Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘Did you ask him about it?’ said Michael.

Nicholas glanced at the fat monk with haunted eyes. ‘Of course I did. He merely treated me to that enigmatic smile of his and said it was better for me not to know too much about what transpired at the convent.’

‘What did he mean by “better”?’ pressed Michael. ‘Safer? Or was he suggesting that it was so secret that not even his closest friend could be told?’

‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It had nothing to do with you, then? It was nothing you had asked him to do as Junior Proctor?’

‘No,’ replied Michael. He looked thoughtful, trying to guess what arrangement his Junior Proctor might have had with the nuns of St Radegund’s that was so secret he would not even tell his lover. ‘Thank you for telling us this, Nicholas. If everyone is as helpful, we might yet have this killer in front of the King’s justices.’

Leaving Nicholas to slip back into Barnwell Priory unnoticed, the monk turned on his heel and began to stride down the Causeway with Bartholomew and Timothy following. It was a miserable journey. The rain had turned to sleet and drove into their faces, and the wind sliced through Bartholomew’s cloak so that he wondered whether there was any point in wearing it at all. Even the uncharacteristically brisk pace set by Michael did not serve to warm him. The countryside was grey, dead and dismal, and there was not the merest trace of spring buds or leaves on the stunted trees.

Michael, however, seemed cheered by Nicholas’s intelligence, and walked purposefully, oblivious to the inclement weather that buffeted him. He declared that a visit to the good women of St Radegund’s Convent was in order, and instructed Timothy to begin his covert search for the yellow substance in the Franciscan Friary, while he and Bartholomew undertook the more pleasant task of asking the nuns about Walcote’s business with them. Obediently, Timothy hurried back to the town, while Bartholomew and Michael turned towards the convent.

The convent had suffered a serious fire in 1313, and everything had been rebuilt. The small community of Benedictine nuns now enjoyed a comfortable range of buildings that included a pleasant solar, a refectory with a substantial hearth so that they seldom ate in the cold, and a church that possessed some of the loveliest wood carvings Bartholomew had ever seen. All were linked by a cloister, which meant the nuns were not obliged to walk in the rain when they made their way to and from their offices.

Unfortunately, the reputation of St Radegund’s had suffered badly under the leadership of some of its prioresses. The one who had ruled during the Death had not been popular or pleasant, but she had at least maintained a degree of order over the women in her care. Her successors had not, and the convent had been visited by a number of bishops and other important Benedictines to investigate allegations of dishonesty and loose behaviour.

Personally, Bartholomew had little cause to deal with the nuns, and so had no idea whether the accusations were true or not, although his suspicions had been aroused when he had seen the state of Dame Martyn that morning. Michael, whose calling as a Benedictine meant that he was privy to information about the convent that was not widely available, cheerfully maintained that the allegations were entirely true. Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him or not, given that the monk was not averse to flagrant exaggeration and that the notion of a convent of willing ladies was something that appealed to his sense of humour.

Michael strode up a path that wound through an attractive grove of chestnut trees, and tapped on the gatehouse door. Bartholomew followed him slowly, the once familiar track bringing back uncomfortable memories. The last time he had visited St Radegund’s was during the plague, when he had been betrothed to a woman named Philippa Abigny. Philippa had been deposited in the convent for safe keeping by her parents, although Bartholomew had visited her regularly. Once the Death had moved on, leaving the survivors to deal with its ravages as well as they could, Philippa had decided not to take an impoverished physician as a husband after all, and had married a wealthy merchant instead.

Bartholomew wondered how different his life would have been had he taken a wife. He would have been forced to resign his Fellowship, since Fellows of the colleges were not permitted to marry, and there would have been no teaching and no students. But there would have been compensations, such as a family and a real home. A sudden vision of Philippa entered his mind – tall, fair and lovely – and he experienced a sharp pang of loneliness. His painful reminiscences were interrupted when a metal grille in the door clicked open in response to Michael’s knock, and a pair of dark eyes peered out at them.

‘Yes?’ asked the owner of the eyes expectantly. Bartholomew recognised her as the novice who had been so blunt about her Prioress’s condition earlier that morning; he also recalled that her name was Tysilia. ‘What can we do for you?’

Michael sniggered and waved his eyebrows at her. ‘Let us in and I will tell you.’

The grille snapped shut and Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look, seeing that Michael’s inappropriate flirting had lost them the opportunity to talk to the nuns about Walcote’s death. They were hardly likely to admit such a flagrant lecher into their midst. So Bartholomew was startled when the door was flung open, and Tysilia swung her arm in an expansive gesture to indicate that they were to enter.

‘Come in, then, good scholars, and tell us what you had in mind,’ she said, giving Michael an outrageous wink. ‘Do not keep us wondering.’

Michael shot through the door, leaving Bartholomew to follow more cautiously. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps we should have Edith with us, or Matilde…’

‘Oh, yes, we should have brought Matilde,’ Michael whispered back facetiously. ‘It is always a good idea to bring a prostitute to a convent as an escort, Matt – although I confess that, in this case, I do not know who would be protecting whom.’

‘Well?’ asked Tysilia, hands on hips as she looked the two scholars up and down appraisingly, as a groom might survey a horse. She no longer wore the cloak that had covered her that morning, and Bartholomew was surprised to note that her black Benedictine habit was fashionably tight, cut rather low at the front, and sported a large jewelled cross that was a long way from the simple poverty envisioned and recommended by St Benedict. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have questions of a confidential nature that pertain to a delicate investigation I am conducting,’ said Michael pompously.

‘Eh?’ said Tysilia, a blank expression on her pretty features. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We want to speak to the Prioress,’ translated Michael.

‘Oh! Why did you not say so? Come upstairs, then. I expect our Prioress will not mind a couple of guests. She likes surprises.’

‘Perhaps you should announce us first,’ suggested Bartholomew tactfully. ‘It is time for sext, and she may not want to be disturbed at her offices by unexpected visitors.’

Tysilia and Michael regarded Bartholomew as if he were insane.

‘Follow me, then,’ said Tysilia, after an awkward silence. ‘Everyone is in the day-room.’

‘I believe “solar” is the fashionable way to refer to that chamber these days,’ said Michael conversationally, as they walked with her through a narrow slype between the church and a parlour to reach the cloister. ‘I have not heard anyone referring to a “day-room” for years. Even my grandmother does not use such an antiquated term.’

‘I keep forgetting it,’ said Tysilia. She gave a weary sigh. ‘There is such a lot for a young woman to remember these days – like threading a needle with silk before starting the embroidery; not wiping my lips on the tablecloth at mealtimes if anyone else is watching; and going to church occasionally.’