‘He does not seem bitter.’
‘He feigns, dear lady, he feigns.’
**
The panorama from the top of the tower was, as Athanasius had hinted, spectacular. Despite the torrential rain she managed to find a sheltered spot behind the battlements where she had a clear view of the River Rhone. Now it was surging down more powerfully than ever past the outer walls of the city. From this height it seemed to coil round them like a living creature.
Cutting across the water was the long and graceful bridge of St Benezet, the bridge of Avignon, with its many arches, linking the peninsula where the cardinals’ private estates lay. The grey walls of the abbey were visible behind a curtain of rain with the garden of the old pope below.
With a slight turn of her head she could even see far downstream where the Rhone met two smaller rivers, the Sorgue and the Durance with a litter of small craft moored against the walls of the quays. She realised that the city was in an ideal location for trade through the Mediterranean and to the Lombard city states. Good connections. John and Peter would surely find a way to safety.
Lifting her glance she could see right across the wide plain to where innumerable small farms glimmered in the harsh light, milch cows sheltered under thatch in the water-logged meadows, and the cross-hatched fields of the arable strips, bare now, glinting with puddles, lay in what would be the Kingdom of France. Closer, on the bank of the peninsula, guarding the frontier, was the gaunt watch tower built by Philippe le Bel.
By leaning over the parapet she was able to peer down to the foot of the tower. It was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. A frisson ran through her. Heights did not usually bother her. It was its uninterrupted fall that was alarming.
Back again, over the walls of the city, she could clearly see the traffic passing over the narrow, many-spanned bridge. It would slow at the chapel half way along, then speed up until it reached the sentry posts at each end, slowing again as an unwieldy convoy of goods wagons, and people, looking like insects, jostled to get through the check points. There was no sight of Fitzjohn and the pope’s militia in all this.
She decided that it was a good sign. If the ferryman had refused to take the miners across in such a dangerous flood, they might have decided to cross by the bridge instead. They would have had to devise a way of getting past the sentries but with so much rain making the river treacherous it might have been their best chance. With no evidence of Fitzjohn and his man hunters they must have got right away.
She peered out into open country again. Once deep in the campagne, armed militia, whether carrying the papal banners or not, would meet with hostility and delays that two men travelling alone and looking like mendicants might avoid.
With the wind ruffling through her wet cloak she reluctantly left her watch tower and made the winding descent to the lower level. The guard had given her no problems when she mentioned the name Athanasius and now he didn’t even look up.
**
Bertram beside her. ‘No sign of him, domina. I think I should tell someone.’
She guessed at once whom he meant. ‘Who retains him?’
‘The Duc de Berry but he’s absent.’
‘Who does he answer to when his lord is away?’
‘A house steward.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t know. Jacques something.’
‘Do you want me to speak to him?’
Despite his earlier words he looked indecisive. ‘Maybe we should wait a while. If his absence hasn’t been noticed it might be better not to draw attention to it?’
‘You think he might be amusing himself in the town?’
‘It’s very likely from what I’ve heard of him.’
**
Still no sign of Edmund either, nor Sir John Fitzjohn.
Hildegard braved the rain to go to the couriers’ office to see if there was news from England.
‘Nothing yet, domina.’
Momentous events were taking place in London and she felt frustrated at this absence of information. It must surely be the case that Sir Simon Burley, his grace the Archbishop of York, the Chief Justiciar and the mayor of the City of London had put their case to the king’s council and been released. Common sense dictated that loyal men such as they could not be accused of treason. It was madness to think it.
Back indoors she noticed three Cistercians strolling down the wide steps of the Stairs of Honour. Their white habits were visible through the arching loops in the wall. She could choose to retreat in a hurry before they saw her or continue to make her way steadily upwards on her original course. She chose the latter and came face to face with the three men half way up the stairs.
If she hoped Hubert would move aside to let her pass she was disappointed. He came to a standstill, blocking her ascent.
She looked up at him in silence. His dark eyes seemed to bore into her. His face was like chiselled alabaster. There was a pause as if he was choosing between several available comments. Then to her surprise he gave a small inclination of the head, murmuring, ‘Salve, domina.’
She replied with similar formality, dropping to her knees awkwardly on the stair, murmuring, ‘My lord abbot.’
One hand came out to raise her to standing. He held her arm for what seemed like an eternity while a puddle of rain formed round her feet. ‘I believe you have not met my supporters?’
The two monks accompanying him were from separate monasteries in England, strangers to her, greeting her with the innocence of those who do not imagine any past events colouring the present encounter. One of them, as she had noticed earlier, was thick-set, with a shaven head. His companion was lanky and looked as if he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
They seemed interested enough to hear about the priory at Swyne and invited her comments on Hubert’s plan to extend the gatehouse at Meaux. Then one of them mentioned that he had noticed her in the company of Cardinal Grizac the other day and she had to explain about the murder and that she had been present when the youth was identified as an acolyte of the cardinal.
And then Hubert said, in an astonished tone, ‘But is this the same Grizac who was Dean at the York Chapter some years ago?’
She said she understood it was so, as his acolyte came from York.
Then one of the monks said he had heard some music the cardinal had composed and how impressive it was and what a good rendering the choristers had made of it and was he still composing? To which she had to admit ignorance.
And then, politely, they parted, with only Hubert’s glance somehow lingering after her as she ascended the stairway and hinting at words unspoken beneath a smouldering look.
**
Fitzjohn returned. If he had been in a rage before he left he was ten times worse now. A fruitless ride in the teeth of a storm into the hostile territory of the King of France was bad enough. To return without their quarry made it insupportable. Edmund had a black eye.
‘At least you’re safe,’ whispered Hildegard when she saw him in the passage outside the Tinel.
‘Yes, I’m looking on the bright side. And at least the others have got right away.’
‘Fitzjohn returned sooner than expected.’
‘Yes, the weather got the better of us and the French armies were harassing us and the pope’s commander decided the miners could not have travelled so far on foot in weather like that and that he would follow other lines of pursuit.’ He grimaced. ‘You know what that means. The pope has spies everywhere and anyone suspicious will soon be picked up - or so he believes.’ His face clouded. ‘Bertram told me about Taillefer. It’s irresponsible of him not to come back and let us know which way the men escaped. We might easily have come across them accidentally on the road.’