Then she saw Edmund approach and say something to them. He was making a bet with them, she realised, as coins changed hands.

The nerve of the boy!

Now the men were more eagerly involved in the outcome than ever and with relief she spied another hooded mendicant peel away from the spectators and slip quickly through the gate.

She gave a sigh of relief. The first stage had been accomplished.

How long would it be before the prison guard was discovered? The plan had been to gag him so that his shouts would not be heard and he would not be found until the office after vespers when the night guard came on duty. That would give several hours in which Peter and John could get well away from the palace.

The bribable ferryman was a weak link but they had to trust that he would see them safely across the river and into French territory on the other bank.

The shouts of the players and the roar of the onlookers rang in her ears.

It had been almost too easy.

Her main fear had been that the guard would insist on searching Edmund and would have discovered the two long knives he carried, the bundle of robes stuffed under his tunic and the coil of twine wrapped round his wrists.

Another danger had been that the guard would notice when Edmund snatched the keys to the prisoner’s manacles from the hook on the wall at the bottom of the spiral steps. She had also feared that John would have been useless in overpowering the guard because of his hands, despite the gauntlets that Edmund had been told to pull from his own hands and slip over the miner’s wounded fingers as protection on the journey.

But Peter must have been as strong as she hoped, and with the advantage of surprise must have done a good job of overpowering the guard. Maybe even Edmund had helped. It might have taken both of them to truss the guard and gag him.

She closed her eyes and summoned St Serapion, protector of the kidnapped, to offer a small prayer of thanks and the hope that justice would prevail and the miners make good their escape into Aquitaine.

**

The light was almost gone but the boys played on. The spectators were refusing to leave until the final score was accounted. A couple of guards joined in, she noticed, and soon other men were elbowing the boys out of the way and turning the yard into a seething, yelling melee. The pig’s bladder rose and fell. Fights broke out which had nothing to do with the game in hand. When the bell for vespers clanged out, its sonorous notes reverberating between the grim walls, it went unheeded.

Three white clad figures appeared at the top of the steps of the guest wing as the sound of the bell decayed.

One of them pushed back his hood. It was Hubert. He stood watching the rabble for a moment with an amused expression, then she saw him say something to his companions and they roared with laughter. Soon, like ghosts in the gloaming, they disappeared into the yawning cavern of the church.

**

The skirmish only came to an end when someone in authority appeared on the steps of the building and let it be known that there would be consequences for anyone absent from vespers. Sheepishly, the crowd began to disperse.

Hildegard watched the boys pulling torn clothing back into place, brushing hair out of eyes, licking blood from raw knuckles and saw the delight in their faces. Choristers, as innocent as lambs, filed inside the chapel.

Edmund fell into step beside Hildegard without looking at her. Under his breath he muttered, ‘That went well.’

‘So I saw.’

‘Taillefer has left with them. He decided it would be best to escort them as far as the ferry and do the deal with the ferryman himself.’

‘That’s not what we agreed.’

‘He knows how to get back inside. He says he’s done it before. The men gave me their profuse thanks and told me to tell you that you may call on them anytime as they are eternally your slaves and bound to your command.’

‘Silly fools.’

‘Another thing,’ he bit his lip. ‘Peterkin had a good idea so we have made another slight variation to the plan. Bertram, who can talk tough and do impressive things with a knife, and one of the French boys who knows the language of assassins, have put on disguise and paid a visit to the guard. Still trussed in his own tower, by the way. They’ve suggested that if he breathes a word about my errand he will, on some dark and unspecified night when he least expects it, find himself on the wrong end of a stiletto.’

**

Sir John Fitzjohn was shaking with rage. His entire retinue of household servants including pages, his esquire, and assorted monastics of which Hildegard was one, had been invited to attend him in his audience chamber. It was in invitation no-one had the foolishness to decline.

Midnight. Rain pounded in the yard below the window slits. The wind howled. The cressets flared in every sconce giving off a taunting illusion of warmth, alas unfulfilled. Smoke lazed about the chamber in black wreaths.

Sir John’s voice boomed to outmatch the storm.

A bound and gagged guard had been found in the prison tower when the relief guard came on duty. The two English prisoners had vanished into the rain.

He knew, he stormed, that someone would have information that would explain this mystery. His glare was intended to prise the truth from the firmest resolve but met only the silence of clams.

Everyone had been kept standing for an hour while he raged and fumed and paced and beat one fist into the palm of the other. The smallest pages were yawning and swaying on their feet by now. The older ones in the secret guild were past the stage of exchanging looks of derision at Fitzjohn’s impotence.

Aware that he could extract nothing from such dumb insolence he tried the smooth approach. He flattered their intelligence and loyalty through gritted teeth. Still nothing. Aware that the sheer stupidity of which he so often accused them might be closer to the truth than he realised, he eventually issued a threat that even the most sot-witted would understand.

‘My men will be sent out in company with militia from the pope’s own army to scour the countryside. No bush, nor muck heap, no hovel nor pack wagon will be left unexamined. These felons cannot have got far. They will be found. We will extract the truth of their escape from them. If anyone here aided them in any way they will be named. I hereby give you one last chance. Confess! If any one of you has been near the tower I want your name now.’

Another glare.

A richly pregnant silence followed. For an age no-one uttered a word.

Then there was a scuffle and a flurry of movement among the pages as one of them stepped forward. It was Bertram. He removed his cap and bowed.

The hush deepened.

Looking neither to left nor right Bertram stared full into Sir John’s face. ‘Sire,’ he bowed again, ‘Most dear and illustrious lord, I have something to confess.’

Hildegard felt a thrill of horror run through those standing nearest. The hair on the back of her own neck rose in protest.

‘Continue.’

‘I confess, my lord, that I have been near the tower.’

‘I knew it!’ Fitzjohn exclaimed with a dangerous snarl. ‘When was this, you carl?’

‘It was when I was running after the pig’s bladder, my lord. I couldn’t help it, my lord. We could not let those choristers win.’

‘Pig’s bladder? What in St Joseph’s name are you prattling about?’

‘The bladder, sire. It went up over my head and I jumped and by chance caught it and then I ran as fast as the devil with it until someone handed me to the ground at the other end of the yard. Almost at the goal, sire. And then one of the French pages took it and we scored a hit, sire.’

Fitzjohn scratched his head. ‘And that’s all you can tell me?’