‘I cannot see in here,’ complained Bartholomew, beginning to resent the wasted time. ‘It is too dark and there are no windows to open.’
‘We will be poring over bodies until sunset at this rate,’ said Michael with an impatient sigh. ‘First you dawdle outside, then the room is too dim.’
‘Well, it is dim,’ Bartholomew pointed out, irritable in his turn.
‘Lord, Matt!’ snapped Michael, as he stamped outside. He continued to rail as he stalked towards the kitchens, oblivious of the fact that the physician could no longer hear him. ‘You are all complaints this morning. Make a start, then, while I fetch a lamp. You should have remembered to bring one yourself. You know perfectly well these places are always gloomy, and I cannot be expected to do everything. You are worse than Doctor Rougham-’
‘Who is Doctor Rougham?’ asked a low, sultry voice behind him. ‘And who is the intended recipient of this bitter diatribe? I hope you will not blame it on Summer Madness. We have not seen a case of that in months.’
Michael spun around and was horrified to see Christiana de Hauville there, a faint smile etched into features that were even more perfect up close than they had been at a distance. Being caught muttering to himself was not how the monk had envisaged their first meeting.
‘I was talking to my colleague,’ he said, trying to repair his dented dignity. ‘He is always slinking off in the middle of conversations, though, and I expect he has gone to the mortuary chapel.’
‘Really?’ she asked, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth; Michael berated himself for gabbling and providing more information than was necessary – information that made him sound slightly strange. ‘What an odd thing to do.’
‘He is a physician and they are apt to be odd, as you will know if you have ever met any,’ elaborated Michael. He was surprised to find himself determined that she should not know he dabbled in such sordid activities as inspecting corpses; he was even more surprised to realise how keen he was to make a good impression. He smiled at her, noting that she was almost as tall as he, which was unusual for a woman. ‘Do you know where I might find a lamp? Matt needs one for … for reading.’
‘I shall arrange for one to be fetched,’ she replied. There was laughter in her voice, although her face was politely grave. ‘I cannot get it myself, obviously.’
‘Why not? Do you not know where they are kept?’
‘Of course. But I do not perform menial tasks, or so the good brothers keep telling me. Were I to go to the kitchens myself, they would chase me out, like a pig among the cabbages.’
‘I would never associate you with pigs,’ said Michael chivalrously. ‘Or cabbages. But we all need to perform menial tasks occasionally, because they keep us from the sin of pride.’
‘Is pride a sin?’ asked Christiana. ‘I am a noblewoman, and it is considered a virtue in my family.’
‘I am the son of a knight myself,’ said Michael, unwilling to be thought of as common. ‘But I forswore my earthly family when I took holy orders. Perhaps that is why the vows are in place – to ensure we do not confuse filial obligation with something deadly to the soul. Do you have any intention of taking the veil?’
She smiled and he saw white, perfect teeth in a face that might have belonged to an angel. ‘I have not decided, Brother. It depends on what the future holds.’
She adopted a helpless pose that indicated she needed assistance, and suddenly there were three brothers and a lay-sister hurrying to see what she wanted. She asked for a lantern and all four scurried towards the kitchens, one sprinting so fast that he missed his footing and took a tumble. When the remaining three reached the door, there was almost an exchange of blows as each fought to enter first.
‘Bless them,’ she said, watching with a fond smile. ‘They are so good to me. Perhaps I will take the veil, since I love this place so much; the people are far kinder here than they are in the world outside. Thank you, Hamo. It was very kind of you to do so much running on my behalf.’
Hamo backed away with a silly grin on his face, panting and bowing furiously, while Michael lit the lamp. Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.
‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’
Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’
‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.
