‘Thank you, Brother; I shall consider that a compliment.’ Gynewell trotted to a chair next to the fire and climbed on to it, folding his legs in a way that made him look more like a pixie than one of the most powerful churchmen in the country. ‘I am surprised you have elected to stay with Prior Roger, rather than with me at my palace. I extended an invitation to you, through Bishop de Lisle.’
‘Did you?’ asked Michael, peeved. ‘He neglected to pass it on. However, I-’
‘The good brother is settled with us now,’ said Roger smoothly. ‘He enjoyed our energetic prime this morning, and will want to repeat the experience tomorrow.’
‘Will he?’ asked Gynewell in surprise.
‘It was energetic,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I-’
‘All our guests find our style of worship uplifting,’ announced Roger uncompromisingly. ‘They say it makes a change from the sober muttering of the other Orders.’
‘There was certainly no muttering involved,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, this is the first time I have ever set foot in a Gilbertine House, other than the one in Cambridge and that is a very staid foundation. Are they usually so … expressive?’
‘This is the only convent I know that praises God at such high volume,’ said Gynewell. ‘I cannot imagine it is anything but unique.’
‘We like to make an impact,’ said Roger smugly. ‘Why murmur when you can yell, I always say.’
‘So do fishwives,’ said Suttone in an undertone. ‘And it is not seemly.’
‘May I have a word with Brother Michael alone, Roger?’ asked Gynewell, after several attempts to change the subject had failed, and they were still discussing the Gilbertines’ unusual approach to their devotions a quarter of an hour later. ‘Please stay, Doctor. What I have to say is not private.’
‘No?’ asked Roger, settling himself behind his table. ‘Then I shall stay, too.’
‘It pertains to Cambridge, Roger,’ said Gynewell, prodding the fire with a poker. He added several logs and jabbed them until the flames roared. ‘You will be bored, and I am sure you have a lot to do.’
‘Not really,’ said Roger, leaning back comfortably. ‘And I am always interested in learning about new and exotic locations. I hear Cambridge sits on a bog, just like Ely.’
‘And I hear Lincoln is full of imps,’ retorted Michael, irritated by the dual slur on his town and his abbey. ‘Little ones, which hurl rocks at the choir during masses.’
Gynewell cackled his mirth, and it occurred to Bartholomew that he looked rather demonic himself, with his horn-like hair and gap-toothed grin. ‘The Lincoln imp is a charming folk tale, Brother. But I am starving. Would you mind showing Ravenser here where you buy those lovely red marchpanes, Roger? He can never find the right shop, and I am sure you will not mind obliging your old bishop.’
‘And purchase a few Lombard slices while you are at it,’ suggested Michael opportunistically. He smiled slyly. ‘The Benedictines will certainly provide me with an unlimited supply of pastries if I stay with them. But if the Gilbertines do the same, I shall have no reason to leave.’
Roger stood reluctantly, knowing he was outmanoeuvred. ‘The bakeries will open soon, so I shall see what we can do. However, the Black Monks will not give you Lombard slices, Brother. I told you – they have no money with which to pamper their guests.’
‘And if they did, they would spend it on themselves,’ added Ravenser nastily, swallowing a second goblet of wine before turning to leave.
‘I shall come with you, Father Prior,’ said Suttone. ‘I dislike Lombard slices, and red marchpanes sound unpleasant. I must make sure you buy something I will enjoy, too.’
He, Roger, Hamo and Ravenser left together, and Gynewell grinned conspiratorially at the monk. ‘I see you and I will work excellently together, Brother. Roger is a good man, but I did not want to talk to you while he was listening.’
‘And your clerk, My Lord?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did you send him away?’
Gynewell did not seem to take offence at what was essentially an impertinent question. ‘We do not need a written account of this meeting – not that Archdeacon Ravenser would have made a decent record anyway. Did you see the state of him? He was at a Guild meeting last night, and they can turn very debauched. Poor Ravenser seems incapable of refusing a cup of wine, but I think he drinks to lessen his desire for women.’
‘Perhaps you should try it, Matt,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would be a lot safer than traipsing across half the world hunting them out.’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about Ravenser’s fragile health.
Gynewell glanced at the door. ‘They will not be gone long, so we had better speak while we can. Have you heard about this murder?’
‘You mean Flaxfleete’s?’ asked Michael. ‘We had nothing to do with that.’
‘I know. John Suttone told me you tried to help him. Poor Flaxfleete. He would have made a diligent canon, although I suspect he would have been argumentative in Chapter meetings. But I was not referring to him. I meant Aylmer – Suttone’s Vicar Choral.’
