Bartholomew supposed he had a point. ‘Can we see Spayne first, then inspect Aylmer?’
Michael tapped him on the arm with a plump forefinger. ‘You dallied weeks in Cambridge after hearing about Spayne from Matilde’s friend – waiting for term to end so Suttone and I could travel to Lincoln for our installation. Why the sudden hurry?’
‘Because people here knew Matilde, and they have made the search real again.’
‘The trail is still six years old, Matt. Be patient, and do not allow your expectations to rise too high. I do not want you crushed with disappointment again – like that time you heard she had gone to Stamford, only to learn she had not been there in a decade.’
Bartholomew nodded. The monk was right, and he tried to put Matilde out of his mind. He was about to follow him inside a low, dismal building, when he spotted Father Simon’s pockmarked face. The priest was leaning against a disused stable, in earnest conversation with a fellow wearing crimson hose. When a group of lay-brothers clattered towards them, carrying pails of milk and sharing some ribald joke, Simon started in alarm and shoved his companion out of sight, placing a hand over the fellow’s mouth to stop him from speaking. The man put up a token struggle at the rough treatment, but desisted when Simon whispered something urgent. Simon scanned the yard quickly when the cowherds had gone, although he failed to notice Bartholomew watching him. Then he and his companion finished their discussion and parted quickly. Bartholomew was puzzled, wondering why the priest should act so furtively, but then dismissed the incident as none of his business.
‘I was about to start without you,’ grumbled Michael when the physician entered the chapel, as if the delay had been hours rather than moments. The mortuary was small, dark and smelled of mould. Cobwebs swayed on the ceiling, and the floor was slick with slime. ‘Still, you should enjoy this. It will remind you of how you anatomised cadavers with the French all last year.’
‘I did no such thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I suppose there was the occasion when–’
‘You can keep that sort of information to yourself,’ interrupted Michael tartly. ‘I do not want to lose you to an accusation of witchcraft now I finally have you back again. It would be a wretched nuisance. Besides, chopping up human bodies is not a normal thing to which to aspire.’
‘Neither is examining them for your investigations.’
‘That is different,’ said Michael loftily. ‘As I have told you before.’
‘I cannot see in here,’ complained Bartholomew, beginning to resent the wasted time. ‘It is too dark and there are no windows to open.’
‘We will be poring over bodies until sunset at this rate,’ said Michael with an impatient sigh. ‘First you dawdle outside, then the room is too dim.’
‘Well, it is dim,’ Bartholomew pointed out, irritable in his turn.
‘Lord, Matt!’ snapped Michael, as he stamped outside. He continued to rail as he stalked towards the kitchens, oblivious of the fact that the physician could no longer hear him. ‘You are all complaints this morning. Make a start, then, while I fetch a lamp. You should have remembered to bring one yourself. You know perfectly well these places are always gloomy, and I cannot be expected to do everything. You are worse than Doctor Rougham–’
‘Who is Doctor Rougham?’ asked a low, sultry voice behind him. ‘And who is the intended recipient of this bitter diatribe? I hope you will not blame it on Summer Madness. We have not seen a case of that in months.’
Michael spun around and was horrified to see Christiana de Hauville there, a faint smile etched into features that were even more perfect up close than they had been at a distance. Being caught muttering to himself was not how the monk had envisaged their first meeting.
‘I was talking to my colleague,’ he said, trying to repair his dented dignity. ‘He is always slinking off in the middle of conversations, though, and I expect he has gone to the mortuary chapel.’
‘Really?’ she asked, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth; Michael berated himself for gabbling and providing more information than was necessary – information that made him sound slightly strange. ‘What an odd thing to do.’
‘He is a physician and they are apt to be odd, as you will know if you have ever met any,’ elaborated Michael. He was surprised to find himself determined that she should not know he dabbled in such sordid activities as inspecting corpses; he was even more surprised to realise how keen he was to make a good impression. He smiled at her, noting that she was almost as tall as he, which was unusual for a woman. ‘Do you know where I might find a lamp? Matt needs one for … for reading.’
‘I shall arrange for one to be fetched,’ she replied. There was laughter in her voice, although her face was politely grave. ‘I cannot get it myself, obviously.’
‘Why not? Do you not know where they are kept?’
‘Of course. But I do not perform menial tasks, or so the good brothers keep telling me. Were I to go to the kitchens myself, they would chase me out, like a pig among the cabbages.’
‘I would never associate you with pigs,’ said Michael chivalrously. ‘Or cabbages. But we all need to perform menial tasks occasionally, because they keep us from the sin of pride.’
‘Is pride a sin?’ asked Christiana. ‘I am a noblewoman, and it is considered a virtue in my family.’
‘I am the son of a knight myself,’ said Michael, unwilling to be thought of as common. ‘But I forswore my earthly family when I took holy orders. Perhaps that is why the vows are in place – to ensure we do not confuse filial obligation with something deadly to the soul. Do you have any intention of taking the veil?’
She smiled and he saw white, perfect teeth in a face that might have belonged to an angel. ‘I have not decided, Brother. It depends on what the future holds.’
She adopted a helpless pose that indicated she needed assistance, and suddenly there were three brothers and a lay-sister hurrying to see what she wanted. She asked for a lantern and all four scurried towards the kitchens, one sprinting so fast that he missed his footing and took a tumble. When the remaining three reached the door, there was almost an exchange of blows as each fought to enter first.
‘Bless them,’ she said, watching with a fond smile. ‘They are so good to me. Perhaps I will take the veil, since I love this place so much; the people are far kinder here than they are in the world outside. Thank you, Hamo. It was very kind of you to do so much running on my behalf.’
Hamo backed away with a silly grin on his face, panting and bowing furiously, while Michael lit the lamp. Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.
‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’
Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’
‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.
Bartholomew studied Christiana covertly, taking in the fact that her eyelashes were darkened with charcoal, which had the effect of making her skin appear fashionably pale, and the tendrils of gold hair that curled attractively from under her veil were not random escapees, but ones that had been carefully tailored for maximum effect. He could tell from her posture that she fully expected to be the centre of attention. But, he reflected wryly as he glanced around him, people were looking at her, and he was among them. He gave his complete attention to the wick, oblivious to the fact that she then used the opportunity to return the scrutiny.