She thought of William of Wykeham, back in England, a clever boy who had impressed his tutor, attracted a benefactor, and after achieving the zenith of becoming Lord Chancellor of England, had now founded a college in Winchester for the education of impoverished boys such as he had once been.
Her musings stopped when Hubert reappeared. The door was noisily shut and bolted behind him.
They rode right away from the village before he told her what the boy had said to him.
**
Their horses walked side by side through the woods. Shafts of moonlight stippled the path. When she looked at Hubert his face was silvered by the mysterious light as he spoke.
‘When Maurice failed to return down the back stairs that night after dealing with the pope’s bed and doing what else he had been assigned to do, our young friend Gaston here began to worry. He feared that Maurice had been caught red handed and that his own part in the break-in would be revealed. He said he waited half the night and only when his nerves got the better of him he crept back up the stairs. He had to pass the guards but they were so involved in their dice they didn’t notice him or if they did it meant nothing and was straightaway forgotten because, of course, he had a right to be there.’
‘What happened when he reached la chambre du pape? Did he go right inside?’
‘No, he heard voices. One voice stood out. It was the pope himself. Clement’s gravelly tones are unmistakable. The other voice he did not recognise. But he did hear a name.’
Yes?’
‘Grizac.’
‘But was he mentioned because Maurice was his acolyte or was it because he was being addressed?’
‘My very question. But Gaston was unable to answer. He said he thought it sounded as if it was mentioned in passing and it was likely to be so because only one other voice spoke, that was the one unknown to him. But he admitted that Cardinal Grizac might have been standing by in silence, too shocked to speak. In retrospect he realises that they must have found Maurice’s body but at that point Gaston didn’t know he was dead. He fled in terror, nevertheless, back down the stairs, praying, he said, that Maurice would not betray him. When he heard he was dead he had the grace to say he was ashamed of the joy that sprang into his heart. He was saved. Maurice could never betray him now.’
‘That explains his surly manner when I spoke to him. He was in a state of sheer terror for his life.’
‘He also told me that Cardinal Grizac was in the chapel from matins to lauds. My two brothers confirm this as they were there themselves.’
‘I know.’
Hubert raised his eyebrows. She could see his expression in the moonlight. Grim and unyielding.
‘Presumably your brothers did not accompany the pope to his bedchamber so they will not know who was there when Maurice's body was discovered.’
‘That would be too easy.’
‘What time did Gaston go up there?’
‘He says it was after lauds.’
‘He just missed being seen by the guards then. That’s when they say they went up.’
‘It means that the body was discovered first by the pope and this unknown fellow.’
‘And left to be discovered by the guards?’
They rode for some way under the trees until eventually Hubert murmured, ‘I feel we can discount Gaston as the murderer. I’m afraid, though, it only brings more confusion.’
‘We’re looking for an assassin?’
Later she asked herself if it had been Hubert’s intention to drive her to that conclusion.
**
Grizac. Had he been in la chambre du pape and if so why? Was it important? He had to discover the truth about his acolyte some time. It was natural for him to be one of the first to be informed. The official identification when Athanasius and Hildegard had been present might have been a formality. More to the point who was the other person in conversation with Clement?
It was some time since Hildegard had seen Grizac visit Athanasius in his cell. When she made her daily call on the old monk she brought his name into the conversation.
‘The cardinal must still be grieving over the death of poor Maurice.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ He did not raise his head from his book.
She tried again. ‘Have you seen his eminence recently?’
‘He’s staying at his villa on Villeneuve, I believe. Licking his wounds.’
‘Wounds?’
‘The wounds of losing his Maurice, of course.’
He wasn’t the only one. Hildegard remembered the stricken little face of Elfric. It swam before her in all its pathos. He had lost a beloved brother, tied to him by the blood of kinship. She recalled Peterkin’s attempt some time ago to start a courtly discussion about the comparative grief of losing a father or losing a brother. Now she wondered how the grief caused by the loss of an acolyte would be tallied.
**
Inconvenient as it was to submit to Hubert’s plan that she should become Fondi’s guest, she had to admit it was pleasant.
Fine dining, music and frivolity. But the next day everyone was summoned to dine with the pope in the Great Tinel. After that would come forty days and nights of privation during Lent.
Hubert suggested that Hildegard remain behind at the villa rather than risk another attempt on her life but she refused.
Alone, in a villa, far from help?
‘I’m sure you mean it with the best of intentions, Hubert, but no, definitely not. I want to see what’s going on,’ she added, unwilling to let him know how much she was beginning to fear the assassin, if that was what he was. She could not see how she was part of any larger plot but the Scottish nun’s murder weighed heavily on her mind. She felt remorse that the poor woman might have died in her stead.
They crossed the bridge that afternoon in a cavalcade, bodyguards on both sides of Carlotta in a silk curtained litter, Fondi and Hubert walking on either side of Hildegard.
The rain had let up and a watery sun appeared and disappeared behind scraps of scudding cloud.
The palace was buzzing with activity as all the guests from their Avignon town houses mingled with those who dwelt in Villeneuve, everyone accompanied by retainers to add to the clamour of the guests staying in the palace itself.
It was Shrove Tuesday. Clement dined alone in his enclosure at one end of the refectory, sitting on a dais so he could look out over the heads of his flock, safe from any attempt on his life. Armed guards stood in a stiff row, eyeing everyone with cold suspicion.
Clement’s food taster was placed a little below him near the doorway from the pope’s own kitchen where he received the dishes specially prepared for him. Before the pontiff was allowed to taste the slightest morsel the food was tested, gingerly it had to be admitted, by an elderly courtier. Wine was tested too. Poured into a goblet of chalcedony, held to the light and inspected for a change of colour that would betray the presence of poison. When it was passed as safe it was handed next to a servant and placed in Clement’s jewelled grasp. She saw him drink deeply, ask for more, and the same drawn out procedure took place. Meanwhile, he picked pensively at the food in front of him served on an array of gold platters.
She thought of the peasant woman they had met earlier, living in the mountains in what was little more than an animal barn and wondered what she ate off. Not gold, that was for sure. Well, not yet. Not ever.
Fondi was enjoying himself and started to recount some joke to Hubert. The two Cistercian brothers who accompanied Hubert could not take their eyes off Carlotta. Her wild beauty, if tinged by madness, held them spellbound.
She was showing them her daughter’s squirrel and they passed it along the table, the little creature quivering at the sight of food, while Carlotta, teasing it with morsels from her plate, tossed her head and gave that familiar throaty laugh as it tried to snatch the titbits from between her lips. Soon bored, she handed it over to Fondi who absentmindedly stroked it as conversation with Hubert became more serious.