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keeping the coast to their left. He pushed his horse alongside Gurney's.
    'What is the Hermitage?' he asked.
    'It's really an old farmstead, a small outlying manor. The soil around it is rather poor. In my father's time it fell derelict. Sometimes it was used by shepherds and the people of the roads, travelling friars, anyone.'
    'And why did you give it to the Pastoureaux?'
    Gurney pulled back his cowl and wiped the sweat from his brow.
    'Why not? They seem God-fearing and hurt no one.' He smiled. 'No, don't think of me as a saint, Hugh. In return they provide free labour on my farms.' He pointed through the shifting mist. 'See the light, we are almost there.'
    Gurney broke into a gallop. The mist, as if expecting them, suddenly cleared and the Hermitage came into full view. However, as Gurney reined in, all Corbett could see was a high wall, a stout oaken gate and, above this, a tiled roof and the thatch of other dwellings.
    'Who goes there?' a voice called.
    Corbett, squinting his eyes, saw a man standing on one of the gate pillars. A tinder was struck and a torch flared.
    'Who goes there?' the voice repeated.
    Gurney gestured to his companions to stay still as he edged his own horse forward.
    'Sir Simon Gurney!' he shouted, standing up in the stirrups, 'with the king's emissary, Sir Hugh Corbett.'
    'Wait there!' the voice called.
    The figure put the torch down and disappeared. Corbett urged his own horse forward.
    'But, Sir Simon, you said this was your land and property?'
    Gurney shrugged. 'Yes, but I gave the Pastoureaux the same rights as any other religious house. You just can't ride in as you please. Don't forget, Hugh, the countryside is plagued with wolfsheads and outlaws who would help themselves to anything – food, drink, not to mention any woman under sixty!'
    He stopped speaking as the gates swung open. Two men came through and walked towards them. Corbett watched them curiously.
    'The older one,' Gurney whispered, 'is Master Joseph. The other is Philip Nettler, the abbot and prior, you might say, of the house.'
    The two men drew near. Master Joseph was about fifty, rather small, with a sun-tanned face and light-blue eyes which crinkled as he smiled at Gurney and bowed towards Corbett. Sharp-eyed, Corbett thought – he looked more like a military commander than a cleric. Philip Nettler, the younger man, had black tousled hair, a thin narrow face, hooded eyes and tight lips. He seemed more wary, and his eyes strayed beyond Corbett to where Monck sat like the figure of death on his horse.
    Master Joseph smiled up at Gurney. 'Good morrow, Sir Simon.'
    'This is the king's emissary here, Sir Hugh Corbett,' Gurney said.
    Master Joseph stretched out his hand to Corbett, who clasped it. It was smooth and warm. 'And may I introduce Master Philip.'
    Again Corbett shook hands, but this time he felt a slight unease. Nettler's face was guarded and he refused to meet Corbett's eyes.
    'The king's emissary, Sir Hugh?' Master Joseph voiced his companion's concern. 'Why are you here? You've not come to interfere or move us on?'
    Corbett smiled and shook his head.
    'Master Joseph, you are blunt so I'll be equally honest in return. The bishops are concerned about any new communities and have conveyed their anxieties to the king. He is' – Corbett chose his words carefully – 'interested in what you do, though at the moment more intrigued by the recent deaths in the area.'
    'Aye, I thought so.' Master Joseph's voice suddenly betrayed a country burr.
    'We have nothing to do with those.' Nettler spoke up, his voice high, rather waspish. 'Sir Simon knows we keep ourselves to ourselves.'
    Monck suddenly urged his horse forward. 'Are we to stay here and freeze?' he asked.
    'Sir Simon,' Master Joseph said flatly, 'you gave us the Hermitage and your solemn word that, as long as we lived here in peace, we had the right to say who came or left. We are an enclosed community. We cannot allow anyone, without a by-your-leave, to ride in and