He was sitting on his bed when he invited her to enter. She was shocked to see that his face was flushed, burning with some kind of fever. A concoction of herbs was held in a cup between his palms and now and then, he took a sip and grimaced.

‘Any news to take my mind off this infernal fever?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.

‘I do have news, magister, but not about the cardinal’s acolyte.’

He peered up inquisitively through the steam rising from the cup. ‘Tell me, then.’

‘I’ve just had an unexpected encounter with two young Englishmen recently arrived in Avignon. The astonishing thing is, they imagine they’re in Prague.’ She went on to tell him the rest of it without mentioning the word kidnapping.

‘And you feel concern for these two dolts, do you?’

‘I’m not sure they are dolts.’

He gave her an ambiguous smile. ‘How forgiving of you, domina. In that case, why don’t you go and offer consolation to them? I’m sure they’re in need of it and their guards will look on you as fitted to the task of reconciling them to their confinement.’

‘As easy as that? But what about the guards?’

He smiled. ‘They all know you come from me.’

**

Before she could put this plan to the test she had to break her night fast. The first meal of the day was served after tierce and continued in several sitting until shortly before noon in order to satisfy so many people. The enormous banqueting hall where it was eaten was known as the Tinel and was an echoing chamber with a coffered ceiling and imposing Sienese frescoes on the walls.

Designed to seat over five hundred diners at a time it was a daunting endeavour to find an empty seat among the crowd. As Hildegard threaded her way towards the long table where the women dined she was conscious of the babble of voices of the many guests from outside the monastic orders here on business.

Merchants with their wives and daughters to question the legality of their papal taxes, knights in attendance on behalf of their lords. Pilgrims. Artisans. Musicians and entertainers. Hangers-on of every kind. They filled the benches and added to the hubbub. Eventually she found a quiet corner at the end of the table and, when her portion was set before her, chewed thoughtfully while she looked around.

The friars occupied one of the long trestles and a group of Benedictines another. Different colours denoting the different orders made it easy to pick out the separate groups. Her glance searched for a particular distinctive colour and soon alighted upon it.

Bleached robes drew the eye even without the fanciful urge to find one particular face among them. He could not be here, of course, it was wishful thinking. He was too much on her mind, as always. Earlier this morning she had even imagined a glimpse of Abbot Hubert de Courcy among the crowd milling about in the Great Courtyard. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairway, of course, he had disappeared into the crowd. It could not have been him. She knew that. He was leagues away in London. When she left Meaux he had been engaged on some business at the Cistercian headquarters at St Mary Graces near the Tower of London.

Now, when she glanced across at the two Cistercians who might be the English ones Athanasius had mentioned, she was unsurprised when they turned out to be strangers.

She looked round the rest of the hall again. Men everywhere. What she noticed apart from the tonsures and the scarlet hats was a confusion of beards of different lengths among the clean-shaven faces. There were young and old, smooth faces with the bloom of youth, others with skin wrinkled with the passing years, some faces among the crowd outstandingly handsome, some tightly pious, or red-faced gluttons, shovelling food into their mouths as fast as they could.

A group of angelic looking choristers sat giggling together over some private naughtiness.

A few cardinals, drawing glances by the glamour of expensive robes, were dining here before going onto more spiritual matters. Elegantly attired esquires darted in and out of the crowd on errands for their lords, and pages too, everywhere.

As she had already noticed there was a great display of wealth on show, exotic, often foreign, a group from Byzantium, for instance, in shimmering gold court dress, but Westerners no less adorned with flashing rings and sumptuous robes. Others more austerely kept their vow of poverty, wearing rags with nonchalance or pride, or looking genuinely unaware of their tatters and lice. Her glance slid back towards the group in white.

The two she assumed were English were deep in conversation and had not looked up for some time. Others in the same Cistercian habits talked and ate, finished, rose from the bench and left, or sat for a few moments, at ease before the duties of the day. Three of them had entered the Great Audience chamber just before Clement gave out his astonishing news. The third man might be fasting, praying, or otherwise involved in duties to his Order. Vaguely she wondered where they were from. It wouldn’t be done to approach them first.

Rising to her feet she happened to glance across the hall then sat down as her knees gave way. She couldn’t believe her eyes. There, at the farthest corner near the entrance doors, was the third man.

In his white robes with his cowl thrown back he was unmistakable. She blinked. It could not be. She stared. It was.

It was Hubert de Courcy. Weeks ago he had ridden out from the Abbey of Meaux to take the road to London on official business. She looked again.

He had his back to her now and she waited for him to turn again to speak to the person beside him. That profile was unmistakable. It was Hubert. No doubt about it. Hubert de Courcy. As large as life.

Her mind in turmoil, she gripped the edge of the table. She had wanted him to be here, or at least to be near, but now he was all the old suspicions about his allegiance came flooding back. Had the Prioress known he intended to travel down to Avignon? Not a murmur had reached her own ears about it. The decision must have been made when he reached St Mary Graces, the Cistercian headquarters in London.

She watched him now, half expecting him to turn into somebody quite different and her mistake would be laughable. But he turned his head again and she saw him clearly. There was no doubt of it. He was here.

Sitting opposite, at a table apparently reserved for lay visitors, was a wealthy merchant’s wife by the look of her. Oblivious to the noise around them, she and Hubert were conducting an animated private conversation.

In confusion all Hildegard wanted was to get out without being seen. Her only hope was that Hubert would leave first. What was she to say to him that wouldn’t sound like an accusation? What are you doing here? What are you doing here? She could not meet him just yet. What would she say? It suddenly dawned on her why the prioress had sent her to Avignon. It was to keep an eye on him. To find out what he was up to, attending Pope Clement, indeed. Is that where his allegiance truly lay? Was this what the prioress had secretly intended? Because his loyalty was still in doubt?

Her glance dragged back and forth. She must leave. She had to. He was still talking to the merchant’s wife, if that was what she was, with no apparent sign of wanting to leave.

Hildegard tried to convince herself that it could not be him. It must be his double.

She forced herself to her feet and began to push her way through the crowd until she was close enough to see him clearly between the servers with their loaded trays, close enough to hear the familiar voice.

He was speaking French. The sound of his voice, like velvet, like silk, was still capable of sending a thrill through her. Used to seeing him around the abbey at Meaux, conversing in English to the inhabitants, she had learned to forget his origins, about his father, a French ambassador at the court of Edward III, the love affair with an English lady-in-waiting, and how Hubert was their eldest son, half French therefore, her prioress had warned. Never forget that.