VIII. That Bastard Frenchman…

Hugh rubbed his eyes, in an attempt to push the impending headache back towards a dark recess, as fatigue had combined fatally with bleak remembrances and difficult introductions.
     “I do not trust him either. I caught him attempting to look through Adele’s belongings, though he denied it of course.” He had almost forgotten Heloise’s presence in the undercroft after the altercation between Richard and the relic-seller. Her comment drew his attention back to her. Hugh noted that she was not shocked or offended by the physical violence or curses that had been bandied about. He supposed if she had been living alone with her father on the Welsh border then she had probably grown up in a fully male world. He thought back to their quick dash from the refectory to the undercroft and the easy way she had gathered her skirts, which suggested much practice.
     “I agree.” The Frenchman’s quiet drawl interrupted Hugh’s thoughts.
     “Then why intervene?” Heloise responded, heat colouring her words.
     “It would hardly have been right to allow him to strangle the man half to death before he could even defend himself.”
     “This is Philip D’Aubury, a vassal of King Philip.” Heloise made the curt introduction, and Hugh gained the impression that she did not like the Frenchman.
     “Hugh Mansel. And it was my companion Richard Siward who you met earlier.”
     “A pleasure of course…” He murmured amusement evident in his tone. Neither Hugh nor Philip needed to explain the reasons behind Richard’s explosion of temper. A Frenchman in England so soon after the battles of 1217 was bound to provoke a fierce reaction.
     “And what brings you to Canterbury?”
     “The indulgence, after all the Pope did offer it to everybody in Europe.” Hugh felt that his tone was too reasonable and his posture too relaxed. His dark eyes however were sharp and unreadable. Hugh could not help but question his motives for being in Canterbury, but quickly berated himself silently. He was no better than Richard in judging this man. His nationality did not necessarily make him the enemy.
     “Did you not regret leaving your wife behind?”
     “I am unmarried, Lady Heloise.” She seemed to regret once more the words that had escaped before she had fully thought them through. Hugh wondered curiously what had provoked such hostility between them. The Frenchman had the appearance and tone of one well versed in courtly affectation. The scarlet robe decorated with intricate embroidery that he wore marked him as a man of some status. If he was a vassal of King Philip, then he was probably land rich as well. Hugh could only suppose that some incident had occurred on the journey from London to Canterbury, or one had some knowledge of the other that made them uneasy.
     Either way it was none of his affair. With Richard’s short fuse and his own melancholic memories coming to the fore, Hugh had enough to be dealing with. His fellow pilgrims’ business was their own and he intended to keep it that way.