‘I would have taken issue with you this morning, but the cake incident has made me reconsider. I found I did not want him with us on that long, lonely road to the Gilbertine Priory.’ Michael chuckled ruefully. ‘We are worse than Cynric! What do we expect him to do? Rip out our innards with his claws? Spear us with his pitchfork?’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘We will be ashamed of ourselves in the morning, when we are not surrounded by shadows. Poor Gynewell!’
‘We should not discuss him now, or we will be nervous wrecks by the time we reach the convent. We shall talk about the Hugh Chalice instead. Are Gynewell and Chapman right, and it is making its own way to where it thinks it belongs?’
‘It will only be able to do that if it is genuinely holy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you said it is not.’
‘But I cannot be sure,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot be sure about anything in this case. I do not recall ever being so confused.’
Bartholomew considered what they knew. ‘Aylmer may have stolen the thing from Flaxfleete, although we can hardly ask either of them now, but we do know that he died with it in his hands. It was clearly important to him, which means it may hold the key to his murder.’
‘True. I will talk to Lady Christiana again, and ask whether she has heard any rumours about it. It is lodging with the Gilbertines, after all, and that is where she lives.’
‘No, I will ask her,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘You can talk to the gossiping Hamo instead.’
Michael gazed at him with round green eyes. ‘That is not fair.’
‘But it is wise. I have seen the way you look at her.’
Michael gave a sudden leer. ‘All right, I admit to admiring her. She is a splendid woman, and it does no harm to enjoy the beauty of God’s creations.’
‘Then enjoy them a little more discreetly. I am not the only one who has noticed you think God has done a rather good job with this particular part of His handiwork.’
Michael was dismissive of the advice. ‘She will be perfectly safe with me.’
‘But will you be safe with her?’ mused Bartholomew. He stopped walking and turned suddenly. They were by the High Bridge, and dark alleys full of hovels radiated off to the left and right. It was not a respectable part of the city. ‘What was that?’
‘Rats,’ said Michael, after a few moments. ‘This city is full of them, especially near the river.’
They crossed the bridge, and strode through Wigford, Michael for once making no complaint about the rapid pace the physician set. Lights gleamed inside houses, and in several churches evening prayers were in progress. They caught snatches of Latin as they walked. Bartholomew glanced behind him frequently, although it was now too dark to see whether anything was amiss.
‘There is the Gilbertine Priory at last,’ breathed Michael in relief, when he spotted the familiar gate looming in the blackness. ‘I wish you had chosen us lodgings nearer the city. If you had, I might not have been ordered to look into the murder of this one’s guests.’
‘Do not be so sure. When I was in the library, John Suttone told me the Gilbertines are not the only ones with problems on that front. There was a stabbing at the Dominican Friary last night, and two men brained each other with kitchen pots at the Carmelite convent.’
Michael regarded him with troubled eyes. ‘Yet more murders for me to investigate?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Sheriff Lungspee caught the Dominicans’ knifeman, while the two who fought with pans are in the Gilbertines’ hospital. They-’ He stopped a second time.
‘You are making me uneasy, Matt,’ complained Michael, walking faster. ‘Here is the door. Hammer with the pommel of your dagger, while I make sure no one creeps up behind us.’
Bartholomew did as he was told, but there was no reply. Then he thought he saw a shadow next to the Church of Holy Innocents opposite. He peered into the darkness, but nothing moved and he supposed he had imagined it. He turned to the gate and knocked again.
‘No one is going to answer,’ he said, when a third pounding met with no response. ‘They must be singing, so cannot hear us.’
‘What shall we do?’ asked Michael. ‘Shout?’
‘That will do no good. We must find another way in – quickly. It does not feel safe out here.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, heading for the alley that ran around the rear of the compound. ‘It does not.’
The lane was narrow and pitch black, and Michael swore foully when he fell and twisted his ankle. His language degenerated even further when he put his hands in a bed of nettles. Bartholomew urged him to lower his voice, afraid the racket might attract unwelcome company, but the monk was too agitated to be calmed. The clamour became even more furious when the physician started to pull him to his feet, but then dropped him abruptly when he heard something behind them. Bartholomew spun around and drew his sword in one smooth movement.
‘You never used to be able to do that,’ said Michael, from his patch of weeds. ‘If you were ever obliged to use a weapon, you were all fingers and thumbs.’
