‘Do you really believe all that?’ asked Bartholomew, when the gate had closed behind them.
‘Of course not,’ replied Michael scornfully, ‘but it may prevent him from doing something nasty to you at some point in the future. And you do not want him after your blood, believe me.’
The city felt uneasy as Bartholomew and Michael walked through it. Men were beginning to gather in huddles, and the alehouses were fuller than usual. Merchants scurried here and there with their heads down, as if they were afraid that eye contact might result in a confrontation that would see them deprived of their purses – or worse. Many of the better houses on the main road had kept their windows shuttered, and even one or two of the churches had firmly closed doors.
When the scholars reached the cathedral, and reported Simon’s disappearance to Gynewell, the bishop responded by ordering his officials to search the Close, roping in Ravenser, John, Claypole, Choirmaster Bautre and even the boy singers. Dancing up and down on the balls of his feet with restless energy, Gynewell directed them to specific areas, although Bartholomew doubted the clerics could be trusted to be thorough. Ravenser looked as though he had imbibed too much of his own ale the previous night; John complained that the hunt would interfere with his library duties; and Claypole and Bautre carped about the inclement weather. Young Hugh was the only one who seized on the adventure with any enthusiasm, and Bartholomew was impressed by the systematic way the boy and his fellow choristers combed the land near the Vicars’ Court.
‘I am sorry, My Lord,’ said Hugh a while later. He was soaking wet, covered in mud and close to frustrated tears. ‘I was hoping
The bishop dismissed him to the kitchens to dry out, and ordered Claypole to return to the two Close churches – St Mary Magdalene and St Margaret – and search them properly. The priest slouched away resentfully, and Bartholomew suspected he had no intention of doing as he was told. Then Michael pointed out that the vain, self-important Simon was more likely to be in the cathedral than in a humble chapel, and proposed they look for him there themselves.
Bartholomew took the northern half of the building, Michael took the south, and they explored every nook and cranny. Bartholomew was near the Great Transept when he met Hamo and Roger.
‘You seem to be in pain,’ said Bartholomew, noting the way Hamo held his arm. ‘Can I help?’
‘I told you: I fell and bruised it,’ said Hamo, moving behind his prior, as if for protection. ‘I do not need poultices and purges, thank you.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘On the night Brother Michael and I were attacked, you said you were both in the chapel. Did you notice any of your brethren miss-’
‘No,’ interrupted Roger sharply. ‘No one was absent. We are delighted to have Master Suttone … I mean all of you in our convent, and would do nothing to make you want to leave. I assure you the ambush had nothing to do with us.’
‘You will not be so delighted if Michael discovers Aylmer was stabbed by a Gilbertine,’ said Bartholomew, knowing he was taking a risk by making such bald statements, but persisting anyway.
Roger licked dry lips. ‘No Gilbertine killed Aylmer. Come, Hamo. We should visit the Head Shrine and pray for Father Simon’s safe return.’
He left, but Hamo lingered, his expression as icy as the weather outside. ‘I do not like your tone, physician, and nor do I like the way Michael leers at Lady Christiana. I do not like it at all.’
He stamped away, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily. Could jealousy have been the motive for the attack in the orchard? Hamo fawned over Christiana, and it was possible that he was as smitten by her charms as was Michael. Had he gathered like-minded colleagues for the bungled ambush, hoping to prevent the monk from luring her away from the convent that had been her home for so long? And was Roger compliant, because he did not want to lose the valuable source of income Christiana had become? Miller thought the culprit was in holy orders; perhaps he was right.
Eventually, Bartholomew and Michael met by the shrine of Little Hugh. The cold weather had depleted the number of pilgrims, and it was deserted, except for Bautre, who was fortifying himself with Eleanor’s holy ‘water’. He blushed when he realised he had been seen, and scuttled away before they could talk to him.
‘Cynric told me he found Simon’s prayer for his brother Adam Molendinarius here,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see it? I am not sure I trust Cynric’s Latin.’
‘He read some of it aloud, but I did not look myself, obviously. I certainly did not believe his translation of the part that “proves” Simon was the lover of Christiana’s mother.’
