Free A Parliament of Spies by Cassandra Clark

from the border with Yorkshire down through the midland counties as far to the south-west as Oxford. It possessed extremely profitable lands and displayed its wealth with spectacular soaring arches, perpetual chantries, and a hundred gilded carvings placed up and down the long nave. Expensive beeswax candles flickered on the altars, the continual sonorous chanting of the monks filled the airy caverns with sound, and the susurration of slippered pilgrim feet was like the brushing of a thousand wings. Today the coloured glass in the tall lancets was darkened by the gloom outside and rain clattered incessantly against the quarry panes.
    Already there was a huge crowd round the elaborate gilded shrine dominating the east end. The heady scent of incense billowed from the censers carried by a little army of acolytes as they marched up and down the nave, passing the winding queue of those waiting to crawl inside the shrine. For a moment the scent of frankincense reminded her of the Abbey of Meaux, of Hubert de Courcy, the abbot. His handsome, haunted features swam before her.
    He would be riding down to Westminster soon, as would all the other prelates summoned to attend Parliament. It was to be no ordinary gathering. It was
intended to put the country on a war footing in order to repel the invasion when it came, and the abbot would be expected to speak in the lords’ chamber. Those for and against the King would have their votes counted. Where his loyalty lay would become apparent.
    Carrying her bag she slipped into a small chantry away from the crowds, driven by the urge to pray for Hubert, his judgement, his safe journey and for the defeat of the King’s enemies.
    The place was empty when she entered. There was barely room to kneel, as a large fretted screen separated the altar from the rest of the little place. She knelt in a wedge of shadow to one side and turned her thoughts to what was important: the safety of the abbot, of the King and of England.
    After a few moments she was reminded of the little panicked boy when he saw the contents of the vat and she prayed for him too, that he was safe in York with the rest of his family and friends, and then, about to rise to her feet, she heard a commotion in the doorway and two men entered.
    They had their hoods up and had evidently just come in from the rain, because they dripped water all over the tiles. One of them was wearing a waterproof cloak and his companion, in fustian, was holding onto his arm and being half dragged towards the painted effigy of St Hugh on the other side of the screen.
    The man in the waterproof dropped to his knees, forcing the other man down with him. A muttered conversation followed as they knelt in front of the effigy and it continued more viciously when the first man forced
his companion’s head and shoulders down towards the floor as if to make him kiss the base of the pedestal where the saint’s effigy stood. The man freed himself with a curse and scrambled to his feet.
    He was panting with fury, she saw now. ‘You bloody have to!’ he was muttering. ‘I’m in enough shite already!’
    The kneeling man ignored him and there was a fierce silence until he stood up, made the sign of the cross, then turned, grabbing his companion by the front of his cloak. Both still had their hoods up and their faces were in shadow but the venom of their exchange carried to where, momentarily transfixed, Hildegard was still kneeling.
    She could not help but hear him say, ‘Listen to me, you bungling shithead! I’ve got bigger fish to fry! Don’t waste my time with your piddling problems!’
    ‘You bastard! Are you just going to leave me in the lurch?’
    The man laughed without humour. ‘I’ve told you I’ll sort it!’
    ‘Sort it?’ the other demanded in disbelief. ‘How the hell are you going to sort it now?’
    ‘I will do so. There’s only one thing you have to do. Give me a sign. It’s as good as done. And then you can bloody get on with the