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indeed,’ the priest said, and made the words sound like a threat.
    ‘I shall be most honoured to assist Your Eminence,’ Thomas said, keeping his head bowed.
    ‘Get rid of that painting,’ the cardinal said to Giacomo and then led his green-eyed companion from the room.
    The Italian, still on his knees, let out a long breath. ‘He didn’t like you.’
    ‘Does he like anyone?’ Thomas asked.
    Giacomo stood and screamed at his assistants. ‘The plaster will set hard if they don’t stir it!’ he explained his anger to Thomas. ‘They have porridge for brains. They are Milanese, yes? So they are fools. But Cardinal Bessières is no fool, he would be a dangerous enemy, my friend.’ Giacomo did not know it, but the cardinal was already Thomas’s enemy, though fortunately Bessières had never met Thomas and had no idea that the Englishman was even in Avignon. Giacomo went to the table where his pigments were in small clay pots. ‘And Cardinal Bessières,’ he went on, ‘has hopes of being the next Pope. Innocent is frail, Bessières is not. We may have another Holy Father soon.’
    ‘Why doesn’t he like this painting?’ Thomas asked, pointing to the end wall.
    ‘Perhaps he has good taste? Or perhaps because it looks as if it was painted by a dog holding a brush stuck up its arsehole?’
    Thomas stared at the old picture. The cardinal had wanted to know what story it told, and neither Giacomo nor the green-eyed priest could answer him, but plainly he wanted the painting destroyed so no one else could find the answer. And the picture did tell a story. Saint Peter was handing his sword to a monk in the snow, and the monk must have a name, but who was he? ‘You really don’t know what the picture means?’ Thomas asked Giacomo.
    ‘A legend?’ the Italian guessed carelessly.
    ‘But what legend?’
    ‘Saint Peter had a sword,’ Giacomo said, ‘and I suppose he’s handing it to the church? He should have used it to cut off the painter’s hand and saved us from having to look at his horrible daubs.’
    ‘But usually the sword is painted in Gethsemane,’ Thomas said. He had seen many church walls painted with the scene before Christ’s arrest when Peter had drawn a sword and cut off the ear of the high priest’s servant, but he had never seen Peter placed in a snowstorm.
    ‘So the fool who painted this didn’t know his stories,’ Giacomo said.
    Yet everything in pictures had a meaning. If a man held a saw then he was Saint Simon, because Simon had been sawn to pieces at his martyrdom. A bunch of grapes reminded folk of the eucharist, King David carried a harp, Saint Thaddeus a club or a carpenter’s rule, Saint George faced a dragon, Saint Denis was always painted holding his own severed head: everything had a meaning, yet Thomas had no idea what this old picture meant. ‘Aren’t you painters supposed to know all these symbols?’
    ‘What symbols?’
    ‘The sword, the keys, the snow, the man in the window!’
    ‘The sword is Peter’s sword, the keys are the keys of heaven! You need teaching how to suck at your mother’s tit?’
    ‘And the snow?’
    Giacomo scowled, plainly uncomfortable with the question.‘The idiot couldn’t paint grass,’ he finally decided, ‘so he slapped on some cheap limewash! It has no meaning! Tomorrow we chip it off and put something pretty there.’
    Yet whoever had painted the scene had taken the trouble to clear that patch of snow from around the kneeling man, and he had painted the grass cleverly enough, scattering it with small yellow and blue flowers. So the cleared snow had a meaning, as did the presence of the second monk looking fearfully from the cottage window. ‘Do you have charcoal?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘Of course I have charcoal!’ Giacomo gestured to the table where his pigments stood.
    Thomas went to the door and looked out into the great audience chamber. There was no sign of Cardinal Bessières or of the green-eyed priest, and so he picked up a lump of charcoal and went to the strange painting. He wrote on it.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Giacomo asked.
    ‘I want the cardinal to see that,’ Thomas said.
    He had scrawled
Calix Meus Inebrians
in great black letters across the snow. ‘My cup makes me drunk?’ Giacomo asked, puzzled.
    ‘It’s from a psalm of David,’ Thomas said.
    ‘But what does it mean?’
    ‘The cardinal will know,’ Thomas said.
    Giacomo frowned. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he said, ‘but you play