Before taking out the letter from her scrip she looked down onto the house tops far below, onto the winding alleys, the canal, the squares, the belfries rising above the clusters of red roofs and the market place with its windswept stalls.
Along the lane that ran round the outside of the palace walls she could see the small figures of Fitzjohn and his men trotting their horses in a tight, colourful bunch. She saw them come to a stop at the west gate where evidently they were waiting to be allowed out through the city walls.
Open land stretched flat and water-logged to the west where the arable fields began with a track leading back towards the river.
Then she took out the battered and travel-stained message, slit open the seal, and began to read.
**
It was in cipher. Not that anyone else would have known.
A letter from her superior, the lady Prioress of Swyne, it appeared to be a query about some woollen leggings and whether she had managed to purchase any locally to bring back for her sister nuns, and there was news about the priory bees and the poor outlook for honey later that year because the cold weather was withering the blossom on the branch. They had never had such rains, it said.
The general tone may have suggested a code to the suspicious, enough to make the censor believe he understood the secret message that was being sent, a commonplace grouse about the political situation at home, about which mere nuns could do nothing but grumble.
Underneath that was another message, using the cipher that had been agreed while still in England. She took out her missal. The message took a few minutes to work out as she had to commit it to memory as she worked, leaving nothing written down. Soon she had it. News, now somewhat out of date, about the doings of the King’s Council and the secret plans of their victims to counter the accusations.
Then something made her look twice and flatten out the vellum and the scrawl of water-stained ink marks on it.
Do not trust him under any circumstances. I know him well. He is… The following word was almost obliterated but it looked like deadly.
She stared. Whom should she not trust?
The wind snatched at the paper she was holding, forcing her to bring it close under her hood to reread it. She could nowhere find a name. It made no sense. Mangled by the courier over the long miles from England, it looked as if a page or two was missing. It cannot be, she exclaimed aloud.
Had the censer got to it first? To make any sense of it he would have to know the cipher and she was sure it could not be broken by anyone who did not have the key.
‘A curse on him!’ she shouted in sudden rage. Her voice flew away on the wind. ‘Curse you! Curse the courier! Curse the censor! Curse all the saints! Who does she mean?’
It was pointless to give way to anger. After her outburst she became calm, glanced towards the door, checked her knife, reassured herself that everything was as it should be then placed the letter in her scrip and closed her eyes to focus on what she must do next.
**
The warning would refer to someone she had mentioned in her letter to the Prioress. Of course she had mentioned Hubert in passing, her surprise at finding him here, in Clement’s pocket as it were. She had mentioned Athanasius. And had she mentioned Grizac? She was sure she had. Anyone else? Pope Clement of course. Each had their own cipher which she had communicated to the prioress.
I know him well.
The Prioress knew Hubert well but had no need to inform Hildegard of the fact. She must know Athanasius. He had admitted it himself. Did she know Grizac? He had been in York for some time and they could easily have met. And Clement? It was unlikely that she knew him personally, and anyway, it was general knowledge that he was treacherous, nobody needed to be told.
Hildegard did not trust any of them anyway.
Common sense told her that the prioress was probably trying to warn her against loose talk, an incautious word that might betray her allegiance and cause her to be summoned in front of the council of heretics. She could guard against that easily enough.
Do not trust him.
She didn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t trust any of them.
The prioress must mean Grizac.
**
Before she returned to the lower floor she went over to the crenellated parapet and gazed down again with her thoughts still teasing out the different strands of the problem that presented itself.
The river was as swollen as ever, still swamping the mead on both banks and hurling debris along from further upstream to gather under the arches nearest the bank where the current was slowest and sluicing as fast as ever under the chapel with its guiding light.
Her gaze sharpened.
John Fitzjohn’s small troop of cavalry had not gone out into the countryside to hunt as expected but were now down on the river bank outside the ferryman’s cottage. They were almost too far away to be seen but she narrowed her eyes to try to make out what was going on.
Evidently someone had kicked in the door because it hung aslant as if on one hinge. Of the ferryman himself there was no sign. After what happened earlier he must be cowering inside with his knife at the ready.
Heart suddenly in her mouth she leaned against the parapet out of the wind to watch.
Fitzjohn was waving an arm as if giving instructions. The men scattered and one or two splashed through the water to take something into the cottage. They came out again. Others seemed to be searching along the waterline for something. One of them dragged a few broken branches to the door but Fitzjohn waved him back. His horse was kicking up water and champing at the bit.
He dismounted and threw the reins to Edmund who was still astride his distinctive grey. She saw him lead Fitzjohn’s horse off a little way and look back at the others. They were all urging their horses back now. The ones who had come out of the cottage followed Fitzjohn inside. Then they all came out again.
Fitzjohn went to his horse and mounted. His men did the same. They all moved off to the top of the bank and turned to look back.
Suddenly she saw what had their attention. A wisp of smoke appeared from the doorway of the cottage. Nothing much happened until suddenly it was billowing out in thick black coils. Flames followed. She gasped. The cottage was on fire.
She imagined the ferryman trapped inside, bound maybe, unable to get out. She stared in horror. There was nothing she could do.
She noticed something else. His boat had gone. A glance up and down river from the vantage point of the tower showed no sign of it.
Now Edmund and the rest of Fitzjohn’s retinue, with the rat’s tail swinging on its pole, were riding back towards the palace. She saw Edmund look back once towards the cottage then urge his horse after the others.
**
By the time she had descended the many steps to ground level and hurried outside through the usual press into the Great Courtyard Fitzjohn’s men were already jostling to be let back in through the gatehouse. Fitzjohn himself was first through and dismounted in the middle of the yard. He threw his reins to one of his pages with a lordly gesture. Edmund slid down from his own horse and began to follow the others towards the stable yard. She caught up with him when they were out of sight round the corner.
‘What was that about?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was up there.’ She gestured towards the top of one of the towers.
‘I can’t believe he did that.’
‘He set fire to the ferryman’s cottage?’
Edmund nodded wearily.
‘Was the ferryman inside?’
He shook his head. ‘He got away in his boat.’ While he led his horse into one of the stalls and attended to its needs he explained. ‘That news about Justice Tresillian must have increased Fitzjohn’s courage. Now he believes he can get away with anything.’