And yet his killer had left it behind.
Could it mean he did not understand its significance? Or had he been disturbed by a sound from above - guards walking in the chamber above the vault and audible to anyone hiding underneath? Might it have been necessary to make a quick escape, leaving behind the one thing he had been seeking? And again, did it presuppose prior knowledge of Maurice’s quest?
There was nothing for it. She would have to return to the first guard she had spoken to and go over old ground. He had seemed keen to help and would no doubt be pleased to tell her anything if it kept the finger of suspicion from pointing in his direction. Repetition might show the discrepancies in an invented story.
**
The guard-room. Rain.
‘Me again.’
The guard glanced from left to right, saw his colleagues were busy, then stepped outside into the yard. He pulled up his hood. ‘I don’t like you coming here, domina. No offence. It looks as if - well, it looks bad.’
‘What if I’m asking about the time the gates are shut for the night?’
‘Very well.’
‘Simple question, who was in the pope’s private chapel the night Maurice was murdered?’
‘Apart from his Holiness, you mean?’
She nodded. ‘We’ll take his presence for granted.’
‘There was his priest, an old fellow of eighty. His personal servant, a child of seven. The sacristan and his assistant. And a handful of cardinals.’
‘Names?’
He frowned. ‘Let’s think. There was Grizac, Montjoie, Fondi and Bellefort.’
**
It was known everywhere that some new cardinals were to be elected. Hubert had avoided any mention of it. He was aware of her loyalty to King Richard. His supporters would have been invited to put in a word for him. He would leave them to it. That’s how it was done.
The couriers’ office was nearby and she called in, as she did every day, hoping for news from the prioress.
Again there was nothing. It was to be expected that mail would take longer to travel from Yorkshire than from London. The fate of Alexander Neville was constantly in her thoughts. She curbed her anxiety and prayed that he had been reprieved or at least escaped to safety until the king’s council had been brought to its senses.
She was worried about the king too, recalling the beautiful ten year old dressed in pure white silk and wearing the crown of state on his golden curls as he left Westminster Abbey after his coronation. He had ridden through cheering crowds on a little white pony caparisoned in red and gold and the citizens of London had sighed with love for him. Now he was a tall, fair, nineteen year old and fighting for his throne.
**
The attack by the unseen assailants outside the inn on the previous night had left Hildegard with one or two bruises that she only found as she sponged herself down in the communal wash house later that morning. Purple finger marks showed clearly on her hips and breasts. She hoped the man she hit had a black eye. Then the sound of that voice outside the inn came back to her. She was sure she had heard it before. But where? Whoever he was he had spoken in French, but badly, like somebody who had learned from an ill-educated tutor.
The guild of pages were sombre when she met them in the yard. They were trailing in to the mid-morning service, Fitzjohn striding ahead, expecting them to run to keep up. She supposed he was still in a rage over the escape of the two miners and what it meant for his own future prospects. The return of the dagger to the pope would hardly be of interest to him. Edmund caught her eye and stopped for a brief instant.
‘Have you heard any more?’
‘Only a little about Taillefer’s night time activities.’
Edmund blushed. He knew what she meant.
‘May we meet?’ she asked.
‘Same place?’
When she nodded he hurried off in Fitzjohn’s wake.
**
The boys were half hidden among the straw under the buttress when she ducked her head under the stone arch later on. Simon, posted on guard duty, followed her inside as the others began to emerge from the straw. They reminded her of wild cats, concealing themselves until it was safe to come out.
Edmund was first. ‘Any nearer the truth, domina?’
She told them briefly what she had found out as they brushed straw from off their court clothes.
When she finished, Bertram was tight with fury. ‘It must have been one of the cardinals. He’s going to get away with it!’
There was a murmur of protest but it was half-hearted and Peterkin asked, ‘Do you think Maurice’s murderer is the same man who stole the dagger?’
‘He must be,’ Bertram gritted.
‘He might escape us but he’ll never escape the wrath of God,’ Peterkin asserted.
‘Listen,’ said Hildegard. ‘This is how it seems to have been. Maurice was ordered to fetch the dagger secretly from the treasury by someone but was stopped before he could hand it over. It quite likely contained poison despite what the pope’s clerk tried to insinuate. It was similar to ones I saw in Florence when I was there a couple of years ago. Whoever instructed Maurice must have wanted it for that reason.’
Peterkin asked tentatively, ‘Could it have been Cardinal Grizac?’
‘If so it was a monstrous thing for a lord to ask of a retainer,’ said Bertram. ‘But why would the cardinal want to obtain poison in such a roundabout way?’
‘Does the cardinal have an enemy in the palace?’ Peterkin was looking thoughtful. ‘He’s the most pleasant of men. Devout and one of the few not given to lewdness. I can’t see him wanting to poison anyone. And how could it turn out that Maurice was killed on such a mission? Someone must have known he was going to break in.’
‘Who is the cardinal on close terms with here?’ Edmund looked at Hildegard. ‘Could he have let slip a word to someone about his desire to obtain it?’
Hildegard thought immediately of Athanasius. He and Grizac had a strange relationship. It was based on power with Athanasius’s quick, cynical wit often making the more tender-hearted Grizac wince. She couldn’t see him confessing anything to Athanasius.
‘What about Taillefer?’ she asked. ‘Where do you think he fits in?’
‘Obviously he was stabbed for stealing the dagger from the stranger in le Coq d’or.’
The boys fell silent at Edmund’s words until Peterkin made the observation that if Taillefer was stabbed when he was on the bridge, the sentry must have seen him run past, followed by the man who stabbed him. ‘But you say he did not mention seeing them?’
Hildegard shook her head. ‘In fact he said he saw no-one. The inn keeper also says he saw no blood on the stranger’s hands - although of course he could have easily washed it off in the river.’
‘You mean Taillefer could have been stabbed by someone else - someone already up there?’
‘It would have to be somebody in authority,’ broke in Peterkin, ‘those sentries are particular about who they allow to cross at night, for fear of French militia mounting an attack, or smugglers cheating on taxes.’
‘Someone in authority? Like the cardinals?’ broke in Edmund.
‘The cardinals?’ exclaimed Peterkin in a horrified voice.
A brief silence followed.
‘Maybe we have to ask ourselves who would have as strong a motive to kill Taillefer as the victim of the theft,’ Bertram pointed out.
‘But let’s suppose that if the dagger was stolen the first time round on Cardinal Grizac’s orders - for whatever reason - it was he who was the true victim of the theft. He would want it back as much as the stranger at le Coq d’or,’ Hildegard pointed out. ‘We know he passed over the bridge that night because the sentries at both ends said so - even though the timing doesn’t work out properly,’ she amended weakly.