‘I shall, then,’ said Bartholomew, equally cool. He was not astute when it came to romance – his failure to propose to Matilde before she had given up on him was testament to that – but even he had read something in the exchange between Michael and Christiana, and he disliked being considered a fool by his friend.
Michael was not amused. ‘You had better examine this corpse, or it will be a skeleton before you provide me with any answers.’
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘I would like that very much, but your lamp has just run out of oil.’
Brother Michael was not Lady Christiana, and it took him considerably longer to locate fuel for the lantern than it would have done if she had been with him. Eventually, a woman from the kitchens offered to help, filling the device with oil and even carrying it to the mortuary chapel, claiming it had a tendency to spill if not handled with a certain expertise. By the time she and the monk reached the building, Bartholomew was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands in an attempt to keep warm in the bitter wind. Michael turned to her.
‘Thank you, madam. My colleague is about to conduct an examination, as you no doubt know, since everyone else seems aware of my business here, and you will not want to be a witness to that, I assure you. I have seen him do it a hundred times, yet he still possesses the ability to make me shudder.’ He glanced coolly at Bartholomew, to indicate there was a double meaning to his comment.
‘I do not mind.’ She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a lined face and a matronly wimple. ‘I doubt he will do anything I have not seen before.’
‘He might,’ warned Michael. ‘He has been to Padua, where they are said to practise a macabre form of scholarship called anatomy.’
‘I know nothing of the black arts, but I have seen my share of death. It holds no fears for me.’
Michael regarded her curiously. ‘Do you work in the priory hospital, then?’
The woman snorted her disdain. ‘You obviously think I am one of the lay-sisters. I am not. My name is Sabina Herl, and I am here because my parish priest gave me a week of labour as penance.’
‘Penance for what?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘Do not be afraid to tell me. I am a man of God.’
‘Lord, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with you today?’
‘It was a man of God who got me in this mess in the first place,’ she remarked acidly. ‘I was caught kissing him behind the stables, and scouring greasy pans is my punishment.’
‘What happened to the man of God?’ asked Michael.
Sabina nodded towards the mortuary chapel. ‘He is in there, although I do not think our tryst had anything to do with the fact that he was stabbed. Poor Aylmer always was an unlucky fellow.’
‘Lord!’ gasped Suttone, hurrying up to join them. ‘I have just been eating those cakes with Prior Roger. I am not sure he is quite sane.’
‘He is probably preoccupied,’ said Bartholomew, acutely aware that Sabina was listening. While he was more than happy to move elsewhere for the duration of their stay in Lincoln, he did not want it to be because they had insulted the head Gilbertine.
‘No, he is insane,’ said Sabina matter-of-factly. ‘A good many people are in this particular convent, which is why my confessor selected it as the place of penance.’
‘Penance for what?’ asked Suttone immediately.
‘Seducing your Vicar Choral,’ replied Michael.
Sabina looked the Carmelite up and down. ‘So, you are the scholar who offered Aylmer that post. We were all rather surprised, since he has always been something of a rascal.’
‘He was a good man,’ objected Suttone. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’
She smothered a smile. ‘And when did you last see him?’
‘I suppose it was on his tenth birthday,’ admitted Suttone. ‘But he wrote to me often.’
She laughed openly. ‘Those letters were for you? He had a good deal of fun with them. He fabricated some outrageous lies, but did not imagine for a moment that anyone would believe him.’
‘We must be talking about a different man,’ said Suttone stiffly. ‘My John Aylmer was short, with red hair and a thin scar on his eyebrow, from where he fell from an apple tree as a lad.’
‘There is only one John Aylmer,’ she said indulgently. ‘People will tell you he was wicked and dissolute, but you should not believe everything you hear. He had his faults, true enough, but who does not? And I do not kiss just anyone behind the stables – not even if a man offers me a penny.’
‘How about two?’ asked Suttone.
‘We should be about our work,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether Suttone was making her an offer or just soliciting information. Suddenly, the body in the chapel seemed like a haven of peace in a stormy sea, because at least he knew what he was doing with corpses.
Sabina turned her attention to Michael. ‘And you, Brother? Who is to be your deputy?’
‘John Tetford. He comes highly recommended by the Bishop of Ely himself. In fact, de Lisle insisted I hire him; I actually had no choice in the matter.’
