Hildegard shook her head. ‘I was surprised to see him arrive. I have no idea what he wants.’

‘He wants something. We agree on that?’

‘Such is the way of things, magister.’

He gave a thin smile. ‘Maybe he seeks to further an alliance with his holiness Pope Clement on behalf of his old companion in arms, the duke of Brittany?’

Hildegard showed no emotion. Was that all it meant? Woodstock in alliance with Brittany? A feeling of relief seeped through her. That was old news and the alliance had led nowhere. Could it be as the old monk suggested and be no plot against King Richard after all?

‘Ha!’ He exclaimed with satisfaction. ‘No surprise, domina? What other reason can he have of presenting himself to Our Holy Father?’

‘I can’t think of anything, magister.’

Athanasius gave her a sceptical glance. ‘Really? You can’t think of anything? Well, well.’

Hildegard waited but the old man said nothing more and she was left in as much uncertainty as before.

‘Tell me then about this theft. What was stolen and from whom?’

‘I’ve no idea what was stolen. The news concerns an interloper inside the pope’s treasury.’

He managed to look mildly astonished. ‘Inside? What was he doing there? Did he give an account of himself?’

‘I hasten to say this is only rumour, but when pope Clement announced that the thief had received his just desserts, it was assumed that he was killed, probably by the guards.’

‘Did he kill to get inside?’

‘Was killed, before getting outside, so the story goes.’

The monk crossed himself. ‘Is there more?’ Sharp eyes scrutinising her face.

‘Wild rumours but nothing known for certain yet.’

‘Then, domina, make it your business to know. I’m too ancient and infirm to traipse about the palace listening to gossip and unfounded speculation. By the way have the Cistercians arrived from England?’

‘From England?’

Head on one side he regarded her steadily. ‘Come now.’

‘There are many Cistercians attending His Holiness. Our Order is widespread. Are there some expected from England?’

‘Three of them. Englishmen are quite distinctive are they not? Three tall men together?’

‘Maybe so.’ She recalled the three who had entered the papal chamber just before Fitzjohn and his page came in. She mentioned them.

The old man sank his chin into the folds at the neck of his robe and appeared to fall asleep and while Hildegard waited to make sure, she wondered who he was - just a holy innocent with an insatiable curiosity? Something about his manner made her feel wrong-footed.

Suddenly raising his head he snapped open his eyes and looked straight into hers. ‘Go then, domina. Pray do as I ask. Find out what you can. Brook no delay.’

* *

It suited her to find out more. She had chance to think over what the old man had said about Fitzjohn’s presence. Maybe she was too quick to see plots against the king. It wasn’t surprising after last year in Westminster when Richard had almost been deposed by Woodstock and the council and now, after confirmation of the recent impeachments of his closest advisors, was in danger again. But this was Avignon, far from England. Woodstock and Brittany made much more sense.

First, though, to satisfy the old monk’s curiosity about the theft. The obvious place to pick up any news about the break-in and possible death of the thief was in the kitchens. The servants at table always managed to overhear what was intended to be secret. She made her way there without hurry.

Under a soaring conical roof of grey brick that served to draw the fumes and smoke from the massive tiered fire place were dozens of work benches and chopping tables with kitchen workers swarming round. When she walked in the place was buzzing with gossip. Settling on a bench where she could help slice vegetables, she was soon ignored. True, much of the conversation was lost on her as the kitcheners spoke the language of Oc but because of the many regions the monastics came from it followed that other tongues were spoken by the servants of visiting churchmen overseeing food for their masters and she listened carefully.

With a little difficulty she was able to pick out the French of Paris and the language of Brittany, the Florentine of Italy, familiar since her time there searching for the ancient Cross of Constantine. She also heard the dialect of Bruges and the Castilian familiar from her pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, as well as the more ubiquitous Galician from that region. Little Latin was spoken and she was having difficulty in understanding what the fervour of the verbal exchanges meant until a youth she recognised as one of Fitzjohn’s retinue entered.

Freckle-faced and cheerful, at first he could not make himself understood at all. Then someone took pity on him and one or two managed a version of Norman French the lad could grasp.

‘This young fellow, he wants bread for ’is master,’ one of the kitcheners announced in triumph after a brief conversation with him.

‘And ’oo is ’is master?’

‘The English knight Sir Jean Fitzjean.’

‘Give ’im bread. Take it.’ Bread was thrust into the page’s eager hands.

‘Want wine?’

He nodded,

‘Go to cellar.’ An empty flagon was handed over.

The page was by no means interested in being bustled away to complete his errand. Clutching the bread and the empty flagon he sat down on a bench adjacent to Hildegard and grinned round at everybody. In passable Norman French he asked what all the fuss was about.

‘This death. You not want to know.’

‘I certainly do,’ said the boy. ‘Somebody got their gizzard cut, they say. I certainly want to know about that.’

Hildegard listened intently. Was death, in fact, the thief’s just desserts, or was it yet more rumour-mongering?

Translation into one or two dialects followed. A variety of theories were put forward. Then one of the cooks with his ladle in his hand stepped forward. Unconsciously, he echoed Hildegard’s opinion. ‘None of you devils knows a pig’s pistle about it.’ He flourished the ladle. ‘It was one of the ’orse boys got himself caught. Bribed to go thieving in the treasury. That’s the long and short of it.’

‘I didn’t know we even had a treasury,’ piped up an untidy barefoot scullion.

‘You know nothing.’ The cook slapped the side of the child’s head in disgust. ‘The greatest hoard of gold in Christendom is stored in this very palace.’

The boy’s mouth dropped open.

‘It’s to show Urban in Rome that we ’ave the means to buy the best Genoese crossbow men in the world. That should stop ’im in ’is tracks.’

Men, fighting again, thought Hildegard wearily.

‘So who was this fellow and who put the horse boy up to it?’ asked the English page with a surprising focus while the scullion was still goggling.

‘That we shall never know,’ intoned the cook.

‘Not unless the dead speak,’ somebody added

‘Fools, then, if it was the guards cut his throat.’ The English page gave a superior glance round the circle of faces. ‘Otherwise he might have told us himself.’

Glances were exchanged. The boy had grasped the essential fact that nobody had wanted to question. But he hadn’t finished. ‘So why do you think he was bribed?’

‘Nobody said he was bribed,’ somebody murmured unconvincingly.

‘You’d ’ave to be bribed to set foot in that place,’ said one of the cooks. ‘They’ve got all kinds of man traps and springs set up in there to keep their treasure safe.’

Poisonous snakes were mentioned. A magic spell that at a touch would curse the family of a thief for a thousand generations. A bat that could eat your heart out and then bring you to life and start again while you watched.

The page left soon after that, clutching a full flagon and looking pleased. Eventually Hildegard followed.