Godric shook his head. ‘He either took it with him or threw it away. We have searched his belongings, but it is not there – not that note or any of the others.’
‘Was this relationship with Dympna a recent affair?’ asked Michael. ‘Or one that had been going on for some time?’
‘I think recent,’ replied Godric. ‘We first saw a note about a week ago, but there could have been others before that.’ He smiled suddenly, so that his loutish face softened and became almost attractive. ‘You are wondering why we pried so unashamedly into Norbert’s personal life, Brother. Being friars, none of us receive notes from young ladies, and we were naturally curious about a man who does.’
‘Naturally,’ said Michael expressionlessly. ‘Did you meet this woman, or see Norbert with her?’
‘We saw him with women,’ replied Godric precisely. ‘But since we do not know what Dympna looks like, we do not know which one of them was her. However, I doubt whether any of the rough ladies he courted openly was Dympna. I think he only ever met her in secret.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘You have just said you do not know what she looks like, so she could be any of the prostitutes Norbert enjoyed. God knows, he was fined enough times for that.’
Godric’s expression was earnest. ‘I think she is better than the others. She wrote to him – on parchment, using a pen!’
Parchment was expensive, and while some people could read, far fewer extended their education to the more skilled process of writing. The very act of putting pen to parchment suggested a woman who was a cut above the average.
‘Did you read these personal notes?’ asked Bartholomew of Godric. ‘You know what was in them and who they were from, so you must have done.’
‘Really, Godric!’ exclaimed Ailred in horror. ‘I thought you had more honour. Did no one ever teach you that it is wrong to pry into the personal missives of others?’
‘I am sorry, Father,’ muttered Godric, red-faced with embarrassment. ‘We meant no harm. We were just curious.’
‘Being nosy is not an excuse,’ said Ailred sternly. ‘But since you have already broken faith with a colleague by reading letters not intended for your eyes, then I suppose there is no further harm in telling us what was in them. What did they say?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Godric, still shamefaced. ‘They were rather curt, actually, and not at all like the kind of love-letters we have heard sung about in ballads. They just mentioned her name, and a time and a place for a meeting, followed by a series of numbers.’ He brightened. ‘They were probably astrological observations, to do with the best time for practising love.’
‘You seem to have a very rosy view of Norbert’s love affairs,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh at the notion of the lazy, hedonistic Norbert engaging in anything as orderly as running his life according to the alignments of the celestial bodies. Godric, like many men who entered the priesthood young, had some very odd ideas about courtship.
‘You said these notes specified a meeting place,’ said Michael, ignoring the friar’s embarrassed reaction to Bartholomew’s observation. ‘Where was it?’
‘St Michael’s Church,’ replied Godric.
‘Our church?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Are you sure?’
Godric nodded. ‘I know Norbert spent his last night at the King’s Head, but it was Dympna’s call for love that sent him out in the first place. He went to meet her!’
Godric and the others could tell them no more about the mysterious Dympna, nor could they identify anyone in particular who wanted to harm Norbert, so Bartholomew and Michael made their farewells and walked back to Michaelhouse. As soon as they opened the gate they saw Bartholomew’s slight, dark-featured book-bearer picking his way across the yard towards them. The yard’s rutted, potholed surface was a danger at the best of times, but it was worse when snow camouflaged its hazards. Cynric gave a nervous grin as he approached, and Bartholomew felt a wave of apprehension that the normally nonchalant Welshman was so clearly uneasy.
‘It is cold today,’ said Cynric, glancing up at the heavy-bellied clouds above. ‘It will snow again tonight.’
‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew. Cynric never wasted time with idle chatter about the weather. ‘Is my sister unwell?’
‘No, but I have a message from her,’ replied Cynric. ‘Well, not her. From her husband, Oswald Stanmore. You know that I am married to his seamstress, and that my wife and I have a room at his business premises on Milne Street. He asked me to come here to see you.’
‘You are gabbling, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, becoming alarmed. His book-bearer was never garrulous, and certainly did not normally waste breath telling people things they already knew, such as the names of their own brothers-inlaw and their servants’ domestic arrangements.
‘Sir Oswald has an unexpected guest,’ said Cynric. ‘A woman. Well, a woman and two men, actually. They arrived in Cambridge more than a week ago, but Mistress Stanmore only met them yesterday. They asked her to recommend a decent tavern, because they had been staying at the King’s Head, but one of the gentlemen found it was not to his taste.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, wryly. ‘The King’s Head is no place for decent folk.’
‘Mistress Stanmore felt obliged to invite them to stay with her,’ Cynric continued nervously. ‘She said it would have been rude not to, because the best inns are full at this time of year.’
‘Who are these folk?’ asked Michael, amused by Cynric’s rambling. ‘Joseph and Mary?’
‘I do not think the lady is pregnant,’ replied Cynric, quite seriously. ‘I could not tell under her cloak, but her husband is not a man who would turn a lady’s head.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although I suppose he must have turned hers at one point, or they would not have wed.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Cynric had started his Christmas celebrations early, and had been at the ale. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Sir Walter Turke,’ said Cynric. ‘I do not believe that you have met.’
The name meant nothing to Bartholomew. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked.
‘You knew Turke’s wife during the pestilence,’ replied Cynric uneasily. ‘She had the disease, but survived.’
‘There were not many of those,’ said Michael, unnecessarily unkind. ‘This woman should come leaping to your mind.’
But she did not, and Bartholomew gazed blankly at Cynric, searching the half-forgotten faces in his memory for a woman who had married a fellow called Turke. He tended to suppress thoughts of those black, dismal days, when his painstakingly acquired skills and experience were useless in the face of the wave of sickness that swamped most of the civilised world, and nothing came to him.
‘Actually,’ said Cynric, speaking reluctantly when he saw Bartholomew was not going to guess who he meant. ‘You were betrothed to her yourself. But after the Death, she went to London and wed Sir Walter Turke instead. Her name was Philippa Abigny.’
His message delivered, Cynric escaped to his other duties with obvious relief. A private man himself, he disliked witnessing the rawer emotions of others, and he had had no idea how the physician might react to the news. He need not have worried. Bartholomew did not react at all, too startled by the sudden incursion of his past into the present to know what he thought about the prospect of the beautiful Philippa Abigny touching his life again.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed Michael in astonishment, watching Cynric all but run in the direction of the kitchen before Bartholomew or Michael could question him further. ‘I did not think she would ever show her face here again. What she did to you was not right.’
‘You mean because she broke our betrothal to marry someone richer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows whether we could have been happy with each other?’
‘You can probably say that about most things,’ said Michael philosophically. ‘But she was wrong to abandon you so abruptly. You could have applied to the Pope to have her marriage annulled, you know. You would have been within your rights, given that your betrothal had been of several years’ duration.’