Bartholomew was used to prime being a peaceful, contemplative affair, where the hushed voices of priests echoed around an otherwise silent church, allowing those participating to reflect on the day that was about to begin. Things were different at the Gilbertine convent. The brethren began by marching in to take their places in the chancel, their prior rattling a pair of wooden clappers as he went. Bartholomew knew lepers sometimes wielded such devices, but he had never seen one employed by a religious community, and especially not that early in the morning. Then there was a peculiar whining sound, and a good deal of hissing. Suttone cried out in alarm, and Bartholomew started to reach for his dagger before remembering that he had left his weapons in the guest-hall, in deference to the general rule against bearing arms in churches.
‘It is the organ,’ whispered de Wetherset, although the Gilbertines’ stamping feet and the prior’s rattle meant he could have spoken at normal volume and not raised any eyebrows. ‘Surely you have encountered them in divine masses before?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ replied Suttone, resting a hand on his pounding heart. ‘Such objects are best left in taverns, where they belong. We have no organs in Cambridge, and nor shall we – especially not once I am Chancellor.’
Bartholomew edged to one side and saw a man operating something that looked like a large pair of bellows. There were more creaks and wails, then a tune of sorts began to emerge. The Gilbertines – men and women together – cleared their throats and stood a little taller. Then the psalm of the day was underway, the Chapel of St Katherine was suddenly awash with such vigorous noise that the physician could not hear himself when he coughed. Suttone leapt in shock at the abrupt cacophony, and Michael started to snigger. Overwhelmed by the volume, Bartholomew moved away, hoping the aisles would render the racket a little less painful. Michael followed, his large frame quaking with laughter.
‘What a row! I thought the Michaelhouse choir was bad enough, with its love of the crescendo, but it has nothing on these fellows. Anyone would think God and His angels were hard of hearing.’
‘They probably are, if they are obliged to listen to this day after day,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be good for the ears. Like the ribauld, it will make men deaf.’
‘Like the what?’
‘The ribauld – a weapon that propels missiles through long tubes by means of exploding powder. The Black Prince had several, and the noise was appalling. The men operating them came to me afterwards, because they could not hear. One never did recover.’
Michael tried to imagine what one looked like. ‘Were they very dangerous to the enemy?’
‘Not as dangerous as they were to us. They regularly blew up or burned people, and I never saw a missile hit a Frenchman. But they were terrifying to anyone who has never seen one. They spit fire and produce black smoke which, combined with the din, was enough to make some men – and not just the enemy, either – turn and run for their lives.’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is something innately distasteful about using exploding devices to harm another person, even the French. The very notion should be anathema to any decent soul.’
Bartholomew nodded, but his thoughts had returned to the noise the Gilbertines were making, and he was considering its implications for Aylmer’s murder. ‘Everyone is bellowing at the top of his lungs. And while Father Simon is one of the loudest, I am not sure he would be missed, were he to slink away and stab a man who sat admiring his possessions.’
‘You do not like Simon, then?’ asked Michael, arching his eyebrows in amusement. ‘There is an entire convent of suspects to choose from, and you pick holes in his alibi.’
‘Because no one else has offered us one yet,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘De Wetherset was cunningly cautious about his whereabouts. All he said was that the Gilbertines make a lot of noise at their offices, which is not the same thing as saying he was here when Aylmer was killed. But no, I cannot say I have taken to Simon. He thinks himself better than you, because he intends to be a residentiary canon, and you will have to be an absent one.’
‘Well, we will not have to put up with him for long. It is Thursday now, and we can be gone a week next Monday – the day after my installation.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘Will you not stay a little longer? It will not look decent to grab the Stall of South Scarle and make off with its prebend the very next morning.’
‘At least I came in person to collect it, which is more than can be said for most of my colleagues. When you were asleep last night, de Wetherset told me that of the forty canons currently in office, only ten have ever set foot in the cathedral. Some live so far away that they might even be dead, for all the contact the dean has with them. They all hire Vicars Choral to do their work.’
‘That is what you plan to do,’ said Bartholomew, not really seeing the difference.
‘But I have made arrangements to hire a local man, a fellow named John Tetford, which should please the dean. The foreign canons appoint their own deputies, and they are not always suitable.’
‘The dean must find it difficult to maintain order. He will need the support of his Chapter, but if most of his canons are abroad, then he will not have it.’
‘I expect that depends on the Vicars Choral. If they are good deputies, his job will be easy enough. My bishop tells me that Tetford will do all he is asked and more, and that he will make an excellent substitute. The dean will probably fare better with him than with me.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Bartholomew, earning himself an offended glare. ‘It is true, Brother. You would be plotting against the dean before the week is out, given your love of intrigue, and he would find himself with a rebellion on his hands, not to mention a rival for his position. He does not know how lucky he is that you are obliged to be in Cambridge. However, none of this tells me why you are so determined to leave Lincoln early.’
‘Aylmer’s murder,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘I do not like the timing of it, and I do not like the fact that he was Suttone’s Vicar Choral. Suttone is opinionated and annoying, but he is a colleague, and I do not want him stabbed while he gloats over his belongings. And nor do I want you in Lincoln when it is full of felons wanting absolution – not with your current penchant for wearing a sword. It looks as though you want a fight. Everything about our situation feels dangerous.’
‘There are the priory’s noblewomen,’ said Suttone, coming to join them before Bartholomew could comment. He pointed to the back of the nave, where the tall woman in the white habit stood with her head bowed as she listened to the Gilbertines’ singing. Her friend, the elderly nun, knelt next to her, holding a candle. Immediately, Michael’s eyes lit with interest, murder and unease forgotten.
‘I wonder if they would appreciate a philosophical exegesis of this particular psalm,’ he mused. ‘As a theologian, it is my duty to educate all who might benefit from my expertise.’
‘I would not think they need your intellectual skills, Brother,’ replied Suttone, apparently unaware of the predatory gleam in his colleague’s eye. ‘Hamo tells me that Dame Eleanor is quite a scholar herself, while Lady Christiana – the younger one – is a highly valued member of the convent.’
‘Because she pays well for the honour of being here?’ asked Bartholomew, who knew how such matters worked.
Wealthy ladies often spent time in religious foundations when their menfolk were not in a position to look after them, and it could be a lucrative arrangement for a priory.
‘I expect that is the main reason,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They say she is also upright, kind and popular with children. And Dame Eleanor, whom everyone reveres because she has devoted her entire life to Lincoln’s saints, thinks the world of her. Eleanor says Christiana is gracious in adversity.’