Cardinal Grizac could reclaim the dagger later, if it was his, she decided. She supposed she had been sent to get it to save him the bother. He looked in no fit state to do anything in his present state of grief. But something had seemed wrong about the request.

She withdrew her hand. The jewels on the hilt glittered. There was no sign of blood on the blade. It seemed to have significance for its decoration - and for the value the cardinal attached to it..

**

While on her errand to the apothecary, with the plight of the two miners on her mind, Hildegard had briefly entered the kitchen wing. Now she returned to have a proper look.

The wine store must be somewhere close by. The unloading bay where supplies were transferred from the sumpter wagons into the storehouses would also be close to where they were needed.

First, the kitchen. It was a circular stone built chamber with a high conical roof through which the smoke from the enormous fire could escape. It seethed with heat and noise. When she looked in earlier a whole hog was being manhandled onto a spit and now it had been roasting for an hour or so. The little barefoot spit boy, sweating and cursing, was turning the great iron handle, and fat was dripping out of the carcase into a pan underneath to be later left to set before being spread on hunks of bread. The logs roared and spat sparks and another boy went around sweeping them up with a besom and now and then beating out the flames with the back of an old black skillet.

Across the middle of the chamber several long trestles were lined up and on both sides kitcheners were standing up at the endless task of preparing the food to be served later that day. Some cleaned, some chopped, some scraped, some sliced and yet others grated ingredients onto the board. Utensils flashed. Sharp knives sliced. Wielded with deadly skill.

No-one spoke. The master of this seething cavern sat on a wooden dais so he could oversee the activities of his minions, while a clerk at his side checked off ingredients and cooking methods on parchment rolls stacked on a lectern.

One or two overseers seemed to control the work of the more menial staff, the cutters and parers. Others, boys mostly, came in and out with fresh provisions. She watched a puny boy stagger in with a pole swinging with dead geese. Others followed carrying birds from the morning’s shoot, snipe, teal, duck, larks from the nets and many other birds which they threw down in a heap onto the trestles. Someone else hefted a wide reed platter loaded with duck eggs. A hen, still squawking, was dumped on a table, its neck wrung, and almost before it had stopped struggling, its feathers were being plucked by someone else. Fish, wriggling and glistening with life, were brought in from the town ponds. The innards of wild boar slithered over the chopping board.

On a back wall were ranged the ovens, massive things, large enough to bake the enormous amount of bread that was eaten, their suddenly opened wooden doors blasting heat into the already sweltering kitchen.

Baskets of vegetables - beans, cabbages, onions, carrots - were carried in by pairs of staggering lads who gripped the looped handles of the baskets and thumped the loads onto the flagstones only to be shouted at by a servant who stepped back and nearly tripped over one.

Honey was poured in a golden viscid stream from massive stone jars. A mound of almonds were burned on a skillet, a servant pounded more in a pestle and mortar. Dried fruits, dates and raisins were emptied onto a huge set of scales while two scullions lifted the heavy weights to balance them.

It was quieter next door but not much. A few stolid fellows moved knowledgeably between the wine casks in the semi-darkness while one of the monks followed, a tasting cup in one hand, pointing with the other to the different casks he wanted to taste. A servant opened a spigot and filled up a flagon with a wine that lit up like an arc of rubies as it caught the light from the open door.

Two men were rolling a barrel of ale into a nearby alcove. Beyond them, steps led down into the cellar where wine was allowed to settle. She watched as a barrel, obviously empty, was brought out and hoisted onto one of the men’s shoulders and taken out.

She had seen enough.

Out in the main yard she made her way past the tower where the two miners were imprisoned and turned the corner into another smaller yard. It was where the wagon had disappeared in the thin light before dawn the previous day, when John Fitzjohn, flaunting the arms of Thomas of Woodstock had arrived in such triumph.

Now a few wagons were lined up, shafts propped on the ground, and further into the yard a stone archway gave onto the stables. A row of horses leaned their heads over the tops of their doors and snuffled for the stable lads’ attentions. If she craned her neck she could see into the yard from where she stood. As she watched, one of the horses was led out under the arch into the wagon yard where it was backed up between the shafts of a cart. The servant she had seen in the ale cellar appeared at a door and wedged an empty barrel against the wall, glanced round, then ducked back inside.

The brewhouse, she decided, might be inside the palace walls or outside in the town. It would not matter. The brewer might be missing two of his barrels again if the plan hinted at by Athanasius was carried out.

She considered how she could persuade any of the dray masters to help smuggle two prisoners onto the first stage of their journey back to England, and reluctantly concluded it could not be done without a hefty bribe. Had Athanasius thought of that?

**

The little jewelled dagger. One such as you or I might carry.

Really?

Finding the bed chamber empty for once, she sat on her mattress and considered the purpose of daggers.

Why would an old monk confined to his cell need to carry a dagger? Why would a cardinal need one?

Hildegard’s attention moved to the cardinal.

Clearly the pope’s man. It would be almost impossible to be appointed to his position without convincing the Conclave that he was loyal to Pope Urban’s opponent.

She considered the interesting fact of his residence in England. Specifically in York, not far from Meaux. His apparent affection for the dead acolyte seemed unequivocal. To see him, nevermore. She had little reason to believe he had been referring to the murdered youth, it was merely supposition and the bewildered grief on his face that made her think so.

As for a dagger again. Such were the times, men of every description and most women carried such things concealed in their clothes. She carried a dagger herself. Why should Athanasius and Grizac be an exception?

Thankful she was alone in the bed chamber, she went over to her leather travel bag and rummaged inside. Here it was, nicely honed, more or less unused except for skinning the odd rabbit now and then and hacking through the meat she rarely ate. It had got her out of one or two difficult situations, more by the surprise of its appearance than her skill in using it in self-defence. That had yet to be tested. She wondered if many nuns thought to carry such weapons these days. Maybe her cell sister had one. Morose, she had barely managed to exchange a single word with Hildegard since her arrival. Now she glanced over at the scrip lying on the mattress on the other side of the chamber.

There might well be a knife concealed in there. She gave it a distant though careful look.

**

‘Hildegard!’

At the sound of her name she swivelled in surprise. ‘My lord abbot.’ Suddenly cold, she dropped to her knees.

‘Get up. We need to talk. Come to me in the little garden with the fountain before vespers.’