their sandals, wet, muddy, and throbbing with chilblains. Penitents flocked into the warmth of la Grande Chapelle.