Once the food was on the tables, a tremendous rattling ensued when Whatton waved the wooden clappers in the air, and the hubbub of voices died away. The prior, a tall man with a large head, stood and began to intone grace in a voice loud enough to be heard by even the deafest diner. Then he sat, took a spoon in one hand and gestured with the other that his brethren could commence eating.
‘He likes to maintain silence during meals,’ whispered de Wetherset. ‘They do not mind guests talking, though, as long as they are not too noisy.’
‘It is better just to eat,’ said Simon, grabbing a pan and helping himself to more of its contents than was considerate. ‘They do not take long over meals, and he who chatters goes hungry.’
Michael needed no further warning, and bent his head to the task in hand, managing to put away a monstrous amount before the prior said the final grace. He seized a piece of smoked pork as the platters were being cleared away, and slapped it in the physician’s hand.
‘It is cold outside, and we have a lot to do today,’ he said. ‘You cannot wander about on an empty stomach, because if you faint, I have no time to help you revive.’
Bartholomew smiled. It was a ritual they went through most days, ever since Michael had declared him under-nourished after his return from France. He was touched by the concern, but was also aware that the monk’s idea of thin was rather different from his own. He tore the meat in half, and they shared it as they left the refectory. They had not gone far before Suttone called them back.
‘I just went to pay my respects to Prior Roger de Bankesfeld, and he said he would like to see us in his solar,’ he said, rather breathlessly. ‘Now.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We can thank him for his hospitality, and inform him that we intend to stay with our own brethren for the rest of our sojourn in Lincoln. The Benedictines will find a corner for us somewhere. I certainly do not want to join the murdered Aylmer in the charnel house by lingering here.’
Bartholomew and Michael followed Suttone across the yard and entered the house that comprised the prior’s lodgings. In the half-dark of the previous afternoon, when they had arrived, Bartholomew had imagined it to be a handsome building, but daylight showed that it, like the rest of the convent, was in sore need of repair. Its roof was all but invisible under a cushion of snow, but the shape indicated it was sagging, and its walls were stained with lichen. Stones were missing from the chimney, and the thick white smoke that billowed out suggested a fire had only just been lit – an early-morning blaze was a luxury the prior did not permit himself. Hamo was waiting to escort them up the stairs to a solar that was pleasant despite its cracked plaster and uneven floorboards.
‘Here are the Cambridge men, Father,’ said Hamo, prodding Bartholomew when he was slow to follow the others inside – the physician was trying to finish the pork, not being as adept as Michael at devouring lumps of meat at speed. ‘Michael de Causton, Thomas Suttone and Matthew-’
‘Suttone,’ pounced the prior. ‘Kin to the great Lincoln Suttones. Hamo says you and he may share common ancestors, and he is distantly related to Bishop Oliver Suttone.’
‘Oliver was my grandfather,’ replied Suttone proudly. ‘I have a cousin who has invited me-’
‘Do not think of staying elsewhere,’ said the prior firmly. ‘You are welcome here. The Suttones are a respected family, and it is a privilege to have one under my roof for a few weeks. And I intend to make Hamo our Brother Hospitaller today, too, so the Suttones will know I favour them and their kin. He will be a vast improvement on Fat William, God rest his soul, because he does not eat as much.’
Hamo’s moist lips split in a startled grin, while Bartholomew thought Michael would have to curb his appetite if he did not want to be tarred with the same brush. ‘Thank you, Father,’ stammered Hamo. ‘You will not regret it, I promise, and-’
‘I am sure you will be assiduous,’ said Roger. He sighed. ‘Well, pour us some almond milk, then, man! You are already slacking in your duties.’
Bartholomew studied Roger de Bankesfeld properly for the first time, as the man had been too far away in the chapel and at breakfast. Bartholomew was tall, but the prior was taller – although a good deal thinner – so the overall effect was spindly. He had huge hands with bony knuckles, and big yellow teeth that gave his head a skull-like appearance. He reminded Bartholomew of the grotesque tombs he had seen in southern France, where the sculptors had been overly obsessed with death.
‘We plan to stay only a few days, and-’ began Suttone.
‘It is an honour to receive you,’ said Prior Roger with a grin that did nothing to dispel the skeletal image. ‘Fortunately, there was something of an exodus after Aylmer’s murder yesterday, so we were not obliged to order people to evacuate the best room for you.’
