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* = actual historical figures

Royalty and courtiers

*Henry III, King of England

*Prince Edward, Earl of Chester, his son

*Richard, Earl of Cornwall, brother of Henry III

*Guy de Lusignan, half-brother to Henry III

*Humphrey de Bohun

*Roger de Mortimer

*Louis IX, King of France

De Montfort family and household

*Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester

*Guy de Montfort, his fourth son

*Henry de Montfort. his eldest son

*Simon de Montfort the younger, his second son

*Trubodi, a messenger

In Lewes

De Warenne family and household

*John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey

*Alice de Warenne, his wife

Jervis FitzHugh, squire to John de Warenne

Philip, a squire

Robert, a squire

De Tourney family and household

*Roger de Tourney

Madeleine de Tourney, his wife

Joan, her servant

*Belaset, a widow

*Judith, her daughter

*William Foville, Prior of St. Pancras

Brother Daniel, a monk of the Priory

Colin, a dumb lad who helps Brother Daniel in the kitchen

Green Gerda, a wise woman

In London

*Benjamin Yechiel

*Dorcas Yechiel, his wife

*Aaron Yechiel, his son

*Gregory Rokesly, Aaron’s friend and tenant of a house belonging to Lewes Priory

Walter, Gregory’s ostler in his Westminster house

Hubert, Gregory’s personal servant

*Hugh Dispenser, holder of the Tower of London for de Montfort

*Gilbert de Clare

*William de Monchesny, one of occupying force in the Tower of London

*John Fitzjohn, the same

At the Battle of Lewes

*Walter de Cantelupe, Bishop of Worcester

*Richard of Sandwich, Bishop of London

*Henry de Hastings, co-leader of the Londoners at the Battle of Lewes

*Nicholas de Segrave, co-leader of the Londoners at the Battle of Lewes

*Bukerel, a Folkmoot leader

*Puleston, a Folkmoot leader

*Michael Tovy, a Folkmoot leader

In France

Isaac Hanuchin of Abbeville, a goldsmith

Brunetta Hanuchin, his wife

Dulcetta, maidservant

Master Bonami, ship’s captain

Pierre, a fisherman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kestrel flew straight up into the air, while the man who had flung it into flight stood watching, his arm shading his eyes from the sun. The South Downs seemed empty of all animal life except these two, the man standing tense with concentration and the bird, now hovering above him, with its wings outstretched. Suddenly, it dived and snatched a small, unwary creature from a tuft of grass, before flying up again. The man below gave a piercing whistle and the bird responded by circling lazily down, to land on the hand which was held out to it. Jervis quickly caught the trailing jesses, and fastened the decorated hood over the kestrel's eyes. It sat, silent but fierce even when captured and held by a human. Whatever it had caught, it had eaten immediately.

Jervis stood admiring the view–the small town in the cleft of the Downs, with its castle perched on a manmade mound, and the great priory on the outskirts. The river meandered round the town, while a tributary served the priory. Both were only half full of water now, but in a few months it would be different, when they were both swollen by spring rain. He turned his back and squinted the other way. Sometimes, if the light was good enough, it was just possible to see the faint blue line of the English Channel, seven miles away. He thought he could see it today, but perhaps it was just because he wanted to think so. The kestrel shifted uneasily on his hand as he turned, and he soothed it, clicking his tongue and stroking its front with a finger, until it settled down again. He sighed and turned to where the boy squatted on his heels, waiting patiently, while the horse and pony that he guarded cropped the short, sweet grass beside him.

"Come along, lad!" he said. The boy stood and took the bird from him, while he mounted, then held out his hand again. Jervis called to the kestrel, with the peculiar clicking sound once more, and it cocked its head in recognition, as it scrambled on to the gloved hand which he nudged gently against the cruel talons. He turned his horse towards the town and urged it forward, the boy following close behind on his pony. They rode down a track which had been a descent from the Downs for thousands of years. The steep banks on either side were covered in long, rank grass, unlike the short turf on which they had been standing. Small gorse bushes clung precariously, and brambles sprawled between them. A deep silence surrounded them, with only the sound of the horses' clopping hooves and the jingle of their bits to break it.

They emerged abruptly onto the lower slopes of the Downs, where a wider path stretched ahead of them to one of the town gateways. Breaking into a canter, Jervis and the boy covered the ground quickly, until they were almost there. They slowed, so that the gate-keeper could see and recognise them. It was not wise, in this year of 1264, to appear without warning at any entrance to any town–particularly one as well-fortified as Lewes. The castle might conceal any number of skilled longbowmen within its square keep, and an arrow would be meant to kill, rather than maim.

The massive gates remained open and the gate-keeper merely lifted his arm in greeting, as Jervis and the boy rode slowly past. The hard mud under the horses' hooves was more rutted and uneven inside the gate, scored by the marks of carts bringing produce to the weekly market held in the town. Here, too, there were patches where the thin soil had been completely worn away, and the chalk showed white in such places, with here and there a flint to strike sparks from the horseshoes clattering across them. After rain, the muddy streets and the bare, flinty patches combined to make travelling a nerve-wracking business, but today the ground was firm under the horse's hooves.

The two turned sharply to the left a short way along the main street and under another gateway, into the castle grounds. The horses plodded up the steep slope of the castle mount and into the forecourt. Jervis dismounted, the bird still on his wrist and gave the reins to the boy. As he did so, a woman's voice called his name and he turned.

"Madeleine!" he said, not disguising the pleasure he felt at the sight of her small, neat figure hurrying towards him across the courtyard. He bent to kiss her cheek in greeting, a courtesy which she returned with equal pleasure, laughing as she did so. The kestrel flapped its wings menacingly and Madeleine de Tourney stepped back swiftly.

"You had best settle that winged weapon, Jervis, before we talk. I'll be waiting for you in my rooms–Joan will admit you when you knock," she said.

"In as few minutes as possible," he promised.

Madeleine turned and crossed the courtyard again, to re-enter the castle. She was conscious of Jervis's admiring eyes following her and smiled to herself, then sighed impatiently. He was a boy, still, not yet twenty, and she a married woman of twenty-five! Foolish to even think of anything more than friendship between them. And there was her husband, however little she may see of him, involved as he was with the present situation! Even that obsession would not blind Roger de Tourney to any straying by his wife. At least here, in Lewes castle, they were together under the same roof, with the de Warenne family and Jervis.

Did Alice de Warenne feel as she herself did, she wondered? Dare she ask if Alice thought that King Henry was right or wrong in his refusal to propitiate Simon de Montfort and his followers? She had puzzled over the problem herself for hours. The King was King by divine right, and all his subjects owed him their allegiance–so she had been taught. But what if he did not rule wisely, or took no notice of agreements made by his predecessors? What if de Montfort, with his insistence on the right of the barons to have some say in the ruling of the country was right? De Montfort claimed that the great charter signed by King John gave him and his fellow barons that right: Henry claimed that it was his right alone, as the lawfully crowned King of England. Madeleine had a suspicion that de Montfort would not make claims which he could not substantiate and the King's famous temper had alienated the two men, despite their being brothers-in-law. It was a subject which fascinated Madeleine, but finding anyone with whom to discuss it was difficult. Her husband, when she had broached it, had roared with laughter, and told her to concentrate on her own interests, and not to try to understand men’s talk. She felt her temper rise even now, at the thought of it.

It would take courage to ask such questions, unless you were more or less sure of the response. However well you knew someone, could you really trust them not to betray you, if you mistook their allegiance? The most idle speculation about the correctness of Henry's decisions could lead to accusations of treason–and death.

She shivered nervously, and glanced behind her, but no-one had followed her across the great hall and up the stone steps spiralling their way up inside the tower to the next floor. She reached her chambers with relief and smiled as she saw the matronly figure of Joan leaning across the bed, smoothing the heavy fur which lay across it.

"Joan," she said, laughing. "You are almost as wide as the bed is long!"

Her servant stood upright, with some difficulty, and turned. She was a woman of forty or more, her light brown hair now showing some white, stout but comely, and pink in the face from bending. She had been Madeleine's nurse and, as the years had passed, had become her servant and confidante. Now, she placed her hands on her hips and looked indignantly at her young mistress.

"I should not need to take so ungainly a position if the servants here took their duties seriously!" she said. "Who would think that I would have to spend time tidying your room and making the bed again, after they had gone on their carefree way!"

Madeleine tried to look sympathetic and serious, but failed. Smiling, she caught Joan's sleeve.

"I have just met Jervis FitzHugh in the courtyard–with his kestrel, of course!" she said.

Joan looked at her shrewdly.

"You are very interested in that young man, Madeleine," she said.

Madeleine felt her face grow hot, but shrugged in what she hoped was a off-handed manner.

"No I'm not!" she said. "But why shouldn't I feel flattered–when such a handsome young man is so admiring?"

"And make sure that it remains only flattering," said Joan, wagging a stubby finger.

"Oh, Joan!" said Madeleine. "He is a boy still–I am a woman six or more years older. He'll grow interested, and more, in a girl his own age before the summer is here."

"Humph!" said Joan, walking across the room and brushing aside the heavy curtain which concealed an archway into another chamber. It was comfortably furnished, with a couch under the window, covered in cushions, and had chairs with arms for lounging in. The whitewashed walls reflected whatever light managed to struggle through the thick, opaque glass at this time of the year. A fire, burning brightly in the hearth, made the room seem pleasantly warm, after the chill outside, and brought a faint smell of thyme and from the thickly-strewn floor.

Madeleine followed and stood warming herself at the fire. There was a sharp rap on the door opposite the fireplace, and Jervis came in. He had changed from his hunting outfit and wore a heavily-embroidered surcote over his white undershirt and braies, with vivid blue tights. Madeleine stared at this vision for some moments, while Jervis struck a pose, then made an elaborate bow.

"Well?" he said, as Madeleine still said nothing. "Do you like me, Madam, or not?"

"You blind me with your glory, sir!" she answered lightly, pretending not to notice the earnestness with which he spoke. "Every female in the castle will yearn for you–won't they, Joan?" she said, turning with a smile to where Joan stood watching the two of them.

"Those who think the looks explain the person," said Joan, with a wholly unconvincing sniff. Young Jervis FitzHugh was difficult to dislike. She sat down on the couch and picked up the mending which she had left there. She did not trust this young man, or her mistress, if they were left alone together, however much Madeleine might try to dismiss the idea. Her blush had been noticeable and Joan preferred a peaceful life, not one beset by emotional storms, and discord between the de Tourneys.

Madeleine’s high spirits and her husband’s short temper had already led the two of them into arguments. Joan had been shocked to hear Madeleine answering back and refusing some request of Sir Roger’s, instead of meekly submitting to his every demand, as a wife should. Hadn't she raised Madeleine herself, and advised her in all the wifely duties that would be expected of her, once married? Joan’s face still grew warm, when she remembered the awkwardness of such explanations, and the disbelieving laughter from Madeleine. Now she knew that she had been told the truth–and there were times when she flatly refused her husband. Worse, there were times when she disagreed with his opinion and, instead of saying nothing, argued with him.

The room had gone quiet, she realised, and looked up to see Madeleine staring at Jervis with a strange, contemplative look in her eye.

Jervis grinned at Madeleine, looking like a mischievous little boy again.

"Well, Madam," he said. "Are we to stand for the rest of this visit, or may we sit and be comfortable together?"

"Of course you may sit, Jervis," said Madeleine, laughing, and coming out of her reverie.

"Only after you have done so," said the young man, making another outrageously mannered bow.

Madeleine sat at once, in one of the chairs which was placed on one side of the hearth and Jervis took the other, opposite her. He stretched out his long legs, with a sigh of relief, and gave a rueful smile.

"Riding on these Downs is hard work," he observed. "My legs will ache for hours, as will my..."

Joan tutted audibly.

"Master Jervis, you are in a lady's chamber," she said reprovingly.

"...as will my hands," finished Jervis, in a tone of mock surprise. "Since it was very cold out there."

Using all her self-control, Madeleine managed to keep her face composed. Really, Jervis was getting too bold! Perhaps Joan was right–she should not encourage him to visit her. Except that she so enjoyed his company, his jokes and his teasing!

Jervis was idly examining his foot, in its long-toed shoe.

"What think you of Earl Simon and his friends?" he asked, casually.

Madeleine looked startled.

"What should I think?" she said. Why should my opinion be of interest to you? Besides, I'm married to John de Warenne's close companion–and John's loyalty to the King is unquestioned."

"I am not talking about John de Warenne, or Roger de Tourney," said Jervis. He leant towards her and lowered his voice.

"Not everybody in this castle has the same loyalties, Madeleine," he said.

He glanced across as Joan, who sat apparently absorbed in her stitching. His voice sank to a whisper.

"Some people are wondering who is right–Simon or Henry," he continued. "And some have already made up their minds. What about you? You are an intelligent woman, Madeleine. You must have considered the situation, perhaps even discussed it with your husband. Whom do you favour?"

"No-one wants a woman's opinion, sirrah!" she said, lightly. "Joan, bring us some mead, please. You will need to fetch it for us. It will take an age if you try to find one of the castle servants."

"But, Madeleine!" Joan began to protest. Leave her precious lady alone with this young peacock? Never, if she had a choice.

"Please do as I say," said Madeleine, firmly. "I am safe in here for a few minutes–aren't I Jervis?"

"Certainly, Madam," said Jervis, dropping back into his usual bantering manner. "And I have a thirst on me that only mead will quench!"

Grumbling under her breath, Joan turned on her heel and left the room, followed by the sound of Jervis’ chuckle and Madeleine’s giggle. They both knew that it was a long trip to the kitchens for the mead, she thought. Well, she continued to herself, shrugging her shoulders, she had done her best–if Madeleine wished to start the gossips’ tongues wagging, there was nothing more she could do. Now, where were the kitchens in this old English castle?

A boy came towards her along the passage and she beckoned to him.

"Which way to the kitchens?" said Joan, coldly.

The boy grinned cheekily.

"Down and down the stairs, until you can smell ’em, " he said, and dodged away from Joan’s outstretched arm. He was too slow; she caught him by the ear and said grimly, "Show me, lad, and no tricks!"

She started off at a good pace, still holding the boy by his ear and pushing him ahead of her, ignoring his yelps of pain. He stumbled along in front of her, leading her, as he had said, down a slope. The smells that began to reach her nostrils made them twitch. Roasting meat mixed with the smells of something suspiciously like rotting cabbage and rancid fat. This part of the castle is little better than a midden, she thought to herself, grimly.

The boy's yelping had subsided and he trotted along obediently. She relaxed her grip on his ear, realising that there was little chance of him escaping, so long as she held some part of his clothing, so she grabbed a handful of cloth at his shoulder, which was more comfortable for both of them.

The rank smell grew stronger then, as they passed a passage branching suddenly to the left, faded again.

"Where does that lead?" said Joan, still wrinkling her nose at the smells that assaulted it.

"To the dungeons–I told you it smelt bad down here!" said the lad, glancing back at her and seeing her expression.

"Is there someone down there?" said Joan, horrified.

"No-one living," said the boy. "But they say that there are dead bodies down there still. My Lord de Warenne's father was a great one for throwing people in the dungeons if they displeased him, my master says."

He shivered suddenly.

"I hope I never see them," he said.

Joan's heart was touched.

"You never will, if you obey your master, and do your work, I'm sure," she said.

The boy looked at her, amazed.

"I wouldn't, in any case, mistress," he said. "Lord John does not use the dungeons any more. I don't know why they still smell so bad."

"Perhaps he's given permission for others to use them, now that he has so many people staying here as his guests," said Joan. "Not everybody treats their servants so well."

"Do you think so?" said the boy, stopping completely, and gazing at her in horror. "Might my master be given permission?"

"No, no!" said Joan, giving him a push. "Little boys aren't put into dungeons. Now get me into the kitchens, where we are supposed to be, and stop frightening both of us with your talk of dungeons and dead bodies!"

 

"Jervis," said Madeleine. "You really do want to know my opinion, don't you?"

Jervis looked at her, his previously easy manner replaced by wariness.

"And would you really tell me, Madeleine?" he said. "Now, when no-one else can hear us?"

She paused, staring at the rushes on the floor, as though seeking guidance from them. Jervis waited, saying nothing.

"I'll tell you this," she said, staring straight into his eyes. "Don't assume that a wife necessarily shares her husband's opinions."

Jervis let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.

"I hoped you would answer me as you have," he said.

He leant towards her and lowered his voice.

"If it should come to such a pass that you're no longer safe within your own household..." he began.

Madeleine placed her finger on his lips and then touched his cheek, lightly.

"You'll rescue me!" she said, smiling.

He caught her hand in his.

"It's not a joke," he said, his face very serious and his voice roughened with anxiety.

Gently, Madeleine freed her hand from his grasp.

"I know, Jervis," she said. "You're my knight already, even though Sir John still sees you as a squire–and I'll certainly come to you if I find myself in danger"

She stood and moved away from him, smoothing her skirts.

"Might it come soon?" she asked, swinging round to face him.

Jervis shrugged.

"I'm not sure–if your husband does not feel threatened then you will be safe. But if he thinks..."

Again, Madeleine stopped him, shaking her head.

"Don't say any more, Jervis," she said. "The less I know about the situation, the less likely I'll be to betray myself, or you, by an unguarded look or word in my husband's presence."

Jervis nodded.

"You're right," he said. "And just as clever as I always suspected you to be. You have spent time thinking things over, though, haven't you?"

It was Madeleine' s turn to heave a sigh.

"Ah, I have a great deal of time to think, Jervis," she said, ruefully. "But still," she went on, putting her shoulders back and glancing around the chamber. "I am luckier than many wives–my husband gives me a good deal of freedom to come and go as I wish, provided I do nothing to cause him embarrassment."

The door opened and Joan reappeared, the boy still with her, and bearing a jug of the promised mead. She looked relieved to see that Jervis was still sitting in the same place, and that Madeleine was standing some way from him. Much further than she could have moved, had they been too close together, she though, with satisfaction. Master FitzHugh seemed to have some sense of decorum, at least.

 

 

 

 

Judith woke with a start and lay, heart pounding, as the nightmare slowly left her. It was always the same: she was back in the house in Leicester and the mob were shouting outside. The door burst open and they were in, bludgeoning her father as he stepped forward to protect the family. She saw him fall, blood streaming from his head, saw one of the men pick up her baby brother and throw him down. She heard the screaming and the wail cut suddenly short, as the baby hit the floor. Her mother grabbed her and they ran, her two sisters running behind them. Outside, the tumult continued and she was running through thick smoke and trying to keep up with her mother. The two of them turned a corner and she knew her sisters had not seen them. She screamed at her mother to stop and wait, stop…And that was when she always woke up. Now only her mother and she, the eldest daughter, survived. There was no-one else–no father, no sisters, no baby brother.

Her breathing slowed gradually and her heartbeat returned to normal. Even the sadness was less piercing after ten years. Would the nightmare ever stop? She doubted it, but hoped it would come less frequently. Throwing back the bedcovers, she rose to prepare for another day.

Glancing through the window of the room in which she sat later in the morning, Judith could see down the slope and into the grounds of the great Priory of St. Pancras, built on the flat land bordering the Winter Bourne. The tiny figures of the monks and the lay people who acted as their servants went about their daily business. Watching them over the past few years, she had grown familiar with their routines, the times of their services in the priory church, the hours they spent working in the gardens, their mealtimes–even their festivals and times of fasting. It was strange, she mused, how much she knew about their religious rites, and how little they knew–or cared–about hers. Jews and Christians, living so closely together, and yet so far apart.

Sighing, she bent her head again to the parchment on the table in front of her, and read the words over. It was her ketuba, the marriage contract sent by messenger from London to her mother, who now sat opposite her, waiting for her to speak.

"A wedding is arranged between Judith, daughter of Belaset, daughter of Rav Benedict of Leicester, son of Master Moses of Lyons; and Aaron, son of Benjamin, son of Joce Yechiel of London..." she read.

"You remember Aaron–you liked him, I think?" said Belaset gently.

Judith nodded.

"He seemed pleasant enough, Mother," she said. "I have no objections to this marriage, if it pleases you, but..." she sighed again.

"What is it, my daughter? Do you prefer another? Tell me now, and we won't sign the ketuba."

Belaset's concern made her voice tremble slightly.

"There's no-one else," said Judith. "I have no wish to marry at all, yet it seems I must."

"It's hard for a woman to be alone," said her mother. "Others will think you are unable to make a good marriage for some reason–that there's something wrong with you, or some secret in your family which cannot be told."

Judith stood up and came round the table to hug her mother.

"I know all that," she said. "Perhaps to marry someone for whom you feel nothing is an advantage. There are no illusions to be broken. Don't worry, Mother, I will marry Aaron and try my best to be a good wife."

Belaset smiled with relief, and patted her daughter's hand.

"You're a good daughter, Judith," she said. "We'll arrange for the ceremony to take place in a few months–in April. Let's talk about it again later."

She picked up the contract, rolled it, and wrapped it carefully in its linen cover, tying the strings to hold it tightly bound, then, rising from the table, she went over to one of the heavy chests standing against the wall, and laid the scroll carefully inside.

She smiled at her daughter and bustled out of the room, with an air of satisfaction. Judith stood where she was, staring out of the window. Such a short space of time in which to accomplish all that she had promised to do for the King’s cause. She must get a message to the Priory and arrange a meeting with Prior William Foville as soon as possible. She took a scrap of parchment from the corner of a piece which lay on the table, and marked it with the symbols 'J?', to indicate her wish to meet that afternoon, then took it with her as she went out of the room, down the stairs and out into the yard at the back of he house. Pursing her lips, she made a twittering sound as she entered a little shed, built into the corner of two walls. Inside, a white dove cooed nervously as she approached it, but she soothed it, as she fastened the parchment to its left leg, tying it on with a piece of ribbon.

Holding the bird firmly, she walked out into the centre of the yard and threw it into the air. She watched, as it circled once, then flew out of sight, in the direction of the Priory. She should receive a reply quickly, telling her that the meeting was arranged. She went back into the house and prepared to wait patiently. Wanting to distract herself, she wandered into the kitchen, where the servant was preparing the midday meal. She hovered over the fire, sniffing the contents of the cauldron. The old woman smiled at her, as she continued stirring.

"It will be ready very soon," she said. She went to the table and tore two chunks of bread from the loaf that was there, then took two silver bowls from a cupboard and ladled a generous helping of the soup into each one. Placing the bowls on a tray, she added the bread, and two silver spoons, before lifting the it and leaving the kitchen, with Judith following eagerly behind her. They processed in this manner to another large room, where Belaset sat sewing beside a blazing fire. The servant put the tray on the table, curtsied to her mistress, and left.

Judith and Belaset sat together at the table. Belaset covered her head and spoke the grace before meals.

"Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth," she said.

"Amen," said Judith with her.

The two women began their meal in silence.

 

The dove had flown straight down the valley, into the grounds of the great Priory. Brother Daniel, watching the dumb lad, Colin, kneading dough in the infirmary kitchen, saw it fly into the garden and across to the dovecote. Glancing round to see that he was not observed, he walked quickly out of the kitchen, passing the steps leading into the cellar below. He crossed the garden, bare now in the depths of winter, and went softly to the door of the dovecote. He made the same twittering sound as Judith had done, as he opened it. The birds inside cooed comfortably back at him, used to his presence among them. He looked up and down the rows of perches. There was the new arrival–over to his right. He went to it, reached up, and encouraged it onto his hand. The bird came easily, and he untied the ribbon he could see on its leg. The scrap of parchment came off with it, and the dove was put back gently on its perch. Daniel tucked parchment and ribbon into his left sleeve, as he slipped his hands back deep into the warm folds of his rough woollen habit.

He left the building again, every sense alert for watchers, but there were none. No-one had seen him, as far as he knew: now he must get the message to Prior Foville as quickly as possible. Covering his head and face with his hood, he set off through the maze of buildings, taking the quickest route he could to the Prior's quarters. The infirmary was nearly empty, he knew, except for a few elderly monks, spending their last days in as much warmth and comfort as possible in this bitter weather. He walked through it confidently, looking neither to right nor left, just one of the monks going about his duties, then made his way through the warming-house and turned left along the cloisters. They too seemed almost deserted. He was almost there, and only had to climb the stairs to Prior William's door.

Breathing heavily, he mounted the stone stairs and knocked on the door. There was a moment's pause, then the Prior himself opened it. Brother Daniel bowed his head in obeisance, and half drew his hand out of his sleeve, to show the ribbon clutched in it. The Prior beckoned him in, and closed the door silently behind him.

"Well, Brother Daniel," said William Foville. "What brings you here in such haste?"

"A message, Father, from outside the walls," said Brother Daniel, still panting from the pace he had set himself. He took the small scrap of parchment, with the ribbon, from his sleeve, and handed it over. William glanced at it and nodded.

"The answer is yes," he said. He turned over the small scrap, and scratched "YF", for "Yes, Foville", on it with a quill, which he took from his desk and dipped hastily into ink.

"Here," he gave it back to Daniel. "Send the message back as quickly as you can. You have done well to come to me unseen–see that no-one notices you now, until the dove is safely on its way."

"I'm but one among many," said Daniel. "My hood hides my actions, as well as my face. And the boy, Colin, is the only person who saw me leave the kitchen. He can't tell anyone of my doings."

"Be careful, nonetheless, Brother Daniel," said William Foville. "Speech is not the only way of passing on secrets."

"Have no fear, Father," said Daniel. "The boy is grateful to me–he follows me about like a puppy-dog. He knows I saved his life, taking him from his house after seeing his father kill his mother in his drunken state. Colin wouldn't betray me, as it was me who brought him into the Priory after that terrible event. Besides, I take care he hears nothing that he could pass on to anyone else, by whatever means. "

The Prior grunted, and crossed the room to open the door once more. Daniel slipped out, looking cautiously around before retracing he steps. Again, the cold seemed to keep everyone from his route. He made it back into the infirmary building without seeing anybody.

In the infirmary kitchen, Colin still kneaded busily, though he lifted his head as the monk entered. Daniel crossed the room, with a smile in the boy's direction as he passed him. He hurried out to the dovecote again. Looking into the cages where the birds from other places were kept, he found Judith's own bird, greyer than the one which had brought the message, and tied the scrap of parchment and its ribbon to the bird's leg. His fingers fumbled, stiff with the cold, and he blew on them to make them more flexible. At last, the job was done to his satisfaction. He took the bird into the small garden and threw it into the air, watching it as it circled once, then flew in the direction of its home.

Back in the warmth of the kitchen, Brother Daniel waited until Colin had placed the dough on a tray, slid it into the clay oven, and closed the door.

The boy stood before him, waiting to be told what to do next.

"Take our guests their food, Colin," said Brother Daniel.

Obediently, Colin took some wooden bowls and ladled a thick soup into them, then took a number of flat loaves from the morning's baking. Loading it all on to a large wooden tray, he took his burden into the infirmary itself, where he gave a bowl and a loaf to each of the old monks, as they sat or lay on their beds.

Coming back into the kitchen, he served himself the same meal, and sat at the table to eat it, dipping chunks of the loaf into the soup, and pushing them greedily into his mouth. He grinned happily at Brother Daniel, clearly showing his appreciation of the food, and nodded with satisfaction, before lowering his head again and concentrating on it.

Brother Daniel went to join the rest of the brothers, slipping into the great church via the chapter-house, and taking his place quietly in the semi-darkness inside. What a blessing a dark, January day could be, he thought, with a grim smile. How many secret meetings and movements it could hide! Prior Foville, he noted, was there in his place by the altar, taking part in the singing of the Psalms as though there was nothing else on his mind but this act of worship. Prior Foville, thought Daniel privately, is a clever–and therefore a dangerous–man.

The dove sent from the Priory was watched for eagerly in the room where Judith waited after her meal. At last, she could bear the wait no longer, and hurried out to check the shed. It was there, and carried a message agreeing to a meeting, she saw with relief. Hurrying back into the house, she took her cloak and wrapped herself in it. Carefully and quietly, she left the house and made her way down the hill and across the stream to where the Priory loomed up in the short twilight of the winter's day.

She stood, well-muffled against the cold and discovery, in the shadow of one of the towers which were being built at the west end of the priory church. It was not yet half-built, but its size was already sufficient to provide some shelter from the wind, and the curious gaze of any passer-by–not that many were out today. Her tall figure, and the dim light of the winter afternoon, coupled with her deliberately-chosen clothing, gave her the appearance of a youth, loitering for some reason of his own outside the church.

She heard the small door in the side of the tower nearest to her creak softly as it opened. A hooded figure looked out, and a voice whispered softly, "Judith?"

"Yes–here!" she answered, equally softly, and moved forward, so that Daniel could see her.

He beckoned, and stepped back into the tower. Judith followed him as quickly as she was able, picking her way through the rubble left by the builders, who had stopped working on the construction of the tower before Christmas and not yet started again. Ahead of her, Brother Daniel opened another door and led her into the church. He genuflected hurriedly in the direction of the high altar, invisible at the other end of the building, then turned right sharply, between two of the great pillars which marched massively and silently down each side of the building. Had she not been so close behind him, she would have lost sight of him completely. Now they were within the confines of the Priory, behind the high wall which protected it from the outside world.

They walked along the west side of the cloisters, and then rounded the corner, to the short flight of stone steps which led to the Prior's lodging. One furtive look round, to make sure that there was nobody to see them, and Daniel led her quickly up the steps, where he knocked for the second time that day at the door. Again, William Foville opened it himself, as he had that morning. Judith stepped inside, and the door closed. Outside, Brother Daniel looked at the closed door, shook his head, and made his way back to the infirmary.

"Well," said Foville. "Is there news?"

"Not from the King," said Judith. "But there is news about me that you need to know."

"What can be so important about you, that you think I will be interested?" said Foville, coldly.

"My Mother's planning my marriage–we have the contract, and she wishes the wedding to be held within a few months."

Foville was suddenly serious.

"This is indeed news–how long until the wedding?"

"Until April–and it will be in London."

"London?" said Foville, thoughtfully. "That might be very useful–will you travel there before the day itself?"

"I may not myself–we have yet to decide whether I should meet my future husband again before the ceremony or not. We know each other already, although we haven't met for some years, so it might not be deemed necessary."

"I think it will be so deemed," said Foville.

He stared at her.

"You must insist on meeting this man who will be your husband–perhaps more than once. Can you show hesitation?"

"Done already," said Judith. "I've made it plain that I'm agreeing reluctantly."

"Excellent!" Foville actually rubbed his hands together. "See if you can spend several days on each visit. Take the opportunity to find out as much as possible about the mood of the Jews of London."

"I already know my own people's feelings," said Judith. "They will never support de Montfort and his barons against the King. Henry's constant demand for more tallage may be wearying, but he's the only protection that we have."

"You Jews are always complaining of hardship," returned Foville, crisply. "Yet your houses are better built than many, and none of your people starve."

He swept aside the problems of the Jews, with a wave of his hand.

"Your own family's sufferings at the King's hands do not alter your attitude to de Montfort, I trust."

Judith's face hardened.

"I shall never forgive him for what happened in Leicester. He could have prevented it, had he chosen. My mother's grief was terrible and even now she misses my father. However kind our friends may be, it can never replace the loss of most of our family, especially a beloved father and husband."

In the face of her feeling even Foville looked momentarily embarrassed before his face assumed its habitual aloof expression.

"Well, whatever your reasons for offering your services to the King and his loyal supporters, you've proved useful," he said. "If you can bring news to us of what is happening in London, that will prove even more useful. We've heard that the Tower is in the hands of de Montfort’s followers, and they are encouraging the London mob in their rioting and destruction. See what you can learn."

He turned to his desk, to pick up a parchment bearing an impressive seal. As soon as Judith saw it, her eyes widened in recognition.

"You have another task for me?" she asked.

Foville nodded.

"A messenger brought this to me yesterday. I have been considering whether or not you could carry out such a difficult mission," he said.

Judith's reaction was exactly what he had judged it would be.

"I'm equal to anything you may require of me!" she flashed back at him, her whole body stiff with insulted pride. "What is it?"

"The King's in France," said Foville. "Asking Louis, his brother-in-law, to act as arbitrator between himself and his rebellious barons. Whatever Louis decides, regarding the legality of these Provisions of Oxford, Henry won't be satisfied until he has crushed Simon de Montfort once and for all. If this means warfare–and I don't see how it can mean other–the King wants to ensure that it starts when and where he decides, rather than having it forced upon him."

"I see the wisdom of his thinking," said Judith. "But why should it involve this Priory and its Prior?"

"Because we're on the edge of a possible battle site," said Foville. "And the King will need quarters for himself and his retinue. His message asks me to prepare for such an eventuality. You will take a response from me, assuring him of my readiness to serve him in any way I can. There may also be a most secret message for you to bring back to me, giving details of the King's plans in the immediate future."

His eyes bored into hers.

"Now do you understand why I hesitate to use you? It will be dangerous–you'll have to get across the Channel, get my message to its proper recipient and no-one else, and bring another message back to me–all without mishap, or alerting possible spies. Can you do it?"

Judith met his gaze steadily.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I can do it."

"Arrangements will be made," said Foville. "There will be a boat to take you across to France and you will be told where to go. You ride like a man, I know, and you'll be provided with horses on both sides of the water. As soon as everything is ready, you will be told. The first horse and an escort will be waiting for you here in the Priory. Now you must leave–it's almost time for Vespers and no-one must see you go from here."

He opened the door and Judith slipped past him and down the stairs. Walking swiftly through the cloisters, she found the little door in the side of the church, and opened it softly. She slipped inside and crossed to one of the pillars, where she stood searching for a sign that she was not alone. A shadow seemed to move to her right, but when she looked again, she could see nothing. She walked silently down to the door leading into the tower, was through it, across the tower and outside in the now complete darkness, in a moment. She pushed the door closed behind her and leant on it, letting out a long sigh of relief.

Inside the church, the boy Colin rose from where he had crouched down behind the statue of the Virgin to avoid being seen.