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uncle, John of Gaunt—he had suffered a hideous death as a reward for his warning. Abducted as he left the king’s presence, he had been tortured by his captors in an obscene way too terrible to speak of, and the poor fellow had died several agonising days later as a result. His abductors were known but were too powerful to be brought to account.
    Hildegard walked slowly back along the street. By the time she left, the glazier Master Stapylton had mentioned had not turned up, but they had concluded their business in a most amicable and mutually profitable manner.
    Despite the troubles he had touched on York seemed a cheerful place, with a palpable air of excitement in the streets due to the forthcoming celebrations. There was little sign of violence. The suspicion that there would be keenly felt absences, however, was inescapable. Husbands, sons and others had disappeared without a trace after the rebellion. Now, three years on, although their places were filled by a town full of visitors, a private sense of loss was still felt by many.
    Even though the situation was bleak, Hildegard took some comfort from the business with the chandler. It meant that something had been salvaged from the terrible destruction at Deepdale. She had gold. They might even have enough to start again.
    Managing to carve a path through the crowds she chanced to find herself at the top of a busy street called Stonegate. There was a small church nearby. Dedicated to St. Helen, patron saint of the Glaziers’ Guild, its doors were invitingly open. The scent of incense wafted out into the street. Aware that she had missed all the offices of the day since fleeing Deepdale, she was about to enter to offer a prayer to St. Helen when a man appeared in the doorway, blocking her entrance.
    Evidently he had not noticed her because he was calling back over his shoulder as he came out. “Hurry up, Jankin, we don’t have all day. De Hutton’s steward will be fretting and sending out search parties for us.”
    The next moment he turned and stepped forward into the sunlight straight into her path. “Sister! My apologies,” he exclaimed with a deep flourish. “I beseech your forgiveness. I didn’t see you there. Do come inside.” He stepped back to allow her to enter.
    From the doorway she could see the inside of the church ablaze with sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass windows. A scatter of jewel-bright colours filled the nave. When she stepped inside and lifted her head she noticed a small square of coloured glass depicting a shield above the inscription: da nobis tuam lucem domine. Give us thy light, O Lord. It was the glaziers’ motto.
    The man who had made way for her was still standing at the door and she turned to him. “Forgive me, master, but I couldn’t fail to overhear you mention Lord Roger’s steward just now. Am I to understand he’s in York at present?”
    “Indeed he is. I’m to provide some glass for him. Or rather, for Lord Roger de Hutton’s chantry.”
    “His chantry?” A look of alarm crossed her face. “I trust Lady Melisen and her baby are—”
    The glazier gave a reassuring chuckle. “Thriving, both of ’em. She was in my workshop not a week since, looking at the vidimus. No, it’s not for the baby. Lord de Hutton wants prayers said.” He peered into her face. “You’re acquainted with the steward from Castle Hutton, are you?”
    He was clearly impressed when she nodded.
    “He’s an old friend,” she told him, not going into details. “I would be honoured if you would give him my greetings when you see him—”
    “Better than that,” replied the glazier. “Come along with me now and tell him yourself. My workshop is just a few steps along the street here.”
    He was a genial-looking fellow, expensively dressed in a summer cloak lined with taffeta, the badge of his guild displayed on one shoulder, a silk turban on his head. A little on the stout side, somewhat red-faced, with a coarse-looking beard