revealed a good part of her long slim legs. She picked up the glove and immediately began to hem across the top with large, uneven stitches. Bartholomew watched her uncertainly, wondering if her action was a deliberate rebellion against the Prioress’s authority, or whether Tysilia was so slow-minded that she did not realise what she was doing.
Dame Martyn smiled weakly at Bartholomew. ‘So, it was you who came to my assistance this morning. I am grateful to you – for your discretion as well as for the medicine you gave me.’
‘The cloves,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Cloves? For being in her cups?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘Perhaps your nephew Richard is right about physicians being charlatans after all.’
Dame Martyn ignored him. ‘Unfortunately, we are poor, and I am unable to pay you for your services. I assume that is why you are here? But perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could tell her that payment was not required.
Dame Martyn gave a leering smile that rendered her wine-ravaged features more debauched than ever. ‘Well, I could–’
‘We are excellent needlewomen,’ said Dame Wasteneys hastily to Bartholomew. The Prioress seemed startled by the interruption, while Michael raised his eyebrows, royally entertained by the whole conversation. ‘We will mend that tear in your cloak. Perhaps that will repay you for your kindness.’
‘I will do it,’ offered Tysilia.
‘Not if he ever wants to wear it again,’ said Michael. ‘Look what she is doing to that glove.’
With a tut of annoyance, Eve Wasteneys snatched the glove away from Tysilia, and handed her a discarded offcut of material instead. ‘Sew that,’ she instructed. Tysilia’s sulky pout vanished, and she began to adorn the hapless patch with her large, ugly stitches without seeming to understand that it was a pointless exercise. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance. Was Tysilia’s behaviour an elaborate performance for their benefit?
‘Will you accept our offer of darning, Doctor?’ asked Eve. ‘Or would you rather have a cabbage from the gardens?’
‘I do not like cabbage,’ said Michael, as though the offer was being made to him. ‘But we have not come to haggle over greenery. We are here on official business.’
Dame Martyn reached out a plump hand and filled one of the largest wine goblets Bartholomew had ever seen, the contents of which she then drank so fast that Bartholomew was certain they did not touch the sides of her throat. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘What sort of business?’
Michael looked significantly at Lynne and then back to Dame Martyn. ‘Since I have not had occasion to visit you for several weeks, I assumed you had taken my Bishop’s advice, and concentrated on your religious vocations rather than your more secular pastimes. But now I find you entertaining a student.’
‘He is my nephew,’ said Dame Martyn with a weary sigh, feigning boredom with the conversation. ‘My sister’s boy.’
‘If you want to question Master Lynne, perhaps you could do so outside,’ suggested Eve, apparently deciding that it would be better for all concerned if the monk and his friend went away, leaving the nuns of St Radegund’s to their own debauched devices. ‘Take him back to Cambridge with you.’
‘But it is so much more pleasant here,’ said Michael immediately, settling himself on a bench. He addressed the sullen student. ‘Now, Lynne, why are you here? Did you run all the way from Barnwell?’
‘I told you, I have not been to Barnwell,’ said Lynne. His uneasy gaze shifted to Dame Martyn. ‘I am here visiting my aunt.’
‘Do not lie to me,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I saw you at Barnwell Priory with my own eyes. You are a Carmelite; you should not have been at a convent for Austin canons. You know very well that the properties of rival Orders are out of bounds for student-friars.’
‘It must have been my brother you saw,’ said Lynne challengingly. ‘People are always confusing us. Is that not true, Aunt Mabel?’
‘Eh?’ said Dame Martyn, caught in the act of taking another substantial draught from her jug-sized cup. ‘Oh, yes. Peas in a pod, Brother.’
‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. He leaned back against the wall and treated the student to a long, cool stare. ‘Be off with you, then. I shall have words with your Prior about your insolence, and then you will learn that it is not wise to play games with the Senior Proctor.’
Lynne needed no second bidding to take his leave. He shot down the stairs, and they heard his feet clattering on the cobbles of the courtyard as he ran towards the gate.
‘You did not have to be so hard on the boy,’ said Dame Martyn, bringing her red-rimmed eyes to bear on Michael. ‘He was telling you the truth.’
‘I have warned you about this kind of thing before,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Believe me, Dame Martyn, you do not want our undergraduates to consider your convent to be a place that always gives them a warm welcome. Even your energetic ladies would find it too much.’
She sighed tiredly. ‘You seem determined to disbelieve me, Brother. I assure you, we were doing nothing untoward. Look at us. We are scarcely dressed for receiving guests.’
‘Some of you are scarcely dressed at all,’ remarked Michael, casting an assessing eye around the gathering. ‘And why are you all in here anyway? You should be celebrating sext.’
‘The church is too cold,’ said Dame Martyn in a voice that had a distinct whine to it. ‘I do not want my poor ladies made ill by standing in a frigid church for hours on end.’
‘So much for a life of religious contemplation,’ muttered Michael. Bartholomew sensed that even he was a little taken aback by Dame Martyn’s irresponsible attitude towards the offices she was supposed to oversee.
‘During Lent, we have a longer terce than usual,’ said Eve Wasteneys hastily, seeking to minimise the damage her superior was causing with her careless replies. ‘And then we begin nones early, so missing sext is not as serious as you seem to think. But why did you really come, Brother? Was it only to criticise us for changing our offices?’
‘I have a more pressing matter than that,’ said Michael, considering his own investigation more important than the prayers the nuns had taken vows to undertake. ‘Perhaps we can discuss it privately?’
‘In my parlour, you mean,’ said Dame Martyn with the kind of grin that suggested Michael had discussed ‘pressing matters’ in the privacy of her parlour before. Bartholomew decided that he really did not want to know any more about it.
‘Your parlour will do nicely,’ said Michael. ‘Lead the way, Dame Martyn.’
‘Mabel,’ corrected the Prioress.
Dame Martyn’s parlour was an airy room on the upper floor of the gatehouse. The shutters were open, and daylight streamed in through the glassless windows. A breeze rustled the parchments that lay on a table, which were prevented from blowing away by a selection of heavy metal ornaments. Unlike the solar, there was no fire, and although the room was light, it was very cold. It was very much like Bartholomew’s own room at Michaelhouse, and he did not blame the Prioress for preferring the debauched cosiness of the solar.
‘The Bishop of Ely granted Tysilia the right to gather firewood from the land he owns to the south,’ explained Eve Wasteneys, who had followed them from the solar, doubtless unwilling to entrust the convent’s reputation to her Prioress. ‘But the grant is for wood for her personal use only, and it does not allow us to heat the entire priory. So, while we have plenty of warmth in the solar and the dormitory, the rest of the place is freezing.’
Michael frowned in puzzlement. ‘You are being very scrupulous about this. Why not take what you like? I doubt the Bishop would find out if you did it discreetly.’
Eve gave a weary smile. ‘You have met Tysilia, Brother. She is pretty, but somewhat short on wits. When de Lisle last visited us, Tysilia mentioned how pleasant it was to have a roaring fire in every room, and he guessed they were fuelled by his wood. He was furious, and threatened to take her from us if we abused her privileges again.’
‘So, because we cannot trust that silly little fool, we are obliged to be honest,’ said Dame Martyn, her disapproving voice indicating that she found such a position objectionable.
‘Would it be such a bad thing if Tysilia were removed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see that you would
