‘Do not think of staying elsewhere,’ said the prior firmly. ‘You are welcome here. The Suttones are a respected family, and it is a privilege to have one under my roof for a few weeks. And I intend to make Hamo our Brother Hospitaller today, too, so the Suttones will know I favour them and their kin. He will be a vast improvement on Fat William, God rest his soul, because he does not eat as much.’
Hamo’s moist lips split in a startled grin, while Bartholomew thought Michael would have to curb his appetite if he did not want to be tarred with the same brush. ‘Thank you, Father,’ stammered Hamo. ‘You will not regret it, I promise, and–’
‘I am sure you will be assiduous,’ said Roger. He sighed. ‘Well, pour us some almond milk, then, man! You are already slacking in your duties.’
Bartholomew studied Roger de Bankesfeld properly for the first time, as the man had been too far away in the chapel and at breakfast. Bartholomew was tall, but the prior was taller – although a good deal thinner – so the overall effect was spindly. He had huge hands with bony knuckles, and big yellow teeth that gave his head a skull-like appearance. He reminded Bartholomew of the grotesque tombs he had seen in southern France, where the sculptors had been overly obsessed with death.
‘We plan to stay only a few days, and–’ began Suttone.
‘It is an honour to receive you,’ said Prior Roger with a grin that did nothing to dispel the skeletal image. ‘Fortunately, there was something of an exodus after Aylmer’s murder yesterday, so we were not obliged to order people to evacuate the best room for you.’
‘That is very kind,’ said Suttone, swallowing uneasily. ‘But there would have been no need for–’
‘I said it is an honour to receive you,’ interrupted Roger with some annoyance. ‘And I meant it. Just because we are on the outskirts of the city, and we are a bit short of funds, does not mean we are less hospitable than the other Orders. Well, I accept that the Dominicans are conveniently close to the Bishop’s Palace, and the Franciscans have that lovely new guest-hall, but that is all irrelevant. We are very pleased you chose us, when you could have gone elsewhere.’
‘The honour is ours,’ said Michael graciously. ‘However, I am a Benedictine and my brethren will expect me to–’
‘You will not want to reside with them,’ declared Roger. ‘They are deeply in debt, and their guests nearly always go hungry. You do not look like a man who likes to go hungry, Brother.’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Michael. ‘But–’
‘And the Carmelite Friary has its drawbacks, too,’ Roger went on, addressing Suttone. ‘It is too near the river and stinks to high heaven. We are upstream, so do not suffer such miseries.’
From the artful way he spoke, Bartholomew wondered whether the stench that afflicted the White Friars was because of something the Gilbertines did.
‘I do not mind a little–’ began Suttone.
‘And they have a rat problem,’ added Roger.
‘That is not as unnerving as a murder problem,’ Michael managed to interject.
Roger waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is the first time we have ever lost a visitor to a killer’s blade, although the other convents have had deaths galore. You are better off here, gentlemen. As I said, we are always pleased to have canons-elect sharing our humble abode.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the glint in his eye that he would go elsewhere if he wanted. ‘Not everyone has been so eager to accommodate us during our long and arduous voyage from Cambridge.’
‘Not everyone knows how much canons are paid,’ Bartholomew was sure he heard Roger mutter. The prior cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. ‘I promise you shall have the best of everything.’
‘You will,’ agreed Hamo. ‘And if another convent offers you something we do not have, tell me what it is and I will get it for you. I intend to make your stay as comfortable as possible.’ He glanced at his prior, to see if he was being sufficiently obsequious.
‘It is our duty to God,’ said Roger. He crossed himself. ‘Praise His holy name. Alleluia!’
‘Alleluia!’ shouted Hamo in reply, raising his hands in the air and gazing at the ceiling.
Suttone nudged Bartholomew with his elbow when he became aware that the physician was more amused than religiously inspired by the demonstration, and then did the same to Michael. ‘Behave yourselves!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘They will think us godless heathens if you stand there chortling at their heartfelt expressions of reverence, and they may tell Bishop Gynewell. We do not want to be ejected from our stalls before we have claimed the money that goes with them.’
‘You are the godless heathen, if you are only interested in the post for its stipend,’ Bartholomew shot back.
‘There she is again!’ breathed Michael, gazing out of the window when he spotted a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He moved to one side for a better view.
‘Lady Christiana and–’
‘And Dame Eleanor,’ said Roger, coming to stand next to him. ‘We are fortunate to have them in our convent. Dame Eleanor is little short of a saint, and her devotion to St Hugh is legendary. She also prays for Queen Eleanor, whose funeral cross stands outside our gate. God rest her soul.’
‘Amen,’ chorused Hamo.
‘We saw that,’ said Suttone. ‘It is a–’
‘The King is grateful to Dame Eleanor for her care of his grandmother’s soul,’ said Roger. ‘And it is always good to have a king pleased with one of your residents. You should engage Eleanor in a discussion about theology, Brother. You will find her sharp-minded and erudite.’
‘And Lady Christiana?’ asked Michael. ‘Will she benefit from a theological debate, too?’
Roger glanced sharply at him, but answered anyway. ‘She lost her husband in the French wars, and the King asked us to look after her until she recovers from the shock. The maintenance he pays for her keep is invaluable, and Dame Eleanor has grown fond of her. They are often together.’
‘There is a lot of traffic on the road outside,’ observed Suttone, not particularly interested in the convent’s females. ‘I have counted six carts in the last–’
‘They are gathering for Miller’s Market,’ said Roger, his face darkening with disapproval. ‘Wagons have been pouring into the city all week, and the event is not due to start for another ten days. Lincoln is bursting at the seams, but still they come.’
‘Very few fairs take place in winter,’ said Suttone. ‘It must be–’
‘I doubt God approves,’ Roger went on. ‘Some will claim Miller is a good man for his generosity, but he did not start his fair out of the kindness of his heart. He did it out of spite.’
‘The poor probably do not mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will prefer a festival to a–’
‘So, we shall have to make sure our singing seduces them away from their pagan diversions,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘A few alleluias will bring them back to their senses.’
‘I warned you,’ Suttone whispered fiercely to his colleagues, when the prior raised his hands towards the rafters and began to sing in a booming voice; Hamo joined in. ‘If you cannot refrain from sniggering, you should leave before he hears you. Say you are unwell.’
Bartholomew was halfway to the door when there was a thundering knock that startled the prior into a blessed silence.
‘Who is that?’ asked Roger, as if the Michaelhouse men should know. ‘I said we were to be left in peace as long as important visitors were with me – and a pair of canons-elect, one of whom is kin to the Suttones, qualify as the most important guests we have had in years.’
The door flew open before Hamo could reach it, and a tiny man bounced inside. He barely reached Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his head was covered in a thick mop of wiry curls, some of which twisted into points at the side of his head and gave the uncanny appearance of horns. His ears were large and round, and when he smiled he revealed several missing teeth. He wore the simple robes of a Dominican, although the purple ring on his finger showed he was one who held an elevated position in the Church.