do?’
‘Theft, robbery, rape, adultery,’ recited Cynric. ‘Every felon in the county is here, determined to buy absolution for crimes committed during August, when the physicians say no man was responsible for his own actions.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And the servants say that while we might get one berth elsewhere – if we offer enough money – there is absolutely no chance of finding four together. I do not want to abandon Brother Michael in a place like this. He may need us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They say the bishop is going to order him to look into Aylmer’s stabbing. Gynewell is appalled by an unlawful death in a convent, and wants the culprit brought to justice. We cannot let him do it alone.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘I suppose we cannot.’
Bartholomew was jolted from an unsettling dream, in which Matilde was happily married to de Wetherset, by a discordant jangle that made him leap from the bed and grab his sword. Michael was already awake, and sat on the edge of his own bed, reading a psalter.
‘Easy, Matt,’ he said softly. ‘It is only the bells for prime.
De Wetherset said they were louder than normal, and he is right.’
‘It sounded like an alarm at the start of a battle,’ said Bartholomew sheepishly, setting down the weapon before Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon could see what he had done. They were kneeling next to the hearth, whispering prayers of their own.
Michael closed his book and regarded his friend with concern. ‘You have been different since you returned from France – wearing a sword all the time, and drawing it at the slightest provocation. I thought you disapproved of fighting and violence.’
Bartholomew sat back on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I do, Brother, but this city does not feel safe, and you cannot blame me for being wary when a man was stabbed here only yesterday.’
Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘Cynric approves of your newly honed battle instincts – he worries less now he thinks you can look after yourself – but I am not so sure. It is unlike you.’ He saw the physician did not agree, and changed the subject when Cynric approached with a bowl of water. ‘Are you coming to prime? Laymen are not obliged to attend, so you can go back to sleep if you like, although that will not be easy with those bells going. It is enough to wake the dead.’
‘I hope it does not,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘Although at least then you could just ask Aylmer who dispatched him, which would save a lot of time. But what will happen to Queen Eleanor’s innards? Would they wake, too, and slither around looking for the rest of her?’
Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a lurid imagination you have, Cynric.’
‘It must come from living among the English for solong,’ sighed the book-bearer unhappily. ‘We Welsh do not chop up the corpses of princes, and nor do we have earthquakes or saints crucified by Jews. We were on very good terms with the Jews, so a very great wrong must have been done to provoke them to that sort of behaviour.’
Bartholomew followed him down the stairs and through the hall, where the other guests were either readying themselves for prayers, or lying in their beds with their hands clapped to their ears. The bells were even louder in the yard, and when he tried to tell Suttone that his braes were showing under his habit, he was obliged to shout to make himself heard. And then, as abruptly as it had started, the clamour stopped.
‘All right,’ hissed the Carmelite, adjusting his under-clothing while the physician’s yell still reverberated around the stone buildings. His plump face was scarlet with mortification. ‘There is no need to inform half of Lincoln.’
It was pitch dark and the ground underfoot was frozen hard, although treacherous patches of ice indicated the Gilbertines’ main courtyard was more usually an expanse of soft mud and puddles. The air was bitterly cold,
‘Theft, robbery, rape, adultery,’ recited Cynric. ‘Every felon in the county is here, determined to buy absolution for crimes committed during August, when the physicians say no man was responsible for his own actions.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And the servants say that while we might get one berth elsewhere – if we offer enough money – there is absolutely no chance of finding four together. I do not want to abandon Brother Michael in a place like this. He may need us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They say the bishop is going to order him to look into Aylmer’s stabbing. Gynewell is appalled by an unlawful death in a convent, and wants the culprit brought to justice. We cannot let him do it alone.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘I suppose we cannot.’
Bartholomew was jolted from an unsettling dream, in which Matilde was happily married to de Wetherset, by a discordant jangle that made him leap from the bed and grab his sword. Michael was already awake, and sat on the edge of his own bed, reading a psalter.
‘Easy, Matt,’ he said softly. ‘It is only the bells for prime.
De Wetherset said they were louder than normal, and he is right.’
‘It sounded like an alarm at the start of a battle,’ said Bartholomew sheepishly, setting down the weapon before Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon could see what he had done. They were kneeling next to the hearth, whispering prayers of their own.
Michael closed his book and regarded his friend with concern. ‘You have been different since you returned from France – wearing a sword all the time, and drawing it at the slightest provocation. I thought you disapproved of fighting and violence.’
Bartholomew sat back on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I do, Brother, but this city does not feel safe, and you cannot blame me for being wary when a man was stabbed here only yesterday.’
Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘Cynric approves of your newly honed battle instincts – he worries less now he thinks you can look after yourself – but I am not so sure. It is unlike you.’ He saw the physician did not agree, and changed the subject when Cynric approached with a bowl of water. ‘Are you coming to prime? Laymen are not obliged to attend, so you can go back to sleep if you like, although that will not be easy with those bells going. It is enough to wake the dead.’
‘I hope it does not,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘Although at least then you could just ask Aylmer who dispatched him, which would save a lot of time. But what will happen to Queen Eleanor’s innards? Would they wake, too, and slither around looking for the rest of her?’
Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘What a lurid imagination you have, Cynric.’
‘It must come from living among the English for solong,’ sighed the book-bearer unhappily. ‘We Welsh do not chop up the corpses of princes, and nor do we have earthquakes or saints crucified by Jews. We were on very good terms with the Jews, so a very great wrong must have been done to provoke them to that sort of behaviour.’
Bartholomew followed him down the stairs and through the hall, where the other guests were either readying themselves for prayers, or lying in their beds with their hands clapped to their ears. The bells were even louder in the yard, and when he tried to tell Suttone that his braes were showing under his habit, he was obliged to shout to make himself heard. And then, as abruptly as it had started, the clamour stopped.
‘All right,’ hissed the Carmelite, adjusting his under-clothing while the physician’s yell still reverberated around the stone buildings. His plump face was scarlet with mortification. ‘There is no need to inform half of Lincoln.’
It was pitch dark and the ground underfoot was frozen hard, although treacherous patches of ice indicated the Gilbertines’ main courtyard was more usually an expanse of soft mud and puddles. The air was bitterly cold,
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