'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.