An Order for Death

breakfast.’

‘Breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Michael overheard and veered away from the direction of the solar to aim for a substantial building to his left. ‘But it is almost midday.’

Tysilia seemed surprised. ‘It is only midday if you rise at dawn. None of us do, I am pleased to say, and so for us it is breakfast time.’

‘But what about matins, prime and terce?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How do you keep those offices, if you wake so late?’

Tysilia waved a dismissive hand. ‘We leave those for the friars and monks to say. We are doing God a favour, actually. Can you imagine what it must be like to have all those voices clamouring at you at certain times of the day? I am sure He is grateful to us for our conflagration. Or do I mean for our condescension? All these long words sound the same to me.’

‘I imagine you mean “consideration”,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing her warily. He tried to read some expression in her dark eyes, but although they sparkled, they did so with a brilliance that was only superficially shiny, like a pair of Richard’s buttons. He could not tell whether a clever mind was thoroughly enjoying itself by presenting a false image to the world, or whether what he saw was all there was.

‘Have you caught your killer?’ she asked. ‘Is that why you are here again?’

Bartholomew glanced at her a second time, wondering whether her question was more than idle curiosity. He thought he glimpsed a flicker of something in her face, but then wondered if it were merely a trick of the light. He did not know what to think.

‘No,’ he replied shortly, not wanting to give away details to someone who might have more than a passing interest in the matter.

‘We have a fat woman staying with us,’ Tysilia chirped conversationally, as they walked towards the refectory. She did not seem to find his curt reply to her question worthy of comment. ‘She is paying five groats a day to escape from her demanding husband.’ Her pretty features creased into a moue of disgust. ‘I hope my uncle will not foist one of those on me. I am happier changing my lovers each week.’

‘Each week?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the surprise from his voice at her unusual choice of topics. He wondered whether she was trying to shock him, and he did not want to give her the satisfaction of seeing he was embarrassed. ‘Do you not keep them longer than that?’

‘No,’ she said airily. ‘You see, the first few times a lover meets you, he is affectionate and only wants physical favours. But after about a week, he wants more than a romp between the covers, and likes to talk and ask questions. I cannot be bothered with all that.’

‘You mean you disapprove of conversation and discussion?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know about that, but I dislike talking,’ replied Tysilia, opening the door to the refectory and ushering her guests inside. ‘I talk and listen all day with the nuns. I do not want to do it during the night, as well. I am sure you know what I mean.’

She gave him a hefty nudge with her elbow that all but winded him, but he was spared from the obligation of supplying her with an answer by Eve Wasteneys, who came forward to greet them.

The refectory was warm and comfortable, and the hum of voices and laughter indicated that Dame Martyn did not insist upon silence or Bible-reading at meals. Breakfast comprised baked eggs in addition to bread and oatmeal, and Bartholomew was certain he saw Dame Martyn slide a large piece of ham out of sight under her trencher. Ham was not an item that should have been on the breakfast table during Lent, and so she was wise to hide it from the sight of her unexpected visitors. The Prioress smiled a greeting at Bartholomew and Michael, and then raised a large cup of breakfast ale to her lips, drinking long and deep, as if she imagined she might need the fortification it provided.

‘Where is my ham?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly, as she sat down at her place. ‘It was here when I went to answer the door. Who took it?’

Dame Martyn and Eve exchanged a weary glance, and Bartholomew saw the plump, wrinkled woman who sat to one side raise her napkin to her lips so that no one would spot her smiling. Bartholomew was relieved to see her, knowing that if Matilde was sitting at the breakfast table and was amused by Tysilia’s antics, then she was not yet in any danger.

‘We do not eat ham during Lent, Tysilia,’ said Dame Martyn meaningfully. ‘You know that.’

Tysilia gazed blankly at her. ‘But it is not Lent. We were eating ham this morning, so Lent must have ended.’ Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed an accusing finger at Matilde. ‘I bet she took it. She is so fat that she ate my ham, as well as her own. I will tell my uncle about this!’

‘Have mine,’ said Dame Martyn tiredly, seeing that placating the woman was the only way to shut her up and prevent her from further insulting their paying guest. She retrieved the meat from under her trencher and passed it to Tysilia, who began to gnaw at it like a peasant, pausing only to wipe her greasy fingers on the tablecloth.

‘We start working on table manners tomorrow,’ said Eve Wasteneys flatly, watching Tysilia’s display of gluttony with disapproval. ‘One thing at a time. But what can we do for you, Brother? Have you caught Will Walcote’s killer?’

‘Not yet,’ said Michael. ‘We came to ask whether you recall any more details about these meetings. I am sure they are significant, so anything you can tell us might help.’

‘We told you all we knew yesterday,’ said Eve. ‘And we also told you that it was dark and late, and that we could not be certain about the identities of the men who came.’

‘Perhaps Tysilia can help,’ suggested Michael. ‘She is the gatekeeper, after all. She must have admitted these men to the convent when they attended these meetings.’

‘What meetings?’ asked Tysilia, speaking without closing her mouth, so that the scholars were treated to the sight of a half-chewed slab of ham. ‘I do not know about any meetings. We all went to bed early last night, because it was raining – the men tend not to come here when it is wet.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw that Matilde was having a difficult time controlling her mirth at Tysilia’s brazen revelations, and at the embarrassment of the two senior nuns as their secrets were so mercilessly exposed. ‘But I was referring to meetings that took place further back than yesterday – some of them before Christmas.’

‘I remember Christmas,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘Dame Wasteneys took her bow and shot some duck for us to eat.’

‘Poaching on the Bishop’s land, were you?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amused surprise, while Eve closed her eyes in weary resignation. ‘But never mind that. Do you recall letting any men into the convent at about that time?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia casually. ‘Lots of them, all dressed in dark cloaks and hoods, so that no one could see their faces.’

‘But did you see their faces?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew heard the sudden hope in his voice.

Tysilia nodded. ‘I could not see to their needs while they wore their hoods, could I? There was Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle; there was that silly Brother Andrew from the Carmelites, who made a nuisance of himself until he fell in the King’s Ditch and drowned – good riddance, I said; then there was Mayor Horwoode, who comes when his whore Yolande de Blaston is unavailable…’

‘That is enough!’ snapped Eve sharply, apparently deciding to act before Tysilia destroyed the reputation of every man in the town. Dame Martyn had her nose in the breakfast ale again, and seemed too horrified to intervene. Eve turned to Michael apologetically. ‘These are not the men who came to the meetings Walcote arranged.’

‘But how do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘You said they were at pains to conceal their identities from you. How can you be sure that the Mayor and Sergeant Orwelle were not among those Walcote invited to his gatherings?’

‘Because the folk Tysilia mentioned are regular attendees here, and I know who they are no matter how far they draw their hoods over their faces. But the ones who came with Walcote were not the same.’

‘Walcote’s meetings certainly did not involve that rough Sergeant Orwelle,’ offered Dame Martyn. ‘He was not the kind of person with whom Walcote had business.’

‘Believe me, you would be wise not to trust anything Tysilia dredges up from that muddy nether-world she