Magic aside, a more measured opinion was that the guards on duty outside the treasury had slit the thief's throat when he resisted an invitation to the guard room before being handed over to the Council of the inquisition. The man who bribed him - if he existed - must be offering up prayers of thanks that his accomplice had been silenced.

**

Imagining that the old monk feigning sleep in his cell would now expect her to go and find the guard in order to discover who had wielded the murder weapon, if, indeed, this was the truth of the matter, Hildegard crossed the Great Court to the guard room at the side of the Porte des Champeaux.

A surly looking fellow, armed to the teeth, a broad sword swinging at his hip, was lounging in the entrance. He gave her a dismissive glance when she approached but, undeterred by a mere look, she gave him a pleasant greeting, adding at once, ‘We sisters will be afraid to sleep in our beds at night, captain, now that we know a thief was inside the palace. And we’re all wondering whether he was in fact killed when the guards tried to take him into custody, as everybody seems to think?’

‘The thief’s dead,’ he confirmed. ‘That’s all you and your sisters need to know, domina. He won’t be bothering you any.’ He gave her plain woollen habit an up and down look.

‘But another story says he had an accomplice,’ she persisted, inventing a little. ‘Where is he now? Did the guards catch him?’

‘Take my word for it, the thieving young blaggard was alone in there, filling his pockets. There is no accomplice.’

‘But what an extraordinary thing,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘to have the audacity to steal from his holiness. Surely the treasury is guarded night and day? Would he not know this? Surely he would fear to be caught?’

‘Some men are fools, sister, as I’m sure you know. He got himself by deceit into the private apartments of the Holy Father, cunningly avoiding the attention of the guard on duty.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘It is.’

‘That’s no mean feat,’ she murmured.

As if to discount this the guard sniffed. ‘Once inside the chambre du pape any fool could conceal themselves behind a tapestry or a piece of furniture. All he had to do then was show patience until the pope went into his chapel for the night office.’

‘But is the treasury in the very chamber of the pope himself?’ she asked.

‘It was thought to be the safest place. Where could be safer, you might think. There is only one entrance to the vault and that itself is under a paving slab in his chamber. The thief could remain concealed until the pope was sound asleep then simply haul open the paver and sneak down the steps in amongst the treasures. It was getting out again that was his undoing. A chink of sound, a guard more alert than the dumb wit who took first duty and that was the end of him.’

‘So it’s true, it was a guard who stabbed him?’

‘I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply explaining how it could have been done. To my certain knowledge none of us had a hand in it. I should know, I was one of them that found him.’

‘And he was dead when you found him?’

‘As a door nail.’

‘A most frightening experience for you,’ Hildegard replied, her curiosity apparently satisfied. She turned to go then hesitated. ‘But, master, who on earth was this thief? I hear he was a stable lad.’

‘They’ll say anything, folks. Nobody knows anything and them that say they do are lying.’

The guard resumed his surly expression and she knew she could not push him further. ‘Greed,’ she observed. ‘It drives men to acts of utter madness.’

**

‘This is something to whet my appetite,’ mused the old monk when she returned. His name was Athanasius. More than that she had still not learned. The cuff of his thick brown robe was black with ink stains. He had been sitting on a bench with his writing table on his lap when she entered.

He glanced up with a shrewd glance after she finished her story. ‘A mixture of rumour and fact,’ she apologised.

‘A fake stable lad. And a fake pope.’ He gave her a flashing smile that was strangely cold. ‘So, what do you think to that, domina?’

Aware of a trap she merely looked beyond him at the wall. The burning place in the market square swam in her imagination. Of course Clement was a fake pope but she wasn’t going to say such a thing to one of his monks.

When she didn’t reply he gave an ironic shrug. ‘The fake stable boy you cannot deny. Why a stable boy?’

‘I have no opinion, magister. I am surprised to hear that anyone could penetrate such a carefully contrived stronghold in which to hold the fortune of his holiness and his followers.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The old monk’s eyes gleamed. ‘And?’

‘I’m also somewhat surprised that a guard would cut a man’s throat without first questioning him.’

‘Most ill-judged,’ he nodded. ‘And?’

‘Also that he is said to have used a knife, more like a street cut-throat than a professional guard.’

‘Which to me, dear lady, suggests that the rumour you mentioned, of a dispute with an accomplice, may be correct?’

‘It’s hardly the time and place for two thieves working together to have an argument.’

‘Quite so. And are you prepared to leave matters as they are? Or shall we winkle out the identity of this thief, his disputable accomplice and the events surrounding his unfortunate demise?’

‘I’m curious to hear what the other guards say.’

‘So am I.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Will the thief come to be seen as a martyr or a miscreant?’ He gave her a sharp glance. ‘A many sided question, you will agree?’

She supposed a view could be taken on the thief - depending on what you thought about the pope having a treasure vault in the first place. Some might see it as violating the vow of poverty, and as ill-gotten. Not all would see it as the necessary means by which to further the interests of the Faith. Unwilling to get into a discussion that might lead to her undoing she preserved a careful silence.

There was another thing that puzzled her. It was minor, however. It was why Fitzjohn had bothered to send his page to nose out the truth. Like the magister, was he merely driven by curiosity? She had no doubt that the boy had been sent to find out what he could.

Athanasius swiftly changed the subject, almost taking her off guard. ‘I hear you come from the priory at Swyne in the East Riding of Yorkshire?’

Surprised he had heard of the place, she raised her head. ‘In my early days as a novice and for some little time later, yes, I was at Swyne.’

‘Then we have a mutual acquaintance of some distinction.’ He said no more but became deeply interested in the writing on his tablet.

Unhurriedly he inscribed a few more words, replaced his quill in its holder after wiping the nib, stoppered his ink horn, folded the single piece of parchment into four, heated a lump of wax over a candle, smeared a thick blob onto the fold and pressed the seal of his ring into it.

When it had hardened he handed the missive to her. A glance at the intended recipient showed it was to a prior somewhere near Paris. The name meant nothing to Hildegard.

‘This can go by general courier. Take it down there for me, if you will. You may need to make yourself familiar with the routines of the couriers here. Anything of a private nature may require a different route about which you may wish to question me some time?’ A slanted glance. The question hung in the air as he placed his writing tablet on the bench, folded his hands into his sleeves and seemed to settle to sleep.

Hildegard stuffed the letter into her own sleeve and went out.

Who could he know at Swyne? The only person of distinction was the prioress herself. He might have heard of her. They could be old colleagues, survivors of ancient church battles. The prioress had spent a litigious early life, at one time even prompted to visit the pope in Rome to press some suit.