‘We watch her because she is dear to us,’ corrected Quarrel, slightly shiftily. Bartholomew wondered whether it had been the landlord’s own convictions that the boy had so guilelessly repeated. ‘And I always encourage my lads to do their Christian duty by helping others.’
‘How much wine did Kelby buy from you?’ asked Michael, smothering a smile.
‘Three kegs,’ replied Quarrel. ‘I had delivered two earlier in the day, and he told me he would send for the last one if it was required – he did not want to pay for three if he only used two. But they were celebrating Flaxfleete’s acquittal, so more was imbibed than was anticipated. The keg was not waiting by the porch for long, Brother – an hour at the most.’
‘What can you tell me about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael, changing the subject.
Quarrel seemed surprised. ‘He was a bitter man, but he became oddly gleeful in the month before he died. He usually drank in the Angel, which suited us – we would rather not have belligerent patrons if we can help it – but he chose to come here the night he died. He was sullen and angry over something. He drank too much, and was found the next morning in the Braytheford Pool. The priests said it was self-murder, although his wife does not believe them.’
‘He was also poisoned,’ said Bartholomew baldly, seeing no reason to keep it quiet.
‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Quarrel was clearly appalled, and glanced around furtively before lowering his voice. ‘I hope you will not make this public, because it could ruin me. You can see for yourself that this is a respectable place. We do not murder our customers!’
‘It does seem pleasant,’ agreed Michael, looking around appreciatively. He suddenly became aware that Christiana was there. ‘Very pleasant.’
Bartholomew watched with a sinking heart as Christiana sensed she was being admired, and turned around. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Michael, and whispered something in her companion’s ear. Then she stood and came towards them, Dame Eleanor in her wake. She glided, rather than walked, and Bartholomew was left with the feeling that she knew the eyes of every man present were on her, and that she expected nothing less. Pointedly, he fixed his own attention on her friend. Dame Eleanor had a kind, brown face and eyes that twinkled. He stood, to offer her his seat.
‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Christiana with a smile that made her appear vaguely wanton. She plumped herself down in the place Bartholomew had vacated for the old lady. ‘I thought you had eaten breakfast with the Gilbertines.’
‘I came for ale to slake my thirst,’ replied Michael with the air of a martyr. ‘I shall touch no food; I am not a greedy man.’
‘I am sure of it,’ Christiana replied. Her tone was grave, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Do you like this tavern? I inherited the building from my mother, and Master Quarrel has rented it from my family for the past thirty years. It is said to be one of the finest inns in the county.’
‘In England,’ said Eleanor, perching on the end of the bench, where there was not really room for her. To avoid being crushed, Christiana shifted closer to Michael than was decent.
‘We have excellent taverns in Cambridge, too,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move away. ‘You must come and sample a few.’
Old Dame Eleanor frowned her puzzlement. ‘How do you know, Brother? I thought our universities forbade alehouses to its scholars – to keep hot-blooded youths away from sober townsfolk.’
‘I am no hot-blooded youth,’ said Michael, aware that Christiana was looking at him with amused eyes. ‘Well, no youth, at least, and-’
‘He is obliged to visit them, to make sure students do not break the rules,’ Bartholomew explained hastily, before the monk could confide something he might later regret. ‘He is our Senior Proctor.’
‘I sensed, the first time I met you, that you were more than a mere monk,’ said Christiana with an expression that was distinctly flirtatious. ‘You are also a man of power, which explains why Bishop Gynewell is so eager to honour you with a prebendal stall.’
‘I do own a certain influence in the University,’ admitted Michael in a modest understatement. ‘Although I am a humble man.’
‘Then we shall leave you to your humble duties,’ said Dame Eleanor, hoisting Christiana to her feet with surprising strength for an elderly woman. ‘Whatever they might be. But St Hugh will wonder what has happened to me if I do not tend his shrine soon. I have prayed there every day for the past sixty years, except when I was stricken with the plague and he cured me.’
‘Were you healed by Bishop Hugh or Little Hugh?’ asked Michael in a transparent attempt to delay their departure. ‘Only I have heard there are more miracles at the tomb of one than the other.’
