In an ill-humour, she decided to go and watch the boys at the quintaine. It would be their exercise time about now, between tierce and mid-day. And besides, she needed some fresh air after the foulness in the magister’s cell.

**

On her way to the tilt yard she had to cross the Great Courtyard past the entrance to the tower where the miners were incarcerated so she cut briskly across and went up to the guard. He gave her an odd look with something she read as triumph in it but she ignored him as he nodded her through and she began the long climb to the top floor.

The fact that she had nothing to tell them yet would be a disappointment that could not be helped.

**

‘Where’s John?’

Peter looked up gloomily from his chains. He was huddled in a corner of his cell on a pile of straw with an empty mug upended beside him. The cell was dark and filthy. He himself looked lonely and utterly dejected.

He lifted a mournful face to meet her gaze. ‘They’ve separated us. It can only mean we’re about to be dragged before the officials of the inquisition.’

‘Are you accused?’ she asked in alarm.

He shook his head. ‘They’re being as nice as pie. They simply want to know our guild secrets.’ He spat into the straw. ‘No chance.’

‘You are vowed to maintain the secrets of your guild.’

‘Vowed before our guild brothers. These inquisitors can weedle all they like with their thumb-screws and pincers, they’ll get nothing from me.’

‘And what would they do anyway with the knowledge, should, heaven forfend, you ever yield to their persuasion?’

‘What can they do with it?’

‘They have mines of their own, do they not?’

‘Coal. That’s about it.’

‘They have mountains.’

‘Silver and gold in them? Who knows? We’ve never heard anything about it and you can be sure word would have leaked out one way or another if they had.’

‘So what use are you to them?’

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

Hildegard considered the matter for a moment. ‘Peter, tell me, why do you think they brought you here?’

He shook his head. ‘Pope’s men? A bunch of Burgundy’s militia? Who can unravel their weave?’ He sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Have you found out something?’

‘I was here the morning Woodstock’s man rode in with his retinue. It was still dark, in that time just before dawn. Moments after Fitzjohn arrived a wagon came storming into the Great Courtyard. By this time everybody was trailing inside the palace. The wagon didn’t stop but disappeared round the corner towards the sumpter yard. There were barrels in it. Large ones. I saw them clearly under the flap by the light of the torches his guards carried as it swept round the corner. It meant nothing to me at the time. But, given your description of how you got here, I believe they were the barrels you and John were carried in. Remember, we stumbled across each other the very next day?’

‘That was our first day here. Go on.’

‘You see what it means?’

He gave the matter no more than a moment’s thought. ‘Obviously Woodstock gave this Fitzjohn fella the order to have us abducted?’

‘Yes, and it coincides with the impeachment of the king’s closest advisors and the plot against de la Pole.’

‘That’s what it looks like. But Woodstock’s a member of the King’s Council. He’s a prince of the blood royal. It’d be the same as treason to go against his nephew. To have dealings with King Richard’s enemy?’ He looked alarmed. ‘I hope they won’t think we had anything to do with it. We were abducted, plain as a pikestaff.’ He struggled up onto his knees the better to see into her face. ‘Tell me, why would Woodstock want to bring us here?’

‘Maybe he wants to send a gift to Pope Clement.’

‘What for?’

‘In return for the funding of an army?’

Peter uttered a restrained oath. ‘Us?’ He looked mildly flattered. ‘Clement, without any mines of his own, is given a gift - of two miners? Experts in the extraction of gold and silver from base rock? That’s rich! Doesn’t Woodstock realise we’d be less use than a pair of wax daggers?’

**

The shield fixed on the swivelling prop of the quintaine banged again and again as the English boys galloped their New Forest ponies towards it and jabbed their short wooden lances into it. There was a hard incentive to get it right and hit the target in the middle because if they missed, the shield would slam back into them before they could gallop their ponies out of the way and they would finish up by being knocked humiliatingly to the ground in front of everybody.

They were doing well when Hildegard arrived to watch. Hitting the target with a sound as regular as a beating heart. How adept they were could mean the difference later between life and death. If they were knocked off their horses on the battle-field they would have a gruelling time of it. The skill to remain in the saddle and deal hard knocks was vital.

Their young faces were flushed with the excitement of competition. The French boys were no less skilled than their rivals. Between them the will to win was friendly if ferocious. Maybe later, if they were lucky, they would avoid the battlefield altogether and merely compete in jousts against each other and become the darlings of some fair maid whose colours they would carry in their helmets from one gilded royal tournament to another. With this possibly rosy future ahead of them, she could understand how their exertions might fill them with such open, youthful joy.

On the sidelines stood one, however, who was refusing to compete. It was the boy she had seen weeping in the chapel, whom she now knew was called Elfric. He was watching intently, by no means indifferent to what was going on. Hildegard could not understand why he remained on the sidelines. He had a short sword in the sheath on his belt and rubbed the palm of one hand over and over against the hilt as if itching to fight.

The boys eventually began to tire of the quintaine and she turned to go but it was then Elfric stepped forward. He marched up to the tallest of the French boys and with a fine gesture of defiance threw down his glove.

At a distance she could not hear what was said but the challenge was accepted, bringing cheers from the onlookers. She saw the two boys draw swords.

Suddenly Edmund was beside her. ‘Watch this, domina.’ She noted the change in the way he addressed her as if someone had corrected him. ‘Elfric is our best swordsman. Small though he is he’s very quick. This should be good.’

‘Are they properly protected?’ she asked. ‘Neither boy seems to be wearing mail.’

‘They have hauberks on under their tunics,’ he replied nonchalantly. Clearly protection was the least of his interests.

‘I must insist, Edmund. I know it’s not for me to instruct you but you seem to have no master present. I’m sure that if you had he would insist that those two wear the proper apparel.’

‘Oh leave them, domina. They must test themselves. Elfric feels he has just cause against the French boy.’

Hildegard frowned. She could not stand by and watch. They were really no more than children and they were obviously putting themselves in danger. Just then the tall, big-boned figure of Sir John Fitzjohn himself entered the yard. He took in at once what was happening and let out a bellow of rage. In a few long strides he crossed the yard and grabbed the two swordsmen by the scruff of their necks. His language showed that he was unaware of a nun’s presence.

Hildegard smiled with relief nevertheless. In her opinion he had appeared in the nick of time. The boys knew it too. Sheepish looks were exchanged. One or two bystanders began to sidle away, disowning their fellow miscreants.

The words ‘brawl’ and ‘like peasants’ was heard. She decided the rest of Fitzjohn’s language was best forgotten,