Michael agreed. ‘The Gilbertines work themselves to such a state of ecstasy that I doubt they have the faintest idea what anyone else is doing.’
‘Did you notice that de Wetherset has changed his story? What he told us initially – that he attended prime with Simon in the convent on the day of Aylmer’s murder – was not what he said this morning. Today he claimed he had joined the Gilbertines on his first day as a guest in their priory, but found it too noisy, and has opted for something quieter ever since. Ergo, he is lying about something.’
‘I wondered whether you had picked up on that. Now, why he would tell us untruths?’
Bartholomew pulled his cloak more closely around him when a snowflake spiralled down and landed on his cheek. A second followed, and he saw they were in for another cold night. Dusk was on them, and lights were already burning in the Wigford houses. They passed the Church of the Holy Cross, and he saw the blackened shell of the priest’s house in its graveyard. He recalled that de Wetherset had lived with Simon before a blaze had driven them to take refuge with the Gilbertines.
‘Cynric made some enquiries about that in the taverns,’ he said, nodding towards the ruin. ‘Sheriff Lungspee was able to deduce that the cause was accidental – a brazier had been left burning by mistake. Simon and de Wetherset managed to escape with their belongings, and Simon’s successor is lodging with a relative until the house can be rebuilt.’
Michael glanced at him. ‘You sound unsure. Do you think they let the fire rage deliberately?’
Bartholomew shrugged, then nodded. ‘The inferno made everyone sorry for Simon, and he was immediately offered a prebendal stall. You have to wonder whether he had been promised such an honour, but it was taking too long to come, so he drew attention to himself with a misfortune – a misfortune that did not cost him any of his possessions, given that he still had plenty of money to buy the Hugh Chalice.’
‘And I am sure Chapman charged him a princely fee,’ mused Michael.
‘Perhaps de Wetherset is willing to lie for Simon because he was warned of the conflagration and it saved his life.
Or perhaps it was de Wetherset’s carelessness that caused the fire.’
‘Possibly, although I still cannot see him engaging in such unsavoury activities. However, none of this is relevant to Aylmer – unlike the Hugh Chalice. Shall we go to see it?’ Michael’s voice was oddly casual. ‘We are almost at the Gilbertine convent, thank the good Lord. It is cold out tonight. Can you see that frost sparkling on the Eleanor Cross?’
Bartholomew glanced at it, and remembered poking icicles off Matilde’s eaves with a broom handle – she had been afraid they might fall and hurt someone. He wondered whether she had recruited someone else to do it now, and whether she would be settled with another man when – and if – he ever found her. Suddenly, the night seemed colder and darker, and his prospects of happiness bleak.
The physician followed Michael through the Gilbertines’ main gate, where they were saluted cheerfully by Hamo, and then across the yard to the chapel. The ground was frozen hard, and dusted with new snow. Inside, candles and lamps gave the chapel a cosy feel, although the air was frigid, and his breath billowed in front of him. Then he saw why the monk had been so keen to inspect the chalice. Vespers had just ended, and one of the congregation had lingered to say additional prayers.
That evening, Christiana de Hauville’s slender form was accentuated by a tight, front-laced kirtle, and her fret – the net that covered her hair – was of gold. Although she was kneeling, she still managed to adopt the current fashionable posture for women, with abdomen thrust forward and back curved, which was meant to reveal them as ladies of breeding and style. Because all the Gilbertines had gone to their refectory for something to drink, Bartholomew could only suppose the display of courtly deportment was for Michael’s benefit. The monk’s expression was unreadable as he made his way towards her, and Bartholomew watched uneasily.
Christiana was not alone, however. When the monk would have gone to kneel next to her, a figure stepped out of the shadows and intercepted him. It was Sabina Herl. She held a basket over her arm, and looked bored and cold.
‘I have been told to act as chaperon,’ she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she was not very happy about it. ‘Dame Eleanor is still at the cathedral, and Hamo says that Lady Christiana should not be here alone in the dark, despite the fact that this is a convent, and you would think she would be safe.’
Bartholomew saw a grimace of genuine annoyance flick across Christiana’s beautiful face, and supposed she had objected to the Brother Hospitaller’s cosseting, too.
‘I see,’ said Michael, hands folded in his wide sleeves. ‘Well, she is not alone now, because I am here.’
