‘I approve of the two friars and the pauper.’ Spalling flapped a hand towards William, Clippesby and Bartholomew, who looked down at his clothes and supposed he could do with some new ones. ‘But not the fat Benedictine. I despise that Order with a passion. Ask anyone in Peterborough.’
‘Brother Michael is our College’s finest theologian,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘And–’
‘Other than me,’ put in William.
‘And he also runs the University. Do not let his ample girth deceive you. He eats very little, and his weight is entirely due to his unusually heavy bones. Here is his personal physician, who will support what I say.’
‘Very heavy,’ obliged Bartholomew, aware that the only reason Langelee considered Michael’s appetite modest was because he possessed a gargantuan one of his own. Michael was glowering at him, so he added, ‘Lead has nothing on them.’
‘Well, in that case, perhaps I shall make an exception,’ said Spalling graciously. ‘The plump devils in this abbey do nothing but eat, and it is the poor who labour to keep them in bread. Do not glare at me, Botilbrig. You know I am right. They almost worked you into an early grave before I intervened and ordered them to make you a bedesman.’
‘They would have let me retire anyway,’ objected Botilbrig. ‘It was just a question of time. And not all the monks are fat. Brother Henry is skin and bone, while–’
‘You will stay with me,’ said Spalling to Langelee, although it was more order than invitation, and judging from the Master’s face, not one he was keen to follow. ‘I want to hear more about this University of yours. The physician can come, too, because his clothes reveal him to be impoverished, and the needy are always welcome in my home.’
‘The physician will stay with me in the abbey,’ stated Michael. ‘You can take the Franciscan, though. He is poor, as you can see from his habit.’
‘His habit denotes filth, not destitution,’ countered Spalling with commendable astuteness. ‘But I cannot stand here arguing all day. I am a busy man – I have a wealthy merchant to berate for his miserliness before dinner, and I aim to shame him into donating enough money for a handsome meal for my faithful followers. So come along, those who wish to see me in action.’
Langelee considered for a moment, then turned to his Fellows. ‘I think I will go with him. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty, and if he really can persuade rich men to part with their gold I should like to learn his secret. Come with me, Cynric. Your sword will not be needed in the monastery, but it may be useful at Spalling’s house.’
Cynric looked pleased with the opportunity to spend more time with a man who harboured radical opinions, and he and Langelee joined the straggling line of disciples who followed their golden-headed leader. Michael watched them go.
‘I wonder the abbey lets him roam about, spouting that sort of nonsense to visitors.’
‘The monks are not happy, and even excommunicated him at one point,’ explained Botilbrig. ‘But Bishop Gynewell overturned their verdict, on the grounds that it was too harsh.’
‘We had better make ourselves known to whoever is in charge before we miss dinner,’ said Michael, pushing Spalling from his mind as he turned towards the Abbey Gate. ‘Langelee is right: I eat very little, but I feel the need for a morsel now. That man upset me.’
‘Ignore him, Brother,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘He may dress like a peasant, but he does not work like one. His hands were as soft as a lady’s, and he had spilled egg custard down his tunic – hardly paupers’ fare. I sense a good deal of the hypocrite in Spalling.’
‘We shall visit the abbey as soon as we have said our prayers,’ said Clippesby, indicating the hospital. ‘And if we miss dinner, then so be it.’
Michael looked set to argue, but William and Clippesby were striding towards the door, so he had no choice but to do likewise, unless he wanted to be seen as the cleric who put victuals before his devotions. And after Spalling’s remarks he was disinclined to do that.
The hospital chapel was a small, neat building, with a frieze in a panel above the gate depicting the murder of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral. It had narrow windows with pointed tops and a thatched roof. Inside, it was dark, especially after the brilliance of the sunlight, and its walls were painted in sombre greens and blues, rendering it gloomy. Bedesman Botilbrig pointedly declined to follow, and confined himself to standing in the porch, muttering disparaging comments about the women who ran it.
For a modestly sized place, it was amply provided with doors – the large one that opened on to the market square, a smaller one that gave access to the abbey, and two tiny ones in the north wall. The first of these led to the adjoining hospital, while the other led to a graveyard – a necessity when inmates were likely to be ailing or elderly.
Bartholomew said a few quick prayers and then prowled, leaving his colleagues to manage the serious devotions. He could not recall being in St Thomas’s before, and supposed it had not featured in his youthful explorations. It was surprisingly busy, with one clot of pilgrims at the altar, where Michael, William and Clippesby were obliged to jostle for a place, and a second cluster bustling in and out of the cemetery door.
Curious as to why a graveyard should be so popular, Bartholomew eased his way through the penitents until he emerged in a pretty walled garden with gravelled paths. There were perhaps forty mounds, some recent, but most marked with wooden crosses that were grey and cracked with age. People were congregating around one near the wall, which was all but invisible under a heap of flowers. Supervising the operation was a vast lady in the robes of a lay sister. She saw him hovering and came to greet him.
‘This is where Lawrence de Oxforde is buried,’ she announced. ‘Have you come to see if he will work a miracle for you? He has performed many since his death forty-five years ago.’
Bartholomew was bemused as memories flooded back. ‘I remember some folk claiming that wishes had been granted at his grave, but I thought his cult had been suppressed, on the grounds that the Church dislikes executed felons being venerated.’
‘It was suppressed, but Abbot Robert turns a blind eye,’ confided the woman. ‘Of course, I understand why the Church disapproves – Oxforde was a violent thief. Yet miracles do occur here, and it is not for the likes of you and me to question the mysterious workings of God.’
‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bartholomew cautiously, recalling what he had been told about the infamous Oxforde when he had been a schoolboy. The man had been a ruthless criminal with an inflated sense of his own worth, who had died astonished that the King had not granted him a pardon. He had murdered at least twenty people, including children, and had burgled himself a fortune, although none of it had ever been recovered.
‘Kneel at his grave and ask for anything you like,’ invited the woman. ‘Being a felon himself, he is very broad-minded. And when you have finished, you may leave your donation with me – Joan Sylle.’
‘I have nothing to ask, Sister,’ said Bartholomew, backing away.
‘Oh, come,’ coaxed Joan. ‘Surely you yearn for something? Perhaps there is a woman you would like to fall into your arms? That is exactly the kind of favour Oxforde grants.’
Bartholomew’s retreat stopped abruptly when two faces flashed into his mind. One was Julitta’s and the other belonged to Matilde. It had been more than three years since Matilde had left Cambridge, disappearing so completely that not even months of determined searching had tracked her down. He would not mind either of them falling into his arms.
‘I have just learned that this chapel owns some genuine relics, Matthew,’ came William’s excited voice from behind him. Bartholomew supposed he should be grateful for the timely interruption, sure his colleagues would not approve of him petitioning an executed criminal to help with his unsatisfactory love life.