‘Have you been here long?’ asked Michael, aware that Christiana’s interest had moved to a man who was slimmer and far better-looking than himself. Not that it would do her much good – for the physician, there was only one woman.
‘Since my husband was killed,’ she replied. A tremor in her voice suggested it still pained her. ‘I am here until either the King finds another suitable match or I become a nun. I am torn between wishing His Majesty would hurry up, and hoping he never finds a replacement, lest he imposes on me a man I do not like.’
‘That is why I took holy orders,’ confided Michael, making Bartholomew glance at him in surprise. He had never asked Michael’s reasons for taking the cowl, and had always assumed a sense of vocation had led him to do it. ‘My family had in mind a match that would have made me unhappy. I have never regretted my decision.’
She regarded him curiously. ‘You do not find the life a lonely one?’
‘Not at all. I have many friends, and there are ways to alleviate loneliness.’
‘The lamp is lit,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly seized with the awful premonition that the monk was about to tell her how to break vows of chastity without being caught. ‘Come on, Brother. There is not much oil, and we do not have long before it burns out.’
‘Would you like me to hold it for you?’ asked Christiana, looking from one to the other with wide blue eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, and I have never seen anyone read in the mortuary chapel before. I lead a dull life, so I am always eager for new experiences. Even peculiar ones.’
‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and trying to guide him away from her.
But it needed a lot more than a tug to shift a man of Michael’s bulk. He resisted, and Bartholomew heard stitches snap open. Humour sparkled briefly in Christiana’s eyes, but was quickly masked.
‘Actually, we are going to pay our respects to Aylmer,’ confessed Michael, freeing his arm and clearly preferring Christiana’s company to his grim duties in the chapel. ‘I did not want to burden you with information about corpses, but perhaps I was being overly protective. You must forgive me.’
She smiled, and Bartholomew was forced to admit she was lovely, although he felt it a pity that she thought so, too. He glanced at Michael, and was alarmed to note how flushed the monk’s face had become – and how it wore an oddly dreamy expression Bartholomew had never seen before.
‘I shall forgive you, Brother, although only if you agree to tell me no more fibs. I know exactly what you are doing: Bishop Gynewell has asked you to investigate Aylmer’s murder.’
The monk’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How do you know? Gynewell spoke in confidence.’
‘Hamo was listening outside the door. The news is all over the convent now, and it will be all around the city by noon.’
‘Damn,’ swore Michael. ‘I had hoped to carry out my commission discreetly.’
Christiana rested an elegant hand on his arm. ‘It may not be a bad thing, because now people will know on whose authority you ask your questions. Of course, it may also serve to make the killer more dangerous. You should take special care, Brother.’
‘I am always careful,’ replied Michael with an unreadable smile. ‘In all I do.’
‘And so am I,’ she replied, while Bartholomew looked from one to the other with growing unease, sure messages were passing between them that he did not understand. ‘I shall say a prayer for you. Perhaps you might care to join me at my devotions? I am usually in the Lady Chapel after vespers – not tonight, because there is a vigil for Little Hugh at the cathedral, but I will be there tomorrow.’
‘I am sure we shall find plenty to pray about,’ said Michael with one of his courtliest bows.
Bartholomew watched him leer appreciatively as Christiana walked away. ‘She is a ward of the King, Brother,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And you are a monk. This is not a good idea.’
‘Are you warning me against praying?’ asked Michael archly. ‘In a chapel? Really, Matt!’
‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Your quest to find Matilde has led you to assume that every man is consumed with lust. I assure you that is not the case, especially in those of us who have sworn vows of chastity. If you are worried, come with me tomorrow. You will witness nothing amiss.’
‘I shall, then,’ said Bartholomew, equally cool. He was not astute when it came to romance – his failure to propose to Matilde before she had given up on him was testament to that – but even he had read something in the exchange between Michael and Christiana, and he disliked being considered a fool by his friend.
Michael was not amused. ‘You had better examine this corpse, or it will be a skeleton before you provide me with any answers.’
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘I would like that very much, but your lamp has just run out of oil.’
Brother Michael was not Lady Christiana, and it took him considerably longer to locate fuel for the lantern than it would have done if she had been with him. Eventually, a woman from the kitchens offered to help, filling the device with oil and even carrying it to the mortuary chapel, claiming it had a tendency to spill if not handled with a certain expertise. By the time she and the monk reached the building, Bartholomew was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands in an attempt to keep warm in the bitter wind. Michael turned to her.
‘Thank you, madam. My colleague is about to conduct an examination, as you no doubt know, since everyone else seems aware of my business here, and you will not want to be a witness to that, I assure you. I have seen him do it a hundred times, yet he still possesses the ability to make me shudder.’ He glanced coolly at Bartholomew, to indicate there was a double meaning to his comment.
‘I do not mind.’ She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a lined face and a matronly wimple. ‘I doubt he will do anything I have not seen before.’
‘He might,’ warned Michael. ‘He has been to Padua, where they are said to practise a macabre form of scholarship called anatomy.’
‘I know nothing of the black arts, but I have seen my share of death. It holds no fears for me.’
Michael regarded her curiously. ‘Do you work in the priory hospital, then?’
The woman snorted her disdain. ‘You obviously think I am one of the lay-sisters. I am not. My name is Sabina Herl, and I am here because my parish priest gave me a week of labour as penance.’
‘Penance for what?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘Do not be afraid to tell me. I am a man of God.’
‘Lord, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with you today?’
‘It was a man of God who got me in this mess in the first place,’ she remarked acidly. ‘I was caught kissing him behind the stables, and scouring greasy pans is my punishment.’
‘What happened to the man of God?’ asked Michael.
Sabina nodded towards the mortuary chapel. ‘He is in there, although I do not think our tryst had anything to do with the fact that he was stabbed. Poor Aylmer always was an unlucky fellow.’
‘Lord!’ gasped Suttone, hurrying up to join them. ‘I have just been eating those cakes with Prior Roger. I am not sure he is quite sane.’
‘He is probably preoccupied,’ said Bartholomew, acutely aware that Sabina was listening. While he was more than happy to move elsewhere for the duration of their stay in Lincoln, he did not want it to be because they had insulted the head Gilbertine.
‘No, he is insane,’ said Sabina matter-of-factly. ‘A good many people are in this particular convent, which is why my confessor selected it as the place of penance.’
‘Penance for what?’ asked Suttone immediately.
‘Seducing your Vicar Choral,’ replied Michael.
Sabina looked the Carmelite up and down. ‘So, you are the scholar who offered Aylmer that post. We were all rather surprised, since he has always been something of a rascal.’