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offer prayers for him – politics were where his energy lay – and, with Lord Roger on her side, Hildegard was sure she could persuade him to let her take the lease to Yedingham. But it wasn’t perfect. For one thing it was quite remote, at least two days on foot to York, the nearest large town. The advantage of Meaux, and the reason why, despite her words, she hadn’t given up on the ambitious dream of having it turned into a double house, nuns on one side of the canal, monks on the other, was that it was only an hour’s brisk walk from Beverley with its thriving market. By horse it was even less, of course. She thought it prudent to bear such facts in mind.
     
    It was in a thoughtful mood that Hildegard prepared to set out the next morning. A messenger had arrived from York to tell them that the coroner was busy on important business and could not attend within four days at the earliest. The general opinion was that the feast in celebration of St Martin was the only important business that kept him in York, but she decided to take advantage of the delay, for now it gave her time to ride to Castle Hutton to seek Lord Roger’s help.
    As she had told Hubert de Courcy, she did not intend to bury herself and her sisters in some godforsaken wilderness where they had only each other for company. They’d go mad as well as being prey for brigands. You can’t be the Abbess of Meaux, sister. I’m the abbot , he had said. Well, she didn’t want to be at Meaux with him and his cronies breathing down her neck if that was his attitude. And Yedingham was good. Meaux was better. But there might be somewhere even better than both. She would take his advice then. She would consult Lord Roger.
     
    Leaving Meaux shortly before dawn, she was pleased to find that the rain was holding off for the time being. She proceeded for the rest of the day through the forests of the high wolds in a haze of autumn gold. The air was sweet with the scents of the forest. Leaves lay in drifts underfoot, muffling the sound of hooves. Wrapped in her cloak, she travelled unworried, in the knowledge that there was little chance of coming across another gibbet in such a sparsely populated region. The few hamlets she came across were small, without even the benefit of stocks, and for the most part the only habitations were simple assarts, wooden shacks set in the midst of new clearings where the foresters and their families could live close to their work. If she had a fear it was of wolves. Packs of them scoured the wolds at this time of year. At least there is plenty of game, she observed, and I’ll have to trust that their attentions won’t turn to human flesh. The worst predators will be men, she decided. She sent the lymer on ahead to scout the trail for signs of outlaws. Then, close to nightfall, she took shelter in an abandoned barn, dined on rabbit brought down by the running dog, Bermonda, endured a fitful night’s sleep wrapped in her cloak with the two hounds pressing close for warmth on either side, then set out again at first light.
    Soon a familiar landscape came into view. It brought a tender gleam to her eyes. It had been seven years since she had set foot in the old place. It was another life, one she had lost for ever. She had no regrets, however. With her husband dead and her two children now old enough to make their own way in life, what better occupation could she have than the one she had chosen? But it would be heart-warming to revisit her old haunts once more.
    The November mist that lay along the bottom of the dale began to thin as she travelled higher, and soon a fine rain began to penetrate her clothing and set beads of pearl in her horse’s mane. With her hounds ranging wide through the undergrowth, she was on the point of emerging from the trees above the main track when she reined in with a sudden low whistle to bring Bermonda and Duchess to heel.
    At the bottom of the dale a well-trodden path wound through a grove of oaks.