Free Threads of Treason by Mary Bale Page A

Bayeux. Nothing would illustrate the relationship between him and Archbishop Lanfranc better than their correspondence.
    While she read, a monk entered with a message for Brother David.
    ‘ I have to leave you for a few moments,’ he said to Eleanor.
    She nodded and he left. She hoped her casual pose had disguised her true activity. The effort, however, was not proving worthwhile, as the letter seemed to be a piece of straightforward business over a piece of land where there was some dispute. The Archbishop addressed his fellow Bishop in the way he addressed all his correspondents, it seemed, as a brother wishing to give advice, even though he frequently did not even know the people he was writing to.
    The monk looked around at her dallying and she moved on. The smell of ink was too strong for her, so she left the scriptorium and headed uninvited towards the cloister. So often documents were stored there in cupboards so air could keep the vellum fresh. But the cloister was busy with monks leaving the church. It was not time for prayer so she assumed some special service had been said.
    Her feet stuttered on the tiles in a panic to escape the flood of monks.
    But it was impossible. With cowled and bowed heads the monks only saw the ground they were about to tread. One knocked into her and sent her sprawling into one of the pillars supporting the arches edging the cloister. From her position, rolling onto her hands and knees, she saw two large knobbly sandaled male feet in front of her.
    ‘ I’m so sorry,’ exclaimed the monk, the owner of the feet. He offered her a hand. ‘Are you unhurt?’
    ‘ I am, thank you,’ said Eleanor, rising and brushing herself down. ‘However, I will enter the church and take some respite there.’
    ‘ I will assist you,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Matthew.’
    ‘ Brother Matthew,’ she said severely, to cover her embarrassment, ‘I can manage perfectly well on my own.’
    Brother Matthew bowed and followed the others. She turned towards the southern doors of the church. On entering the eastern end of the nave she found herself alone, but at the western end, five people were leaving through the main doors. She tried to adjust her eyes to the contrasting shafts of light from her doorway and theirs, along with the darkness of the church.
    These men were important. Their tunics and cloaks caught the light. They wore rich reds, golds and purples: Norman knights and a cleric. And one was clearly more important than the others, as they deferred to him at the door. Not the King. The King was older, sturdier – a warrior of many campaigns. These were younger men. One of the Princes, perhaps? Eleanor’s mind raced. This was why she’d been kept hidden away in the scriptorium. These were visitors she was not meant to see, let alone meet.
    As the sun caught the face of their leader she recognised the red hair and sharp face of William Rufus – the King’s second son and heir to the English throne. ‘God preserve us,’ she whispered. His brutality was of an ancient kind that she hoped would soon be unnecessary in a modern world.
    The last person to leave the church was the Archbishop in his robes of office. She started towards them, but checked herself. This was neither the time nor the place to attract attention. Such an open confrontation could only work against her in these circumstances so she waited until they were quite clear before making her way out. She assumed that by now Rufus and his entourage would be enjoying the Archbishop’s hospitality. As she passed out through the gatehouse she heard voices in the yard and observed Brother David talking to one of Prince William’s guards. She turned away and walked through the butter market and onto the main thoroughfare towards Canterbury’s south gates.
    She was soon aware of a beggar darting about her in the crowd. At first she tried to ignore him until she realised it was Agid. She drew into an alleyway and waited for