‘However, when I woke this morning, someone had been in my room during the night,’ Richard went on. ‘There was a bowl of burnt feathers and garlic next to my bed, and the stench was unbelievable.’
Bartholomew smiled, knowing exactly who had been responsible for placing the foul-smelling substance near Richard, and why. The superstitious Cynric was following the Franciscans’ instructions for removing the curse of an unpleasant personality. The physician recalled that William had caught the mad Clippesby taking feathers from the College cockerel, doubtless at Cynric’s request.
‘I had a rotten night,’ complained Richard churlishly. He fiddled restlessly with something he had pulled from his pocket. Bartholomew saw it was a gold pendant, and wondered whether his nephew’s excesses now ran to jewellery.
‘It looked to me as if someone had been practising witchcraft,’ said Heytesbury, amused. ‘We all know that burned feathers are a common ingredient in spells.’
‘Cynric, probably,’ grumbled Richard. ‘He is Welsh, and so believes in that kind of thing. I expect he imagined he was protecting me from evil spirits. But, what with the stink of burning feathers, the bad wine in the Swan, and the Carmelites carousing across the road, I slept badly.’
‘The Carmelites?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘Lent is not over and they have recently buried a colleague. They have no cause for carousing.’
‘I hope it was not because they found Kyrkeby dead on their property,’ groaned Michael. ‘I thought we had averted a fight over that particular issue.’
‘Actually, I think they were just pleased that Kyrkeby is not to give the University Lecture,’ said Heytesbury wryly. ‘They were angry that he planned to talk in defence of nominalism, and were delighted to hear that the lecture will now revolve around life on Venus.’
‘Perhaps there are nominalists on Venus,’ suggested Richard. ‘Have you considered talking about what Venusian nominalists might believe? It would be a clever way to give a lecture on nominalism while still complying with the unreasonable demands imposed by Chancellor Tynkell.’
‘It would not,’ said Heytesbury sternly. ‘Such a tactic would be ungentlemanly, not to mention painfully transparent. And anyway, it would make a mockery of my beliefs. The realists would laugh at me if I claimed nominalism was followed on Venus.’
‘I still have that document ready,’ said Michael to Heytesbury, patting his scrip. ‘It seems to me that you do not like Cambridge, and I would hate to think that you felt obliged to linger here for my benefit.’
‘It has been quite an experience,’ said Heytesbury, leaning back in his chair and smiling enigmatically. ‘But I shall decide whether to sign this deed by the time I give my lecture. You are right: I do not like Cambridge, and I am beginning to miss the hallowed halls of Oxford with their atmosphere of learning and scholarship, and the stimulating presence of great minds.’
‘I see,’ said Michael icily. He opened his scrip and passed Heytesbury the document. ‘This is ready whenever you are. I can even provide you with a decent horse to speed you on your way.’
‘Just as long as it is not a large black one,’ said Heytesbury, taking the document as if he expected it to bite. ‘I would not want to be thrown off and break my neck.’
‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously.
Heytesbury folded the deed and placed it in his own scrip. ‘I shall read it myself, then ask Richard to assess it for loopholes. I must be sure that it does not harm Oxford.’
Michael pretended to be offended, although Bartholomew thought Heytesbury was acting with commendable common sense in securing the services of a lawyer. The monk stood and indicated that Timothy and Bartholomew should leave with him. ‘We must go to visit the good nuns of St Radegund’s Convent. There are questions to ask.’
‘Do not go there, Brother,’ advised Richard weakly. ‘Those are no nuns; they are sirens, who entice innocent men inside their walls. A chaste and inexperienced man like you will be easy prey.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Are you one of those men who visits the nuns when decent folk are sleeping?’
‘I know the occupants of St Radegund’s Convent,’ replied Richard evasively. ‘There have been rumours about the place ever since I was a boy.’
‘Do these rumours bear any resemblance to the truth?’ asked Heytesbury, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard weakly. ‘Beyond your wildest imaginings.’
Chapter 10
BARTHOLOMEW, MICHAEL AND TIMOTHY LEFT THE Cardinal’s Cap and set off in a dull drizzle of early afternoon towards St Radegund’s Convent. When Michael tapped on the door there was a sound of running footsteps, the grille on the gate was snapped open and Tysilia peered out.
‘Oh, it is you,’ she said to Michael, sounding pleased. ‘We always like visits from Dominicans and Franciscans.’
‘I am a Benedictine, not a Dominican,’ said Michael, offended. ‘You should be able to tell the difference; you wear the habit of a Benedictine novice yourself.’
Tysilia shook her head in evident impatience with herself. ‘Dame Martyn told me that I could always tell a Benedictine from a Dominican because Benedictines are fat. I must remember that!’
Bartholomew glanced at Michael and smiled.
‘I said I would punch the next man who called me fat,’ muttered Michael in reply. ‘And Tysilia is no man.’
‘She is not,’ agreed Timothy, not bothering to mask his distaste.
‘I keep forgetting that Black Monks and Black Friars are different,’ Tysilia went on cheerfully. ‘It is like White Friars are Carmelites and White Monks are cisterns. And Grey Friars, like him, are Franciscans.’ She beamed at Timothy in his damaged cloak.
‘Cistercians,’ corrected Michael. ‘And Timothy is no Franciscan; he is a Benedictine, like me.’
‘But he wears grey,’ Tysilia pointed out. ‘And grey equals Franciscans.’
It was clear to Bartholomew that Timothy had no time for the owner of the sultry eyes that peered through the grille, although he had plenty of compassion for the struggling Yolande de Blaston. ‘Enough!’ Timothy snapped. ‘We did not come here to bandy words with you, woman. Inform your Prioress that we are here to see her.’
‘Then I suppose you had better come in,’ said Tysilia with a pout. ‘I may be a while, because she is asleep and I will have to wake her up.’
‘It is cold out here,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands to warm them as a bitter wind laden with misty droplets of rain cut in from across the Fens. He did not comment that early afternoon was no time for a Prioress with a convent to run to be asleep. ‘I do not know why the founders of this convent chose to locate it in so wild a place.’
‘They put it here so that we would be removed from men,’ explained Tysilia brightly, opening the door to admit them. ‘Of course, that just means that men have a bit of a walk to get here…’ Her hands flew to her mouth in agitation. ‘Damn it all! I forgot. Eve Wasteneys told me I am not to admit anyone into Prioress Martyn’s presence without first telling her who it is. Would you mind leaving?’
‘You mean you want us to wait outside?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘Yes,’ said Tysilia.
‘But why can we not wait here?’ asked Michael, unwilling to leave the relative shelter of the convent walls to stand in the rain while Tysilia woke the Prioress from her slumbers.
‘Because Dame Martyn may not want to see you,’ said Tysilia with an impatient sigh at his stupidity. ‘And if she does not, I shall have to tell you that she is not here and refuse you permission to come in.’