The Tarnished Chalice (12 page)

‘Who is Doctor Rougham?’ asked a low, sultry voice behind him. ‘And who is the intended recipient of this bitter diatribe? I hope you will not blame it on Summer Madness. We have not seen a case of that in months.’

Michael spun around and was horrified to see Christiana de Hauville there, a faint smile etched into features that were even more perfect up close than they had been at a distance. Being caught muttering to himself was not how the monk had envisaged their first meeting.

‘I was talking to my colleague,’ he said, trying to repair
his dented dignity. ‘He is always slinking off in the middle of conversations, though, and I expect he has gone to the mortuary chapel.’

‘Really?’ she asked, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth; Michael berated himself for gabbling and providing more information than was necessary – information that made him sound slightly strange. ‘What an odd thing to do.’

‘He is a physician and they are apt to be odd, as you will know if you have ever met any,’ elaborated Michael. He was surprised to find himself determined that she should not know he dabbled in such sordid activities as inspecting corpses; he was even more surprised to realise how keen he was to make a good impression. He smiled at her, noting that she was almost as tall as he, which was unusual for a woman. ‘Do you know where I might find a lamp? Matt needs one for … for reading.’

‘I shall arrange for one to be fetched,’ she replied. There was laughter in her voice, although her face was politely grave. ‘I cannot get it myself, obviously.’

‘Why not? Do you not know where they are kept?’

‘Of course. But I do not perform menial tasks, or so the good brothers keep telling me. Were I to go to the kitchens myself, they would chase me out, like a pig among the cabbages.’

‘I would never associate you with pigs,’ said Michael chivalrously. ‘Or cabbages. But we all need to perform menial tasks occasionally, because they keep us from the sin of pride.’

‘Is pride a sin?’ asked Christiana. ‘I am a noblewoman, and it is considered a virtue in my family.’

‘I am the son of a knight myself,’ said Michael, unwilling to be thought of as common. ‘But I forswore my earthly family when I took holy orders. Perhaps that is why the vows are in place – to ensure we do not confuse filial obligation
with something deadly to the soul. Do you have any intention of taking the veil?’

She smiled and he saw white, perfect teeth in a face that might have belonged to an angel. ‘I have not decided, Brother. It depends on what the future holds.’

She adopted a helpless pose that indicated she needed assistance, and suddenly there were three brothers and a lay-sister hurrying to see what she wanted. She asked for a lantern and all four scurried towards the kitchens, one sprinting so fast that he missed his footing and took a tumble. When the remaining three reached the door, there was almost an exchange of blows as each fought to enter first.

‘Bless them,’ she said, watching with a fond smile. ‘They are so good to me. Perhaps I will take the veil, since I love this place so much; the people are far kinder here than they are in the world outside. Thank you, Hamo. It was very kind of you to do so much running on my behalf.’

Hamo backed away with a silly grin on his face, panting and bowing furiously, while Michael lit the lamp. Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.

‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’

Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’

‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.

Bartholomew studied Christiana covertly, taking in the
fact that her eyelashes were darkened with charcoal, which had the effect of making her skin appear fashionably pale, and the tendrils of gold hair that curled attractively from under her veil were not random escapees, but ones that had been carefully tailored for maximum effect. He could tell from her posture that she fully expected to be the centre of attention. But, he reflected wryly as he glanced around him, people were looking at her, and he was among them. He gave his complete attention to the wick, oblivious to the fact that she then used the opportunity to return the scrutiny.

‘Have you been here long?’ asked Michael, aware that Christiana’s interest had moved to a man who was slimmer and far better-looking than himself. Not that it would do her much good – for the physician, there was only one woman.

‘Since my husband was killed,’ she replied. A tremor in her voice suggested it still pained her. ‘I am here until either the King finds another suitable match or I become a nun. I am torn between wishing His Majesty would hurry up, and hoping he never finds a replacement, lest he imposes on me a man I do not like.’

‘That is why I took holy orders,’ confided Michael, making Bartholomew glance at him in surprise. He had never asked Michael’s reasons for taking the cowl, and had always assumed a sense of vocation had led him to do it. ‘My family had in mind a match that would have made me unhappy. I have never regretted my decision.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘You do not find the life a lonely one?’

‘Not at all. I have many friends, and there are ways to alleviate loneliness.’

‘The lamp is lit,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly seized with the awful premonition that the monk was about to tell her
how to break vows of chastity without being caught. ‘Come on, Brother. There is not much oil, and we do not have long before it burns out.’

‘Would you like me to hold it for you?’ asked Christiana, looking from one to the other with wide blue eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, and I have never seen anyone read in the mortuary chapel before. I lead a dull life, so I am always eager for new experiences. Even peculiar ones.’

‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and trying to guide him away from her.

But it needed a lot more than a tug to shift a man of Michael’s bulk. He resisted, and Bartholomew heard stitches snap open. Humour sparkled briefly in Christiana’s eyes, but was quickly masked.

‘Actually, we are going to pay our respects to Aylmer,’ confessed Michael, freeing his arm and clearly preferring Christiana’s company to his grim duties in the chapel. ‘I did not want to burden you with information about corpses, but perhaps I was being overly protective. You must forgive me.’

She smiled, and Bartholomew was forced to admit she was lovely, although he felt it a pity that she thought so, too. He glanced at Michael, and was alarmed to note how flushed the monk’s face had become – and how it wore an oddly dreamy expression Bartholomew had never seen before.

‘I shall forgive you, Brother, although only if you agree to tell me no more fibs. I know exactly what you are doing: Bishop Gynewell has asked you to investigate Aylmer’s murder.’

The monk’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How do you know? Gynewell spoke in confidence.’

‘Hamo was listening outside the door. The news is all
over the convent now, and it will be all around the city by noon.’

‘Damn,’ swore Michael. ‘I had hoped to carry out my commission discreetly.’

Christiana rested an elegant hand on his arm. ‘It may not be a bad thing, because now people will know on whose authority you ask your questions. Of course, it may also serve to make the killer more dangerous. You should take special care, Brother.’

‘I am always careful,’ replied Michael with an unreadable smile. ‘In all I do.’

‘And so am I,’ she replied, while Bartholomew looked from one to the other with growing unease, sure messages were passing between them that he did not understand. ‘I shall say a prayer for you. Perhaps you might care to join me at my devotions? I am usually in the Lady Chapel after vespers – not tonight, because there is a vigil for Little Hugh at the cathedral, but I will be there tomorrow.’

‘I am sure we shall find plenty to pray about,’ said Michael with one of his courtliest bows.

Bartholomew watched him leer appreciatively as Christiana walked away. ‘She is a ward of the King, Brother,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And you are a monk. This is not a good idea.’

‘Are you warning me against praying?’ asked Michael archly. ‘In a chapel? Really, Matt!’

‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Your quest to find Matilde has led you to assume that every man is consumed with lust. I assure you that is not the case, especially in those of us who have sworn vows of chastity. If you are worried, come with me tomorrow. You will witness nothing amiss.’

‘I shall, then,’ said Bartholomew, equally cool. He was not astute when it came to romance – his failure to propose
to Matilde before she had given up on him was testament to that – but even he had read something in the exchange between Michael and Christiana, and he disliked being considered a fool by his friend.

Michael was not amused. ‘You had better examine this corpse, or it will be a skeleton before you provide me with any answers.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘I would like that very much, but your lamp has just run out of oil.’

Brother Michael was not Lady Christiana, and it took him considerably longer to locate fuel for the lantern than it would have done if she had been with him. Eventually, a woman from the kitchens offered to help, filling the device with oil and even carrying it to the mortuary chapel, claiming it had a tendency to spill if not handled with a certain expertise. By the time she and the monk reached the building, Bartholomew was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands in an attempt to keep warm in the bitter wind. Michael turned to her.

‘Thank you, madam. My colleague is about to conduct an examination, as you no doubt know, since everyone else seems aware of my business here, and you will not want to be a witness to that, I assure you. I have seen him do it a hundred times, yet he still possesses the ability to make me shudder.’ He glanced coolly at Bartholomew, to indicate there was a double meaning to his comment.

‘I do not mind.’ She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a lined face and a matronly wimple. ‘I doubt he will do anything I have not seen before.’

‘He might,’ warned Michael. ‘He has been to Padua, where they are said to practise a macabre form of scholarship called anatomy.’

‘I know nothing of the black arts, but I have seen my share of death. It holds no fears for me.’

Michael regarded her curiously. ‘Do you work in the priory hospital, then?’

The woman snorted her disdain. ‘You obviously think I am one of the lay-sisters. I am not. My name is Sabina Herl, and I am here because my parish priest gave me a week of labour as penance.’

‘Penance for what?’ asked Michael, intrigued. ‘Do not be afraid to tell me. I am a man of God.’

‘Lord, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with you today?’

‘It was a man of God who got me in this mess in the first place,’ she remarked acidly. ‘I was caught kissing him behind the stables, and scouring greasy pans is my punishment.’

‘What happened to the man of God?’ asked Michael.

Sabina nodded towards the mortuary chapel. ‘He is in there, although I do not think our tryst had anything to do with the fact that he was stabbed. Poor Aylmer always was an unlucky fellow.’

‘Lord!’ gasped Suttone, hurrying up to join them. ‘I have just been eating those cakes with Prior Roger. I am not sure he is quite sane.’

‘He is probably preoccupied,’ said Bartholomew, acutely aware that Sabina was listening. While he was more than happy to move elsewhere for the duration of their stay in Lincoln, he did not want it to be because they had insulted the head Gilbertine.

‘No, he is insane,’ said Sabina matter-of-factly. ‘A good many people are in this particular convent, which is why my confessor selected it as the place of penance.’

‘Penance for what?’ asked Suttone immediately.

‘Seducing your Vicar Choral,’ replied Michael.

Sabina looked the Carmelite up and down. ‘So, you are
the scholar who offered Aylmer that post. We were all rather surprised, since he has always been something of a rascal.’

‘He was a good man,’ objected Suttone. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’

She smothered a smile. ‘And when did you last see him?’

‘I suppose it was on his tenth birthday,’ admitted Suttone. ‘But he wrote to me often.’

She laughed openly. ‘Those letters were for you? He had a good deal of fun with them. He fabricated some outrageous lies, but did not imagine for a moment that anyone would believe him.’

‘We must be talking about a different man,’ said Suttone stiffly. ‘My John Aylmer was short, with red hair and a thin scar on his eyebrow, from where he fell from an apple tree as a lad.’

‘There is only one John Aylmer,’ she said indulgently. ‘People will tell you he was wicked and dissolute, but you should not believe everything you hear. He had his faults, true enough, but who does not? And I do not kiss just anyone behind the stables – not even if a man offers me a penny.’

‘How about two?’ asked Suttone.

‘We should be about our work,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether Suttone was making her an offer or just soliciting information. Suddenly, the body in the chapel seemed like a haven of peace in a stormy sea, because at least he knew what he was doing with corpses.

Sabina turned her attention to Michael. ‘And you, Brother? Who is to be your deputy?’

‘John Tetford. He comes highly recommended by the Bishop of Ely himself. In fact, de Lisle insisted I hire him; I actually had no choice in the matter.’

Sabina smiled, suggesting she thought Tetford would not be much of an improvement on the man Suttone had
picked. ‘And now you are going to discover who killed poor Aylmer. Well, it will not be easy.’