‘Wait!’ He put out a hand but let it fall. Turning to the monks he growled, ‘I shall see you at compline, brothers. We’ll discuss this matter further.’

When they left he said hurriedly, ‘Can you go back?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you have instructions to remain here?’

She knew what he meant. He was trying to find out whether she was in Avignon at the prioress’s behest and if so what was her business.

With his allegiance to Clement and not to the rightful Pope Urban, she merely shrugged. ‘There’s the mystery of the murder of two retainers to keep me here at present and - ’ she hesitated.

‘And?’ he prompted.

‘Hubert,’ she spoke slowly, ‘were you ever over at Villeneuve?’

His smile was suddenly knowing. ‘I see. There was a whisper you were asking questions. You must have already heard I went over there this morning after lauds.’

‘I heard something to that effect.’

‘And you want to know what I know?’

‘That would be a tall order.’

‘If you want to know whether I saw somebody murder the esquire of the duc de Berry the answer, to my sorrow, is no. I crossed over with Cardinal Fondi, his concubine and child after attending lauds here in la Grande Chapelle. Many people saw me. When we crossed it was terrible weather, wild, windy and with a pelting rain quite as bad as anything we suffer in Yorkshire. We saw the light in the St Nicolas chapel half way along the bridge and considered taking shelter there but the thought of a warm bed persuaded us to continue. Apart from the weather there was nothing else of note.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘I told you, I went across in the company of Fondi. I believe other cardinals who had been attending night office at the palace were also crossing but, truly, it was difficult to see who they were as everyone had their hoods up and one or two were even carried back by litter.’

‘Thank you.’

His voice was steady and, it seemed, full of concern. ‘It was a terrible thing to happen. And to know we were so close we might have prevented it.’

‘Taillefer was such a bright, handsome boy, full of promise for the future.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘You need to find his murderer. But I wonder if you suspect something more behind it? A link to the other boy, the English one?’

‘You always read me,’ she gave a half smile. Not always, heaven forfend.

His eyes were dark with compassion. ‘Have you considered the possibility that there is no mystery, that it’s nothing more than coincidence? It’s very rough down there under the bridge at night. Maybe the French boy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘And Maurice?’

His eyes held that smoky look that made her weaken for him and now, despite everything, she felt some of his immense compassion directed towards herself struggling to survive among the countless cruelties of the world. It succeeded in weakening her further. Then common sense told her that he might have a reason of his own to suggest she return to England.

Before she could speak he leaned closer. ‘You think there’s more to it.’

‘Isn’t there always more under the surface than we see at first glance?’

His smile sparkled for a moment. ‘That can be so indeed.’ He took her arm. Changed the subject. ‘Where were you going when we met just now?’

‘To the inn near the bridge.’ She could have bitten her tongue off at the indiscretion.

‘There?’

She saw his glance sharpen.

‘You intend to question someone? Who?’

‘I just thought I’d ask if anybody had heard anything. You know what those places are like for getting hold of information.’

‘I do indeed. And I’m coming with you. It’s not safe for you to go alone.’

‘I must go alone. They’ll not speak openly if two monastics turn up to badger them.’

**

Le Coq d’or was a typical quayside inn, keeping its licence to open by staying just inside the law. Hildegard had seen enough in York to know what they were like, what types were attracted to them and the sort of fare on offer.

It was already dark and still raining hard when she hurried from the shelter of the gatehouse and crossed over to it. With hood pulled well up and white habit tucked out of sight, she entered with as little fuss as possible. No-one took any notice of her.

She found space at the end of the long communal trestle and when the grizzled landlord came round she asked for a stoup of ale and a portion of bread and cheese. He soon slapped them down in front of her and she put a few coins on the table in exchange.

Sitting next to her was a man and what might or might not have been his wife and they soon got into conversation. Hildegard allowed it to be thought, when they asked, that she was on pilgrimage from a little town near Paris. A conversation of sorts followed. It wasn’t long before the murder was mentioned and soon they attracted a few comments from others who thought they were in the know.

‘I was here in the early hours,’ an old man sitting opposite told them. ‘I saw the doomed young fellow with my own eyes. Live as a cricket, he was, as spark as you or me. Fancily dressed,’ he added.

‘If he was fancy what was he doing in here? Why not at one of the inns in town where they like that sort of thing?’ asked the woman in a sharp, critical tone. Her question saved Hildegard from asking the same.

The old man gazed lugubriously into his stoup of ale for a moment before answering. ‘Wenching, wasn’t he?’

‘I knew him,’ another one butted in. ‘Used to come in here when he could get out of the palace, nights. A mate of his used to leave a back postern unlocked for him. Putting one over on the pope’s guards, he used to say.’

‘I knew him well,’ the old man reminisced as if it had all taken place long ago.

‘Was he with a girl that night?’ asked Hildegard.

‘Of course he was. Yolande. His favourite.’ The old man gazed deep into his ale as if reading something in it.

The conversation turned to other things while Hildegard waited until eventually, after her patience was tested, she heard the same name above the buzz of conversation. It was the inn keeper, shouting over his shoulder to someone in a back room. A girl appeared, flushed, scantily dressed, her eyes red rimmed as if she’d been crying. She patted her hair as she came through and looked the customers over.

‘Get yourself in here and do some work, will you, Yolande? What do you think I pay you for?’

The girl grimaced and went to a group of men taking up the end of the main table. ‘Come on fellas, let me earn an honest living tonight. What’s wrong with you all?’

There was some muttering, an agreement was reached and one of them put his arm round her waist and led her out.

Not much chance of talking to her for a while, thought Hildegard. She turned to the old man. ‘Let me fill your stoup, master.’

He pushed it towards her. ‘An angel from heaven, bien merci, ma dame.’

The landlord came over again. When Hildegard put more coins on the table he hovered, aware he had a reliable customer.

She looked up at him. ‘I heard about the trouble you had last night, sir. The poor young man was in here, then?’

The inn keeper leaned his untidy bulk against the edge of the trestle and wiped both hands on his apron. ‘It’s a sad business, ma dame. You wouldn’t believe it. Young gentilhomme comes in here after a dagger. Said it was stolen from his lord from inside the palace and there’d be trouble if it wasn’t found.’

‘Did he find it?’ she asked, pretending ignorance.

‘Found more than what he was looking for, that’s for sure.’ The inn keeper guffawed in a heartless manner.

Cautiously she asked, ‘So was somebody trying to sell such a thing?’

‘Fella comes in here, never seen him before, said he was just passing through and had something of value he wanted to find a buyer for. You know how it is, we spread the word. That must have been how the young’un heard about it, to his rue.’