And now he was dead.

She wrote a letter to the prioress, using the cipher they had agreed on. There was enough to tell the prioress, although it could be of no more than parochial interest in Swyne.

She put down her quill. Archbishop Neville. It was he who could have had Cardinal Grizac thrown out of England. She wondered whether he would be able to outface and outwit his own accusers now.

**

Because of the continuing enmity between England and France and despite the international trade in the busy port, it was a rarity to find anyone who spoke English within the palace walls. It was a fortress, standing like an island surrounded by the French and Burgundian territory on the other side of the Rhone. With its many fortified towers of unscalable height and its well-guarded gates, it was a small citadel within the larger walled city of Avignon itself.

It was a surprise, then, to hear English voices, and ones from the north at that, inside the palace enclave. Hildegard was rounding a corner into a short passage between the stable yard and the kitchens in an attempt to find a short cut to the couriers’ post, when she heard the familiar accents above the rumble of cart wheels.

She stopped abruptly and turned her head.

A couple of scruffy, travel stained fellows were huddled on a parapet that ran under the high pointed arches of the inner wall. They continued to talk without giving her any attention, like travellers who did not expect to be understood by those around them.

She went over to them. ‘Greetings, fellows. You must be Sir John Fitzjohn’s men?’

They gaped in astonishment at being addressed.

‘You English?’

An affirmative seemed superfluous. ‘I take it you’ve just arrived?’

One of them nodded with his mouth half open. Both of them looked dazed. One of them swept off his cap and scrambled to his feet. ‘Aye, we got here last night.’

‘And you come originally from my part of the world, I’d guess?’ They looked blank. ‘I’m from the Abbey of Meaux in the East Riding.’

‘Southeren!’ one of them chuckled, recovering first. ‘We hail from further north, sister, up by Guisborough way.’

‘I’ve visited the priory there,’ she told him. ‘And I know that Kilton Castle area quite well.’ She felt a shadow pass over her as the memory of what had happened there at nearby Handale Priory last year.

Looking puzzled, the other man rose to his feet. ‘Who’s this Fitzjohn when he’s at home, sister?’

‘Sir John Fitzjohn?’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘So whose retinue did you come over with?’

‘Retinue?’ He gave her a considering look then leaned closer. ‘Is this Prague?’

‘What?’ Now she was the one with her mouth dropping open. ‘Don’t you know where you are?’

‘It is Prague, isn’t it?’ the more silent one insisted.

Just then there was a shout.

The two northerners rose as one and made off down the passage without looking back but a guard was already blocking the exit that way. Heavily armed, he was a big, bruising type.

Undeterred, the northerners launched themselves against him and if another posse of guards had not at that moment turned up behind him they would have no doubt made their escape into the next courtyard. It was their bad luck that a vicious brawl was inevitable. Hildegard shouted ineffectually for them to calm down but neither side was listening.

The northerners, the beginnings of black eyes and one bloodied nose evident, were soon beaten down then they were trussed and marched roughly off between the guards down the slype and into the main courtyard. Hildegard followed in their wake. The guards ignored her when she tried to find out where they were being taken.

One of the Englishmen shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Where the hell are we then if it’s not Prague?’

‘You’re in Avignon,’ she called after him, ‘at the Palace of Pope Clement.’

Strong oaths expressing disbelief followed this news. Her last glimpse of them were as they were hustled through a door into one of the towers. The door slammed shut behind them with unequivocal finality. A guard took up a belligerent stance in front of it with folded arms. How on earth could the men imagine they were in Prague?

**

Making a detour past the guard house door she noticed the same fellow who had been on duty earlier standing outside again. He gave her a non-committal grunt as she passed.

Two octagonal towers flanked the gate where the English contingent of Sir John Fitzjohn had driven in. Armed men were going in and out.

A third tower defending the corner of the palace overlooked the river. It would have a view over the roofs of the town cathedral at the top of wide and substantial open steps leading up from the town’s main thoroughfare. With little chance of getting inside the tower itself, she turned back across the Great Courtyard and strolled towards the main building.

It was bustling with the activities of servants and administrators going about the daily business of the palace. The sprawling empire of the pope employed an army of scribes, clerks, messengers, advisors, ambassadors and lawmen. A constant stream of petitioners, often with their own large retinues of servants and attendants, increased the numbers of inhabitants in the enclave. From the top of the steps she could see out over the entire yard.

To add to the constant bustle of activity, beside the gate house was the stone chamber where the couriers sent and delivered messages from every part of the papal empire.

Horses champed in their harness outside while messengers came and went. Not all couriers travelled long distances. A lot of palace correspondence was conducted locally with merchants and suppliers in the town. Provisioning, for instance, made up a huge part of activities here with a large permanent, as well as itinerant, number of mouths to feed. Even so, riders who had obviously travelled from distant parts clattered constantly in and out of the courtyard to register their documents.

A babble of foreign voices surrounded her when she entered this hub of communication. Over behind a trestle stacked with parchments stood a smart looking lay clerk wearing a yellow capuchon. He was writing in a ledger and when she handed over her own letter he took it without a word, glanced at the intended destination, copied the details onto a roll, placed it on a pile of other correspondence, and nodded his dismissal.

‘Do I get a receipt?’ she asked in French.

Pursing his lips at being checked, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over. As she slipped the receipt into her sleeve she was aware of the suspicion in his glance.

She did not doubt that within moments of leaving the premises he would tear off her seal and read the contents. Much good will it do him, she thought. If he can read English, good for him, but he won’t be able to make head nor tail of the cipher. Her private message to the prioress was safe, unless, of course, he considered it important enough to hand over to the official code-breaker employed by the pope.

A vast army of administrators worked here and somewhere in the papal fortress would be a back office with a few clerks sitting among the rolls, making and breaking the codes and ciphers in use.

Frowning, she ran through the contents of her letter. There was nothing in it that could possibly give rise to suspicion about her allegiance to an enemy pope.

**

The plight of the two northerners preyed on her mind. She could not help but be interested in them. Who had brought them here, and why? And how had they been so fooled as to imagine they were in another country entirely? Reluctantly she had to admit that they had probably been abducted.

She went up to see Athanasius. Little by little she was beginning to realise he was probably just an inquisitive and crusty old corrodian, living out his last years under the protection of the papal court. He might have some ideas about the two northerners. She would find out.