‘Henry is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew, tired of Michael’s irrational dislike of his old classmate.
‘So you keep saying.’
Yvo cut through the babble of conversation in the refectory by clapping his hands. There was immediate silence, although Bartholomew sensed it was more from eager anticipation than obedience. The Prior stood on the dais and beamed, eyebrows waving genially.
‘Welcome to Entertainment Night. We shall dedicate tonight’s proceedings to Welbyrn, who will certainly be looking down on us from Heaven.’
A number of monks glanced upwards at this claim, their uncomfortable expressions suggesting that their enjoyment of the occasion had just been curtailed.
‘Most of you know what to expect,’ Yvo went on. ‘But for the benefit of our guests, the evening works as follows: there will be ten different acts, after which the audience will vote for the one it liked best. The winner will receive a carp.’
‘A carp,’ murmured Michael, green eyes dancing with amusement. ‘The stakes are high, then.’
‘We shall dispense with the serious stuff first,’ Yvo proclaimed. ‘So let us have your poem, Henry.’
Henry’s piece was a prayer, beautiful in its simplicity, and the gathering was more sober after hearing it. Appletre was in tears again, and when he was asked for his own contribution, it took three false starts and a lot of throat-clearing before he was able to sing. But when he did, his poignant Lacrimosa had more than one listener dabbing at his eyes.
Hagar was next. She marched towards the dais with Marion and Elene at her heels, and announced defiantly that their act was for Joan, not Welbyrn. They each produced three coloured wooden balls, and began to juggle. The performance started simply enough, but worked up to a finale that was an impressive blur of flying orbs. The other bedeswomen whooped and applauded when it was finished, as did many monks, although the gentlemen of St Leonard’s Hospital remained pointedly silent.
Lullington recited a lively French poem about fighting a dragon, accompanied by cuts and thrusts from an imaginary sword, which revealed that he would have no idea how to use a real one. Bartholomew glanced around for Cynric, knowing he would be laughing, before realising with a pang that the book-bearer was off fomenting rebellion with Spalling. The knight made no reference to dedicating his performance to his wife, although he nodded testy agreement when Trentham surged to his feet and did it for him.
The cellarer was next, with some tediously uninspired strumming on a rebec. When he announced that he was only halfway through his repertoire, and had plenty more with which to thrill his audience, Yvo strode on to the dais and confiscated the instrument. Everyone roared their approval, but Nonton shot the Prior a look of such glowering hatred that the cheering trailed away to an uncomfortable murmur.
Ramseye’s contribution was an impression of the Pope, complete with thick French accent and a bizarre interpretation of his monastic reforms that had the brothers howling appreciative laughter, although most of the allusions passed over Bartholomew’s head.
‘That was very clever,’ said Michael, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘He caught the fellow perfectly. I am voting for him.’
Then there was a break, during which Nonton served mulled ale. He spilled some in Yvo’s lap, and his expression was gleefully vindictive when the hot liquid caused the Prior to screech. He provided a separate jug for the Michaelhouse men, murmuring that it was better quality than that provided for the rabble. Bartholomew took it outside and discreetly emptied it down the nearest drain.
He returned to find that Kirwell’s litter had been moved to the door, because the old man had expressed a desire for some fresh air.
‘How much longer?’ he whispered when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Abbot Robert promised faithfully that I would die if I gave him Oxforde’s prayer, so why am I still here?’
‘Do you remember any of this prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, more to prevent another request for a nudge towards the grave than because he was interested.
Kirwell glared peevishly at him. ‘I only heard it once, and that was forty-five years ago. So no, I cannot recall the words.’
‘Presumably, that is why he wrote them down – to remind you.’
‘Yes, but my eyes were dim, even then. You had better take your seat now, because Inges is on next and you do not want to be standing up when he starts. You might topple over with the shock of it. I did, when he treated me to a preview.’
‘What do you mean?’
The old man gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You will see.’
Inges’s contribution was a startling and very energetic pas seul in the style of a Turkish dancer. Bartholomew laughed heartily, but glares from Botilbrig and his cronies made him realise it was not meant to be funny. William gaped at the spectacle, while Clippesby closed his eyes and began whispering to the cat he had managed to smuggle in.
‘Are we permitted to vote for ingenuity?’ Michael whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Because I have never seen anything quite like that.’
Two more acts followed, culminating with Yvo, who had saved himself for last, clearly in the belief that he would win more votes by being the most recent. It was a tactical error, for his singing comprised an off-key dirge that was wholly unrecognisable as Tunsted’s Gloria; he might have done better if the audience had been given a chance to forget that a sizeable part of it had been painful to the ears.
The ballot was taken, with Nonton scowling at some monks until they raised their hands and Yvo doing likewise. Ramseye did not resort to such tactics, although Bartholomew had noticed him moving among the audience when the wine was being served, smiling at those he considered worth wooing. However, many resisted the obedientiaries’ efforts and voted for Inges, who won by a narrow margin, much to his competitors’ disgust.
‘If this shameful bullying happens at the election on Thursday,’ said Michael, watching in distaste, ‘then Gynewell will appoint me for certain, just to restore peace and unity.’
‘That might be beyond even your abilities, Brother,’ said Bartholomew.
Chapter 10
Although dawn the next day was clear and blue, clouds were massing in the south-west, and a stiff wind indicated that it would not be long before rain swept across the countryside. Bartholomew regarded Michael with a distinct lack of enthusiasm when the monk suggested it was time they interviewed Aurifabro’s household in Torpe.
‘We have today and a few hours tomorrow before we must leave,’ said Michael. ‘This villain is not going to be the first killer to best me, and it would be a pity for my abbacy to begin with a sinister mystery surrounding the fate of my predecessor. Besides, Aurifabro virtually invited you.’
‘Yes, and he followed it by saying it would be safer and wiser to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved. If it was an invitation, it was one cloaked in menace.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Michael. Then he relented. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We have questioned everyone in the abbey, plus a huge number of townsfolk, but answers have been in frustratingly short supply. Aurifabro’s servants are our last hope.’
Bartholomew made no reply, because Michael was right.
‘If you must go, then William and I will escort you,’ offered Clippesby. ‘There is a huge discrepancy in the quality of the defensores, and the ones Nonton plans to lend you today are hefty men who look mean, but who barely know one end of a weapon from another.’