A Parliament of Spies by Cassandra Clark Page A

swung at his hip. Jerking his horse’s head, he beat him with the whip, raked spurs hard along its flanks then galloped off up the track. His little page scrambled astride his pony and scurried after him.
    ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Neville’s own page, staring at the empty track.
    ‘You will, varlet, if you talk like that,’ growled Neville. He turned to the others. ‘All aboard. To St Albans. It’s now or never!’

    As they were climbing back into their places the rest of the cavalcade appeared round the corner. The lead waggoner looked surprised to find the archbishop not much further on.
    ‘Another wheel, Your Grace?’ he inquired. Archbishop Neville gave a gesture that explained nothing. ‘A little local encounter. Nothing to worry about.’
    Despite his words, he was plainly seething with rage. He climbed back inside the char and sat down among his furs. The focus of his ire became apparent when he called Master Edwin to sit beside him. The clerk, with his archbishop fully redeemed, hurried to comply.
    ‘Write a letter to Buckingham,’ he instructed. ‘I want it sent back as quickly as possible. Use one of those homing pigeons of his. If he imagines I’m content to take Derby’s hired man all the way to London he’s vastly mistaken. The blundering thoughtless upstart! Swynford! He’s more trouble than he’s worth. Greed and duplicity rule him just as they rule his mother. I will not be party to his iniquity!’
    Hildegard cradled her leather bag. She was still shaking.
     
    The Abbey of St Alban. Shortly after nones. Rain again.
    It was sheeting down over the roofs and sending the monks running to the cloisters with their hoods over their heads. Hildegard glanced out of the window. Part of the convoy had already straggled out onto the road to London.
    Thomas stretched out his feet. ‘Done for.’ He indicated his sandals. They were hanging together by nothing more than threads.
    ‘You should have asked Abbot de Courcy to allow you
to wear boots,’ she remarked. ‘I don’t know of anywhere in the Rule that says you shouldn’t go properly shod.’ Then more kindly she added, ‘There’s bound to be a saddle-maker here who wouldn’t mind stitching them for you. Would you like me to find out?’
    ‘I’ll find him myself. I should have thought of it sooner. I expect that’s exactly what you’re thinking now.’
    ‘You read me so well, Thomas.’
    He smiled as he went in search.
    The Abbey of St Alban was like a fortified town, host to all the craftsmen common to such places, and there were masons, blacksmiths, armourers, carpenters, leatherworkers and similar skilled craftsmen employed here. He would easily find someone to fix his sandals before they had to leave.
    The abbey church itself, with the monks’ quarters attached, was built on a high hill overlooking a narrow dale with a river meandering along the bottom. There was a watermill down there and a winding path back up to the abbey enclave. Even under rain it was a scene of beauty and tranquillity, a place you would long to remember in your dreams.
    Yet its beauty was superficial. Underneath was a pulsing heart of black corruption, death, maimings, rape and betrayals still vibrantly within recent memory.
    Only five years ago, near the time of the Great Rebellion, a gang of townsfolk had clashed with the abbot.
    They were angered for good reason. He had ordered his men to smash their grinding stones in order to force them to use the abbey flour mill at whatever price the miller
chose to extort. It was not an impulsive revolt. They had tried putting their case in the abbey court but it had been thrown out.
    Eventually they marched out of the town and climbed the hill wielding billhooks and staves, the only arms they possessed. Their demand was modest – restoration of their ancient right to grind their own corn.
    The abbot and his miller had other ideas and it was stalemate until the abbot ordered his men to go round every