‘It would not normally worry me,’ confided John, ‘but Michael’s nuns are a querulous horde, who never stop squabbling. I would never have agreed to take them had I known what they were like. All I can say is thank God I am a Gilbertine, not a Benedictine!’
Tulyet laughed. Then Michael and Bartholomew appeared, so he bade John farewell and set off towards the Spital with them. They had covered about half the distance when they met big Prioress Joan riding a spirited stallion. He and Michael admired her skill as she directed it over the treacherous, rock-hard ruts, although Bartholomew’s attention was fixed on the horse – it had an evil look in its eye and he did not want to end up on the wrong end of its teeth.
‘Here is a handsome beast,’ said Michael, approvingly. ‘The horse, I mean, not you, Abbess. Does he belong to your convent?’
‘Do you ask as the Bishop’s spy or as a man who appreciates decent horseflesh?’ said Joan, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Because if it is the former, then of course Dusty belongs to the convent. You know as well as I do that Benedictines are forbidden expensive possessions.’
‘Horses do not count,’ averred Michael, although Bartholomew was sure St Benedict would have begged to differ. ‘You call him Dusty? An unworthy name for such a fine creature.’
‘A grand one would raise alarms when we submit our accounts,’ explained Joan with a conspiratorial grin. ‘But no one questions hay for a nag called Dusty. Would you like to take him for a canter later? I do not usually lend him out, but I sense you could manage him.’
‘Are you sure he could bear the weight?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from the monk’s substantial girth to the horse’s slender legs.
‘Ignore him, Brother,’ said Joan, giving Bartholomew a haughty glare. ‘People accuse me of being too large for a woman, but they do not know what they are talking about. The truth is that I am normal, while everyone else is excessively petite.’
‘And I have unusually heavy bones, although few are intelligent enough to see it,’ said Michael, pleased to meet someone who thought like him. He eyed Bartholomew coolly. ‘Even my closest friend calls me plump, and has the effrontery to criticise my diet.’
‘Then that is just plain rude,’ said Joan, offended on his behalf. ‘A man’s victuals are his own affair, just as a woman’s size is hers.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Michael. ‘Shall we ride out together and discuss this vexing matter in more detail? I shall borrow something from King’s Hall – they have the best stables.’
Joan revealed her long teeth in a delighted smile. ‘After the conloquium, when I am not obliged to listen to my sisters whine about the difficulties involved in running a convent. In my opinion, if you have a problem, you solve it. You do not sit about and grumble like men.’
‘Problems like your priory’s chapel,’ mused Michael. ‘Part of it collapsed, so you rebuilt it with your own hands. Magistra Katherine told me.’
Joan blushed modestly. ‘She exaggerates – I had lots of help. Besides, I would much rather tile a roof than do the accounts. I thank God daily for His wisdom in sending Katherine to me, as she is an excellent administrator. I could not have asked for a better deputy.’
‘We are on our way to the Spital, to find out what happened to the Girard family,’ said Tulyet. ‘You were there when the fire started, so what can you tell us about it?’
‘Nothing, I am afraid. I was in the stables grooming Dusty at the time. Katherine was due to give a lecture in St Radegund’s, but when I saw the shed alight, I sent a message asking for it to be postponed, as it seemed inappropriate to jaunt off while our hosts struggled to avert a crisis. I spent most of the time calming the horses.’
‘Did you notice any visitors to the Spital yesterday?’ Tulyet asked. ‘I know Tangmer discourages them, but it is possible that someone sneaked in uninvited.’
‘Just Sister Alice, who will insist on paying court to us, even though we find her company tiresome. Moreover, I always want to scratch when she is around, because she claws constantly at herself. When she is with us, my nuns and I must look like dogs with fleas.’
‘So you saw nothing to help?’ Michael was beginning to be frustrated by the lack of reliable witnesses.
Joan grimaced. ‘I am sorry, Brother. All my attention was on the horses. Try asking my nuns – I have left them in the Spital to pray for the dead. I am the only Lyminster delegate who will attend the conloquium today, but only because I am scheduled to talk about plumbing. If it were any other day, I would join my sisters on their knees.’
They were nearly at the Spital when they were hailed by Cynric. The book-bearer carried a sword, and had one long Welsh hunting knife in his belt and another strapped to his thigh. He had also donned a boiled leather jerkin and a metal helmet.
‘These are what I wore at Poitiers,’ he reminded Bartholomew, who was eyeing them disapprovingly. ‘When you and me won that great victory.’
Four years before, he and Bartholomew had been in France, when bad timing had put them at the place where the Prince of Wales was about to challenge a much larger army. They had acquitted themselves adequately, but Cynric’s account had grown with each telling, and had reached the point where he and the physician had defeated the enemy with no help from anyone else. Bartholomew still had nightmares about the carnage, although Cynric professed to have enjoyed every moment and claimed he was proud to have been there.
‘Please take them off,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘They make you look as though you are spoiling for a fight.’
‘I have to wear them – Master Heltisle put me in charge of training scholars at the butts,’ argued Cynric. ‘And if I do not look the part, no one will do what I say. But never mind that – me and Margery have something to tell you.’
They had not noticed the woman at the side of the road. Margery Starre was a lady of indeterminate years, who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch. Normally, this would have seen her burned at the stake, but she offered a valuable service with her cures and charms, many of which worked, so the authorities turned a blind eye. Bartholomew was wary of her, as she believed that the Devil – with whom she claimed to be on friendly terms – had helped him to become a successful physician. He dreaded to imagine what would happen if she shared this conviction with his colleagues. Heltisle, for one, would certainly use it to harm him.
‘One of those Black Nuns came to me with a peculiar request,’ she began without preamble. ‘And I thought you should know about it.’
‘Not that,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Tell them about the Spital ghost – about it being the spirit of some hapless soul sacrificed by pagans.’
‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ said Margery obligingly. ‘A white spectre, which wobbled along the top of the wall, then disappeared into thin air.’
‘Clippesby saw it, too,’ put in Cynric. ‘I overheard him telling the hens about it this morning.’
‘It did not speak,’ Margery went on, ‘but I could tell it was a soul in torment.’
‘Could you?’ said Bartholomew curiously, although he knew he should not encourage her. ‘How?’
‘By its demeanour. And because it left trails of water on the wall – tears. The Spital should never have been built there, as it is the site of an ancient temple.’
‘How can you tell?’ demanded Bartholomew, sure she could not. The land on which the Spital was built was no different from its surroundings, and there was nothing to suggest it was special – no ditches, mounds, springs or unaccountable stones.