There was a murmur of consternation, as the others saw membership of the choir and complimentary medical care flash before their eyes. They backed away, aiming to put some distance between themselves and the gruff sergeant, but Orwel barked at them to stand fast.
‘But Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew cannot be spies,’ protested Verious, distraught. ‘If they were, they would be slinking about on tiptoe.’
Bartholomew struggled not to laugh at this piece of logic.
‘Sir Leger said to stop all scholars from leaving town,’ Orwel persisted, although only after he had given Verious’s remark serious consideration. ‘Or have you forgotten that one of them murdered poor Wyse?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Verious. ‘But these two did not do it. The culprit will be some foreigner – a man from King’s Hall or Bene’t College, which are full of aliens.’
‘Sir Leger gave us our orders,’ stated Orwel stubbornly. ‘So we must follow them.’
‘Sir Leger this, Sir Leger that,’ mocked Michael. ‘Can no one here think for himself?’
‘Sir Leger recommended that we stay away from doing that, so he can do it for us,’ replied Verious, quite seriously. ‘We are all relieved, as thinking for ourselves has led to a lot of trouble in the past.’
This time, Bartholomew did laugh, although Michael failed to see the funny side.
‘Stand aside before you make me angry,’ he snapped. ‘Matt and I need to visit the nuns. And do not smirk like that, Verious. Our intentions are perfectly honourable.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Verious, and winked.
‘When the King calls us to arms, I shall be first over the Channel,’ confided Sauvage, somewhat out of the blue. ‘Then I shall avenge Winchelsea by slaughtering entire villages.’
‘“Entire villages” were not responsible for Winchelsea,’ argued Michael impatiently. ‘That was a small faction of the Dauphin’s–’
‘Every Frenchman applauds what was done,’ interrupted Orwel fiercely. ‘So they all deserve to die. Now are you two going to piss off, or must we arrest you?’
‘Arrest Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew?’ cried Sauvage, horrified. ‘You cannot do that! They will tell the Sheriff and he will be furious with us – they are his friends.’
‘Besides, you will die if you try to take Doctor Bartholomew somewhere he does not want to go,’ added Verious. ‘He fought at Poitiers, where Cynric said he dispatched more of the enemy than you can shake a stick at. And look at my nose. You see where it is broken? Well, he did that. I tell you, he is lethal!’
Verious and Bartholomew had once come to blows, although it had been more luck than skill that had seen the physician emerge the victor. He was about to say so, disliking the notion that he should own such a deadly reputation, when Orwel stepped aside.
‘I did not realise you were a veteran of Poitiers,’ he said obsequiously. ‘You may pass.’
‘Will I be allowed back in again?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Orwel nodded. ‘And if this lot give you any trouble, send for me. I was at Poitiers, too, so we are comrades-in-arms. Those always stick together, as you know.’
‘He does know,’ said Michael, sailing past. ‘But he does not countenance insolence or stupidity, so you might want to watch yourself in future.’
St Radegund’s Priory was a sizeable foundation, far larger than was necessary for the dozen or so nuns who lived there. However, even the spacious refectory, massive dormitory and substantial guest quarters were not large enough to accommodate all the conloquium delegates, especially now that the twenty from the Spital and the ten from the Gilbertine Priory had joined them. Most bore the discomfort with stoic good humour, although a few complained. Needless to say, Sister Alice was among the latter.
‘I had to reprimand her,’ said Prioress Joan, who was basking in the adulation of her colleagues for a thought-provoking presentation entitled Latrine Waste and Management. ‘Her moaning was beginning to cause friction.’
She looked larger and more horse-like than ever that day, towering over her sisters like a giant, but there was a rosy glow about her, and she radiated vitality and robust good health.
‘Joan was the only one brave enough to do it,’ put in Magistra Katherine, the inevitable smirk playing around her lips. ‘Everyone else is afraid of annoying Alice, lest the woman turns her malevolent attentions on them.’
‘No one wants to suffer what I have endured at her hands since we arrived,’ elaborated Abbess Isabel, whose white habit positively glowed among all the black ones. ‘But Prioress Joan took the bull by the horns, and Alice has been quiet ever since.’
‘Well, something had to be done,’ shrugged Joan, clearly pleased by the praise. ‘I told her to bathe, too, because if I have to watch her claw at herself like a horse with fleas for one more day …’
Even the thought of it made some nuns begin scratching, and Bartholomew watched in amusement as Michael did likewise. Others joined in, until there were upwards of twenty Benedictines busily plying their nails. Then the monk asked if there was anything he could do to make their stay more pleasant, and the scratching stopped as minds turned to less itchy matters.
‘I will survive a few cramped nights, but poor Dusty may not,’ declared Joan, fixing Michael with a reproachful eye. ‘You said he could have the old bakery, but the moment I finished cleaning it out, the nuns from Cheshunt dashed in, claiming they would rather share with him than with Alice. But he prefers to sleep alone, so shall I oust them or will you?’
‘Neither,’ said the monk, thinking fast. ‘I will take him to Michaelhouse. Cynric knows horses, so he will be well looked after there.’
Joan beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I was right about you, Brother! You are a good man. May I visit him whenever I please?’
Michael hesitated, uneasy with women wandering unsupervised in his domain. Then he glanced at Joan, and decided that it would be a deranged scholar indeed who considered her to be the lady of his dreams. He nodded, then changed the subject by asking about the dagger that had killed Paris, which she had half-recognised earlier.
‘I know it is familiar,’ she said with a grimace. ‘But the answer continues to elude me, even though I have been wracking my brain ever since. But I shall not give up. It will come to me eventually.’
‘Then let us hope it is sooner rather than later,’ said Michael, disappointed, and moved to another matter. ‘How is the conloquium going?’
‘Not well,’ sighed Abbess Isabel, although Bartholomew was sure that every other nun had been about to say the opposite. ‘We have made no meaningful policy decisions, despite the fact that I have been praying for some ever since I arrived. This is unusual, as God usually does exactly what I want.’
‘Oh, come, Isabel,’ chided Joan. ‘We have decided a great deal. For example, none of us will ever store onions in a damp place again, having heard Abbess Sibyl of Romsey wax lyrical on the subject.’
‘So there you are,’ drawled Katherine. ‘A decision that will impact every nun in our Order, made by us, here at St Radegund’s.’
Joan was oblivious to sarcasm. ‘And it is an important one! I use an onion poultice on Dusty’s hoofs, so it is imperative to ensure a year-round supply.’ She beamed. ‘And the conloquium has certainly made me count my blessings. I have listened to other prioresses list the problems they suffer with their flock, and mine are angels by comparison.’
Isabel sniffed. ‘Anyone would be an angel compared to Alice. She was on the verge of turning Ickleton into a brothel before I came along. Your brother should have done more than depose her, Magistra Katherine – he should have ordered her defrocked.’