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.
That is, if a suspicion of murder were discounted.
But then if it was a case of Grizac guilty in the treasury, what about Grizac guilty on the bridge? What about Grizac in her own cell, murdering an innocent nun?
A knife ripping across the tender throat of a lamb came to mind.