Bartholomew regretted his outburst; the lad had saved his life after all. He made an effort to include Gray in the discussion, and tried to ensure that Gray understood which medicines he was taking from the infirmarian and what they were for.
Bartholomew and the infirmarian left Gray packing the herbs and potions into a bag, and walked out into the drizzle.
'How many monks have you lost?' asked Bartholomew.
The infirmarian bowed his head. 'More than half, and Father Prior died yesterday. Perhaps our communal way of life promotes the sickness in some way. You have heard that all the Dominicans are dead? But what else should we do? Forsake our Rule and live in isolation like hermits?'
There was no answer to his question.
When Gray was ready, they took their leave of the infirmarian, and walked back along the causeway to the town. Gray had recovered completely from his attack of the sulks, and chattered on about what he planned to do once he had completed his training. Bartholomew grew dispirited listening to him. Did people think of nothing other than making money?
Gray tugged at his cloak suddenly. 'We should go to St Radegund's!' he said.
'Whatever for? They will refuse us entry.'
'Maybe Philippa went back there after she left your sister's house.'
Bartholomew stared at him. Gray was right! Why had he not considered it earlier? Gray had already set off down the causeway, and was hammering at the convent door by the time Bartholomew caught up with him. While they waited for the door to be answered, Bartholomew fretted, wiping the rain from his face impatiently. Gray hopped from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm. Bartholomew looked at the door, and, despite his preoccupation, saw that several tendrils of weed had begun to grow across it. The nuns were taking their isolation seriously.
The small grille in the door was. snapped open.
'What?' came a sharp voice.
'I want to speak with the Abbess,' said Bartholomew.
His voice sounded calm, but his thoughts were in turmoil. Perhaps he would find Philippa safe and sound back in the convent, and all his worrying would be over.
'Who are you?' snapped the voice again.
'Matthew Bartholomew from Michaelhouse.'
The air rang with the retort of the grille being slammed shut vigorously. They waited a few moments, but nothing happened.
Gray looked almost as disappointed as Bartholomew' I felt. 'Oh, well. That is that,' he said.
Abruptly, the grille shot open again, and Bartholomew could see that this time there were two people on the other side.
'Well?' came the first voice, impatient and aggressive.
Bartholomew was so surprised that the Abbess had come to the door, that he was momentarily stuck for words.
'Is it Henry?' the Abbess's voice was deep for a woman, and she was tall enough that she had to bend her head slightly to look through the grille. Her reasons for coming to answer the door were suddenly clear to Bartholomew. She thought he was coming to bring her news of her nephews, the Oliver brothers.
'Henry is well, Mother,' Bartholomew replied. He moved nearer to the door so that he could see her more clearly.
'Come no closer!' she said, her voice hard and distant. 'I hear that you walk freely among the contagion.
I do not want you to bring it here. What do you want of me?'
Bartholomew was taken aback by her hostility, but it was not the first time he had been repulsed because of his contact with plague victims, and doubtless it would not be the last.
'I came to ask whether you had news of Philippa Abigny,' he said, watching the beautiful, but cold, face of the Abbess carefully.
Bartholomew saw a flash of anger in the ice-blue eyes. 'How dare you come here to ask that when you stole her away from us! You have fouled her reputation by your actions.'
He had expected such a response, although he had not imagined it would be given with such venom. But he did not wish to get into an argument with the Abbess about whether he had sullied Philippa's reputation, and so he tried to remain courteous.
'I am sorry if you think that,' he said, 'but you have not answered my question.'
'Do you think I am so stupid as to answer?' The Abbess virtually spat the words out. 'You stole her away once. If I told you she was here, you would try to do the same again.'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'You misunderstand my intentions. She came with me of her own free will, although I wished her to go back to where she would be protected from the plague. I only want to know that she is safe.'
'Then you can continue in your agony of doubt,' said the Abbess. 'For I will not tell you of the news I have, nor of her whereabouts.'
'Then do you know where she is?' Bartholomew cried.
The Abbess stepped back from the grille and smiled at him with such coldness that Bartholomew felt himself shudder. He was suddenly reminded of the looks of hatred Henry used to throw at him. What a family, all consumed with hate and loathing! He saw a large shadow fall over the Abbess, and watched her turn towards it, the coldness evaporating from her smile in an instant.
Bartholomew glimpsed the hem of a highly decorated black cloak, and knew that Elias Oliver was there.
'Where is she?' Bartholomew shouted. The Abbess began to walk away, tall and regal, smiling at the tall figure beside her and ignoring Bartholomew. Bartholomew rattled the door in frustration, but the grille was slammed shut, and no amount of shouting and battering would induce the nuns to open it again.
Bartholomew slumped against the wall in defeat.
Gray sat down beside him.
'Do not fret so,' he said. 'I have an idea.'
Bartholomew fought to regain control of his temper.
Did the wretched woman know where Philippa was, or was she merely pretending in order to have revenge for his 'stealing' her? He had had very little to do with the nuns of St Radegund's. They lived secluded in their cloisters, and even when he had visited Philippa, he had seen little of the Priory or its inmates.
Gray stood up and set off round the Priory walls.
Bartholomew followed, sharply reminded of what had happened when he had last followed Gray around the walls of the convent. Gray slipped in and out of trees until he reached a point where the walls were totally obscured by thick undergrowth. Without hesitating, he led the way down a tiny path until he reached a door in the wall. He knocked twice, softly.
Bartholomew watched in amazement as the door opened and a young woman in a nun's habit peeped out. Seeing Gray, she checked no one was looking, and stepped out, closing the door carefully behind her.
'This is my cousin, Sister Emelda,' said Gray, turning to Bartholomew.
The young woman smiled shyly at Bartholomew, and then looked at Gray. 'I knew you would come!
I cannot stay long, though, or I will be missed.' She glanced around her, as if expecting the spectre of the Abbess to appear through the trees. Gray nodded, and passed her something wrapped in a cloth. Emelda took it quickly, and secreted it in her robes. She reached up and kissed him quickly on the cheek. 'Thank you,' she whispered.
Gray flushed. 'The doctor has something to ask you,' he said, to cover his embarrassment.
Emelda smiled at Bartholomew again. 'I know you from when you used to come to court Philippa. Poor philippa! She hated it here, especially in the winter months, and even more when you stopped coming.'
'Is she here now?' he asked.
Emelda quickly shook her head. 'No. She has not been seen since you took her away. If she were here, I would know, because I do the cooking, and food is very carefully rationed. I would know if there were another
