The cold night air disturbed Catherine’s sleep as it licked at her ankles. She drew her feet further under the blanket and shivered uncontrollably. Simon’s shirt and doublet were proving inadequate and the dainty slippers she had been provided with at the palace were wet through.

‘Are you cold?’ Simon was sitting not far away, his back against the trunk of an elm.

‘Yes, a bit,’ she admitted.

He held out his cloak and offered her the opportunity to join him. Catherine hesitated momentarily, her discomfort far outweighing the fears and doubts she had been experiencing.

She sat down beside her unwilling husband and was immediately encased by the warmth of his embrace.

‘You are like ice!’

‘I know …’ she mumbled through chattering teeth.

‘Give me your hands.’

He took them each in turn and rubbed them briskly, coax-ing the blood back into her blue fingers.

‘I did not mean to imply earlier that I would rather marry Roderick,’ she began shyly, determined to ensure he understood her meaning.

‘I see.’

‘I was taken off guard. I had not imagined that I would be getting married.’

‘To me?’

‘No, well, no. Not to anyone.’

‘You have never considered such an option?’ he asked, turning over her fingers so her palm lay in his.

‘To the church perhaps, but I knew no other life.’

‘Catherine, I want you to understand that this was not of my making, and had there been another way …’

‘You would not have married me.’

‘No, I would not.’

Catherine closed her eyes. The image of Broughton appeared in her mind along with the smiling face of the man beside her. But it was not really him. That Lord Wexford was not the same man with whom she now huddled in the rain. He had been open and friendly. On the boat crossing to Calais she had glimpsed something beneath the hard surface. She had allowed her heart to hope and that had been a mistake.

‘I think I will go back to the fire,’ she said somewhat stubbornly.

‘The heat from the embers would not warm my ale, let alone a fully-clothed maiden,’ he scoffed. ‘Stay put, else you will drown.’

‘Given the choices, M’lord …’ she began and he laughed at her.

‘You misunderstand.’

‘I do not.’ Catherine held back the tears that threatened to engulf her as Simon sat rigid beside her.

‘As I explained to you …’

‘Yes, married I am no longer a prize that can be sold by the Crown. I am now the worthless chattel of Lord Wexford, supposedly no longer a maiden, with no family other than my husband.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, his eyes fixed upon her mouth as she admonished him.

‘What you failed to explain, M’lord, is that if you do not care for me, then why marry me at all?’

‘I lied.’

‘You lied?’

‘I did.’ Releasing her hand he bent his head towards her and gathered her into his arms, placing his lips upon hers.

Catherine had not expected such an honest response and now, helpless in his embrace, she was reminded of the kiss they had once shared at Broughton. That memory consisted of their lips meeting gently and then parting with such softness it was though she had been warmed by the sun. But this was different. This was all-consuming.

Simon tilted his head and kissed her again. Nestling his hand into the small of her back, he cradled her closer.

Catherine leaned into him, daring to reciprocate she tentatively returned his ardour.

‘Your innocence is your undoing.’

She gasped as his hand rested lightly on her thigh. ‘I … I … think we should …’ she mouthed.

‘Stop,’ he finished for her.

‘My head is spinning. Perhaps I am ill?’

‘No, I do not think so.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because my head is spinning also.’

‘Oh,’ she replied.

He smiled.

She laughed.

He tucked the cloak around them, sealing their heat within.

‘I am still a maiden.’

‘Yes, and as long as you are, there is always void ab initio,’ he suggested.

‘I had considered that.’

‘So, when the time comes, it will be your decision to make.’

She lowered her head onto his shoulder. When the time comes? How on Earth was she to know when that time would be?

Salisbury sat atop his destrier. The priest before him stood calmly between two soldiers. ‘Where did they go?’

‘I know not of whom you speak.’

‘I was taught that lying is a sin. Is that not right, Father Pierre?

The small man remained silent.

‘Still no reply? What of your church register?’

‘I have sworn to protect the innocent and uphold the law of the church. I will pray …’

Salisbury plunged the blade of his sword though the priest’s chest and watched, somewhat intrigued, as the dying man’s mouth worked up and down. ‘It would have been better to speak openly, Father Pierre, for as you see, I have little respect for French traitors.’ Pushing the body with his foot, Salisbury extracted the bloody blade and the priest slid to the ground.

Several soldiers mounted beside him, one handing him a large, leather-bound book. ‘The register, M’lord.’

Salisbury flipped open the hefty volume and perused the last page. Satisfied with his find he secured the precious item to his saddle.

‘Where to, M’lord?’ inquired the sergeant-at-arms.

‘Take half the men and search the outlying areas. I will return to Calais,’ instructed Salisbury. ‘And I want them found as soon as possible.’

It had taken most of the day for Simon and his companions to reach Corbie and the Abbey dedicated to Saint Peter, the impressive cathedral situated in the centre of the town. The golden stones reflected the last rays of the day, highlighting the beautifully shaped arches and intricate circular work of the gifted stonemasons.

‘Sanctuary?’ asked Catherine.

‘Yes, sanctuary,’ Simon confirmed as they made their way to the vestry. ‘It is said that this abbey contains many treasures, including a Byzantine painting of the face of Jesus and a frag-ment of the True Cross.’

‘Oh, I would dearly love to see them!’

‘Perhaps it might be wise to ask the Abbot for refuge, warm pottage and spare clothing first. What say you?’

‘Yes of course,’ she replied, somewhat distracted as her eyes travelled over the carvings adorning the walls.

‘Corbie also claims to have the finest library in France, some say in all of Christendom. Perhaps we might convince them to allow us a viewing?’ Simon’s wink was conspiratorial as he wandered over to the stout monk who was extinguish-ing candles on the altar.

Catherine was housed within one of the many separate dormitories and was offered fresh clothing and a much-needed bath. Several younger monks carried the heavy tub into the lodgings and filled it with steaming water.

Simon gallantly excused himself, claiming the need to ensure that Roderick, Armand, Guiraud, Mouse and Gabriel were receiving the same hospitality.

Catherine lowered herself into the water and allowed the feeling of pleasure to wash over her. As a child such indulgence would have been punished. Besides, the water would have been tepid and dirty. Being the youngest member of the convent she was always the last to wash. But this was delightful, bordering on sinful.

Catherine slipped below the surface and submerged her hair. She had never fully understood the sacrifice of giving oneself to the church. Sacrifice came from knowing pleasure and willingly putting it aside. As she had never known luxury, there was nothing to miss. But then Simon had entered her world, and slowly and subtly encouraged her to experience that which she never had, fresh new gowns, enticing hot meals. And then he had wrapped his arms around her, gathered her to him, and kissed her. The memory ignited a flame that made her skin tingle. There would certainly be much to sacrifice now.

Catherine was drying her hair in front of the fire when Simon returned. ‘The gown is a little large but clean and warm,’ she said, ‘and I have been provided with a very serviceable pair of boots.’ She pointed out her foot to show him.

‘Excellent. Tomorrow we will purchase additional items. Until then you will have to make do.’ He smiled, the effect causing her heart to skip erratically. ‘The boys will join us soon for supper.’

‘Tariq instructed me to keep the wound on my shoulder dry but between the rain and my bath I’m afraid I have not been very successful,’ she confessed.

‘You had best show me.’ Simon kneeled beside her and slid the gown from her shoulder.

‘Perhaps we should return at a more convenient moment, lads?’ said Roderick, pushing open the chamber door.

Catherine’s cheeks coloured but neither she nor Simon responded, his attention now firmly upon the wound.

‘’Tis dry now, but not healed. I will take the stitches out in due course.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, sharply recovering her exposed skin.

Armand, Guiraud and Mouse filed into the room and helped themselves to the tray of victuals.

‘So, what to do?’ enquired Mouse.

‘I assume you will go on to Paris,’ replied Simon.

‘Oui. I think we should go ahead as planned,’ Armand answered, handing Catherine a large bowl of hot pottage.

‘We may stay here as long as we wish. However, I do not think it wise.’ Simon arched his eyebrows at Catherine. ‘A woman in a monastery is as troublesome as a fox in a hen house!’

‘I could stay hidden,’ suggested Catherine.

‘I don’t think that will do,’ offered Roderick. ‘Your presence has been noted and it will not be long before tongues are wagging. Monks they may be but saints they are not.’

‘One woman travelling with six men is noteworthy enough,’ added Simon.

The conversation moved on to the state of the roads, the best route to Paris and then the health of Bertrand du Guesclin.

Gabriel appeared, grasping two jugs of wine and sat down beside Catherine.

‘You are so much like your sister that I am surprised each time I see you. Cécile captured my heart and I had hoped, for a time … but alas, it was not to be. She was much engaged with Gillet and now I find that you are married. My friends have been most fortunate, I think.’

Catherine smiled shyly. The man beside her seemed genuine in his admiration, and both gentle and considerate.

‘If there is ever any need for you to call upon my services, I would be most willing to comply.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, lowering her gaze from his piercing blue eyes. ‘I would like to send a letter to Cécile,’ Catherine suggested, hoping that the request was not too great.

‘Of course, I will see to a messenger in the morn.’

‘Thank you.’

Catherine drank the remainder of her ale, then sought permission to retire. The bed was in a corner, the heavy damask curtains which would provide her a measure of privacy held back against the posts by thick woven cords. The men’s bedding was stacked against the wall, waiting to be rolled out across the floor, but her companions remained huddled around the table. Catherine climbed atop the straw mattress and released the curtains, then slipped off her boots. The blankets and sheets smelled delightfully of lavender and incense. She removed the rosary from her neck and commenced her prayers, fighting against her weariness. The men were deep in discussion and the droning lulled her until Mouse erupted with a hearty laugh. She jolted awaked, clutching her beads, but in the end nothing could prevent her succumbing to sleep. Roused the following morning by the same booming voice, Catherine was escorted to the kitchen by Simon, who rose somewhat stiffly from the floor beside the fire.

They entered the refectory and were directed to the main table, currently occupied by numerous monks, all eating in silence.

‘I am told that you have asked to see our great library?’ The portly Abbott peered at them as though he lacked good sight and beckoned them to step closer.

‘Indeed,’ replied Simon enthusiastically.

‘Then I will see to it. Is your accommodation suitable?’

‘It is excellent. My wife and I would like to express our gratitude, Most Reverend Blaut,’ continued Simon.

‘Your father was a great friend to this church. You are always welcome here, my son.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, break your fast and I will have Louis meet you here shortly.’

Catherine sat opposite Simon and recited her morning prayers. She was relieved and pleasantly surprised when her husband joined in. Respectful of the daily religious rituals of Corbie Monastery, neither spoke as they partook of the freshly baked bread, smoked herring and cheese.

Catherine gazed around the room. It was small but beautifully constructed with a vaulted timber ceiling, nothing like the Norman-style refectory at Denny which had been built in stone and roofed in slate. Denny was cold and austere whereas Corbie was cosy and inviting. She was startled from her thoughts as a young man approached them. Her heart went out to him when she saw his deformed face.

‘Lord Wexford?’

‘Ah,’ said Simon, pushing away his bowl. ‘You must be Louis.’

‘Oui. Come … come,’ he spat through malformed lips, the hole below his nose causing a great whistling of air. ‘You want to see?’

‘Yes,’ said Simon rising from the table, ‘I am most interested in the work you do and, in particular, your illuminations.’

‘Illuminations?’ cried Catherine. Simon ignored her and strode after Louis.

‘I show, I show,’ offered Louis as he directed them through a large doorway that opened into an enormous room. Catherine could barely see the low-beamed ceiling, so dark was the interior. Row upon row of elevated desks stretched from one end to the other, shelf after shelf stacked high with books, manuscripts and rolls of parchment.

‘Sit here to paint,’ Louis explained, clambering onto a stool.

Catherine stretched up to view the parchment on the wooden platform and was immediately enchanted by the detail.

‘An illumination is a painting, usually of a religious scene, which has been decorated with gold or silver,’ explained Simon, as he wandered up and down the rows of desks, examining the work laid out upon them. ‘Each piece is normally part of a larger project, a book or bible. They say that every painter has his own method or artistic signature and, in fact, a group, such as the one here, can develop an individual style that sets it aside from all others.’

‘I see,’ she mouthed, as her gaze travelled to the work adorning the walls.

‘There are some, like young Louis, who can ascertain where a piece was painted and, most likely, identify the craftsman, just by examining it.’

‘Oui, oui, Louis can,’ boasted the boy.

‘And these are all illuminations?’ Catherine asked, pointing to the hundreds of parchments awaiting completion lying around the gloomy cavern.

‘Oui, all.’

Head bent low, Simon engaged the young monk in conversation as Catherine meandered towards the rear of the scriptorium.

The shelves under the archway were covered in dust and cobwebs, the flagstone floor worn flat over the years. She teased out several pages and examined the images, each one beautifully drawn and inked with a talent far superior to those she had seen at Denny. Blowing the dust from a darker vellum, she detached the securing band and carefully unrolled the document. Though the detail of the Christ painting was beautiful, the lettering was completely foreign and like none she had ever seen. Many of the nearby leather-bound books also contained the same evenly spaced script. Determined to ask Louis about her find, she made her way back to the centre of the room. Catherine rounded one of the pillars and sighted the two men poring over a large, open book. Simon’s stance was rigid, as though he were displeased. She watched as he withdrew a piece of calfskin from his doublet and spread it out before Louis. It was the very same piece she had seen passed from man to man only two days earlier.

Catherine stepped back into the shadows and crept behind the tall bookshelf until she was close enough to hear their conversation.

‘Non, do not know.’

‘Are you certain,’ questioned Simon, ‘for it looks to be the work of an illuminator from this Abbey?’

‘No, no, not from here,’ repeated Louis.

‘This is not a religious image. Do you accept payment for commissioned work?’ asked Simon.

‘Sometimes,’ spluttered the boy.

‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’

‘Non, non, non. This painted by a woman,’ he declared, backing away from the threatening man beside him.

Catherine grasped the scroll in her hands and walked towards her exasperated guardian. ‘I was wondering, Louis, if you could tell me of this script, for I have never seen anything like it.’

Her interruption brought relief to the boy’s face. He took the piece from Catherine, but her eye had caught the movement as Simon hastily retrieved his parchment.

‘Carolingian minuscule,’ Louis explained.

‘It is lovely,’ replied Catherine. ‘And the picture of Christ is most beautiful. Do you paint only religious subjects?’

Simon stepped between his wife and the monk. ‘I am sure Louis is very busy. Now, perhaps we might view the relics,’ he suggested as he took hold of Catherine’s elbow and directed her out of the scriptorium.