‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Saints are not, generally speaking.’
Abbess Isabel was a slender, sallow woman whose bright white habit made her appear ghostly. She emerged from the Gilbertines’ stable on a donkey, and Michael whispered that she was scheduled to speak on humility at the conloquium that day.
‘Hence her arrival on a simple beast of burden,’ he explained. ‘A practical demonstration of self-effacement. Of course, the fact that she feels compelled to show us how humble she is does smack of pride …’
Suddenly, the Abbess raised her pale eyes heavenwards in a rapt expression. Her black-robed retinue immediately grabbed the donkey’s bridle and formed a protective ring around her, to ensure that her communication with God was not interrupted.
‘We could be here a while,’ murmured Michael. ‘She goes into trances.’
‘Or perhaps it is a ruse to avoid her,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where another nun was coming from the opposite direction. ‘The deposed Alice, I presume?’
Alice was short and thin, and her beady black eyes held an expression of such fierce hatred that Bartholomew was sure she should never have been allowed to take holy orders. The malevolent glower intensified when she saw Isabel being pious. Then she began to scratch so frantically at her scalp that he suspected some bothersome skin complaint – perhaps one that rendered the sufferer unusually bad-tempered.
‘I was astonished when I learned that she was Ickleton’s sole delegate,’ whispered Michael. ‘I assumed she was still in disgrace.’
‘Perhaps her replacement wanted rid of her for a while,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Having a former superior under your command cannot be easy.’
‘Especially one like Alice, who is bitter and quarrelsome. Of course, Swaffham Bulbeck is not the only convent Alice has taken against. She has also declared war on Lyminster, because the Bishop’s sister lives there. Putting them in the Spital was another mistake on my part, as they invariably meet when they ride to St Radegund’s each morning. There have been scenes.’
Alice marched towards Michael, bristling with anger. ‘I have a complaint to make, Brother. That worldly Magistra Katherine spoke at the conloquium today, and she was so boring that I had to leave.’
‘You call Katherine worldly?’ blurted Michael. ‘After you were dismissed for–’
‘I made one or two small errors of judgement,’ interrupted Alice sharply. ‘And was then condemned by people who are far worse sinners than I could ever hope to be.’
‘Hope to be?’ echoed Bartholomew, amused.
Alice ignored him. ‘Katherine is like her brother – a hypocrite. How dare he dismiss me when he fled the country to escape charges of murder, theft, kidnapping and extortion!’
She had a point: the Bishop had indeed been accused of those crimes, and rather than stay and face the consequences, he had run to Avignon, to claim sanctuary with the Pope. Everyone knew he was guilty, so Bartholomew understood why Alice objected to being judged by him. Michael opened his mouth to defend the man whose shoes he hoped to fill one day, but Alice was already turning her vitriol on someone else she did not like.
‘And that Abbess Isabel is no saint,’ she hissed. ‘She is selfish and deceitful.’
Isabel was not about to hang around being holy while Alice denigrated her to the Bishop’s favourite monk. She barked an order that saw her nuns drop the donkey’s bridle and step aside. Then she rode forward to have her say.
‘You are a disgrace, Alice,’ she declared, her pale eyes cold and hard. ‘It is wrong to make light of your own crimes by pointing out the errors of others. There is no excuse for what you did.’
‘And you never make mistakes, of course,’ jeered Alice. ‘You are perfect in every way. How wonderful it must be to be you.’
‘She is perfect,’ declared one of Isabel’s nuns angrily. ‘Just ask the Pope. We are honoured to serve her, so keep your nasty remarks to yourself.’
‘Yesterday’s fire,’ interposed Michael quickly. ‘The arsonist almost certainly used the road outside to reach the Spital. Did any of you notice anything suspicious?’
‘No,’ replied Isabel shortly. ‘If we had, we would have told you already.’
‘I was not here,’ said Alice haughtily. ‘I was at the conloquium.’
‘But I prayed for the Girard family all night,’ Isabel went on, as if her enemy had not spoken, ‘which was not easy with Alice lurking behind me – I could feel her eyes burning into the back of my head. She will be bound for Hell unless she learns to replace malice with love.’
Alice bristled. ‘I was praying for the Girards, but you were praying for yourself – that your so-called piety will win you a place among the saints.’
‘While you are here, Brother,’ said another of the nuns frostily, ‘perhaps you will tell Sister Alice to keep her maggot-infested marchpanes to herself. She will deny sending them to the Abbess, but we all know the truth.’
‘Liar!’ snarled Alice. ‘I have better things to do than buy you lot presents.’
‘What time did you arrive at the conloquium, Alice?’ asked Michael, speaking quickly a second time to nip the burgeoning spat in the bud.
‘Not until the afternoon,’ admitted Alice. ‘Before that, I was in a town church, practising my own presentation, which is later this week.’
‘So you cannot prove where you were at the salient time?’ asked Isabel, raising her white eyebrows pointedly.
Alice bristled. ‘I sincerely hope you are not accusing me of setting this fire. Why would I do such a thing?’
‘To harm the ladies from Lyminster,’ replied another of Isabel’s retinue promptly. ‘You hate them almost as much as you hate us, and your enmity knows no bounds.’
‘And you, Isabel?’ asked Michael before Alice could defend herself. ‘Where were you?’
‘Praying,’ replied the Abbess serenely. ‘In St Botolph’s Church. All my sisters were with me, so none of us can help you identify your arsonist. Now I have a question for you, Brother: have you caught Paris the Plagiarist’s killer yet? I cannot forget the sight of his dead white face, and it disturbs me to think that his murderer might pass us in the street.’
‘He might,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And our best – perhaps our only – chance of catching him now is if you remember anything new.’
‘Then I shall tell God to jog my memory,’ said Isabel, and smiled. ‘So you will soon have the culprit under lock and key, because He always accedes to my demands.’
‘That shows you are no saint,’ spat Alice at once. ‘No one makes demands of God.’
Isabel’s entourage took exception to this remark. A furious quarrel ensued, and this time, not even Michael could quell it.
Bartholomew backed away, pulling the monk with him. ‘You are brave to have anything to do with this conloquium, Brother,’ he murmured, ‘if these delegates are anything to go by.’
‘Fortunately, they are not,’ said Michael with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Shall we see if Dick is ready for the Spital?’
Tulyet had trailed his knights and their followers to the castle, and was confident that they were all condemned to an unpleasant afternoon wrestling each other in the dusty bailey. He hurried back to the Trumpington road, where he found Bartholomew and Michael still busy with the nuns. While he waited for them to finish, he discussed the town’s unsettled atmosphere with Prior John, who was worried that it might spread to infect his peaceful convent.