‘It happened the other night, when you and Matthew were assaulted,’ elaborated Suttone. He gave a rather malicious smile. ‘Hamo was so determined to hear what Prior Roger was saying to Whatton in the Lady Chapel that he tried to climb the ivy on the wall outside – I could see him through the window. And all the time, you were in the orchard, fighting for your life.’
‘Our Lady Chapel is a difficult challenge for eaves-droppers,’ said Hamo, making it sound as though the fault lay in the building, rather than the activity. ‘And the only way to monitor discussions is to go outside and scale the wall. I heard the clash of arms as you fought off your attackers, and I was so frightened that I fell and stunned myself. By the time I had recovered, Cynric was saying that you had escaped and Tetford was dead.’
‘Why were you trying to listen to your prior?’ asked Michael curiously.
‘He wanted to know whether Whatton was going to be promoted to Brother Cellerer,’ supplied Suttone helpfully. He assumed a pious expression. ‘Nosy men will die when the plague comes again.’
Michael smiled, noting that the timing of the incident eliminated Hamo, Roger and Whatton as candidates for the ambush. He wished Suttone had mentioned it sooner. ‘Would you mind extinguishing the lamps and going downstairs to talk? Matt will snore through the trumpets of Judgement Day, but I require silence and darkness for my slumber. Good night, gentlemen.’
He lay on his bed and hauled a blanket over his face. He did not think he would sleep, because his mind teemed with questions, but he did not want to spend the night chatting to de Wetherset and Suttone, either. He needed time alone, to consider what he had learned and try to instil some order into it. Therefore, he was surprised when he opened his eyes to find the room full of daylight.
‘Roger ordered the bells silenced this morning,’ explained de Wetherset, watching him look around in confusion. ‘You seemed so exhausted last night, that I thought you might appreciate longer in bed.’
‘It was our suggestion,’ said Suttone shyly. ‘Roger was set to produce some really loud music today, as he now has six Hugh Chalices lined up on his altar, but we persuaded him that your repose was important to solving the mysteries that have beset his city. Grudgingly, he agreed.’
Michael sat up and scrubbed his face. Bartholomew was shaving in some hot water Cynric had brought, and had changed his clothes. By comparison, Michael felt soiled and grubby. He swung his large legs over the side of the bed.
‘I have a lot to do today,’ he said ungraciously. ‘You should not have let me waste time.’
‘Your wits will be sharper with the additional rest,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I am trying to help you, Brother. If I am an instrument of the saints, then I should put my talents to good use.’
Michael glanced sharply at him, but could see no trace of humour in the ex-Chancellor’s face. His ploy to prevent de Wetherset from harming Bartholomew at some point in the future had worked better than he had anticipated.
‘Roger invited Gynewell to come and hear your account of Simon’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘I heard him arrive a few moments ago.’
‘He heard cloven hoofs rattle across the cobbles,’ murmured Cynric. He was in a foul mood, furious that he had not been there when Michael and Bartholomew had been attacked a second time.
Michael stood, stretched and performed his morning ablutions. Then he donned a fresh habit and asked Cynric to air the one he had been wearing, so it would be clean for the Sunday celebrations – if he lived that long. In an attempt to alleviate the guilt he felt for not protecting his scholars, Cynric went to the kitchens and forced the cook to prepare the best breakfast the convent could provide, fingering his dagger meaningfully as he recited a wholly unreasonable list of demands. The meal took three men to carry, and won Michael’s instant approval.
‘It is healthy to consume a decent breakfast,’ he declared, when Bartholomew warned that he might be sick if he ate more than a dozen eggs. ‘I am sure Surgeon Bunoun would agree.’
‘Bunoun is an excellent medicus,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Look what he did for Dalderby, although the reprieve was only temporary. I heard Miller killed him, by hitting him over the head with a stone.’
‘It is a bad time for men to slaughter each other,’ said Suttone worriedly. ‘In four days, we shall have our installation, the General Pardon and Miller’s Market, all at the same time. If there are tales that the Guild and the Commonalty have been killing each other, blood will flow for certain.’
‘The city felt very uneasy yesterday,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘Men were gathering in groups, according to affiliation, and that is always a bad sign. I remember it from my Cambridge days.’
