Lungspee nodded. ‘Funds were raised for its repair, but they were divided between the Guild and the Commonalty for “safekeeping” and they seem to have disappeared. I would pay for the work myself, but I am struggling to keep this castle in one piece. The King might visit one day, and I should like to show him at least one wall that is not in imminent danger of collapse.’
Bartholomew surveyed his domain critically, trying to pinpoint some part of it that might be sound. ‘That round tower looks all right.’
‘Dry rot,’ confided Lungspee. ‘I wrote to the King thirty years ago, telling him we were in a bit of a state, but he did not reply.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Then perhaps you should try again. He may not be pleased if he decides to avail himself of your hospitality, and the roof caves in on him while he is asleep.’
‘That would not create a good impression,’ acknowledged Lungspee, glancing around dolefully. ‘So, if he comes, we shall have to allocate him an upstairs room. From personal experience, I can tell you that it is better to drop through a floor than to have a ceiling drop on you.’
* * *
The following day was cloudy, and it was still dark when Bartholomew was shocked from sleep by the harsh jangle of the Gilbertines’ bells. He leapt from his bed, but managed to stop himself from snatching up his sword when he realised it was a call to prayer, not a call to arms. Michael watched, then turned back to his psalter without comment, although his silence said more about his disapproval than any words could have done. They attended the beginning of another deafening prime, but the monk strode out in disgust when some of the Gilbertines started to clap in time to the music. Bartholomew followed him, relieved to be away from the racket.
‘It is too much,’ complained the monk petulantly. ‘It is a chapel, not a tavern. We should sing prime at the cathedral tomorrow, because I do not think I can stand much more of this … ’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.
After breakfast, he and Bartholomew sat on a low wall near the refectory while he reviewed what he knew about Aylmer. He had not been pontificating for long when Hamo bustled towards them.
‘Is anything amiss?’ the newly created Brother Hospitaller asked, licking his moist, pink lips anxiously. ‘Neither of you ate much, and we would be horrified to think you were dissatisfied with our humble fare. Prior Roger was saying only last night how good it is to have a Suttone under our roof, and he has written to the family, to let them know you have elected to stay with us. They have promised to remember us in their wills, you see, and some have plans to be buried in our chapel. It would be terrible if you were to go elsewhere. And if you did, Prior Roger might demote me.’
‘We shall stay,’ said Michael, although not very graciously. ‘You were right when you said everywhere else is full. Of course, Bishop Gynewell offered us a bed in his fine house, but Matt’s book-bearer has encouraged us to decline the invitation.’
This was an understatement. In a startling display of mutiny, Cynric had virtually ordered the scholars to keep their distance from the Bishop’s Palace, even threatening to resign if they did not accede to his ‘request’. Michael had been inclined to ignore him, but Cynric had been with Bartholomew for many years, and the physician was loath to upset a man who was more friend than servant. Thus Michael had been obliged to do as the Welshman demanded, although he was far from happy about it. Suttone, however, was livid at the loss of a luxurious sojourn, and declared that the book-bearer’s new-found confidence after his travels had rendered him impudent and rebellious. It was not really true: Cynric had always had strong feelings on matters of religion, and it was not the first time Bartholomew had been obliged to pander to his superstitions.
‘I shall have to give the man a jug of our best ale,’ murmured Hamo, pleased.
‘When I was inspecting Aylmer’s corpse, I noticed a drawing on his shoulder,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to see what he could learn for Michael. ‘Is that a common habit in Lincoln?’
‘I have seen some men mark themselves so,’ said Hamo, determined to be amenable, no matter how odd the topic of conversation chosen by his guests. ‘There was a sect that scratched crosses all over themselves during the Death, to prevent them from becoming infected. It made no difference, though: they were taken regardless.’
‘It is the marks on their souls that count,’ said Michael. He clasped his hands in front of him, and gazed skywards in a gesture of monastic piety that was wholly out of c haracter.
Bartholomew was puzzled until Christiana and Dame Eleanor passed by, on their way to the chapel.
‘Amen,’ said Hamo, adopting a similar pose, but with considerably more sincerity. ‘Alleluia!’
‘Alleluia!’ chorused three Gilbertines who happened to be within hearing distance.
