Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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After another screech of the horns, the door inched open in the silence that followed. Then a dazzling, bejewelled figure appeared on the threshold. The silence lengthened.

The guards, squaring their shoulders, gazed more ferociously at the invisible enemy in front of them. A sound like the wind rising echoed around the auditorium as people began to cross themselves and fall to their knees in a cloud of fabric.

Clement, dark visaged, hook nosed, face as expressionless as a stump of wood, took several tottering paces towards his throne. His garments glittered in the sun light. Two silvery acolytes fussed in his wake and when he came to the steps leading up to his gilded throne they took an arm each to guide him onto it in his cumbersome robes. Before sitting, he turned and made a perfunctory sign over the heads of his flock.

Everyone, Hildegard realised, was on their knees. Even the Cistercians near the door. As unobtrusively as possible she slid down the pillar she had been leaning against until she was kneeling, albeit in a cramped and crouching posture, at its foot. A glance backwards showed that the Cistercian who had followed Fitzjohn’s page outside had returned and followed him back in. For a moment he glanced out over the bent heads towards the dais, then he too, sank down among the rest.

Clement’s voice carried easily into the corners of the vast hall. Latin, of course.

‘My faithful friends, my dearly beloved. Please rise to your feet.’ A sound of dull thunder followed. He began speaking only when all was quiet again. ‘I humbly beseech your pardon for this unwonted delay in starting our daily business. May your patience be rewarded here on earth as in heaven.’ He paused and clasped his hands helplessly, eyes darting from one corner of the chamber to the other. ‘I bear evil tidings, my friends. This day, sometime after matins, a most dreadful fate befell one of my beloved flock.’

He paused again and Hildegard silently applauded his sense of the theatrical. His eyes were focussed on something in the roof beams. His guardian angel, maybe, although to look downwards to the pit of hell, she thought, might be more appropriate.

After a sufficiently long pause he spoke in a soft voice. ‘Sometime after lauds a young thief was found in that most secret of places where our fortune is stored.’ A whisper of speculation arose but he stalled it with one raised hand. ‘I mean this as no reference to the soul of souls where each man’s fate is coiled but in that place where our wealth is stored, I mean where that gold belonging to all of us, is for safety kept, the better to further our ministry among the ungodly.’

His black glance swept the crowd like a passing storm cloud.

‘Our treasury, of which many of you will be unaware, has been breached! To our sorrow we are not birds of the air. We cannot live on the crumbs of fortune. We must show prudence in the management of base, worldly affairs. This necessary wealth is such that vile men, driven by cupidity, are attracted to it, are drawn to it, are tempted to break into the holy place and to steal from it for their own devilish designs.’ He waited until this news had sunk in.

Clement gave an odd kind of smile as he held the last morsel of the outrage under his control. And then he let them know it. ‘So was the thief discovered this day in our treasury and I may tell you, friends, so he received his just reward. Blessed be the humble. God go with you. Amen.’

Almost before anyone could respond to his astonishing words he exited on the arms of his acolytes. The door closed with finality behind him. The guards stared at nothing, blank as wooden effigies.

At once a confused whisper of speculation broke out. Who had dared? What did his just reward mean? How much did he get away with? What treasure?

The monk beside Hildegard cried out, ‘God preserve us. Such brazenness. Here, in the palace of our blessed pope.’ He turned to Hildegard, ‘Did you ever hear of such a thing, sister? What is the world coming to?’

‘We live in troubled times, brother.’

‘The enemy is verily within the gates. The end days are nigh!’

‘How could anyone penetrate the secret treasury? There are guards everywhere. How is it possible?’ she asked.

‘With the help of the devil and his minions, surely. How else?’ The monk shook his head in mystification. Someone touched him on the sleeve and he bent his head to listen.

Everyone was leaving now. Litigants, lawmen, scribes, clerks. All those with a petition to present. Thwarted now. Pouring out through the great doors, pages jostling to force a pathway for their masters, sharp elbows being used to effect. Soon, flooding into the Great Tinel, the refectory, their voices rose from a murmur to an excited rumble as soon as they were able. Those who were vowed to silence looked with chagrin at their companions. One or two risked penitential punishment by speaking aloud their astonishment. Questions were asked about the treasury, about what was meant by the thief’s just reward. The devil was mentioned with prayers to assorted saints for belated protection. St Martial, the palace’s patronal saint, was called upon.

Hildegard allowed herself to be drifted into the Tinel with everyone else until she found an empty place at the long table reserved for nuns, lay sisters, and female guests. A storm of gossip soon took over making one or two high up in the chain of authority look down their noses at the avid interest others were showing in such material affairs. One of them, an abbess by the look of it, chose to make a comment.

‘We cannot know anything at this stage, dear sisters. We must leave it for his holiness to scry forth the identity of this thief. Eschew gossip, I beg you. The thief is apprehended. There let the matter rest.’

‘And his just reward?’ murmured Hildegard. ‘What do you imagine that can be?’

‘Our Holy Father decides how sinners shall be rewarded,’ the nun replied with complaisant finality.

Preserve me. Hildegard bent her head, hiding her contempt as best she could and as soon as her morsel of bread was eaten and the watered wine was swallowed, she got up and made her way to the guest hall.

**

It was no different here. The buzz of excitement where townspeople, secular petitioners as well as clergy mixed was feverish. Rumours flew. One thing everyone seemed agreed on. By just reward, Clement meant one thing: death.

‘Blood everywhere,’ opined a merchant who could not have had first-hand knowledge of such a thing unless he’d been present and wished to incriminate himself. Nobody pulled him up. Everyone could predict death from Clement’s words and with death came blood. Lots of it.

‘They say an angel struck the thief down at the very moment he touched one of the blessed gold crucifixes his holiness keeps in there,’ said another.

‘I heard there was a fight with the devil and out of malice he killed the thief by sucking his blood,’ said another.

‘Who was this thief?’

Opinions came thick and fast: it was the pope’s own chaplain, turned mad, or, it was a stable lad, thieving, or no, said others, it was the pope’s food-taster, disgruntled because of his poor pay, and on. Stories, embroidered and plain, passed rapidly about the crowded chamber.

The sooner the pope’s inner circle announce a few facts the better, Hildegard thought. Glad to leave them to their speculations she made her way to the exit.

**

Her duties in return for her bed and board in the palace were light. They involved presence at prayers in the visitors’ chapel to lend piety to the lay members’ devotions, a few domestic tasks quickly done, and attendance on an old monk who had so far slept most of the time in his small cell and had only asked her to prop a heavy book or two onto his reading stand.

So far she knew little about him. It was the house steward who had assigned her to him and he pretended a difficulty in the language that prevented him telling her more.

Now she made her way to the monk’s cell where he was still, no doubt, sleeping away his final years.

She was wrong.

He was sitting upright at his reading stand and glanced up with an alert expression when she appeared in the doorway.

‘I have heard the news, domina.’

For a moment she was confused. ‘Already? You’ve heard about the theft?’

‘Theft? No, I’ve heard nothing of any theft. I mean about the arrivals from England. I understand a retainer to Prince Thomas of Woodstock arrived shortly before dawn?’

‘Indeed. A Sir John Fitzjohn.’

‘After a hard ride through enemy territory?’ The old man gave her a piercing glance. ‘What can bring him to face such dangers, might one ask?’

Hildegard had scant idea where his sympathies lay. He would be a Clementist, obviously, but did he regard Clement’s warmongering with sympathy? Until she knew more she would remain non-committal.

‘This Thomas of Woodstock, we are led to believe, is familiar with the rivalries between the French King and his dukes. I understand he campaigned on behalf of the duke of Brittany not long ago. What do you imagine his representative is doing here?’

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.

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.

Now Hildegard considered what she would tell her when she wrote to her. With probably little interest in the drama of the treasury thief, the prioress would certainly be interested in the presence of a vassal of Prince Thomas of Woodstock at the court of Pope Clement.

**

Rumours about whether the thief had an accomplice began to take shape. Whether this unknown accomplice had turned on his, at this stage, equally unknown companion was an opinion that vied with suspicions about the story now being given out by the guards. They were adamant they had seen no accomplice. There was no second thief.

For some, this put their honesty into question. There was even speculation about the reason for them not being taken into custody themselves. Of course, said the pundits, they denied that they had killed the thief. They would, wouldn’t they? But, it was also argued, to kill him would not have been a shrewd move on their part. They weren’t sotwits, were they? Yet if it were true that there was no second thief, who was to blame for the murder?

The rumours told Hildegard one thing: nobody knew anything. For some reason the papal officials was keeping a tight hold on what facts they must have.

**

She got a chance to seek out the second guard involved sooner than expected. On her way to the couriers’ office she had to go past the guard room, as it was in the same block of buildings, and the guard she had spoken to before happened to be standing outside. When she asked if she could speak to the other guard who had found the body, he reluctantly nodded towards a fellow sitting inside polishing a knife.

‘That’s ’im.’ He called through, ‘The domina is on business for the magister.’

She ducked her head under the lintel. ‘May I crave your indulgence, captain?’

The man rose slowly and somewhat deferentially to his feet.

‘The reverend brother has sent me on a little quest,’ she smiled. ‘Sadly, he is confined to his chamber and has asked me to find out what I can from the guard who had the misfortune to discover the body of the thief.’

His eyes were hard. ‘It was his holiness himself who found him, tell the magister that,’ adding, surprisingly, ‘that is, if he doesn’t already know it. When Pope Clement returned from lauds the trapdoor into the vault was gaping open and inside was the thief, caught red-handed and as dead as a stone.’

‘That seems clear.’

‘It is clear.’

‘And, pray, can you tell me, was the thief one of the stable lads as it’s rumoured?’

‘No.’

‘May one ask who it was?’

‘You may but you won’t get an answer from me. However, you can put all the rumour-mongers to shame domina, for you have the full truth of all that is available to be known at this moment.’

‘My most profound thanks for the privilege, captain.’

She went back to Athanasius and told him word for word what had been said. When she came to the part about Athanasius probably knowing that the pope himself had found the body, he shook his head slightly, although whether to deny his knowledge of it or to deny the guard’s assertion she could not tell.

‘And that is all?’

‘All he would say.’

‘No rumoured name for the victim?’

‘No name.’

**

It had not escaped her notice that many of the cardinals had brought their mistresses with them while they conducted business at the palace. Some even had children with them against all the vows of celibacy they must have at one time professed.

Now, one of these children, a cardinal’s child judging by her expensive velvet gown, was skipping across the yard towards her. She was carrying a pet squirrel and as Hildegard drew near the creature jumped from the child’s arms and ran a little way along then stopped, looking back with head on one side, paws lifted.

The child gave a cry of alarm and ran after the squirrel which, taking it for a game, ran on further, then stopped, then ran and stopped again.

Failing to catch her pet the child burst into helpless tears.

Hildegard put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. ‘Let him come to us, child. Look, he’ll like a taste of this.’ She pulled a piece of bread from her sleeve. Not knowing whether the child understood her words or not, she said, ‘Take it. Offer it to him.’

Words were not needed after all. The girl took the morsel, crouched down to hold it out to the squirrel. Cautiously it returned, nose snuffling, paws ready to reach out.

Before it did so Hildegard scooped it up and stroked it until it lost all resistance and she could hand it back to its owner.

‘Many thanks, domina,’ said a pleasant voice behind her. When she turned she found she was being addressed by a handsome, youngish-looking cardinal. He had spoken to her in Latin and she replied in like mode.

He smiled. ‘You’ve saved me from my Flora’s tears, domina. Most grateful.’ He bowed slightly before lifting the child and the squirrel into his arms and walking on.

Judge not, she reminded herself. He seemed kind but then, that was a judgement in itself.

**

‘Come,’ Athanasius beckoned. ‘This is a very great privilege. I am summoned and you are my necessary help-mate.’

Leaning heavily on her arm, he guided her towards a flight of stairs at the end of the passage. At the top was a small ante chamber leading into the Jesus Hall where the cardinals usually waited for the pope on business. At this time of day only one or two servants were busy, one sweeping the floor with a besom, another polishing a brass candelabra.

A figure in red stepped from out of the shadows as they approached.

A thick set man of middle height, not young but with the presence of long-held authority stood before them. With a modest crucifix glinting on a chain round his neck, he was plainly attired compared to other cardinals she had so far seen about the place. He looked vaguely familiar and she realised it was one of those who had greeted Sir John Fitzjohn on his arrival in the early hours. Athanasius greeted him with little more than a nod and they continued through the chamberlains’ quarters towards a flight of steps. The cardinal followed them up without speaking.