lecture will now revolve around life on Venus.’
‘Perhaps there are nominalists on Venus,’ suggested Richard. ‘Have you considered talking about what Venusian nominalists might believe? It would be a clever way to give a lecture on nominalism while still complying with the unreasonable demands imposed by Chancellor Tynkell.’
‘It would not,’ said Heytesbury sternly. ‘Such a tactic would be ungentlemanly, not to mention painfully transparent. And anyway, it would make a mockery of my beliefs. The realists would laugh at me if I claimed nominalism was followed on Venus.’
‘I still have that document ready,’ said Michael to Heytesbury, patting his scrip. ‘It seems to me that you do not like Cambridge, and I would hate to think that you felt obliged to linger here for my benefit.’
‘It has been quite an experience,’ said Heytesbury, leaning back in his chair and smiling enigmatically. ‘But I shall decide whether to sign this deed by the time I give my lecture. You are right: I do not like Cambridge, and I am beginning to miss the hallowed halls of Oxford with their atmosphere of learning and scholarship, and the stimulating presence of great minds.’
‘I see,’ said Michael icily. He opened his scrip and passed Heytesbury the document. ‘This is ready whenever you are. I can even provide you with a decent horse to speed you on your way.’
‘Just as long as it is not a large black one,’ said Heytesbury, taking the document as if he expected it to bite. ‘I would not want to be thrown off and break my neck.’
‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously.
Heytesbury folded the deed and placed it in his own scrip. ‘I shall read it myself, then ask Richard to assess it for loopholes. I must be sure that it does not harm Oxford.’
Michael pretended to be offended, although Bartholomew thought Heytesbury was acting with commendable common sense in securing the services of a lawyer. The monk stood and indicated that Timothy and Bartholomew should leave with him. ‘We must go to visit the good nuns of St Radegund’s Convent. There are questions to ask.’
‘Do not go there, Brother,’ advised Richard weakly. ‘Those are no nuns; they are sirens, who entice innocent men inside their walls. A chaste and inexperienced man like you will be easy prey.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Are you one of those men who visits the nuns when decent folk are sleeping?’
‘I know the occupants of St Radegund’s Convent,’ replied Richard evasively. ‘There have been rumours about the place ever since I was a boy.’
‘Do these rumours bear any resemblance to the truth?’ asked Heytesbury, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard weakly. ‘Beyond your wildest imaginings.’
Chapter 10
BARTHOLOMEW, MICHAEL AND TIMOTHY LEFT THE Cardinal’s Cap and set off in a dull drizzle of early afternoon towards St Radegund’s Convent. When Michael tapped on the door there was a sound of running footsteps, the grille on the gate was snapped open and Tysilia peered out.
‘Oh, it is you,’ she said to Michael, sounding pleased. ‘We always like visits from Dominicans and Franciscans.’
‘I am a Benedictine, not a Dominican,’ said Michael, offended. ‘You should be able to tell the difference; you wear the habit of a Benedictine novice yourself.’
Tysilia shook her head in evident impatience with herself. ‘Dame Martyn told me that I could always tell a Benedictine from a Dominican because Benedictines are fat. I must remember that!’
Bartholomew glanced at Michael and smiled.
‘I said I would punch the next
‘She is not,’ agreed Timothy, not bothering to mask his distaste.
‘I keep forgetting that Black Monks and Black Friars are different,’ Tysilia went on cheerfully. ‘It is like White Friars are Carmelites and White Monks are cisterns. And Grey Friars, like him, are Franciscans.’ She beamed at Timothy in his damaged cloak.
‘Cistercians,’ corrected Michael. ‘And Timothy is no Franciscan; he is a Benedictine, like me.’
‘But he wears grey,’ Tysilia pointed out. ‘And grey equals Franciscans.’
It was clear to Bartholomew that Timothy had no time for the owner of the sultry eyes that peered through the grille, although he had plenty of compassion for the struggling Yolande de Blaston. ‘Enough!’ Timothy snapped. ‘We did not come here to bandy words with you, woman. Inform your Prioress that we are here to see her.’
‘Then I suppose you had better come in,’ said Tysilia with a pout. ‘I may be a while, because she is asleep and I will have to wake her up.’
‘It is cold out here,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands to warm them as a bitter wind laden with misty droplets of rain cut in from across the Fens. He did not comment that early afternoon was no time for a Prioress with a convent to run to be asleep. ‘I do not know why the founders of this convent chose to locate it in so wild a place.’
‘They put it here so that we would be removed from men,’ explained Tysilia brightly, opening the door to admit them. ‘Of course, that just means that men have a bit of a walk to get here…’ Her hands flew to her mouth in agitation. ‘Damn it all! I forgot. Eve Wasteneys told me I am not to admit anyone into Prioress Martyn’s presence without first telling her who it is. Would you mind leaving?’
‘You mean you want us to wait outside?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘Yes,’ said Tysilia.
‘But why can we not wait here?’ asked Michael, unwilling to leave the relative shelter of the convent walls to stand in the rain while Tysilia woke the Prioress from her slumbers.
‘Because Dame Martyn may not want to see you,’ said Tysilia with an impatient sigh at his stupidity. ‘And if she does not, I shall have to tell you that she is not here and refuse you permission to come in.’
‘I see you have a clear understanding of the duties of gatekeeper,’ mumbled Michael, reluctantly stepping out. He shivered in the wind as she closed the door again, and gave Timothy a sudden grin. ‘Matt thinks Tysilia is behind these meetings of Walcote’s, and that she is a criminal mastermind who is capable of manipulating some of the most important men in the University.’
Timothy shook his head, laughing. ‘I do not think so!’
‘It is just not possible for someone to be that stupid,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of his theory. ‘It must be an act.’
‘If her stupidity is contrived, then she has taken it too far,’ said Timothy, still smiling. ‘She needs to moderate herself.’
‘Here she comes,’ said Michael, as footsteps clattered across the yard. ‘Now we will see whether the Prioress is prepared to see us, or whether she is pretending to be out.’
The door opened a second time, and Tysilia waved them in. ‘Eve Wasteneys told me to tell you that Dame Martyn is in the stellar,’ she said breezily.
‘Solar,’ corrected Michael. ‘And we know she is in, or you would not have gone to ask her whether she was prepared to grant us an audience.’
‘You what?’ asked Tysilia blankly.
‘Never mind,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Lead on.’
She led the way across the yard to the building in which the solar was located. Michael kept his hands firmly inside his sleeves this time, so that the Bishop’s ‘niece’ ascended the stairs unmolested, despite hips that swung more vigorously at every step. She shot him a look of bewilderment when they reached the top, as though she could not understand how the monk could have resisted her.
‘How is your murder instigation coming along?’ she asked.
‘Investigation,’ corrected Michael. ‘And it is not coming along at all.’
