Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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Subtle concoctions of sugar in the shape of gilded castles and ships in full sail were brought in to accompanying cries of wonder. Soon after that Clement rose to his feet as if wearied, called his guards and, as they formed a path of honour so that he could leave, processed formally down the centre of the Tinel. Everyone clattered to their feet, those who could, knelt, crossing themselves.

Two cardinals were summoned by a raised finger. As everyone else struggled to their feet again they followed and the double doors at the far end leading into Clement’s private chambers slid shut behind them.

Hubert leaned towards Hildegard across the table and whispered, ‘As well as Grizac that was Cardinal Montjoie who was invited to a private audience with Clement, if you’re still interested.’

**

Hildegard’s sumptuous guest chamber at the Fondi villa had a view across the Rhone towards the towers and crenellations of the palace of Avignon.

She could see people coming and going along the water front, or driving their horses under the gatehouse in the town wall. The bridge was busy with traffic now dawn had chased away the night but the weather was still blustery, squalls shuddering over the surface of the water, stirring up white caps in the random eddies. It still looked difficult to navigate. She guessed that trade from the Middle Sea would be held up until the floods subsided. Yawningly she fumbled in her scrip for the strange findings from under the bed of the murdered nun.

She shook out the contents onto the window embrasure where it was brightest.

Mouse droppings were small and grain like. She was familiar enough with them from around the grain stores at Meaux.

In the blue light of early morning she saw that the ones here on the sill were larger and darker than expected. It was no mouse that had left them. Could a cat have got in? A cat was a clean creature and would have tried to cover its excrement. She poked at the crumbs with a finger nail. They turned to dust. They must have lain under the bed for a day at least.

She decided to check her suspicion, unlikely as it was, by finding an excuse to play with the squirrel and observe its habits.

**

Montjoie did not like women in his exclusive man’s world. Everything about him demonstrated disdain. It was probably true that Bellefort did not much care for them either, but this was more likely due to a difference of preference than from outright antagonism.

Montjoie was a short, spare man with a thin face and fastidious features. He would have been undistinguished, with his height and build, but for the richness of his apparel. Gold brocade sleeves trailed to the ground, a magnificent surplice embroidered with infinite skill and a deep red velvet skull cap made him impressive.

He played irritably with the rings on his fingers after he was introduced to Hildegard as if her sight of them might have reduced them in value.

Hubert was impassive.

He must have guessed that conversation would be almost impossible between the cardinal and Hildegard because he did not allow the silence that followed their greeting to last more than a moment before he broke in smoothly with some arcane scriptural remark that only a scholar would have understood. It established a bond that could exclude a mere woman and Montjoie, so misnamed, must have taken it at face value because he even attempted a narrowed smile of triumph at Hildegard’s apparent exclusion.

Supercilious. A bigot, she registered. Too vain to stoop to murder?

In her experience murderers committed their acts out of impotence, if they were not outright mad. They could find no other way to survive on their own terms without destroying someone. How they chose the victim who stood in their way was personal and often unexpected to the casual observer.

Who stood in Montjoie’s way? Whom might Montjoie consider worthy of the vulgarity of murder?

On first meeting he seemed rather the type to choose the law to destroy someone. Law was neater, cleaner. And cleverer than the knife.

He clearly valued cleverness.

Whether he would take the trouble to get someone saved from punishment by recourse to law was another matter. She could not see the light of compassion in his egotistical features. The priest of the bridge had been saved by a compassionate intervention.

Murder then? What had he to gain? In the matter of Maurice’s murder there could be any number of motives, as a demonstration of loyalty to Clement being the most obvious.

Imagine, he had stumbled across the would-be thief when returning with the pope after mass, maybe to discuss some church matter, some interesting legalistic question that only so-called great men would understand, he had discovered the thief, and killed him to protect his holiness. That was one way of explaining it. The pope in setting his men onto discovering the murderer might then have used them as a ploy to direct suspicion away from his own man.

Unfounded, she reproved herself, switching her attention more carefully to what Hubert and Montjoie were discussing.

Dull nonsense, she decided after a moment. Hubert was simply marking time so she could have a good look at the cardinal and make up her mind about him. Then, if he was complicit in her game, he would work round to that night on the bridge.

‘And praise God that in His wisdom He is sending us more clement weather,’ Hubert eventually remarked.

‘Clement? He has surely a hand in the matter too,’ murmured Montjoie with coy humour.

‘Without doubt. I remember in horror the walk across the bridge a night or two ago – you remember, when we had been privileged to dine with his Holiness, en prive.’

Flatterer, thought Hildegard. Why not say ‘in private’ instead of all this en prive stuff.

But Montjoie was at home with it. ‘That was a most satisfactory evening,’ he purred. ‘To be honoured with an invitation to confer with His Holiness in the privacy of his inner chamber – ’

‘Only spoilt by the walk back to Villeneuve,’ Hubert interrupted, smoothly bringing him back to the point. ‘We were in such straits we were almost driven to stop at the chapel half way to seek shelter and offer up a prayer to St Nicolas but, undaunted, we decided to press on. Did you go straight across too?’

‘Most certainly.’ Montjoie gave a shudder. ‘I’m not at my best when soaked to the pelt. I hurried back as fast as my lazy servants could carry me. Even so I had to have hot water brought to me so that I could lie in a tub for a while to recover. I’m happy to say my villa, although not as vividly decorated as Cardinal Fondi’s,’ he paused, ‘has enough comfort for my humble needs.’

‘Fortunate, God be praised,’ murmured Hubert with the air of a man fascinated by such revelations.

**

‘So what do you think to him? Not much, I can tell by your face.’

‘I thought I covered my feelings rather well.’

‘In front of him, maybe, but not now. Just look at you!’

‘If there was any justice he would be manacled and made to kneel in a puddle to plead in seven languages for his humble life.’ She shrugged. ‘Justice is blind. Nothing links him. To my regret.’

‘I’ll check with his servants to see if he really did cross straight over.’

‘I’d bet on it. I’m afraid it only leaves Grizac.’

‘Poor old Grizac.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He strives so. He’s a man who had everything, by birth and family connections, and what has he done with it?’

‘He is a cardinal, Hubert.’

He gave a disdainful shrug.

The gesture did not fit with his own apparent ambition but she let it pass.

‘Apparently he wrote some good music when he was in York but somehow he’s one of those people who always seem to be hurrying to keep up with themselves. Since being made bishop of Avignon when Clement took over he’s done nothing very much. He doesn’t even write music any more as far as I know.’

‘Is he not charitable?’

‘I grant you that. He gives lavishly to the poor.’

As she turned away she said, ‘Thank you, Hubert. I must say you played Montjoie like a master angler enticing a fish onto your line.’

‘I always do my best for you, Hildegard.’

As he raised a hand in farewell he said, ‘You’ve changed again. I never know what you’re going to be like towards me. You’re more variable than the weather.’

**

If you only knew, she thought as she trailed off to the couriers’ office, I’m always the same underneath. It’s only suspicion and doubts in these terrible times that make me seem to change towards you. And you are such an infinitely skilful fisherman. I fear the hook.

They could not dwell in the same building without some heart-stir like a sickness, nor meet without some well of healing opening up by being in proximity. Yet suspicion cut them asunder. And the bonds of allegiance bound them to different masters. And nothing could come of it.

**

The esquires were crossing the yard, Edmund and Bertram, followed by Elfric and Simon and when they spotted her they changed tack and soon surrounded her. Nobody broke step. In the busy courtyard it must have looked like a natural configuration to anyone watching.

Edmund. Scarcely moving his lips. ‘We spoke to the sentry.’

‘So did I. What did he tell you?’

‘He saw nobody else go onto the bridge except for the cardinals and your friend Abbot de Courcy.’

‘What were his words?’

‘He said: after them lot went over nobody else showed themselves until one or two left the Coq and ran under the bridge, out of the wet.’

‘That’s where the girls who don’t work at le Coq ply their trade, is it?’

Edmund, blushing, nodded. ‘Nobody was there because of the weather.’ He added sheepishly in the voice of the sentry, ‘No point in plying your trade with no punters, is there?’

‘Quite!’

What a night to be unable to get back into the palace. All because somebody forgot to leave a gate unlocked.

‘Did he say anything about hearing the uproar from le Coq?’

‘No. He said it was too windy to hear anything and he only found out about it when it was light and folk wanted to bring their carts across.’

‘Do you think Taillefer was one of those who ran under the bridge?’

‘Not for that he wouldn’t.’

‘I know about Yolande.’

‘There you are then.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Fraid so.’

Without changing pace the boys peeled off to wherever they were originally heading.

Hildegard went down to have a look at the side gate. The guards nodded her through into the street. That interfering nun. Where’s it got her?

She paced round the outside of the walls. When she came to the little postern, the side gate, it was locked.

She returned to the palace, back through the gatehouse, located the same gate from the inside. No key. When a servant went shuffling by with a sack of something she called a question to him.

‘Kept locked, domina. Second steward has the key.’

She went to find the second steward.

‘A matter of some discretion, master, may we step outside?’

They went into one of the nearby courtyards where the vast amounts of produce needed to feed the hundreds in the palace was stored.

‘The little side gate in the wall, I know you were helpful to the young lads wanting to get out into the town for a bit of fun. How did it work? Did you leave it unlocked most of the time or did they have a key?’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know how you found out – ’

‘And I’m not going to tell you. Discretion is the word I used.’

‘Thank you, domina, most grateful, my genuine thanks. I’ll tell you this. I used to open it before midnight and lock up again just after lauds. What went on in between is not my concern.’

‘If they didn’t get back before it was locked?’

‘Then the young sinner would have to go back to where he’d been bedding down outside till the gatehouse was opened up, get me?’

‘Indeed. Did it often happen?’

‘What?’

‘That somebody would be accidentally locked out?’

‘Ah, I understand. This is about young master Taillefer. Poor soul.’ He crossed himself. ‘He was unlucky. With it being the devil’s weather that night I thought they’d all stayed in the palace so I didn’t bother to unlock it at all.’ He paused. ‘That’s funny.’

‘What is?’

‘I never thought to wonder how he got out till now.’

Hildegard thanked him and walked away before he could have any more inconvenient wonderings.

A door that could be left unlocked to allow people who were in to get out. And a door that could also be left unlocked to allow those out to get in? It meant that anyone from outside who knew about this arrangement would have no difficulty in getting inside the palace whenever they chose.

**

That mysterious time in the early hours between matins and lauds when most people were asleep. A night of rain. A raging wind. The river in flood. And two figures running under the bridge. Was that the key?

**

And now the squirrel. Red and sleek as a chestnut. Small paws like human hands. Observant eyes that seemed to hold an answer as the child whispered her stories to him.

‘Flora, your squirrel is so sweet,’ said Hildegard, ‘but he’s a creature used to living in the wilds. Does he make an awful mess everywhere?’

The child pointed to a broom and a small pail in a corner of the chamber

‘Do get someone to remove it all, cara.’ Carlotta frowned and brushed her skirt as if the squirrel had suddenly spoiled it.

**

Hildegard was unable to prevent an icey shiver running up her spine as her suspicions were confirmed. She watched the little girl carefully sweep up after the squirrel and brush the droppings into the pail.

Someone carrying the squirrel had entered the nun’s death chamber.

Surely it can’t be Fondi, she admonished herself. He’s a friend of Hubert.

And Hubert was a Clementist.

She tried to remember if Fondi had been told that she and Hubert were not returning to Avignon that night when they went out hawking for the day.

She went to find Hubert in the small ante chamber Fondi used as a scriptorium where he appeared to be writing a letter. And without mentioning squirrels she asked him when he had told Fondi they were going to be away for the night.

‘I didn’t tell him. How could I? He was here in his villa and anyway, until we were actually riding our horses out onto the palace foregate it would have been premature. I wasn’t sure you’d come with me, let alone stay overnight.’

‘He thought I’d return to the palace that night then?’

‘I’ve no idea. He probably didn’t even know we’d left.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Nothing.’

**

At last the couriers’ clerk had received a message for her. It was not from England, however, but from Aquitaine. As English as makes no difference she could hear the miners claim.

It was couched in ambiguous terms in order not to incriminate her or her accomplices when it was read by the censor. It began, ‘Dearest sister mine’ and continued as if written by a merchant accompanied by his wife, referring to ‘the companion of my heart’ and their trade which was going well, the gist being that they had found a spice merchant travelling in a hurry and had gone with him through France until they reached English territory. They had even gone on to Bordeaux with him and were now waiting for passage in a wine ship but, it continued, her brother was strongly tempted to stay with the English army and make his fortune by using his special skills to improve the appearance of a few Burgundian castles.

She smiled at this.

The message itself was written in a flowing hand that they must have paid a scrivener to produce. It ended with flowery wishes for her safe return home ‘after her long pilgrimage’ and promised to attend her to pay their undying respects. It was signed ‘your ever loving brother in this world and the next’ with a name that might have been deliberately blotted.

When she found the guild of pages in their secret lair she told them that the miners were safe.

‘At least that matter has ended well. But it’s still a mystery to me how they managed to get themselves kidnapped in the first place,’ remarked Bertram, furrowing his brow much as his own father probably did.

Hildegard told him how it had come about. ‘They assumed they were targets because their skill was something Fitzjohn’s lord could use as barter.’

‘So what did he want in exchange?’

Hildegard gave a sudden start.

Apart from the money to raise an army what else was useful to Woodstock?

Poison.

The acknowledged poison-masters were Lombards. They were skilled and knew of concoctions that could kill at the slightest touch of a doctored garment, or cause death by a single sniff from a perfume bottle, or by kissing a poisoned ring, or by all the old methods of adding some lethal ingredient to food or drink. Some poisons worked slowly, others in an instant. Some copied known symptoms and were never detected. Some were so sudden and violent they were blamed on the Plague. The Lombards were masters of them all.

Both popes, to their shame, were reputed to have access to the latest potions of the poison-makers and employed their adepts, secretly, in their palaces. As she had seen, Clement took the greatest care over his food and drink as, to be honest, most monarchs did these days.

The poison from Clement’s treasury must have been precious and rare to be hidden in the hilt of the dagger. What if it had been a poison so refined that it could never be detected?

Woodstock, through his vassal Sir John Fitzjohn, would want above all else to obtain such a weapon against his enemies.

A poison that would be undetectable. And the victim? The answer made Hildegard dizzy.

Woodstock desired one thing above all else. To be King of England.

And one man stood in his way.

Richard.

Unaware of the direction of her thoughts, Bertram was asking in a tone of bafflement. ‘Why would the pope want to get hold of a couple of miners, no matter how good they think they are?’

Hildegard focussed her thoughts to answer the question. ‘It’s to do with the English alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor, Clement’s great enemy.’

The boys stared.

‘When King Richard was married to the Emperor’s sister, Anne, at the age most of you are now, she came with no dowry. Ordinary people were up in arms and thought it was a bad bargain and she was unpopular at first until everyone saw what she was like.’

‘They call her Good Queen Anne wherever you go.’

‘Now, yes. But at first they thought it a bad bargain because they didn’t know the truth, that it was a secret arrangement between the Emperor and Chancellor de la Pole.’

‘God save de la Pole,’ murmured Bertram. ‘My father says he’s the only one of the lot to talk sense.’

‘Well, de la Pole has been anxiously aware of the shortage of silver to make coin and keep trade flowing for some time. He knows the country needs a new source. Bohemia is famous for its silver mines as you know. Anne’s dowry came down to this – it was to give King Richard a share in the silver ore extracted at Kutna Hora.’

‘So that’s it!’ Bertram nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it would have to be something to do with the revenue. If he can get his hands on a source of silver King Richard will at last have the means to raise an army.’

‘To protect us against invasion?’ Elfric surmised.

‘And against his enemies the barons. His uncle Thomas Woodstock has his own army. The king has nothing to use against him.’

‘Remember the massive fleet the French assembled last year,’ reminded Edmund, ‘everybody thought London was going to be under siege. Everybody expected to be slaughtered in their beds. We had nothing to defend ourselves with except for a few warning beacons on the south coast and some ditches round the walls dug by Londoners themselves. And why were we in such parlous fear?’

‘Because the King’s Council would not allow Richard the money to raise an army and equip a fleet,’ Bertram cut in.

‘He has no money of his own,’ agreed Hildegard. ‘He has nothing that isn’t granted to him by the Council.’

‘And the King’s Council is run by Gaunt and Woodstock.’

‘So you’re saying that with access to Bohemian silver King Richard will have enough money to provide ships and a paid militia to defend the country against all enemies and make himself independent?’ Bertram summed up.

‘Quite so.’ Hildegard nodded.

‘But why miners?’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Don’t the Bohemians have any of their own?’

‘Those particular two are skilled in deep mining, knowledge the Emperor needs.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because his mines are almost worked out near the surface so he has to dig deeper. Pope Clement and no doubt the French king thought that by kidnapping them and stealing their special knowledge they could do three things. They could spoil England’s alliance with the Emperor, ruin our trade because of lack of coinage, and gain the means to further their own mining interests.’

‘So those two were pawns in a very big game?’

‘So it seems.’

Bertram looked as if nothing would ever surprise him again. ‘That makes such sense,’ he remarked.

‘And is that why my brother died?’ Elfric spoke. ‘Because he knew about the poison that the pope was going to exchange for the miners?’

‘You’ve got it,’ said Edmund putting an arm round the boy’s shoulders.

‘I still don’t understand,’ persisted Peterkin. ‘Maurice was murdered before Fitzjohn and the miners even got here. Did Maurice know Fitzjohn was after it?’

‘And what would Maurice have done with the poison when he got hold of it?’ Bertram asked.

‘Was somebody else after it, domina? Did they order Maurice to get it first? Is that what it means?’

‘It must do,’ Bertram was emphatic.

‘It would certainly add to Fitzjohn’s rage,’ Edmund exclaimed. ‘Somebody getting there before him.’

**

As Edmund said, somebody had got there before him. Hildegard wanted to hug the boys for their persistent questioning. They still did not have all the answers but the problem was clearer now. The link between the Fitzjohn-Woodstock faction and the poisoned dagger was slim, nothing but circumstantial, and yet the more Hildegard thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Maybe it was the fact that Maurice was English that made the connection plausible. What they needed though was evidence.

‘Are you sure Sir Jack has never mentioned poison?’ she asked Edmund.

‘I’d know if he had because I’d be looking for it to tip into his wine goblet,’ he replied rubbing his sore head.

Elfric seemed proud to think his brother might have been involved in important matters and not killed on some trivial pretext. It seemed to dignify his death and make it more bearable.

‘He would only have agreed to get the poison for a good reason,’ he confided to Hildegard as they left. ‘He would never do anything bad.’

Hildegard prayed that when the truth was revealed Elfric would not have his faith in his brother turn to ashes.

**

The rains returned. The discomfort such weather brought only added to the austerity of Lent. It was bleak. People trudged about the main court yard whenever they had to venture outdoors swathed in cloaks or if they did not possess one, in blankets, heads covered, faces barely visible, and feet, red raw in their sandals, wet, muddy, and throbbing with chilblains. Penitents flocked into the warmth of la Grande Chapelle.

Hildegard informed Hubert that she would prefer to remain in the palace rather than make the journey back to Cardinal Fondi’s villa on Villeneuve in such vile weather. To her surprise, he agreed without argument. This was so rare she looked at him in astonishment. All he said was that as his fellow countrywoman and one of his nuns from Meaux he would find accommodation for her that was both safe and agreeable as was his duty and his right.

On the point of asking him if he was feeling well, she held her tongue just in time.

‘I’ll send Brother Gregory to conduct you there when I’ve found somewhere suitable for you.’

‘Which one is he?’ she asked. Neither of the monks had made much impression.

‘You’ll know him by his solicitous manner,’ he remarked with a long look.

She was to wait for him in the Tinel where he would come to find her.

**

The refectory, le Tinel, was always busy with guests, petitioners and other folk, enjoying the lavish fare usually available. Today they were on short rations because of Lent but it didn't prevent an army of servants catering busily to everyone’s needs within the restrictions that prevailed.

Trays of flat bread were piled high. Hard cheese was brought out in great wedges and set down on the trestles to become the immediate focus of a forest of hands. Now and then fish from the ponds or the river was carried forth. White flesh falling off spiked bones needing careful sifting with the tip of a knife. Sauces, none. Meat, none. Subtleties, none. Wine? Some, of course. Nobody wanted to go down with the stomach cramps by drinking contaminated water.

Safety in numbers, Hildegard observed to herself as she found space on one of the long benches at the table reserved for women. Everyone fleeing starvation and the grim reaping of winter. She sat with her back to the wall so she could see anyone approaching.

While she waited for Brother Gregory her thoughts ran over her conversation with the pages and then she cast her thoughts back to the occasion when Athanasius had taken her along to have a look at the body of Maurice in the treasure vault.

It was a slightly blurred memory now. The shock of what she had seen shed a light on some things and left others in darkness. She saw in her mind’s eye the stiff body in its beautiful court garments, the gold-red hair thick and vibrant, the hand fiercely gripping the jewelled dagger. Then she recalled the weeping cardinal and how she had felt a slight, uncalled for irritation at his lack of control.

Then what had happened? Had she climbed out of the vault before him? She thought she remembered turning to look down into the vault when his mumbling pleas to have the youth brought back to life had ceased. She closed her eyes the better to focus on what she had observed then.

It was Grizac, holding the hand of Maurice, holding the hand with the dagger in it.

She recalled the fleeting thought that the rigour of death would soon abate and then the fingers would relax and the knife would be released of its own accord.

It was a flash of memory and she could not decide whether she had seen the cardinal holding the hand out of grief, or trying in vain to prise the knife from it.

She remembered how when she went back into la chambre du pape the pope‘s bodyguard must have already been there. He had climbed down to shine the light on Maurice’s face as Athanasius had directed. He must have climbed out first because she and Grizac were left in a small pool of light from the chamber above. She could surely not have seen anything as detailed as a hand holding another hand.

Athanasius had stepped forward to assist her out of the vault. She had seen his face in the glare of light. Its expression was empty. Then she had looked down to watch Grizac climbing with difficulty out of the black hole. Tears glistened on his cheeks before he turned his head and moved into darkness.

After that came the understanding touch on the sleeve as Athanasius edged past him.

The light followed them down the stone steps outside onto the landing where the stair divided and the guards played dice. They were there then, wary, attentive, fearing to put another foot wrong.

It was one of the pope’s personal body guard who had dutifully held the lantern through all this. Poor Grizac. When he first cast his eyes on Maurice he was controlled enough. It was only as Athanasius began to inspect the body that he broke down and began his tearful prayers.

She went over the scene again. The bodyguard holding the light as directed. Athanasius, thoughtful, assiduous in his duty to confirm death. Herself, bewildered, travel-weary after recently arriving from England, and filled with a sense of horror at what she saw. The cardinal, stoical, then tearful. With shock? With fear? With rage? With confusion? There had been no way of reading him.

Brother Gregory leaned across the table to attract her attention. ‘Far away, domina? Forgive me for breaking into your meditations. Our lord abbot sends his greetings. Will you be kind enough to follow me?’

As she rose and came towards him he put out a protective arm when a servant blundered past. ‘Have a care now, fellow,’ he warned mildly. ‘This way, if you will, domina, please follow me.’

**

She threw her bag down and sat on the bed when Brother Gregory left. Hubert had found her a small, pretty chamber in the guest wing, without the austerity of the quarters assigned to visiting monastics.

A single window faced east overlooking a small garden in the lee of the battlements. Espaliered fruit trees were growing against the walls and in the middle of a paved area was a spring sending up a fountain that fell back into a shallow marble basin. A door led into this miniature paradise and she decided she would go and find it when she had time.

Now, plumped down on a bed that was rather more comfortable than the ones allotted to the nuns, she had one name on her mind.

Grizac.

It seemed to turn up again and again. His grief-stricken face appeared before her, his tears in the treasury that day – for the loss of a favourite acolyte or for something else? Again she asked herself why Maurice had entered the forbidden vault, why he was holding that particular treasure of all things. Had it been a dare? Or had somebody put him up to it? If so, who?

She remembered the suggestion that he was working alone. But why? Was it really the dagger he wanted? What use was it to him? Did he know it contained poison? She wondered how Grizac felt about finding him there. His feelings had been impossible to gauge.

Maybe he saw Maurice’s presence in such a place as a betrayal of trust. Or was Grizac the mastermind behind the theft, his tears ones of shock that everything had gone so disastrously wrong? He would have known how dangerous it would be to make an attempt on such a valuable hoard. Perhaps his tears were of regret.

Another failure to add to the list.

She considered his long life playing second fiddle, first to his brother, Pope Urban V, and then to his contemporary Clement VII. To be Bishop of Avignon was poor reward for a lifetime with such promising connections. He was a man of qualities, everyone agreed, a scholar of repute, compassionate, piously living up to his vows, a sagacious and respected member of the College of Cardinals.