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 so long,’ 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, and Bartholomew shivered as he drew his winter cloak more closely around his shoulders. Above, the sky was clear, and thousands of stars glittered in a great dome of blackness. A fox yipped in the distance, and trees whispered softly in the wind.
Bartholomew was used to prime being a peaceful, contemplative affair, where the hushed voices of priests echoed around an otherwise silent church, allowing those participating to reflect on the day that was about to begin. Things were different at the Gilbertine convent. The brethren began by marching in to take their places in the chancel, their prior rattling a pair of wooden clappers as he went. Bartholomew knew lepers sometimes wielded such devices, but he had never seen one employed by a religious community, and especially not that early in the morning. Then there was a peculiar whining sound, and a good deal of hissing. Suttone cried out in alarm, and Bartholomew started to reach for his dagger before remembering that he had left his weapons in the guest-hall, in deference to the general rule against bearing arms in churches.
‘It is the organ,’ whispered de Wetherset, although the Gilbertines’ stamping feet and the prior’s rattle meant he could have spoken at normal volume and not raised any eyebrows. ‘Surely you have encountered them in divine masses before?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ replied Suttone, resting a hand on his pounding heart. ‘Such objects are best left in taverns, where they belong. We have no organs in Cambridge, and nor shall we – especially not once I am Chancellor.’
Bartholomew edged to one side and saw a man operating something that looked like a large pair of bellows. There were more creaks and wails, then a tune of sorts began to emerge. The Gilbertines – men and women together – cleared their throats and stood a little taller. Then the psalm of the day was underway, the Chapel of St Katherine was suddenly awash with such vigorous noise that the physician could not hear himself when he coughed. Suttone leapt in shock at the abrupt cacophony, and Michael started to snigger. Overwhelmed by the volume, Bartholomew moved away, hoping the aisles would render the racket a little less painful. Michael followed, his large frame quaking with laughter.
‘What a row! I thought the Michaelhouse choir was bad enough, with its love of the crescendo, but it has nothing on these fellows. Anyone would think God and His angels were hard of hearing.’
‘They probably are, if they are obliged to listen to this day after day,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be good for the ears. Like the ribauld, it will make men deaf.’
‘Like the what?’
‘The ribauld – a weapon that propels missiles through long tubes by means of exploding powder. The Black Prince had several, and the noise was appalling. The men operating them came to me afterwards, because they could not hear. One never did recover.’
Michael tried to imagine what one looked like. ‘Were they very dangerous to the enemy?’
