She listened to the words droning on over the heads of the crowd but her thoughts were elsewhere. A plan had to be quickly made and it had to be foolproof. Lives were at stake.

The words of the petitioners drifted around her. The rich livings offered by Clement were dependent on the gifts of gold he received and the fealty he could expect in return. They were dependent on the sort of fidelity to him that would extend his empire.

The canon got his wish and must have been overjoyed to find he need never go short of the trappings of worldly wealth again.

Another petitioner followed, a priest seeking the benefit of a convent in Arbroath, and was less successful on the grounds that he already held the prebend of Dunkeld which he did not wish to relinquish. He left, chuntering to himself about injustice.

Then three Scots appeared together and put their pleas to the canons simultaneously. Clement intervened when he saw his influence diluted by their ambition. Better for him to spread his influence rather than concentrate it in the hands of one or two who might be seduced by the offer of richer pickings elsewhere and take a large chunk of his estate with them. She saw him bend his head and mutter something to one of the clerks who turned to his roll and began to scribble rapidly.

Hildegard could see John Fitzjohn among the crowd. His four men-at-arms were ranged about him. At least they were not trying their persuasion on the miners yet. Fitzjohn had not, to her knowledge, submitted his petition which he would have to do in public. It would be dependent on John and Peter being free with their trade secrets. It would be no good offering knowledge if it could not be laid hold of and used.

The purpose of such a gift was still a mystery. There must be new discoveries of silver or maybe even gold somewhere within the Papal States. The miners may not have heard about any new deposits, despite their confidence. As for what Woodstock wanted in return, it could only be the knowledge that he had a wealthy ally should it ever come to a military showdown with King Richard.

While her glance was ranging around the chamber she accidentally caught Hubert’s eye and quickly turned away.

The number of petitioners did not seem to dwindle. Half way through the morning another team of clerks took over, fresh and efficient, unstoppering their ink horns with relish while the others headed hungrily for the Tinel and the first sitting at dinner. Fitzjohn went out accompanied by one of his men, a big fellow, empty scabbard hanging like a broken arm. Both reappeared a few moments later looking relieved.

At least Fitzjohn had not yet sent his men to test the will of the miners.

An air of tedium began to settle over the onlookers. They stood stupefied listening to the petitioners as if comparing the gifts received by others with their own aspirations.

In this very hall, she thought, glancing round as she edged towards the doors, it is likely that the man who murdered Maurice is smiling and looking devout and maybe even scribbling down the details of some priest’s acquisitions or attending to his duties to his lord. He could be anyone here. He is going to get away with it. And there is nothing I can do.

She reached the door and was about to go through when a voice stopped her.

**

‘All right. Enough of the black looks. I didn’t mean what I said.’ A familiar voice in her ear. It was Hubert.

The scent of fresh mint and sandalwood swept over her as if to draw them together. She took a startled step back. Even then he seemed to be standing right over her.

She made to move away but he reached for her sleeve and gripped it so tightly she couldn’t escape without drawing attention to herself.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Hubert. Let me go,’ she demanded in a fierce whisper.

He held on. ‘Listen to me.’

‘Why should I if it’s to insult me again?’

‘Insult you?’

‘To tell me to go to hell, as you did not two days ago.’

‘I said no such thing.’

‘Oh no?’

‘Perdition. I said perdition. I swear, I only meant - ’

‘I have no interest in what you say you meant.’ She tried to prise his fingers open to free her sleeve to no avail.

‘I’m stronger than you.’

‘So, go ahead, take advantage of the fact. It just goes to show what you’re like.’

He moved closer, pulling her against him as he did so, murmuring, ‘And what am I like?’ He added in a deeper voice, ‘Hildegard? Answer me.’

‘Let me go, Hubert. Are you trying to cause a scene in public?’

‘Who cares about the public, if that’s what you call this mob. I don’t care what they think and I’m sure you don’t.’

‘I have to live here among these people, at least for a time.’

‘So do I.’

‘It’s up to you if you care so little for your reputation.’

‘It’ll make no difference to my reputation. They’ll assume you’re my concubine. It’ll give you more status.’

‘Get away from me!’

‘It’s the custom here, hadn’t you noticed?’

‘What is?’

‘Every churchman of standing has a lover, a handsome boy or a beautiful woman. It’s the necessary pass to gaining preferment. It demonstrates that they can be bought. Slack morals apply across the board. Would you deny me the chance to become a cardinal?’

‘This is monstrous! Let me go!’

‘We’ll soon be back at Meaux.’

‘And do you intend to make concubines the custom there?’

His teeth were very white when he smiled, face razor-boned, hawklike, skin tight, unlined. He murmured, ‘If we follow Pope Clement maybe he’ll insist?’

She tried to move away again but the crowd was surging into the next ante chamber taking them both with it and it was impossible to force a way out, especially with Hubert grasping her sleeve.

She turned back to him in fury but with her voice low. ‘Do you want to cause a scandal and get me dragged before the court?’

‘It would never come to that. Not here.’ Despite his words he slowly released her. ‘Is this really how it’s going to be?’

‘How else?’

She swivelled, bumped into someone, nearly stumbled, but managed to avoid the hand Hubert put out. In a moment the crowd had shuffled between them and she made her escape.

When she got out into the corridor she was trembling. ‘Damn him,’ she muttered. ‘Damn him, damn him to perdition and damn him to hell, both.’

**

She could not trust him. Despite that strange remark if we follow Pope Clement he seemed to have no doubt he was on the path to preferment. And she could help! She felt like spitting bolts of iron. It certainly explained his presence here as more than the conventional one of following orders. He had so far failed to mention the terrible events taking place at home. Burley. Neville. Tresilian and the rest, indicted on charges of treason. Beheading their possible punishment.

It showed his indifference to the fate of the king and of England itself if such men as these could be attacked and receive no comment from him.

He was here in Avignon, at the behest of Clement. He was what she had long suspected, a spy, and now he had returned to the heart of the secret network that spread throughout Europe with England as its target. He was about to climb to the next rung of the ladder in the pope’s hierarchy.

Obviously she could not trust him. It was futile even to think it.

**

And who could she trust now? She had to help the miners to safety. She could not sit by and let good, honest, loyal men be tortured for their innocent part in the games played by the enemies of King Richard. Beset by enemies, she could think of only one source where she might find allies.

A tug on her sleeve as she stood uncertainly in the ante chamber made her turn. As if summoned by her thoughts, it was Peterkin.