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murmurs.
    ‘No.’ Frogface shakes her head. ‘I was an English archbishop –’
    ‘Augustine!’ Input from Corba, the merchant’s widow. Heavily pious. A bundle of nerves wrapped up in fine wool. ‘Oh, no – Augustine came from Rome . . .’
    ‘Ambrose?’ (Joscelin.)
    ‘No. I was Archbishop of Canterbury –’
    ‘ Aelfric! Aelfric! ’ (Corba’s getting over-excited.) ‘Is it Aelfric?’
    ‘Aelfric wasn’t a saint. I was Archbishop of Canterbury, and I was stoned to death in Greenwich by the Danes.’
    Long pause. This one’s a real brain-strangler. Raimbaut chews his thumbnail.
    ‘Anselm?’ he suggests. ‘What happened to Saint Anselm?’
    ‘I give up,’ says Agnes.
    ‘So do I.’ (Joscelin.)
    ‘It must be Anselm. He was Archbishop of Canterbury.’
    ‘No. Give up?’
    ‘It’s – um – it’s –’
    ‘Yes, we give up,’ says Agnes. ‘Who is it?’
    ‘It’s Saint Alphege !’
    A chorus of groans. Father Raimbaut looks disgusted.
    ‘I knew it,’ he says. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue . . .’
    ‘Your turn, Mistress Agnes.’ Frogface, graciously. ‘If you think you can . . .?’
    ‘Right.’ Agnes is the colour of minced beef, and shiny with sweat, but she looks a lot more cheerful than her donkey – whose knees are beginning to tremble under the combined weight of Agnes, Gerald and a hearty breakfast. ‘This is really difficult. I learned it from a nun and it will destroy you. Which saint am I? My name begins with “U”–’
    ‘Ursula!’
    ‘No.’
    ‘ No? ’ Frogface can’t believe her ears. ‘But that’s the only “U” there is!’
    ‘I said it was difficult.’
    ‘Urban?’ (Raimbaut.) ‘One of the popes?’
    ‘No. I was a bishop –’
    ‘Oh!’ Frogface almost falls off her donkey. ‘I know! I know! Ulrich of Augsberg!
    ’ ‘No. I was Bishop of Samosata, and I was killed by a blow on the head from an Aryan heretic in Syria.’
    A long, long silence. Brains are wracked. Faces fall.
    No one has any suggestions.
    ‘We give up,’ says Joscelin.
    ‘Yes, we give up.’
    ‘I knew you would.’ Agnes beams. ‘It’s Saint Eusebius !’
    Saint who? (Didn’t even know there was one.) People glance at each other, embarrassed by their own ignorance. Father Raimbaut frowns.
    ‘Wait a minute.’ He sounds puzzled. ‘Saint Eusebius was a Roman pope. He died in Sicily.’
    ‘Oh no, Father. The nun told me. He died in Syria.’
    ‘Unless there were two of them . . . What’s his feast day?’
    ‘Um – now she told me that, too. Let me think . . .’
    I wonder if anyone’s going to point out the obvious?
    Agnes furrows her brow over the problem, until she works out that the feast day was on June twenty-first. Aha! That explains it. Raimbaut’s saint has his feast day on the seventeenth of August. Clearly they’re two entirely different saints. But it’s no good – I can’t hold back any longer.
    ‘Excuse me. Doesn’t Eusebius begin with an “E”?’
    Father Raimbaut slaps his forehead. Of course! It turns out that Agnes can’t read, though she does know the sound of one or two letters. I didn’t think this game was going to get very far.
    ‘Pagan.’
    Duty calls. He’s a pace or two ahead, trying to maintain a professional silence. You can tell he’s displeased by the way his nostrils twitch.
    Time to kick a little speed into this idle nag.
    ‘I have asked you to stay close to me, Pagan.’ Solemnly. ‘Please keep this in mind.’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘And I would prefer it if you didn’t talk to the pilgrims. We are not here to entertain them.’
    (Come again?)
    ‘But I didn’t!’
    ‘I heard you. Now I believe Brother Tibald talked about brigands in yesterday’s chapter of squires. Is that correct?’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘Did he talk about the Valley of Running?’
    ‘No, my lord.’ (At least I don’t think he did.)
    Saint George lifts an eyebrow. Something tells me I must have missed the bit about the Valley of