As she stared the words of the prioress echoed over and over in her mind.

We must always ask ourselves, Hildegard, where does our abbot’s allegiance truly lie? With Pope Urban and we English, or with the anti-pope and the French, our sworn enemies?

It seemed that, over the last year or two, Hubert had shown that his allegiance lay with King Richard, but why had she assumed that it was so? Where was the hard evidence for it? His presence here could surely mean only one thing. He had accepted Clement’s illegal rule.

He must have been sent by the Prior of St Mary Graces, she realised. The mother-house of the Cistercian Order was in Meaux in northern France, close to Paris, and he would be expected to attend the French pope on behalf of the English Chapter. He could not have been sent, as she had been sent, to bring back information useful to King Richard. Quite the contrary.

And his conversation with the merchant’s wife? She reminded herself that the English abbey at Meaux owed its existence to the wool trade. Wool quotas were essential for the upkeep of the abbey. Here was the perfect place to meet French importers wishing to do business. Natural to meet the wife. Natural that he would not want to slight her, would want to give her his undivided attention. As he was now doing.

But her thoughts were in turmoil. She knew she was making excuses. It didn’t look as if he was talking about wool quotas, anything but, especially when the woman, in reply to something he said, threw her head back and with a languid smile ran her bejewelled fingers down her long, white throat as if by chance drawing attention to her cleavage.

I should get out, thought Hildegard, aghast at a sudden heat of feeling against him. But she could not move. She was immobilised by conflicting emotions.

‘Excuse me, domina, may I - ?’ A servant was trying to get past and she stepped hurriedly to one side. ‘My pardon, m’sieur.’

With an effort she forced herself towards the door, to escape to safety as it seemed, until, at the last minute, she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder just as Hubert turned his head and caught sight of her. His dark eyes seemed to turn to needles. He did not move. His expression froze. He did not greet her. He merely stared.

Someone came between them and blocked her view. She took it as a reprieve and a chance to escape. She was not ready yet. Not ready to counter his cool manner and find she was right for being suspicious.

He would dash her suspicions aside, of course, cleverly, forensically choosing his words, but he could not deny his presence here. And Pope Clement was the enemy of the English. Hubert’s presence was all the evidence against him she needed.

**

The sentry on duty at the door of the tower steps was impassive. ‘What makes you think there’s any prisoners like that in here?’ he growled in a thick regional dialect.

‘Because I was present when you guards arrested them in the slype passage.’

He looked uncertain.

She pressed her advantage. ‘I believe they would be less inclined to try another escape if I could talk to them and bring the spiritual consolation that might resign them to their present condition.’

This persuaded him to kick open the door behind him and call to someone inside.

A second guard appeared with a mug of ale in his paw. ‘What?’

‘She wants to pray with the prisoners.’

‘Let her then.’ This only after a brief, critical look that assumed a complete knowledge of Hildegard and everything she stood for. ‘Let her quieten them down with tales of hell fire. That’ll do us.’

The first guard, responsibility safely taken off his shoulders, stepped aside, asking for form’s sake, ‘No knives, swords or other weapons about your person?’

Shaking her head, Hildegard entered the tower.

**

It was dank inside. A spiral wound all the way to a holding cell at the top. When she pushed open the door the two Englishmen were sitting on a pile of straw playing dice.

‘Oh it’s you again. How did you cozen your way in here?’ It was not an unfriendly greeting, merely northern bluntness.

She took it as such and explained that as their countrywoman she was worried about them and had an interest in their predicament.

‘By, you’ve got some neck, stepping in here. Have you come to get us out?’

‘I might have. Why were you brought to Avignon anyway?’

‘It is Avignon, then?’

‘It is.’

‘That’s what that sotwit guard tried to tell us in his devilish lingo.’

‘It’s like this, we’re miners, see?’ the other one interrupted.

‘All right.’ She staunched her puzzlement for the moment.

‘We work underground. Specialists, like.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘We have the knowledge. They want the knowledge. Ergo, as you nuns might say, we are valuable assets to them what wants to make profit.’

‘What do you mine?’ she asked.

‘Anything that lies a way underground. We’re not your open-cast fellas. We dig deep. No point in having the roof cascade in on your head burying your men and your silver, is there?’

‘Hence, us.’

They spoke alternately.

‘By the way, I’m Jack of Tyndale.’ A strong hand was extended. ‘And this here gormless idiot is Peter Beckwith.’

They shook hands.

‘I’m Hildegard of Meaux.’

Her interest was quickened further when one of them offered the greeting used by the White Hart rebels who were prominent in the ill-fated Peasant’s Revolt seven years ago. Pockets of resistance still continued in many parts of the country by men loyal to King Richard whom they revered. Their loyalties were usually given to the ideas of the late lamented John Wyclif too. It was a test, she could tell. Anyone who didn’t sympathise would fail to give the proper response.

To his God save King Richard she replied, ‘And the true Commons.’ Hands were once more shaken all round.

‘So now, tell me, why did you think you were in Prague?’

**

It was a convoluted story, at least in the manner in which Jack and Peter told it. They worked in Northumberland, mining for coal, they worked in Wales, after silver, and they had worked in Devon at the silver mines in Combe Martin and Bere Ferrers and also down in Cornwall trying to extract still more tin from the ancient mines down there.

‘Didn’t understand a word they said to us. Especially in Wales. But it never mattered. We all got on. One miner respecting another, like, each with his own ways and willing to share what skills he had.’

‘That’s why we didn’t balk at being asked to go to Bohemia. We thought we’d pick up the lingo quick enough and find out how they did things.’

‘And the money, that was a great enticement.’

‘Who asked you to go all that way?’

Glances were exchanged. ‘It was shifty-shifty,’ admitted Peter. ‘First this fella comes to us after a word with the master. Friendly, like. Wanted to know how we were getting on. Interested in the workings.’

He exchanged a quick look with his companion and Hildegard guessed there was more to the story than she was being told. ‘Well, we take him down, shows him round, he rides off and that’s that. Or so we think.’

‘We hear nothing more - ’

‘Until he comes back a few weeks later. “Come up and meet my lord,” says he. Thinking it was one of the earl of Northumberland’s vassals we agreed. Then he sends militia to fetch us. Armed escort. “He’s down south now,” he says. “And I’ll tell you who my lord is. You can trust him to hell and back. It’s a Hull lad. Now he’s Chancellor of England.”’

‘”What?” says we, “Michael de la Pole?”’

‘”No less!” he answers.’

‘What did you think to that?’ she queried.

‘Nowt at this point. It explained the rewards and we thought it likely to do with the Cornish mines, mebbe. They were wanting to dig deeper but struck a problem with drainage, like. And we knew we were the men to solve it.’