Bartholomew studied Christiana covertly, taking in the fact that her eyelashes were darkened with charcoal, which had the effect of making her skin appear fashionably pale, and the tendrils of gold hair that curled attractively from under her veil were not random escapees, but ones that had been carefully tailored for maximum effect. He could tell from her posture that she fully expected to be the centre of attention. But, he reflected wryly as he glanced around him, people were looking at her, and he was among them. He gave his complete attention to the wick, oblivious to the fact that she then used the opportunity to return the scrutiny.
‘Have you been here long?’ asked Michael, aware that Christiana’s interest had moved to a man who was slimmer and far better-looking than himself. Not that it would do her much good – for the physician, there was only one woman.
‘Since my husband was killed,’ she replied. A tremor in her voice suggested it still pained her. ‘I am here until either the King finds another suitable match or I become a nun. I am torn between wishing His Majesty would hurry up, and hoping he never finds a replacement, lest he imposes on me a man I do not like.’
‘That is why I took holy orders,’ confided Michael, making Bartholomew glance at him in surprise. He had never asked Michael’s reasons for taking the cowl, and had always assumed a sense of vocation had led him to do it. ‘My family had in mind a match that would have made me unhappy. I have never regretted my decision.’
She regarded him curiously. ‘You do not find the life a lonely one?’
‘Not at all. I have many friends, and there are ways to alleviate loneliness.’
‘The lamp is lit,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly seized with the awful premonition that the monk was about to tell her how to break vows of chastity without being caught. ‘Come on, Brother. There is not much oil, and we do not have long before it burns out.’
‘Would you like me to hold it for you?’ asked Christiana, looking from one to the other with wide blue eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, and I have never seen anyone read in the mortuary chapel before. I lead a dull life, so I am always eager for new experiences. Even peculiar ones.’
‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and trying to guide him away from her.
But it needed a lot more than a tug to shift a man of Michael’s bulk. He resisted, and Bartholomew heard stitches snap open. Humour sparkled briefly in Christiana’s eyes, but was quickly masked.
‘Actually, we are going to pay our respects to Aylmer,’ confessed Michael, freeing his arm and clearly preferring Christiana’s company to his grim duties in the chapel. ‘I did not want to burden you with information about corpses, but perhaps I was being overly protective. You must forgive me.’
She smiled, and Bartholomew was forced to admit she was lovely, although he felt it a pity that she thought so, too. He glanced at Michael, and was alarmed to note how flushed the monk’s face had become – and how it wore an oddly dreamy expression Bartholomew had never seen before.
‘I shall forgive you, Brother, although only if you agree to tell me no more fibs. I know exactly what you are doing: Bishop Gynewell has asked you to investigate Aylmer’s murder.’
The monk’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How do you know? Gynewell spoke in confidence.’
‘Hamo was listening outside the door. The news is all over the convent now, and it will be all around the city by noon.’
‘Damn,’ swore Michael. ‘I had hoped to carry out my commission discreetly.’
Christiana rested an elegant hand on his arm. ‘It may not be a bad thing, because now people will know on whose authority you ask your questions. Of course, it may also serve to make the killer more dangerous. You should take special care, Brother.’
‘I am always careful,’ replied Michael with an unreadable smile. ‘In all I do.’
‘And so am I,’ she replied, while Bartholomew looked from one to the other with growing unease, sure messages were passing between them that he did not understand. ‘I shall say a prayer for you. Perhaps you might care to join me at my devotions? I am usually in the Lady Chapel after vespers – not tonight, because there is a vigil for Little Hugh at the cathedral, but I will be there tomorrow.’
‘I am sure we shall find plenty to pray about,’ said Michael with one of his courtliest bows.
Bartholomew watched him leer appreciatively as Christiana walked away. ‘She is a ward of the King, Brother,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And you are a monk. This is not a good idea.’
‘Are you warning me against praying?’ asked Michael archly. ‘In a chapel? Really, Matt!’
‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Your quest to find Matilde has led you to assume that every man is consumed with lust. I assure you that is not the case, especially in those of us who have sworn vows of chastity. If you are worried, come with me tomorrow. You will witness nothing amiss.’
