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Gilbert FitzHugh had been killed fighting for the king at Lincoln. Miles had always looked up to Gilbert, who had the natural assurance and easy manner that Miles sought in vain to acquire. Thinking about him, Miles wondered if de Grismont had come across him before the battle. Waleran de Grismont was certainly a man worthy of respect; there was one who had fought bravely and paid a heavy price, yet looked in no way discouraged by the experience. He had a reputation with women, but FitzHugh saw much in that to admire. His own conquests had been confined to impressionable rustics and serving wenches who feared to say him nay. He only wished he had one tenth of de Grismont’s charm.
    FitzHugh indulged in a pleasant daydream about future success with the opposite sex, but then his thoughts returned to what Mistress Weaver had said. So the Bishop of Winchester’s clerk was a spy, was he? A man who listened at windows and spied at keyholes; one who set times for secret assignations with other dubious individuals? Well, Robert de Beaumont might see the use of such, but he believed it behoved a gentleman of honour to strike a blow against dissemblers and traitors.

    Master Elias was addressed twice by one of his journeymen before making a reply to the man’s question. He was trying desperately to work out whether Henri de Blois’s clerk was hoping to find out some intelligence that he could take back to his master, a piece of the puzzle that was the politics of England during such times, or whether he was, beneath it all, a genuine Maudist supporter, who either had something important to impart or sought information. The stonemason was not inclined to trust the clerk, but was not sure that he dare ignore him. He eventually answered with only half his mind on the dressing of the stone, and with his eye focused on the enclave below.The journeyman shrugged and went to double-check his query with one of the older masons.
    As a windhover scans the ground for signs of field mice in the grasses, Master Elias watched and waited. He saw Waleran de Grismont giving orders to one of his servants, and the bell of memory jangled in his head. This was how he had seen the man before, from above, and in close conversation. Something about that meeting had aroused his interest … his interest. Suddenly the master mason remembered why he had registered the meeting. He smiled, and for once it was nearly as knowing a smile as Eudo the Clerk’s.
    The lord of Defford disappeared within the guest hall, and his servant headed for the stables. A tirewoman nearly bumped into him as she emerged, looking comically furtive, probably, thought Master Elias, from some illicit assignation with a groom in the warm dimness of an empty stall. She was too far away for him to be able to discern whether she had tell-tale hay stalks clinging to her skirt. His smile this time was one of gentle amusement. A monk also appeared from the stables, cowl raised to protect his tonsure from the sun, though he paid the penalty of the added heat. He was carrying what had to be, from his lopsided stance, a heavy bucket. The lay brothers were never idle. Laborare est orare was the motto of the Benedictines: ‘To work is to pray’. Master Elias thought, not for the first time, that the prayers of the unlettered and lowly lay brothers therefore exceeded those of their more erudite brethren, the choir monks.
    The woman headed for the gate to the abbot’s garden and soon passed from his sight. A short while later a lady emerged from the same gateway, head down, a rose bloom held delicately to her nostrils. As she crossed the yard she was intercepted by Eudo the Clerk, who must have been at the west end of the abbey church, where Master Elias could not see him. The wispy fair hair edging his narrow skull and the manner of walking were distinctive. Master Elias sighed and made his way swiftly down to ground level. Here was the opportunity to arrange a meeting, before the bell called