‘What adversity?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘First she lost her husband in the French wars, then her mother died. Incidentally, her mother was supposed to remarry, too. She was betrothed to that merchant you met yesterday – Kelby – but passed away before he could escort her to the altar.’
‘I would like to meet her daughter,’ said Michael, rather dreamily.
‘You do not have time,’ said Bartholomew, watching him uneasily. ‘First, you have a murder to solve, and secondly, you need to be fitted for your ceremonial robes. And then, as soon as you are properly installed at the cathedral, we are leaving. Remember?’
‘Are we?’ asked Suttone, relieved. ‘Good. I do not want to join the ranks of the dead: Aylmer, Flaxfleete and that wicked man who died during the plague – Canon Hodelston.’
‘I doubt those deaths are connected–’ began Bartholomew.
‘You can think what you like, but I know how I feel,’ said Suttone curtly. ‘And I feel like I want to leave. I shall introduce you to those ladies later, Brother. I see by the way your eyes are fixed on them that you are impressed by their piety.’
‘Oh, I am,’ agreed Michael. ‘Piety is a virtue very dear to my heart.’
By the time the service had been hollered, dawn was beginning to break. It was clear and blue, and the sun was just rising over the flat fields that lay to the east. Every roof was dusted with snow, and the long road that led arrow-straight towards the city was like a gleaming silver ribbon in the gathering light. As the temperature began to rise, a mist formed, and the cathedral sat above it, as though it was hovering. Bartholomew stood by the Gilbertines’ main gate and watched spellbound as the first sunbeams touched the yellow stone and set it afire.
‘It is like Ely,’ said Michael, coming to join him. ‘That floats above the morning fog, too.’
‘Yes, it does. Did you know that the central spire makes Lincoln’s cathedral the tallest building in the world? Yet it is so delicate, it looks as though it is made from lace. Stone lace.’
‘I hope you find Matilde soon, Matt,’ said Michael, beginning to walk to the refectory to break his fast. ‘I do not think I can stand many more of these coarse allusions, in which you compare lovely buildings to women’s under-clothes. Still, it is better than you prancing about with a sword, I suppose.’
He moved away, leaving the physician staring after him in astonishment.
The refectory was a large hall, with separate sections for each rank of inhabitant: Gilbertine brothers, Gilbertine sisters, hospital inmates, layfolk and guests. It was a hive of activity, and almost as noisy as the chapel. Voices were raised in conversation, pots clattered and there was frequent ringing laughter. Servants scurried here and there, carrying buckets of oatmeal and baskets of bread; although it was plain fare, it was plentiful and wholesome.
‘Did you enjoy prime?’ asked Simon, coming to sit next to them. His voice was low and difficult to catch. ‘When I was vicar at Holy Cross, I always came here for the dawn devotions, because I find the ceremony so uplifting. It is good to start the day by praising God with all one’s heart.’
‘You should consider praising Him a little more quietly tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You are so hoarse that you can barely speak.’
Simon regarded him askance. ‘God gave me speech to extol His name, so that is what I shall do with it. It will recover after a cup of breakfast ale – it always does. You might want to try it yourself.’
‘The breakfast ale?’
‘Some heartfelt worship. I saw you skulking in the shadows, muttering the psalm as though you were afraid of speaking the words aloud. Brother Michael was no better.’
‘He is right,’ said Hamo, coming to ensure his guests had enough to eat. ‘The Bible should be shouted to the skies, not whispered at the floor. I suggest you return to the chapel after breakfast and practise a few alleluias. I will come with you, and offer some advice.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew when he left. ‘The entire town is insane.’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘I do not hold with undisciplined piety, either, but it does not mean I condone that sort of language in a convent.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From now on, I shall swear only on unhallowed ground.’
Michael glared at him, not sure whether he was being mocked. ‘Well, just make sure you do.’
Once the food was on the tables, a tremendous rattling ensued when Whatton waved the wooden clappers in the air, and the hubbub of voices died away. The prior, a tall man with a large head, stood and began to intone grace in a voice loud enough to be heard by even the deafest diner. Then he sat, took a spoon in one hand and gestured with the other that his brethren could commence eating.
‘He likes to maintain silence during meals,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘They do not mind guests talking, though, as long as they are not too noisy.’
‘It is better just to eat,’ said Simon, grabbing a pan and helping himself to more of its contents than was considerate. ‘They do not take long over meals, and he who chatters goes hungry.’
Michael needed no further warning, and bent his head to the task in hand, managing to put away a monstrous amount before the prior said the final grace. He seized a piece of smoked pork as the platters were being cleared away, and slapped it in the physician’s hand.
‘It is cold outside, and we have a lot to do today,’ he said. ‘You cannot wander about on an empty stomach, because if you faint, I have no time to help you revive.’
Bartholomew smiled. It was a ritual they went through most days, ever since Michael had declared him under-nourished after his return from France. He was touched by the concern, but was also aware that the monk’s idea of thin was rather different from his own. He tore the meat in half, and they shared it as they left the refectory. They had not gone far before Suttone called them back.
‘I just went to pay my respects to Prior Roger de Bankesfeld, and he said he would like to see us in his solar,’ he said, rather breathlessly. ‘Now.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We can thank him for his hospitality, and inform him that we intend to stay with our own brethren for the rest of our sojourn in Lincoln. The Benedictines will find a corner for us somewhere. I certainly do not want to join the murdered Aylmer in the charnel house by lingering here.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew and Michael followed Suttone across the yard and entered the house that comprised the prior’s lodgings. In the half-dark of the previous afternoon, when they had arrived, Bartholomew had imagined it to be a handsome building, but daylight showed that it, like the rest of the convent, was in sore need of repair. Its roof was all but invisible under a cushion of snow, but the shape indicated it was sagging, and its walls were stained with lichen. Stones were missing from the chimney, and the thick white smoke that billowed out suggested a fire had only just been lit – an early-morning blaze was a luxury the prior did not permit himself. Hamo was waiting to escort them up the stairs to a solar that was pleasant despite its cracked plaster and uneven floorboards.
‘Here are the Cambridge men, Father,’ said Hamo, prodding Bartholomew when he was slow to follow the others inside – the physician was trying to finish the pork, not being as adept as Michael at devouring lumps of meat at speed. ‘Michael de Causton, Thomas Suttone and Matthew–’
‘Suttone,’ pounced the prior. ‘Kin to the great Lincoln Suttones. Hamo says you and he may share common ancestors, and he is distantly related to Bishop Oliver Suttone.’
‘Oliver was my grandfather,’ replied Suttone proudly. ‘I have a cousin who has invited me–’