‘Good morning, Roger,’ he piped cheerfully. ‘It is only me.’
‘My Lord Bishop,’ said Roger with a courtly bow.
Bishop Gynewell skipped across the chamber and presented his episcopal ring for Roger to kiss. He barely reached the Gilbertine’s chest, and the tall prior was obliged to bend absurdly low to reach the proffered bauble. The prelate had not come alone, and was accompanied by a handsome young priest who was weighed down with parchment, scrolls and writing materials. When Bartholomew went to help him, the reek of wine was overpowering. The physician concluded, from the clerk’s liverish appearance, that he consumed a lot of it on a regular basis. There was something familiar about him, and Bartholomew tried to recall where he had seen him before. Then the memory snapped into place: he had been one of the men slumped unconscious across Kelby’s table the previous night. As the physician dived to save a pot of ink from falling to the floor, something hard bumped against his hand. He stepped away smartly, wondering why a man in holy orders should want to conceal a sword under his robes.
‘This is a dangerous city,’ explained the clerk, guessing what had happened. He glanced at the bishop, to ensure he could not be heard. ‘I seldom go anywhere without a blade.’
‘Why would anyone attack you?’ asked Bartholomew. He thought about the conflict that was tearing the city in half. ‘Because you are a Guild member?’
The clerk waved a hand to indicate that was unimportant, and several scrolls pattered on the floor. ‘I am not worried about Miller and his cronies – they do not have the wits to best a clever fellow like me. I am more concerned about my fellow priests; they are where the real danger lies.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Have you not heard what happened to Aylmer in this very convent? He was a Vicar Choral and he was stabbed to death, so do not tell me canons’ deputies are a peaceful band of men. The only way to defend myself is with a sharp sword, and if you visit the cathedral, I recommend you wear one, too.’
He moved away to stand near the door when Prior Roger finished paying homage to his bishop, coincidentally ending up near a tray on which stood several goblets of wine.
‘How are you, Roger?’ chirped Bishop Gynewell merrily, wholly unaware that his secretary was slyly raiding the Gilbertines’ claret. ‘Any more murders today?’
‘No, My Lord,’ replied Roger shortly. ‘It was an isolated incident, as I told you yesterday. And we should not be discussing that now anyway.’ He flicked his head at his three visitors in an indiscreet way that made Bartholomew want to laugh again.
‘Brother Michael, I presume,’ said the bishop, turning to beam at the fat monk. ‘And you must be Master Suttone. I shall soon count you two among my canons, although I was disappointed to hear you have appointed Vicars Choral and plan to return to your University. Well, that is to say, Michael has appointed a deputy. Suttone will have to find another.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Suttone, bowing over the prelate’s hand. ‘This is our colleague Matthew Bartholomew. He is a physician.’
‘I guessed as much from his bag,’ said Gynewell, resting his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder when he stepped forward to make his obeisance. ‘I know the scent of valerian and woundwart when I come across it.’
‘He used those to treat an injured pedlar we encountered yesterday morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop in amazement. ‘You are an observant man, My Lord.’
‘Thank you, Brother; I shall consider that a compliment.’ Gynewell trotted to a chair next to the fire and climbed on to it, folding his legs in a way that made him look more like a pixie than one of the most powerful churchmen in the country. ‘I am surprised you have elected to stay with Prior Roger, rather than with me at my palace. I extended an invitation to you, through Bishop de Lisle.’
‘Did you?’ asked Michael, peeved. ‘He neglected to pass it on. However, I–’
‘The good brother is settled with us now,’ said Roger smoothly. ‘He enjoyed our energetic prime this morning, and will want to repeat the experience tomorrow.’
‘Will he?’ asked Gynewell in surprise.
‘It was energetic,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I–’
‘All our guests find our style of worship uplifting,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘They say it makes a change from the sober muttering of the other Orders.’
‘There was certainly no muttering involved,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, this is the first time I have ever set foot in a Gilbertine House, other than the one in Cambridge and that is a very staid foundation. Are they usually so … expressive?’
‘This is the only convent I know that praises God at such high volume,’ said Gynewell. ‘I cannot imagine it is anything but unique.’
‘We like to make an impact,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Why murmur when you can yell, I always say.’
‘So do fishwives,’ said Suttone in an undertone. ‘And it is not seemly.’
‘May I have a word with Brother Michael alone, Roger?’ asked Gynewell, after several attempts to change the subject had failed, and they were still discussing the Gilbertines’ unusual approach to their devotions a quarter of an hour later. ‘Please stay, Doctor. What I have to say is not private.’
‘No?’ asked Roger, settling himself behind his table. ‘Then I shall stay, too.’
‘It pertains to Cambridge, Roger,’ said Gynewell, prodding the fire with a poker. He added several logs and jabbed them until the flames roared. ‘You will be bored, and I am sure you have a lot to do.’
‘Not really,’ said Roger, leaning back comfortably. ‘And I am always interested in learning about new and exotic locations. I hear Cambridge sits on a bog, just like Ely.’
‘And I hear Lincoln is full of imps,’ retorted Michael, irritated by the dual slur on his town and his abbey. ‘Little ones, which hurl rocks at the choir during masses.’
Gynewell cackled his mirth, and it occurred to Bartholomew that he looked rather demonic himself, with his horn-like hair and gap-toothed grin. ‘The Lincoln imp is a charming folk tale, Brother. But I am starving. Would you mind showing Ravenser here where you buy those lovely red marchpanes, Roger? He can never find the right shop, and I am sure you will not mind obliging your old bishop.’
‘And purchase a few Lombard slices while you are at it,’ suggested Michael opportunistically. He smiled slyly. ‘The Benedictines will certainly provide me with an unlimited supply of pastries if I stay with them. But if the Gilbertines do the same, I shall have no reason to leave.’
Roger stood reluctantly, knowing he was outmanoeuvred. ‘The bakeries will open soon, so I shall see what we can do. However, the Black Monks will not give you Lombard slices, Brother. I told you – they have no money with which to pamper their guests.’
‘And if they did, they would spend it on themselves,’ added Ravenser nastily, swallowing a second goblet of wine before turning to leave.
‘I shall come with you, Father Prior,’ said Suttone. ‘I dislike Lombard slices, and red marchpanes sound unpleasant. I must make sure you buy something I will enjoy, too.’
He, Roger, Hamo and Ravenser left together, and Gynewell grinned conspiratorially at the monk. ‘I see you and I will work excellently together, Brother. Roger is a good man, but I did not want to talk to you while he was listening.’
‘And your clerk, My Lord?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did you send him away?’
Gynewell did not seem to take offence at what was essentially an impertinent question. ‘We do not need a written account of this meeting – not that Archdeacon Ravenser would have made a decent record anyway. Did you see the state of him? He was at a Guild meeting last night, and they can turn very debauched. Poor Ravenser seems incapable of refusing a cup of wine, but I think he drinks to lessen his desire for women.’