‘Have you given any more thought to where Matilde might be?’ asked Bartholomew after a short sil ence, during which the cathedral bells began to chime in the distance. ‘I would be grateful for even the smallest piece of information. And so would Michael,’ he added as an afterthought.
She frowned thoughtfully. ‘She must be very important to you.’
‘To both of us,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘She is a good friend, and all we want is to be sure she is safe.’
‘Then Dame Eleanor and I will make a list of all the places she ever mentioned,’ said Christiana with sudden determination. ‘We are no Mayor Spayne. We will help you find her.’ Bartholomew smiled gratefully, promptly revising his unflattering opinion of her. ‘Thank you.’
Her own smile faltered as she returned her gaze to the monk. ‘Your story of dangerous felons attacking you with knives will play on my mind all day, Brother. Were you hurt?’
‘Yes.’ Michael held up his hands, swollen from their battle with nettles. ‘I was badly stung.’
‘And you have given him nothing to alleviate the pain?’ cried Christiana, turning on Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were a physician!’
‘I found him a dock leaf,’ he said defensively.
‘ It was rough – and so is he when he wields them,’ explained Michael to Christiana, in a voice that came very close to a whimper. ‘And I had suffered enough.’
‘There is a balm in the hospital,’ said Christiana kindly. ‘I have used it on nettle rashes myself. Come with me, dear Brother, and we shall soon have you feeling better. Dame Eleanor will be there, so do not worry about propriety.’
‘I shall not,’ promised Michael.
‘What is in this poultice?’ asked Bartholomew, starting to follow.
‘Dock leaves,’ replied Christiana, with a wry grin. ‘But a gently applied paste is far more soothing than being rubbed with foliage. I will show you, if you like.’
‘You need not come, Matt,’ said Michael airily. ‘I shall be perfectly happy with Lady Christiana.’
‘I am sure you will,’ murmured Bartholomew, watching them walk away together.
With Michael ensconced with Christiana, and the hospital doors firmly closed against any would-be intruders – even Cynric could not hear what was going on inside, and he was a far more experienced eavesdropper than Bartholomew would ever be – the physician found himself at a loose end. He did not want to visit Spayne again, despite the open invitation, since he suspected he would never have what he really wanted from the man. It was not his duty to investigate the death of Aylmer, and he had no idea how to move forward on it anyway. And the other murders were none of his affair – he did not think anyone would thank him for meddling, and, given the events in the garden the previous night, he was inclined to stay away from the whole business. He was restless, even so, feeling as if he should be doing something, and his sense of unease was exacerbated by the growing agitation among Lincoln’s citizenry. The talk in the convent, by the tradesmen who came to deliver victuals, and by the people who passed the gate outside, was full of the brewing crisis between Guild and Commonalty.
‘I thought we would be riding to Matilde by now, having new clues as to her whereabouts,’ said Cynric, standing next to him at the guest-hall’s window and staring across the yard. ‘I shall enjoy watching Brother Michael canonised, but it is not what I was expecting to be doing next Sunday.’ ‘Not canonised, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew. He shivered. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the sky at a vigorous lick, and the wind roared through the trees. It was going to snow again, and there would be a blizzard. ‘He is not a saint yet. And he never will be, if he allows himself to be seduced by Lady Christiana.’
‘She is not seducing him!’ exclaimed Cynric, shocked. ‘What a thing to say! He is a monk and she is a widow. They would never engage in lewd behaviour.’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the Welshman was apt to be prim. ‘I wonder if Spayne would be more forthcoming if he knew my real reason for trying to find Matilde.’
‘I imagine that would make him even less helpful. Brother Michael thinks he might have guessed anyway, which is why he is being stubborn – if he cannot have her, then neither will you. I could visit his house and have a poke around if you like. He might have written down her whereabouts, lest he forgot.’
‘I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing one commits to parchment. Besides, it is not a good idea to burgle the houses of wealthy merchants, Cynric. People are hanged for that sort of thing.’
‘Like Shirlok was, twenty years ago in Cambridge,’ said Cynric, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I heard Miller talking about it in the Angel tavern yesterday. I told you I was going to listen to a few-’
‘You eavesdropped on Miller?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘That was rash! The man is dangerous.’
‘You took me to Poitiers,’ said Cynric wryly. ‘Is Miller more dangerous than that?’
