but grunted irritably and pulled the blankets up over his head to try to block out the noise. Bartholomew washed and shaved near the hearth, relishing the luxury of hot water and a warm room, and dressed in the clothes that Cynric had cleaned the day before. They were bone dry and crisp from being near the fire, something he had never experienced in Michaelhouse, even in the summer. He inspected the tear in his leggings, surprised, and not entirely pleased, to see that someone had repaired it using a patch of brilliant red.
‘I did that,’ said Cynric, not without pride. ‘One of those nuns wanted to do it, but I did not like to think of your clothes in
‘Why not?’ he asked, convinced that the nuns would have done a better job than Cynric, and most certainly would not have used a scarlet patch to mend the brown garment.
Cynric pursed his lips and would be drawn no further. Michael was listening from his bed and gave a sudden roar of laughter.
‘You are right to be cautious, Cynric my friend,’ he said, green eyes glittering with amusement. ‘And if you had heard their confessions, Matt, you would understand why!’
‘Michael, this is a convent,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the monk was simply trying to unnerve his prudish book-bearer. ‘What could nuns possibly do to pique your lecherous interests out here in the Fens?’
Michael laughed again, but whatever reply he had been about to make was forgotten at a knock on the door. He hauled the blankets around his chin primly, as Bartholomew admitted a lay sister who carried a tray bearing barley bread, some slivers of cheese and a jug of ale, and told them the Abbess wished to see them later that morning. When she had gone, Michael hauled himself reluctantly from his bed, and donned his habit, nodding approvingly at Cynric’s efforts to remove the black, clinging mud from it.
Bartholomew fretted while they waited for the Abbess’s summons. ‘I need to return to Michaelhouse,’ he said, pacing in front of the window. ‘We have wasted two days already with this miserable business, and I am worried about Gray’s disputation. We should go home.’
‘What do you plan to do?’ Cynric asked of Michael. Bartholomew’s steps faltered: it had not occurred to him that Michael would want to do anything other than return to College.
Michael mused. ‘I am undecided. It is tempting to continue to enjoy the Abbess’s hospitality, and a few days would give us the opportunity to think and to recover from our ordeal. But I would like to speak to the Bishop, and so am inclined to travel to Ely. Yet I also believe that the answer to this riddle we seem to have stumbled upon lies in Cambridge, and the sooner we return, the quicker we will have it resolved.’
‘I see no reason to go to Ely,’ objected Bartholomew nervously. ‘We know the Bishop’s summons was false.’ He hesitated. ‘At least, I suppose we can assume it was.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting?’
Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘Perhaps the Bishop really did summon you on Sunday – for reasons of his own.’
Michael met his gaze with unreadable eyes. ‘You suspect it has something to do with my rejecting the offer to be Master of Valence Marie?’ he asked eventually. He did not wait for an answer. ‘Believe me, Matt, the Bishop has his own perfectly good reasons for wishing me to refuse the Mastership. He would hardly encourage me to decline, and then arrange my demise. The reason he persuaded me to not to accept in the first place was so that I would be free to continue to act as his agent.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, although sometimes the convoluted logic of the power-brokers in University, town and Church eluded him completely.
‘So who do you think is responsible for luring us out here?’ he asked.
Michael sat on his bed and stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles incongruously white next to his black habit. ‘It is someone with resources. It would not be cheap to hire six soldiers and Alan. Mercenaries are likely to demand a high price for premeditated murder.’
‘Who has such resources?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Other than the Bishop?’
‘Alan and his men were not mercenaries,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘We decided last night that they were too incompetent to be real soldiers.’
Michael ignored both of them. ‘The Chancellor could probably lay his hands on sufficient funds, and doubtless has the contacts to organise such an incident. But he has no motive and he is not even in Cambridge.’
‘De Wetherset lives near here,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, thinking of the previous holder of the Chancellorship, who had retired into the Fens when University politics became too much for him.
‘No, Matt,’ said Michael firmly. ‘By all accounts, de Wetherset is enjoying his seclusion and has no wish to re-enter University affairs.’
‘But he has never liked us,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He used us to do his dirty work, but he never really trusted us and he lied constantly.’
‘Who in the University does not lie?’ asked Michael glibly. ‘But you are on the wrong track altogether. De Wetherset has nothing to do with the University these days, and he certainly does not have the resources to hire Alan and his cronies. We need to look to Cambridge for our answer. Besides the Chancellor, there are a host of townspeople who could afford to have people killed – your brother-in-law to name but one.’
‘That is ridiculous!’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Oswald is not a murderer! And he has no reason to wish harm on us.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘But there is the mystery involving his apprentice and this bottle of wine. Father Philius has no reason to tell us untruths.’
‘And neither does Oswald!’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘There must be some misunderstanding. I will see Philius when we get back, and we will probably find out that it was Cheney’s apprentice he saw, or Deschalers’s or Mortimer’s. All four live next to each other on Milne Street and he may have mistaken one house for another.’
Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘Philius is not stupid, Matt, regardless of what you might think about his medical abilities. And, anyway, your students said they saw Oswald’s apprentice buy poisoned wine from Sacks in the Brazen George. Or were they mistaken, too?’
Bartholomew was racking his brain for an answer when the lay sister returned and said the Abbess awaited them in her solar. Still unsettled by Michael’s accusations, Bartholomew followed her down the stairs, Michael and Cynric in tow. Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw Michael patting his hair into place and making haste to brush a few crumples out of his habit. When the monk rubbed surreptitiously at his teeth with a corner of his sleeve, Bartholomew’s suspicions were aroused regarding Michael’s motives for tarrying at the convent.
There was only one entrance to the guesthall and that was through a small door to one side of the main gate. In this way, visitors were kept entirely apart from the nuns; a person wishing to enter the convent from the guesthall was forced to do so through the main gate like everyone else: men staying there could not inadvertently stray into the nuns’ living quarters, while the nuns themselves would see no one for whom they might be tempted to break their vows. It was doubtless only Michael’s vocation as a monk that prompted the Abbess to relax the rules and allow three men inside her hallowed walls.
As they walked across the cobbled yard towards the Abbess’s quarters, Bartholomew was aware of being watched with intense interest. He glanced upwards and saw several veiled heads eyeing him with undisguised curiosity from the unglazed windows of the dormitory, while others looked from the cloister that surrounded the yard. Voices whispered and giggled and, from the lewdness of the laughter, Bartholomew strongly suspected that the nuns were not discussing matters spiritual. He began to feel uncomfortable, although Michael did not appear to mind greatly. Cynric muttered that he would wait in the guesthall, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, he had scuttled back across the yard and was out through the main gate. Hoots of laughter followed him and Bartholomew was tempted to follow, unsettled by the nuns’ behaviour.
Finally, they were across the yard and were being led up the wide wooden staircase that led to the Abbess’s solar. The Countess of Pembroke’s money had provided the residents of Denny with sumptuous surroundings, despite the fact that Franciscan nuns were commonly called ‘Poor Clares’. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor and the walls were painted with vivid murals depicting scenes from classical mythology and local folklore. By comparison, the decorations in Constantine Mortimer’s elegant house appeared crass and tasteless. The rugs had been chosen to complement the dominant hues of the wall paintings, while even the bowls on the low table near the fire had been carefully selected to match the solar’s colour scheme.
The Abbess was waiting for them, her hands hidden demurely in the wide sleeves of her gown, and was
