A Deadly Brew (19 page)

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting?’

Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘Perhaps the Bishop really did summon you on Sunday – for reasons of his own.’

Michael met his gaze with unreadable eyes. ‘You suspect it has something to do with my rejecting the offer to be Master of Valence Marie?’ he asked eventually. He did not wait for an answer. ‘Believe me, Matt, the Bishop has his own perfectly good reasons for wishing me to refuse the Mastership. He would hardly encourage me to decline, and then arrange my demise. The reason he persuaded me to not to accept in the first place was so that I would be free to continue to act as his agent.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, although sometimes the convoluted logic of the power-brokers in University, town and Church eluded him completely.

‘So who do you think is responsible for luring us out here?’ he asked.

Michael sat on his bed and stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles incongruously white next to his black habit. ‘It is someone with resources. It would not be cheap to hire six soldiers and Alan. Mercenaries are likely to demand a high price for premeditated murder.’

‘Who has such resources?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Other than the Bishop?’

‘Alan and his men were not mercenaries,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘We decided last night that they were too incompetent to be real soldiers.’

Michael ignored both of them. ‘The Chancellor could probably lay his hands on sufficient funds, and doubtless has the contacts to organise such an incident. But he has no motive and he is not even in Cambridge.’

‘De Wetherset lives near here,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, thinking of the previous holder of the Chancellorship, who had retired into the Fens when University politics became too much for him.

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael firmly. ‘By all accounts, de Wetherset is enjoying his seclusion and has no wish to re-enter University affairs.’

‘But he has never liked us,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He used us to do his dirty work, but he never really trusted us and he lied constantly.’

‘Who in the University does not lie?’ asked Michael glibly. ‘But you are on the wrong track altogether. De Wetherset has nothing to do with the University these days, and he certainly does not have the resources to hire Alan and his cronies. We need to look to Cambridge for our answer. Besides the Chancellor, there are a host of townspeople who could afford to have people killed – your brother-in-law to name but one.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Oswald is not a murderer! And he has no reason to wish harm on us.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘But there is the mystery involving his apprentice and this bottle of wine. Father Philius has no reason to tell us untruths.’

‘And neither does Oswald!’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘There must be some misunderstanding. I will see Philius when we get back, and we will probably find out that it was Cheney’s apprentice he saw, or Deschalers’s or Mortimer’s. All four live next to each other on Milne Street and he may have mistaken one house for another.’

Michael regarded him sceptically. ‘Philius is not stupid, Matt, regardless of what you might think about his medical abilities. And, anyway, your students said they saw Oswald’s apprentice buy poisoned wine from Sacks in the Brazen George. Or were they mistaken, too?’

Bartholomew was racking his brain for an answer when the lay sister returned and said the Abbess awaited them in her solar. Still unsettled by Michael’s accusations, Bartholomew followed her down the stairs, Michael and Cynric in tow. Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw Michael patting his hair into place and making haste to brush a few crumples out of his habit. When the monk rubbed surreptitiously at his teeth with a corner of his sleeve, Bartholomew’s suspicions were aroused regarding Michael’s motives for tarrying at the convent.

There was only one entrance to the guesthall and that was through a small door to one side of the main gate. In this way, visitors were kept entirely apart from the nuns; a person wishing to enter the convent from the guesthall was forced to do so through the main gate like everyone else: men staying there could not inadvertently stray into the nuns’ living quarters, while the nuns themselves would see no one for whom they might be tempted to break their vows. It was doubtless only Michael’s vocation as a monk that prompted the Abbess to relax the rules and allow three men inside her hallowed walls.

As they walked across the cobbled yard towards the Abbess’s quarters, Bartholomew was aware of being watched with intense interest. He glanced upwards and saw several veiled heads eyeing him with undisguised curiosity from the unglazed windows of the dormitory, while others looked from the cloister that surrounded the yard. Voices whispered and giggled and, from the lewdness of the laughter, Bartholomew strongly suspected that the nuns were not discussing matters spiritual. He began to feel uncomfortable, although Michael did not appear to mind greatly. Cynric muttered that he would wait in the guesthall, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, he had scuttled back across the yard and was out through the main gate. Hoots of laughter followed him and Bartholomew was tempted to follow, unsettled by the nuns’ behaviour.

Finally, they were across the yard and were being led up the wide wooden staircase that led to the Abbess’s solar. The Countess of Pembroke’s money had provided the residents of Denny with sumptuous surroundings, despite the fact that Franciscan nuns were commonly called ‘Poor Clares’. Thick woollen rugs covered the floor and the walls were painted with vivid murals depicting scenes from classical mythology and local folklore. By comparison, the decorations in Constantine Mortimer’s elegant house appeared crass and tasteless. The rugs had been chosen to complement the dominant hues of the wall paintings, while even the bowls on the low table near the fire had been carefully selected to match the solar’s colour scheme.

The Abbess was waiting for them, her hands hidden demurely in the wide sleeves of her gown, and was flanked by two of her nuns. Bartholomew had last seen her at the high table next to Vice-Chancellor Harling at the installation at Valence Marie, and knew her reputation for learning and saintliness. She was tall for a woman, and her movements had a fluid elegance born of a grace that was innate. Her eyes were an arresting turquoise, accentuated by the plain grey of her habit, and her face was not yet blemished with the wrinkles of middle age.

The nuns at her side were chalk and cheese. One was an elderly lady whose hooked nose swooped down towards her prominent chin and whose skin was as wrinkled and brown as an old nut; the second was apparently a relative of the Abbess, for her eyes were a similar, although less vivid, blue-green colour.

The Abbess stepped forward, and Michael elbowed Bartholomew out of the way to take her hand and effect an elegant bow.

‘Brother Michael!’ said the Abbess courteously. ‘I am pleased to see you well again. And your companion.’ She looked at Bartholomew, who hastened to follow Michael’s example and bow.

‘My Lady Abbess, may I present to you my friend and colleague Doctor Bartholomew,’ said Michael, holding her hand for rather longer than was necessary. She looked uncomfortable and tried to free it, but Michael appeared not to notice and did not slacken his grip. ‘He is also a Fellow of Michaelhouse. We would like to thank you for your gracious hospitality.’

The Abbess finally succeeded in retrieving her hand and inclined her head politely. She indicated the nuns who stood at her side. ‘May I introduce Dame Pelagia, my cellarer, and my niece Julianna.’ The nuns curtseyed demurely, although Bartholomew was discomfited by Julianna’s somewhat brazen stare. This did not seem to bother Michael, who met her eyes boldly as he took her hand and bowed almost as deeply as he had done to the Abbess.

‘Are you quite recovered from your ordeal?’ enquired the Abbess, indicating that they should sit in the chairs that were arranged around the fireside, and selecting the one that was farthest from Michael for herself.

‘Almost,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply, ‘although you will notice that my colleague still limps from the near-fatal wound in his leg.’

The three nuns made sympathetic faces and Bartholomew shot Michael a look of embarrassment. By no stretch of the imagination could a graze be called ‘near-fatal’ and Bartholomew was certain he had not limped.

‘Then you should remain here until you are fully well,’ said the Abbess while, next to her, Julianna gave Bartholomew a smile that verged on being a leer.

‘We have imposed on your generosity quite long enough,’ he said firmly, before Michael could agree to a lengthy sojourn. ‘We will leave today and trouble you no further.’

‘But you are no trouble at all,’ said Julianna, smiling coquettishly at Bartholomew from under her thick eyelashes. ‘We would be honoured if you would stay longer.’ Her eyes travelled down his body to the patch on his leggings. ‘And perhaps there are little services we might perform for you.’

Bartholomew was unable to look at Michael, whose eyebrows shot up into his hair. Instead he gazed at Julianna, uncertain how to respond to her ambiguous suggestion.

‘Your servant clearly cannot count the mending of garments among his undoubted talents,’ said the Abbess, indicating the scarlet patch and smiling sweetly to relieve Bartholomew’s discomfiture.

‘He cannot, but I can,’ interposed Julianna eagerly. ‘And if you agree to stay longer, I will re-mend that hole for you. I could do it now, as we talk.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, more vehemently than he intended, but determined not to be divested in the Abbess’s private apartments. ‘It is perfectly functional as it is.’

‘And our Abbess is a far neater needlewoman than you anyway, Julianna,’ said Dame Pelagia, in the blunt manner of old ladies. ‘If the doctor’s leggings require attention, then she should do the honours if he is to receive the best the Abbey can offer.’

‘All this is quite unnecessary,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The leggings look perfectly good as they are. After all, us monastics should not be encouraging vanity among the laity.’ He folded his hands in his sleeves and assumed a saintly expression. Bartholomew eyed him in disbelief, recalling the amount of primping that had taken place as the monk had prepared himself for the installation ceremony.

‘But regardless of whether the leggings should be mended properly, you must both stay until you are fully recovered,’ said Julianna firmly, ‘however long that might take.’

‘Well …’ said Michael.

‘You would be most welcome,’ said the Abbess sincerely. ‘And with all these outlaws prowling the roads, it will be good for us to have the security of three men within our walls.’

‘But we are not fighters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘I do not even have a weapon!’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Julianna comfortably. ‘I have a dagger you can borrow.’

Bartholomew regarded her with dismay. What kind of nun offered to lend people her dagger? He looked at the Abbess, who seemed as startled by Julianna’s offer as Bartholomew had been. Dame Pelagia merely sat back in her chair and raised her eyes heavenward, although a smile of amusement played about the corners of her lips.

Bartholomew had always known Michael was a man of culture and breeding – he was the younger son of an influential knight of King Edward’s court – but he had seldom been in a position to observe him in action. The monk skilfully manipulated the conversation to topics he sensed would interest and entertain the three nuns, ranging from issues of philosophy that had the Abbess eagerly inviting him to tell her more, to humorous anecdotes from the Bishop’s Palace that had Julianna enthralled and even the dry old Dame Pelagia chuckling in amusement. The physician marvelled at the transition from Michael the Senior Proctor to Michael the Courtier, and wondered whether he would ever know the monk well enough never to be surprised by his hidden talents and abilities.

After a while, as Julianna was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes at a story about the Bishop’s mother, and Bartholomew and the Abbess were kneeling solicitously at the side of Dame Pelagia – who had cackled so hard she had started to choke – the lay sister tapped on the door, and entered with a dish of small cakes and a jug of wine. Michael, apparently hungry after his display of courtliness, reached for the food almost before it had been set on the table.

‘What a splendid object,’ he said, taking the plate and inspecting it minutely. Several cakes slid from it into his lap and were suavely transferred to his mouth.

‘It is gold,’ said the Abbess, somewhat unnecessarily, given the way it gleamed in the pale light of the winter morning.

Dame Pelagia regarded it with interest, leaning forward to see more clearly. Even the Abbess’s cellarer, it seemed, was not privy to the full extent of the convent’s wealth.

‘It is very fine gold,’ said Michael, running his soft, white fingers across the delicately etched surface. ‘It is almost too fine for mere cakes.’

The Abbess reached out and removed the plate from Michael’s hands, firmly replacing it on the table. ‘It is the only serving plate we own. We do not often entertain in our humble home.’

Bartholomew and Michael looked around at the luxurious surroundings simultaneously. Perhaps they had been too long in the squalor of Michaelhouse, Bartholomew thought.

‘I understand the Countess of Pembroke stays here from time to time,’ he said, desperately trying to think of something to say in the silence that followed. Now that there was food to hand, Michael seemed to have passed the burden of conversation to Bartholomew, while he concentrated on fortifying himself for his next performance.

The Abbess smiled. ‘You understand correctly, Doctor,’ she replied. ‘But the Countess has her own apartments. She does not need to debase herself by using our plain rooms.’

Bartholomew’s already sumptuous vision of the Countess’s apartments escalated to the realms of the impossible. He wondered what the Abbess would make of Michaelhouse’s austere halls and stained pewter tableware.

‘When might the Countess next visit?’ asked Michael, licking sugar from his fingers. The cake plate, Bartholomew noticed, was empty, allowing Dame Pelagia to inspect it even more minutely.