She pursed her lips, waiting for them to invite her to elaborate. Bartholomew did not, because he felt Michael was already too interested in Christiana de Hauville, while Michael demurred, despite his burning desire to hear what Sabina had to say, because he did not want to give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him ask. Thus there was a long pause, until Suttone, shooting his colleagues a puzzled glance for their lack of curiosity, put the necessary question.
‘Her mother – another Lady Christiana – was in almost exactly the same position as she is in now,’ said Sabina. ‘Her husband was killed in a fight with Scots, leaving her without protectors. She spent a decade in this very convent before a suitable match was found, although the King’s idea of “suitable” was that vile Kelby. Now it seems her daughter is destined to follow the same path.’
‘Such is the lot of women who marry soldiers,’ said Suttone preachily. ‘Personally, I think this war with the French has gone quite far enough, although it is probably treason to say so. I cannot even remember what started it now, or why it has continued for so many years.’
‘Neither can most of the men who are fighting,’ said Bartholomew, not without bitterness.
‘So, you made a fortune with the Black Prince,’ said Sabina, eyeing his warm winter cloak and sturdy boots. Her eyes lingered on the hem that was unravelling on his tunic. Fine his clothes might be, but he wore them carelessly, and it was clear they would not remain in pristine condition for long. ‘I heard Poitiers was very fierce.’
Bartholomew nodded briefly. He did not want to think about it, knowing that if he did, it would play on his mind for the rest of the day – and worse, long into the night. ‘Who is the dead man you want me to inspect?’
She was startled by his abrupt acquiescence. ‘You will help me?’
He nodded again, ready to do almost anything to change the subject. ‘If you like.’
Sabina and Michael followed him inside the dark chapel, this time with the lamp lighting their way. Suttone started to return to the guest-hall, but saw his path would intercept that of Prior Roger, who waved in the kind of way that suggested he might be invited to take part in the next daily office. Abruptly, the Carmelite scuttled inside the mortuary, preferring the company of the dead to spending more time in the company of a man he considered odd. He found his colleagues at the far end of the building, where there was a makeshift altar. Two bodies lay under clean blankets in front of it. ‘That is Aylmer.’ Sabina pointed at the one on the left. ‘The other is Nicholas.’
‘Aylmer first,’ said Michael, when the physician started to move towards the other. ‘You may decide you have had enough after one, and I need all the help I can get.’
Bartholomew peeled back Aylmer’s sheet and began. As he did so, he realised he had not examined a body for signs of suspicious death in eighteen months, although he had seen hundreds of corpses in France. Briefly, he wondered whether he might have forgotten some of the skills he had so painstakingly acquired, but it was not many moments before he found his hands working automatically, repeating what they had done so many times before.
First, he assessed Aylmer from a distance, looking at his clothes, hands and footwear. Aylmer had been a beefy, redhaired man in his late forties, which surprised him – he had supposed Vicars Choral were younger. He was clean-shaven, but there were bristles on his jowls that gave him a disreputable appearance. There was a curious crease in the tip of his nose, essentially dividing it in half, and Bartholomew regarded it thoughtfully, aware of a distant memory stirring. When nothing came to him, he resumed his survey. Aylmer’s hands were smooth and soft, suggesting he performed no manual chores, although the additional absence of calluses caused by writing implements made him wonder what the man had done to earn his keep.
‘How old are most Vicars Choral?’ he asked, while he ran his fingers through Aylmer’s hair, assessing the skull for tell-tale dents or bumps.
‘It varies,’ replied Michael. ‘Tetford is twenty-three, which is about average for a secular cathedral like this. Aylmer does seem old to be offered such a post, because the pay tends to be low, and most clerks act as Vicars Choral while they are waiting for something better to come along. However, sometimes nothing ever does, and they are doomed to perpetual poverty.’
‘Aylmer was the son of my father’s bailiff,’ supplied Suttone, trying to be helpful. ‘He was a bright lad, and I promised to advance his cause. Unfortunately, I have not been in a position to do much until now. I invited him to study with me a few years back, but he would not hear of it.’
‘He was not interested in scholarship,’ said Sabina. ‘Most men consider it a waste of time, and most women agree. After all, you cannot eat a book, can you?’
