Woodstock clashed with this other nephew just as he clashed with Richard himself. His quarrel was over the dowry of two heiresses, one of whom he had married. Woodstock then tried to put the younger heiress in a nunnery so that he could carry off both parts of the dowry and make himself even richer, until Bolingbroke put a stop to it by marrying the girl himself. The two men were still battling through the courts over the inheritance of the two unfortunate sisters. Ambitious but careful, Henry was the type to bide his time. His intentions towards the crown were still unclear.
Family wars. Will they never end? Hildegard had no family other than her two children and her sister nuns up in Yorkshire at Meaux. Never a cross word with them. A heavy sigh now and then - that was all.
The arrivals, with Sir John Fitzjohn striding ahead in a blaze of light, flooded up the steps into the maw of the palace and, by the time Hildegard started across, the stragglers were already disappearing under the leaping shadows. Heart sore for the fate of King Richard and the future of England, she turned to look back into the suddenly emptied Courtyard.
Without his inner circle of friends and advisors, how would Richard defeat his enemies?
Before she could make up her mind whether to return indoors or seek the tranquillity of the cloisters, a covered wagon came rolling under the portcullis. It continued without stopping and eventually rounded a corner towards the sumpter yards. Several guards running alongside suggested valuable goods inside. They were clearly of Woodstock’s affinity as they wore his blazon on their surcoats. Maybe they’re bringing a gift to the pope, she surmised, and she wondered what Woodstock had chosen to donate. It was clear, his vassal, John Fitzjohn, was here to foster an alliance with the butcher of Cesena.
**
Nuns such as herself who were sent to the palace at Avignon were regarded as little more than supernumaries, willing pairs of hands, here to do the bidding of the men who flocked from all parts of the papal empire looking for preferment. It had been Hildegard’s prioress who gave her the instructions and the permission to travel outside the cloister. The prioress’s instructions, however, would have come from elsewhere.
It had started with the usual meeting in her private chapel in the priory at Swyne, both women standing in the bitter cold, and Hildegard’s heart sinking when she heard she was being sent away on another mission.
The prioress was oblivious to her feelings. Avignon. We need to know what’s going on in Clement’s mind. We know there’s something brewing against England. You’ll find out who his allies are, what his plans are, where and how he’s likely to attack us.
As always the prioress would know more than she could admit. It was for Hildegard to find out what she could and send back any information that would be useful for the defence of England.
The prioress removed a small missal from inside her sleeve and handed it over.
For the ciphers you will use in all correspondence. You know the drill.
The long and treacherous miles from England had been brushed aside.
You enjoyed travelling over the Alps to bring us the Cross of Constantine. You’ll enjoy this excursion as well. Pope Clement sees himself as the most celebrated prince of our age with the most brilliant court in all Europe.
Her expression held a suggestion of derision, contempt even.
He is said to dine lavishly. Luckily you’ll be there before Lent.
It had been no easy decision for Hildegard whether to comply or not. On the verge of renouncing her vows for good she had hesitated. Before she could make up her mind one way or the other it was taken as given that she would renew them and so continue with her work to protect the king. When she was not absent on the king’s business she would reside at the Abbey of Meaux.
To her secret joy the small house of half a dozen nuns on the other side of the Abbot’s Bridge, separate from the main abbey buildings, was once again her concern. Later, after giving the matter much thought on the long and tedious journey down into the south of France, she had reached the conclusion that her prioress understood her better than she understood herself. Of course she would decide to remain in the Order, she realised. To do what she could to protect the king was an honour and a joy. What better purpose in life could she have? Scruples concerning certain wayward feelings for Abbot Hubert de Courcy were by now, surely, a thing of the past.
With the prioress’s warning to watch your step she had set out.
**
Hildegard peered over the heads of the people flocking inside the Great Audience Chamber. It was later the same morning, still early, scarcely day at all and Sir John Fitzjohn had still not put in an appearance. He must be asleep after his arduous journey, she surmised.
To arrive so quickly on the heels of the courier of the previous night meant that he must have ridden like the devil from Westminster, been lucky in his crossing of the Narrow Seas, then ridden hard through hostile territory bristling with the armies of the Duke of Burgundy and other enemies of King Richard. It suggested extraordinary urgency in his mission.
The seemingly endless war between France and England raged in sporadic chevauchees from across the water despite the peace treaty. Woodstock must have spent a fortune on papers of safe passage to get Fitzjohn to his destination. Hildegard assumed a secret agreement between Woodstock and Burgundy. The duke held vast tracts of territory from the Narrow Seas down to the gates of Avignon, halted only at the well-defended walls of the independent state of Pope Clement VII himself.
Any deal between Woodstock, a prince of England, and Clement, the schismatic pope, would greatly interest those in England whom the Prioress represented.
Two columns of monks, cowls pulled down, swayed and chanted in the glow of candlelight as they advanced to the foot of the dais at one end of the auditorium. It was stone built and must be six feet high with the throne on top. No-one would be able to get near enough the pope to harm him. His guards stood in a motionless column flanking the dais as added protection from assassins. As yet Clement had remained out of sight. The devout would imagine he was praying for heavenly guidance through the oncoming day.
A host of onlookers were pressing in behind Hildegard but she found space in a niche near one of the five pillars in the waiting hall. At the far end in a double bay in the eastern chevet was a circular enclosure, the rota, where the pope’s auditors and men of law ruled on all matters referred to them. Nearby, the litigants sat on benches along the walls and a wooden barrier guarded by a couple of ushers separated the rota from everyone else. From where she stood she could see everything clearly and also who came and who left through the great double doors at the other end. She pulled her hood further over her face, looking like just one among the many white and black robed monastics who filled the place.
Now and then a waft of incense was released from the heavily embroidered robes of the cardinals and foreign bishops as they pushed past. Their garments mingled ostentatiously with the threadbare wool habits of the monks, friars and nuns of countless different Orders. Gold thread glinted, with cloth of silver embroidered with roses, crowns and crosses and a wealth of emblems signifying devotion to the cross woven in silk on brocade, on damascene, on silk taffeta, on velvet, sleeves falling in a luxury of white linen to the floor, fabric as fine as spider webs trailing voluptuously from under silk-velvet copes, with trains of scarlet cloth held by acolytes no less sumptuously attired.