‘You can do it by your bed, Brother,’ said Suttone, shooting Michael a look to warn him that the honour of his Order was at stake, and he should not prove the Gilbertines right by ogling the first female who crossed his path. ‘Our horses are already installed in a warm stable with a bucket of hot mash, and I would like to do the same.’
‘Would you?’ asked Hamo, startled. ‘I was planning to put you in the guest-hall, and provide you with a supper of roasted goose. But, of course, if you would rather eat oats–’
‘The guest-hall will be acceptable,’ said Michael, tearing his eyes from the chapel and indicating that Hamo should lead the way. ‘And I might manage a sliver of roasted goose, especially if it comes with a few parsnips and a loaf of bread.’
‘We are delighted to have you here, and we will cook you whatever you want,’ replied Hamo generously. Bartholomew hoped he would not regret the promise: Michael had a formidable appetite. ‘Ask for anything, and, if it is in my power to give, you shall have it.’
‘How kind,’ said Michael, inclining his head. ‘You are most hospitable.’
‘Yes, we are,’ agreed Whatton pleasantly. ‘We like guests, especially ones who might leave us a donation to mend our roofs. We suffered badly in the Death – there were sixty of us, but now we are only twelve – and Prior Roger says we may never recover. The biggest problem is that there are not enough of us to collect the tithes we are owed, and we sink ever deeper into poverty and debt.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Suttone. ‘But surely you can hire a bailiff to help you?’
‘We tried, but they kept absconding with our money,’ said Hamo mournfully. He opened the door of the long building that formed the guest-hall. ‘Here we are. You shall have the upper room, because it is nicer than the ground-floor chamber. Warmer, too.’
He led the way through a dark, vault-like hall that had bedding piled around the edges, and headed for a spiral staircase. It emerged in an attractive room with clean white walls, wooden floors and the exotic luxury of a stone sink in one corner with a pail of icy water underneath it. He and Whatton set about lighting a fire, while Michael opened a window shutter to inspect the chapel. Bartholomew paced restlessly, thinking about William de Spayne, and hoping, despite the practical part of his mind that told him he was wasting his time, that the mayor might be able to tell him something useful about Matilde.
‘You mentioned a Miller’s Market when you asked why we had come to Lincoln,’ said Suttone conversationally while the Gilbertines busied themselves at the hearth. ‘What is that, exactly?’
‘It is an annual occurrence now,’ said Hamo, rolling straw into a ball for kindling, ‘although it does not usually coincide with the installation of canons. Those two events – along with the General Pardon – are why our city is so busy at the moment, and every bed taken.’
‘Is it?’ asked Michael, thinking about the empty chamber below.
Whatton applied a tinderbox to Hamo’s straw. ‘Every convent is bursting at the seams, and every inn seethes with visitors. Except us.’
‘That is because our priory is the one farthest from the city, and people dislike walking the extra distance,’ added Hamo quickly, seeing his guests’ thoughts naturally turn to the man who had been murdered that day.
‘You still have not told us what Miller’s Market is,’ said Michael.
‘A merchant named Adam Miller started it five years ago, when he baked cakes and sold them at cost to the town’s poor,’ replied Whatton. ‘The next year, other members of the Commonalty – that is the city’s ruling council – followed his example, and the poor had ale and leather goods. And so it has continued, although the promise of cheap supplies encourages evil types – thieves, pickpockets, beggars and scoundrels – to flock here, too.’
‘You said you have come to be enrolled as canons,’ said Hamo, rather more interested in eliciting information than dispensing it. ‘Which stalls will you occupy?’
Suttone smiled with more pride than was right for a man in a vocation that advocated humility. ‘Brother Michael will have the Stall of South Scarle, and I shall have the Stall of Decem Librarum – which is valued at six pounds, eighteen shillings and seven pence a year.’
‘That is a lot of money, Father,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘What will you do with it?’
‘As canons, we shall have specific duties to perform,’ explained Suttone. ‘But obviously we cannot live here, since we have our University teaching to do, so we shall spend a portion of it on paying a deputy – called a Vicar Choral – to act in our stead.’
‘You will pay him almost seven pounds a year?’ asked Cynric, awed. ‘May I apply? I can read a bit of Latin – Doctor Bartholomew taught me when we were in France.’
Michael smiled indulgently. ‘We only need pay our assistants a fraction of our earnings – our prebends, as they are called. The rest we can keep for ourselves. I shall give some to Michaelhouse, some to my mother abbey at Ely, and spend the rest on good wine to share with friends. But Suttone and I do not accept these posts for the money, but because they represent an acknowledgement of our academic prowess.’
‘They represent the fact that you have connections to the men who can control these things,’ corrected Whatton baldly, making Bartholomew laugh. ‘Who is it? The Bishop of Ely? Our own Bishop Gynewell?’
Suttone’s face was stony. ‘I am related to the Lincolnshire Suttones, who–’
‘Gynewell, then,’ said Whatton, nodding his satisfaction that he had been right. ‘The Suttones are a powerful family in these parts, and Gynewell is obliged to pander to them at every opportunity.’
Hamo beamed in delight, and reached out to grasp the Carmelite’s hand. ‘Then you and I are kin, Father, because I am Hamo de Suttone. I hail from a lowly branch of the dynasty, it is true, but I am proud of it anyway. I had no idea that our humble priory was about to entertain such an auspicious guest.’
‘But you both plan to appoint Vicars Choral and join the ranks of Lincoln’s many non-residentiary canons,’ said Whatton, not as impressed as his colleague. ‘Most of your prebends will go to other foundations, and not to poor Lincoln. Still, it cannot be helped. At least you are English. Most of the last lot were French – and us at war, too!’
‘Shameful,’ agreed Cynric with considerable feeling.
‘Whatton mentioned a murder earlier,’ said Suttone, glancing towards the door to ensure it could be barred from the inside. ‘But he did not say whether you had caught the culprit.’
‘We have not,’ replied Whatton, standing up as the logs caught at last. ‘But there is no need for alarm. I doubt the killer will attack anyone else.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
Whatton smiled serenely. ‘Because of the man Aylmer was – debauched, sly and dishonest. No one was surprised when he was found dead with a dagger in his back.’
‘Do you mean John Aylmer?’ asked Suttone. He swallowed hard. ‘From Huntingdonshire?’
Hamo nodded. ‘You know him? He was certainly the kind of fellow to stick in a man’s mind.’
‘He is certainly stuck in mine,’ said Suttone weakly. ‘He is my Vicar Choral.’
‘I cannot wait until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, pacing up and down in the guest-hall. The Gilbertines had gone, Suttone was out in search of the latrine, and the physician was alone with Michael and Cynric. ‘I keep thinking Hamo may be right – that Spayne might know where Matilde is now. If he was going to marry her six years ago, then they were obviously close.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘But think about her arrival in Cambridge, Matt. It was roughly six years ago, so she probably went there immediately after she left him. She mentioned this betrothal to you once, which suggests that either they parted on bad terms or he did not mean that much to her. Do not rush this. You waited the best part of a term before coming to investigate this particular lead, so surely you can manage a few more hours?’