‘Indeed not,’ said Bartholomew. He was saved from having to answer further by the sound of the bell ringing to call the nuns to sext. The Abbess moved from the window and offered her hand to Michael, who hastened to take it in his.
‘Thank you for your company, Brother,’ she said. ‘You have been most charming and entertaining. You are welcome to join us for sext, if you like.’
Michael caught Bartholomew’s look that he wanted to talk and said, with some reluctance, that he would say his offices at the prie-dieu in the guesthall. With a gracious smile, the Abbess took her leave, followed by Dame Pelagia, while the lay sister conducted Bartholomew and Michael out of the convent proper and back to their lodgings.
‘Are you still in one piece?’ asked Cynric anxiously, looking up from the fire in front of which he had been drowsing. ‘I thought those women intended some serious mischief.’
‘Some of them did,’ said Michael slyly, looking at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye.
‘Not to the same extent as you,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Your lecherous attentions had that poor Abbess in a terrible quandary.’
‘Matthew, Matthew!’ said Michael in hurt tones. ‘What do you think I am? I have sworn a vow of chastity.’ The gleam in his green eyes was anything but chaste.
‘Really?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And how well do you keep it?’
‘That, my dear physician, is none of your business,’ said Michael with a smug smile. ‘But I can assure you I was nothing but decorous and gallant with that noble lady, the Abbess.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but was unable to determine whether he was telling the truth. Michael’s eyes shone with something other than their usual salaciousness, and Bartholomew hoped the monk did not imagine himself in love. If he did, the situation was bound to end in tragedy for Michael, if not for the Abbess.
Briefly, he told Michael what Julianna had said, but the monk dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
‘Silly girl! The nuns ought to warn her about her behaviour. She was lucky it was you she enticed up into her secluded chambers, and not some lout who would have taken advantage of her.’
‘What about what she says she overheard last night?’
Michael shook his head. ‘You were right to have misgivings: she probably made it up to force you to take her to Cambridge. It is a clever tactic – what better way to make someone do what you want than to prey on his fears? You have just been viciously attacked and almost killed in the Fens, and so she warns you that it might happen again. Most men would be gone already!’
‘Then we should go,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘There is a remote chance she is telling the truth and I want to return to Michaelhouse anyway.’
‘Your leg needs more rest,’ said Michael, after a moment’s hesitation.
‘It does not!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the feebleness of the excuse to stay.
‘It is too late,’ said Michael, studying the sky through the open shutters. ‘If we set off now, it will be dark by the time we reach Cambridge and it would be dangerous to be on the road then.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are at least four hours of daylight left and we can easily walk the eight miles to Cambridge before dusk.’
‘Walk?’ squawked Michael in horror. ‘I cannot walk eight miles!’
‘It will do you good, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing Michael’s substantial girth critically. ‘You need some exercise.’
‘I still feel weak from my experiences in the Fens,’ said Michael, putting a flabby hand to his forehead. ‘And I think I might have twisted my ankle.’
‘Show me,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘I am good with twisted ankles.’
Michael sighed. ‘Just one more night, Matt!’ he pleaded. ‘One more! And then I will return to Cambridge with you. I will even walk if you so demand. But let us stay here one more night!’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you have a tryst with the Abbess? I would advise against it if you do, Brother. No good can come of such an affair.’
‘You sully that good lady’s name,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Of course I have no tryst with her. She is a holy, decent woman.’ He turned abruptly on his heel, and went to sit in one of the window seats at the opposite end of the hall, staring morosely out at the misty marshes.
Bartholomew exchanged a look of incomprehension with Cynric, who had watched the scene with considerable interest.
‘Is he in love with this Abbess?’ whispered Cynric, looking at Michael uncertainly.
‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. He sighed and paced restlessly. ‘We are wasting time here, Cynric. If Gray fails his disputation a second time, he will have to repeat an entire year of studying. And that is something neither of us wants!’
‘You work too hard, boy,’ said Cynric. He gestured to the fire. ‘Where is there a welcoming hearth like this in Michaelhouse? Just draw up a stool and enjoy it while you can.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew saw Cynric was right. Michael clearly had no intention of leaving Denny that day – although what could be keeping him except the possibility of an encounter with the Abbess, Bartholomew could not imagine – and he could not leave the fat monk behind. He perched on a stool and poked at the fire with a stick, watching sparks fly up the chimney. He realised there was a residual stiffness in his limbs from his night in the Fens and the rest would do him good – then they would be able to make better time on the road to Cambridge at first light the next morning.
The lay sister tapped tentatively on the door and entered, bearing a tray that was so heavily laden with food that Bartholomew, not anticipating such weight, almost dropped it when he hurried forward to help. Michael smacked his lips appreciatively at the large game pie, while Bartholomew ate the excellent bread, baked that day in the convent’s own kitchens. Fresh bread was a rare commodity in Michaelhouse, where stale flour was usually used because it was cheaper. There was also some firm yellow cheese, a pat of creamy butter, a little dish of something covered by a linen cloth, and three oranges. Bartholomew picked up one of the fruits and turned it over in his hand.
‘I have not seen one of these for years,’ he said. It was wizened and hard after its long journey from Spain or Italy, and probably long past its best. But to see an orange at all in the Fens in winter was remarkable.
Cynric eyed it with suspicion. ‘I heard those things poisoned Master Mortimer the baker.’
‘That was lemons,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Oranges should not poison anyone. Try some.’
Cynric shook his head quickly and turned his attention back to his bread and cheese. Michael poked suspiciously at the green and lumpy substance in the small dish covered by the linen.
‘What is that?’ he asked with some disgust. ‘It looks like something terrible has been done to a vegetable – and you know how I feel about vegetables.’
‘Pickled eels and samphire,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Stanmore bringing some as a gift for Edith many years before. His sister had eaten it only because she wanted to please her husband, and had paid for her courtesy by spending most of the night being sick. The next time Stanmore had presented some to her she had shown the good sense to feed it to the cat. ‘It is considered a great delicacy and is very expensive. We should be honoured the abbey is sharing such a dish with us.’
‘You eat it, then,’ said Michael, pushing it towards Bartholomew after a brief and decisive sniff. ‘It smells rank.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Brother. It tastes a good deal worse than it smells. That is why it is produced in such small quantities: like most delicacies, if it were common, no one would eat it. Oswald told me the King has a liking for pickled eels and samphire, and so, of course, it can be found in the houses of most people who consider themselves fashionable.’
Michael offered it to Cynric, who speared a piece of eel with his dagger and put it in his mouth. He spat it out again immediately, and pulled a face of such utter disgust that Michael and Bartholomew began to laugh.
‘That is quite horrible,’ said the Welshman, after he had taken a healthy swig of ale to wash away the flavour. ‘It tastes like bitter medicine! Far from being honoured, I would say the abbey is trying to get rid of us! You can keep your local delicacies, boy. We Welsh know how to cook seaweed better than that.’
‘Seaweed?’ whispered Michael, aghast. ‘They have given us seaweed?’
‘A particular type,’ said Bartholomew, feeling guilty that they were being uncharitable over the nuns’ generous attempt to provide them with extravagant foods. ‘It is not just any old weed picked up from the
