‘The poor probably do not mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They will prefer a festival to a-’
‘So, we shall have to make sure our singing seduces them away from their pagan diversions,’ said Roger with grim determination. ‘A few alleluias will bring them back to their senses.’
‘I warned you,’ Suttone whispered fiercely to his colleagues, when the prior raised his hands towards the rafters and began to sing in a booming voice; Hamo joined in. ‘If you cannot refrain from sniggering, you should leave before he hears you. Say you are unwell.’
Bartholomew was halfway to the door when there was a thundering knock that startled the prior into a blessed silence.
‘Who is that?’ asked Roger, as if the Michaelhouse men should know. ‘I said we were to be left in peace as long as important visitors were with me – and a pair of canon s-elect, one of whom is kin to the Suttones, qualify as the most important guests we have had in years.’
The door flew open before Hamo could reach it, and a tiny man bounced inside. He barely reached Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his head was covered in a thick mop of wiry curls, some of which twisted into points at the side of his head and gave the uncanny appearance of horns. His ears were large and round, and when he smiled he revealed several missing teeth. He wore the simple robes of a Dominican, although the purple ring on his finger showed he was one who held an elevated position in the Church.
‘Good morning, Roger,’ he piped cheerfully. ‘It is only me.’
‘My Lord Bishop,’ said Roger with a courtly bow.
Bishop Gynewell skipped across the chamber and presented his episcopal ring for Roger to kiss. He barely reached the Gilbertine’s chest, and the tall prior was obliged to bend absurdly low to reach the proffered bauble. The prelate had not come alone, and was accompanied by a handsome young priest who was weighed down with parchment, scrolls and writing materials. When Bartholomew went to help him, the reek of wine was overpowering. The physician concluded, from the clerk’s liverish appearance, that he consumed a lot of it on a regular basis. There was something familiar about him, and Bartholomew tried to recall where he had seen him before. Then the memory snapped into place: he had been one of the men slumped unconscious across Kelby’s table the previous night. As the physician dived to save a pot of ink from falling to the floor, something hard bumped against his hand. He stepped away smartly, wondering why a man in holy orders should want to conceal a sword under his robes.
‘This is a dangerous city,’ explained the clerk, guessing what had happened. He glanced at the bishop, to ensure he could not be heard. ‘I seldom go anywhere without a blade.’
‘Why would anyone attack you?’ asked Bartholomew. He thought about the conflict that was tearing the city in half. ‘Because you are a Guild member?’
The clerk waved a hand to indicate that was unimportant, and several scrolls pattered on the floor. ‘I am not worried about Miller and his cronies – they do not have the wits to best a clever fellow like me. I am more concerned about my fellow priests; they are where the real danger lies.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Have you not heard what happened to Aylmer in this very convent? He was a Vicar Choral and he was stabbed to death, so do not tell me canons’ deputies are a peaceful band of men. The only way to defend myself is with a sharp sword, and if you visit the cathedral, I recommend you wear one, too.’
He moved away to stand near the door when Prior Roger finished paying homage to his bishop, coincidentally ending up near a tray on which stood several goblets of wine.
‘How are you, Roger?’ chirped Bishop Gynewell merrily, wholly unaware that his secretary was slyly raiding the Gilbertines’ claret. ‘Any more murders today?’
‘No, My Lord,’ replied Roger shortly. ‘It was an isolated incident, as I told you yesterday. And we should not be discussing that now anyway.’ He flicked his head at his three visitors in an indiscreet way that made Bartholomew want to laugh again.
‘Brother Michael, I presume,’ said the bishop, turning to beam at the fat monk. ‘And you must be Master Suttone. I shall soon count you two among my canons, although I was disappointed to hear you have appointed Vicars Choral and plan to return to your University. Well, that is to say, Michael has appointed a deputy. Suttone will have to find another.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Suttone, bowing over the prelate’s hand. ‘This is our colleague Matthew Bartholomew. He is a physician.’
‘I guessed as much from his bag,’ said Gynewell, resting his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder when he stepped forward to make his obeisance. ‘I know the scent of valerian and woundwart when I come across it.’
‘He used those to treat an injured pedlar we encountered yesterday morning,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the bishop in amazement. ‘You are an observant man, My Lord.’
