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now, three men and a young woman, all very finely attired. They were surrounded by a crowd of liveried servants and sitting in front of a crimson cloth of honour stitched with the de Hutton coat of arms, a device, she noted, that involved what some might regard as an excess of gold thread. In the hearth was a blazing forest of logs.
    Central to all, and apparelled with the magnificence of a doge – though sweating somewhat in a new style houpelande of scarlet velvet – was Lord Roger de Hutton himself. He was gloriously red-bearded.
    When he saw a nun approaching he sprang guiltily to his feet. Then he recognised her. ‘Hildegard! Is it you? I don’t believe it! Am I seeing things? Did they let you out after all?’ He reached towards her.
    ‘I hardly had to be let out, my lord: I was never kept in. As such.’
    ‘It seems to me you’ve been incarcerated for all eternity. But here, most happy greetings, my dear, dear girl!’ He extended both hands and pulled her up beside him. She felt herself smile somewhat demurely when he grasped her round the wrists with such crushing force. ‘You haven’t changed a jot,’ he murmured. ‘I was worried you’d be all wizened and white haired after seven years at that blessed priory. But you’re just as fair and fine as ever. More so,’ he growled, tightening his grip.
    ‘You haven’t changed much either, you old rogue.’ He was bigger, more physical, that was what was different. He seemed to take up all the space around her. She disengaged herself from his grip. It had been ages since a man had touched her and now two of them had done so in quick succession, bringing all kinds of memories that would only entail a trouble of confession and penance if admitted. She simply hadn’t the time for it.
    ‘So what’s this thing?’ he was asking jovially, reaching out.
    ‘It’s a wimple, as you know full well, and I’m not sure I like you tweaking it.’
    Suddenly aware of how her changed status cut her off from the usual ribbing that went on in his presence, he said with an embarrassed flourish, ‘But look here, you haven’t met my brother-in-law, Sir William of Holderness.’ He indicated a bad-tempered-looking stranger with a broken nose and clipped beard. His chaperon matched his black expression and he seemed to imagine he owned the place, judging from the way he stuck his boots out to cause maximum inconvenience to the servants.
    ‘Lady Avice’s husband?’ So this was he of ill repute. Hildegard bowed her head in greeting just enough not to antagonise him. She’d heard such stories it was difficult to believe he didn’t sit in a pit of flames.
    ‘You know Avice, then?’ he drawled in a dark voice, lowering his brows even further and making her acquaintance with his wife sound like a crime.
    ‘We shared a tutor here at the castle as young girls,’ she replied, ‘Roger’s uncle was my guardian.’ She gave him a glance as if she were already the Abbess of Meaux. He shifted uncomfortably, no doubt aware of his many sins which she had clearly discerned at a glance. Avoiding her eye, he threw a chunk of raw meat to a fierce-looking mastiff chained to his wrist as if he’d said enough.
    ‘And here’s little Philippa.’ Roger smiled complacently in the direction of the young woman.
    Hildegard remembered Roger’s only daughter as a rather solemn child of ten with long flaxen plaits and a book forever in her hands. Now she was a self-possessed young person with a face of austere beauty. She bestowed a derisory glance on her father at this introduction but said nothing. A girl grown wise as well as beautiful, judged Hildegard with interest.
    ‘And of course Sir Ralph you know already.’ Roger made an offhand gesture to the third figure lolling on the dais.
    Like Philippa, Ralph had changed in seven years. In the old days he had been just a youth, always running to keep up with his elder brother. Pale and lanky, he had been no match for Roger in the rough and