Free The Red Velvet Turnshoe by Cassandra Clark Page B

you’ve had to fend for yourself.’
    ‘Long enough,’ he said. Then he turned his young, world-weary face towards her. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’ He tried to blink away his tears but they stood on his lashes like drops of crystal. His voice became gruff. ‘They’ll torture me when they get me, won’t they?’
    ‘They won’t get you. Not if you do as the steward and I suggest. Answer my question,’ she prompted gently.
    ‘I’m sixteen.’
    She gave him a long look. Fourteen or fifteen then. ‘And—?’
    ‘And what?’ he asked, staring at the floor.
    ‘And the more you tell me the easier it’s going to be to defend you.’
    ‘Why should you bother?’
    ‘God knows!’ she replied, ‘But I’m your only chance. Think on it.’
    Wiping his eyes on the back of his hand he offered a ghost of a smile. ‘You’re the strangest nun I’ve ever met.’
    ‘Have you met many?’
    ‘I’ve met enough churchmen to last a lifetime.’ He bit his lip as if he’d said enough.
    ‘Go on.’ She came to sit beside him.
    He didn’t look at her. ‘I know you people. Say one thing and do another. Power is what you want. Gold. Not after you’re dead – but now, in this world. How strange is that when you’re supposed to believe in an afterlife in which everyone gets their just deserts?’
    ‘That’s human nature. I don’t condone it.’ She paused to invite him to continue.
    Eventually he said, ‘I was introduced to the secret life of the Church when I was seven years old. I’d had precious little kindness till then. And there it was – for a price, of course.’

    Hildegard was silent but when he didn’t elaborate she asked, ‘And is that when you were taught to play the lute?’
    He shook his head. ‘That came afterwards. It was my singing they wanted me for, as well as—’ His mouth twisted and he shrugged. ‘When my voice broke, I wasn’t much use as a chorister. And especially not with the sort of voice I learned on the streets. I was taught to play this,’ he ran a finger over the curve of the lute, ‘by a minstrel from Provence. Then he moved on, as they do, and I was taken up by another master. A tavern-keeper. Big as a barn. A real brute. He certainly knew a golden goose when he saw one.’ He flexed his fingers and stared at them as if they reminded him of something. ‘At least I can still play,’ he said almost to himself.
    ‘You play and sing wonderfully. You could have a glittering future. Talented minstrels are always wanted.’
    ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking,’ he said with a sudden lift in his voice and although his expression was still bleak, he added, ‘Reynard said I should find a way to join the guild and be taken up by some rich lord and become a court musician.’ His eyes flashed before clouding over again. ‘It’s a pity Lord Roger is tone deaf.’
    ‘I’m sure you can make a good life for yourself somewhere.’ She rested a hand on his sleeve. ‘Just lie low until we can get you out of here. Be patient, Pierrekyn. Let’s see what fortune has in store.’
    ‘Fortune? Don’t you mean the blessed Mary and all her saints?’
    ‘Have I your word?’
    He nodded, then the light in his eyes went out. ‘What choice do I have? I’m finished.’
     
    Ulf eventually agreed with Hildegard. He would not arrest Pierrekyn at this stage. There was nothing substantial to link the boy to the death of the clerk. They would need evidence if they were to bring him to court. Ulf was also relieved not to have to delay his journey down the Rhine. He told her he would leave a man in Bruges while the lawyers made up their minds what to do with the body.
    ‘I’ll keep an eye on Pierrekyn,’ Hildegard promised. ‘If I discover anything linking him to the murder I’ll inform the authorities at once. And then it’ll be up to you.’

    Together they had hit on the ruse for getting Pierrekyn safely out of the city. Hildegard had countered Ulf’s initial idea of trying to