sheep.’
‘One of the brethren – Hamo, this week – conducts a separate ceremony for layfolk in the hospital,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I asked whether he had noticed anyone creeping out to murder Aylmer, but he said he had not. He is not overly observant, despite the fact that he loves to gossip.’
‘I shall repair to the Carmelite Friary at first light tomorrow,’ announced Suttone, horrified by the discussion. ‘It will be safer. And Brother Michael intends to foist himself on the Black Monks.’
‘You will find both convents are full,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Do you think we would stay in a place tainted by murder, had there been an alternative available? Simon and I will be safe with you, though – you cannot be the killers, because you have only just arrived.’
‘True,’ said Suttone nervously. ‘But the same cannot be said for you.’
‘De Wetherset is no killer,’ said Michael with more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Yet surely, you have homes in Lincoln, if you live here? Why not go there?’
‘De Wetherset was lodging with me,’ explained Simon, ‘but my house burned down last month – we should have been more careful when we banked the fire. Unfortunately, every bed in the city is now taken by folk who are here for Miller’s Market, the General Pardon or – as a very poor third – the installation of canons. We have no choice but to stay with the Gilbertines.’
‘This poor town,’ said de Wetherset softly. ‘A century ago, it was one of the greatest cities in the world, but now it is wracked by poverty. The plague did not help, carrying off two in every three of the clergy, and now the Fossedike– the old canal that gives access to the sea – is silting up, and trade suffers sorely. It deserves better than to be befouled by murder.’
‘Two murders,’ corrected Michael. ‘Aylmer and Flaxfleete.’
‘Not to mention the others,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Simon mutter.
Bartholomew slept badly that night for several reasons. He was over-tired from the journey; the bed was hard enough to hurt a back made sore by days in the saddle; he was eager to question Spayne about Matilde; he was disturbed to learn that a murder had taken place in the chamber below where he was tossing and turning; and he was uncomfortable sharing a room with de Wetherset and Simon. He had never liked the ex-Chancellor, and had been relieved when the man had left Cambridge. Like Michael, de Wetherset had relished the University’s intrigues and politics, and loved nothing more than to scheme and pit his wits against the clever minds of rival scholars. Bartholomew often felt Michael had learned rather too many bad practices from the cunning de Wetherset.
He had also taken something of a dislike to Simon. The priest possessed an arrogant self-confidence that suggested he was used to having his own way, and Bartholomew felt he was exactly the kind of man to kill the hapless Aylmer while claiming to be singing psalms. He distrusted him, and was grateful Cynric and his ready dagger were to hand.
‘I am uneasy here,’ whispered the book-bearer in the depths of the night, hearing him shift restlessly. ‘The servants are a miserable lot, who are raising toasts to the man who stabbed Aylmer – they all hated him, although none would tell me why. And I do not like de Wetherset wanting to sleepin the same chamber with us. He is a crafty man, and there will be trouble for certain.’
‘We shall find somewhere else tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not have to stay here.’
‘Unfortunately, we do,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘The servants say these are the last free beds in the entire city. Father Simon was right: folk have flocked here for Miller’s Market and the General Pardon.’
‘How many people were affected by this Summer Madness, then?’ asked Bartholomew, startled to learn the disease might have reached plague-like proportions. ‘And what sort of things did they
‘One of the brethren – Hamo, this week – conducts a separate ceremony for layfolk in the hospital,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I asked whether he had noticed anyone creeping out to murder Aylmer, but he said he had not. He is not overly observant, despite the fact that he loves to gossip.’
‘I shall repair to the Carmelite Friary at first light tomorrow,’ announced Suttone, horrified by the discussion. ‘It will be safer. And Brother Michael intends to foist himself on the Black Monks.’
‘You will find both convents are full,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Do you think we would stay in a place tainted by murder, had there been an alternative available? Simon and I will be safe with you, though – you cannot be the killers, because you have only just arrived.’
‘True,’ said Suttone nervously. ‘But the same cannot be said for you.’
‘De Wetherset is no killer,’ said Michael with more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Yet surely, you have homes in Lincoln, if you live here? Why not go there?’
‘De Wetherset was lodging with me,’ explained Simon, ‘but my house burned down last month – we should have been more careful when we banked the fire. Unfortunately, every bed in the city is now taken by folk who are here for Miller’s Market, the General Pardon or – as a very poor third – the installation of canons. We have no choice but to stay with the Gilbertines.’
‘This poor town,’ said de Wetherset softly. ‘A century ago, it was one of the greatest cities in the world, but now it is wracked by poverty. The plague did not help, carrying off two in every three of the clergy, and now the Fossedike– the old canal that gives access to the sea – is silting up, and trade suffers sorely. It deserves better than to be befouled by murder.’
‘Two murders,’ corrected Michael. ‘Aylmer and Flaxfleete.’
‘Not to mention the others,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Simon mutter.
Bartholomew slept badly that night for several reasons. He was over-tired from the journey; the bed was hard enough to hurt a back made sore by days in the saddle; he was eager to question Spayne about Matilde; he was disturbed to learn that a murder had taken place in the chamber below where he was tossing and turning; and he was uncomfortable sharing a room with de Wetherset and Simon. He had never liked the ex-Chancellor, and had been relieved when the man had left Cambridge. Like Michael, de Wetherset had relished the University’s intrigues and politics, and loved nothing more than to scheme and pit his wits against the clever minds of rival scholars. Bartholomew often felt Michael had learned rather too many bad practices from the cunning de Wetherset.
He had also taken something of a dislike to Simon. The priest possessed an arrogant self-confidence that suggested he was used to having his own way, and Bartholomew felt he was exactly the kind of man to kill the hapless Aylmer while claiming to be singing psalms. He distrusted him, and was grateful Cynric and his ready dagger were to hand.
‘I am uneasy here,’ whispered the book-bearer in the depths of the night, hearing him shift restlessly. ‘The servants are a miserable lot, who are raising toasts to the man who stabbed Aylmer – they all hated him, although none would tell me why. And I do not like de Wetherset wanting to sleepin the same chamber with us. He is a crafty man, and there will be trouble for certain.’
‘We shall find somewhere else tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not have to stay here.’
‘Unfortunately, we do,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘The servants say these are the last free beds in the entire city. Father Simon was right: folk have flocked here for Miller’s Market and the General Pardon.’
‘How many people were affected by this Summer Madness, then?’ asked Bartholomew, startled to learn the disease might have reached plague-like proportions. ‘And what sort of things did they
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