‘Is it obvious?’

‘A wisp of smoke, no more. I praise Sir Jack for making me sensitive to the slightest change in someone’s demeanour. Danger. My thumbs prick.’ He turned to her. ‘Tell me?’

‘My qualms are this. You are all so young. I know you will not see that as a problem. Indeed, you probably think the weak link is me, because I’m so old.’

He laughed. ‘Age, time. It’s natural for us to see anyone not of our years as either a baby whose babble is not worth considering, or as so old their ears are clogged with the world’s filth and their vision turned to fog. We stand between the two.’

‘Edmund, I am neither old nor clogged with filth or fog.’

‘I beg your pardon, domina. I would except you from that judgement. I meant only men like Sir Jack. It was the worst of sweeping judgments, the sort we make without thinking - until we think.’

Edmund had clearly spent a lot of time at the royal court. It made him both too world wise and somehow too innocently idealistic.

‘I see the need to free those two prisoners clearly enough, whether I’m fogged up or not,’ Hildegard continued. ‘But I fear I’m asking too much of you. I fear for you. I cannot promise that this will not be a dangerous undertaking. Things can so easily go wrong. You could suffer.’

‘We’re eager to engage. And besides, what alternative do you have but to include us? Where else can you find help in a place like this? And, like you, we cannot sit by and let Englishmen suffer the agony of torture at the hands of Clement’s inquisitors. And remember also,’ he continued before she could interrupt, ‘we have the guiding star of immortal Prince Edward ever before us.’

‘Prince Edward?’

‘Our king’s illustrious war lord father who took his first command at the age of fourteen during the glorious battle of Crecy. Fourteen! I’m nearly seventeen,’ he added.

‘Still young.’

Ignoring that as superfluous he said, ‘When his father, old King Edward, saw his eldest son, England’s hope as he was then, surrounded by French foot soldiers keen to take him hostage, when the king’s own men begged to go to his aid, what did King Edward do? He turned to them and said, “He lives or dies by his own skill and courage. I will not intervene.” And the prince showed his bravery then, and won his spurs.’

‘I’m aware of all this.’

‘At fourteen,’ repeated Edmund with envy in his voice.

‘You speak with such longing for battle, Edmund. It is not the glorious contest you imagine. It’s brutal, merciless, and drags men down to the level of beasts. The worst of it is, you may get your wish before long. If the King’s Council has its way we shall be at war as soon as King Richard’s peace with France expires, and if not that, we’ll have civil war throughout our own land if Woodstock tries to take the throne.’

‘I fear it and long for it. The sword is clean and decisive. It has no ambiguities. I long for it personally,’ he added. ‘It will mean a quick end to my servitude to Fitzjohn when I get my spurs.’

‘That time will come. You know it.’

**

What Edmund said was true. Prince Edward, known to some as the Black Prince, had led his men to victory at Crecy. From there he had gone on to become the most famous commander in Europe. Only the tragedy of his premature death from a wasting disease had defeated him and left the crown to his ten year old son, Richard.

**

The seemingly endless waiting period before their plan could be put into action was the time between nones and vespers. Every second dragged. Hildegard went over the plan again in her head and tried to find loopholes. There were plenty of those. The whole thing seemed to be a folly based on the word ‘if.’

If the boys managed to get hold of the two hooded garments that would allow the prisoners to pass themselves off as mendicant friars, if the guards fell for the ruse planned for them, if John and Peter did not betray themselves by word or deed until they were safely outside papal jurisdiction. If the ferryman was as bribable as Taillefer suggested. If.

**

In the courtyard a gang of men had gathered in the waning light of the winter afternoon. Everyone, it seemed, who had been present in the petitioning sessions had poured out of the grim fortress of the papal palace to see what the excitement was about.

They stopped by on their way to vespers, on their way to the kitchens, to the sumpter yards, to whatever task was usually assigned to this part of the day, games of dice set aside, cards thrown down, and servants and guests and prelates, all came together with one aim, to see why the pages were causing such a commotion. A cardinal with a retinue of attendants even stopped for a moment on his way out of the palace to cross the bridge of Avignon to his estate in Villeneuve.

The excitement was caused by a pig’s bladder that had been inflated. Hildegard professed ignorance to her neighbour in the crowd and was told that the boys were having a battle with it, choristers against secularists.

It had started when a little freckled English boy had made some mocking remark about being able to sing better than any of these braying papal donkeys. As it could not be resolved in a singing contest, too dull, they had decided to have a kicking match with the pig’s bladder. Whoever managed to kick it against the walls most times would win and so prove or disprove the challenger’s point.

So far so good, thought Hildegard as she watched the match begin. In the milling crowd Edmund had been able to make his way over to the prison tower without drawing attention to himself. He was carrying a small though important looking scroll.

If he keeps to the plan he will now tell the guard that he has orders from Sir John Fitzjohn, the English knight, guest of his holiness, to obtain the signatures of his two prisoners. For what reason, he will say, he is sadly in ignorance, but it is hardly our concern is it? She imagined the exchange of confidential smiles.

The guard would not be able to read, or, if he could, it would only be with shaming slowness. He would wave Edmund through without a qualm.

From her vantage point across the yard, Hildegard saw Edmund speak to the guard as planned. He entered the tower. The guard positioned himself across the threshold with arms folded, his attention on the two yelling factions. The pig’s bladder rose in the air then disappeared under a scrum of bodies. The onlookers began to take sides.

A few moments later the guard went back into the tower as if called by duty.

The to-ing and fro-ing of the players pulled the crowd along with them, now swarming to one end of the yard, now to the other. The bladder smashed against the wall and Taillefer, the tallest of the secularists raised both fists with a roar of triumph. The game continued with even more spirit.

Eventually, three figures came out separately from the tower, quietly, with no sign of fuss or bother, and melted into the crowd over by the postern gate. Hildegard could see the helmets of the two guards on duty above the heads of the spectators. They were as avidly watching the match as everyone else. Excitement was whipped up by the violence of the two teams. They became locked in ever bloodier confrontation, neither side willing to yield. Pale choristers kicked and bit and punched with as much fervour as the pages. The crowd egged them on to draw blood. She saw the guards roaring encouragement to the choristers. Another faction cursed them and bawled advice to the pages and esquires. Threats were made.

In the commotion a shadowy figure slipped towards the postern and in a moment had vanished through the gate. Then she held her breath. One of the guards had turned back towards the guard house. Had he heard the gate open? He didn’t even glance at it but went inside the guard house instead, returning a moment later with two stoups. He handed one to his companion and their shouts to the players resumed.