Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘It is also possible that he was murdered for the contents of his purse,’ said Michael practically. ‘I walked to Barnwell Priory this afternoon, and Nicholas identified the purse Orwelle found. He told me there was a small imperfection in its drawstrings, and when I looked I saw that he was right.’

‘But Walcote carried that cheap purse because he collected penny fines,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Why rob him?’

‘For people with nothing, any purse is worth stealing.’

Bartholomew wavered, knowing that Michael was right on that score. But he still believed that hanging suggested a degree of premeditation, and imagined that most robbers would prefer the speed and silence of a blade.

‘Did you see Matilde when you went to St Radegund’s this afternoon?’ asked Michael, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Has she learned anything more about these secret meetings at which my murder was discussed?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But I told her what Morden had claimed, and she warned you to be careful. That is good advice, Brother.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he thought their fears groundless. ‘Is she still convinced that there is more to Tysilia than the body of a goddess with no brains?’

‘Apparently, she spent the whole morning trying to teach Tysilia how to hoe. It is not difficult: a child could do it. Tysilia could not, however, and repeatedly raked out seedlings instead of weeds. When Eve Wasteneys saw that Tysilia was incapable of hoeing, she was sent to work in the kitchens instead.’

‘So?’ asked Michael.

‘So, the weather was cold and wet. Matilde believed Tysilia was only pretending to be inept, so that she would not have to be outside. It worked: Tysilia spent the rest of the morning in a warm kitchen, while everyone else was out in the rain. Matilde considered this evidence of Tysilia’s cunning.’

‘It could equally be evidence that Tysilia has an inability to learn,’ said Michael. ‘However, the Bishop is a clever man, and it is difficult to imagine him siring a child who is quite so dense.’

‘Thomas de Lisle sired Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You told me she is his niece.’

‘Did I say sired?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Damn! I must be more careful in future. De Lisle certainly does not want her to know the identity of her father, and it is not good for bishops to have illegitimate children in tow.’

‘I should think not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But if Matilde and I are right about Tysilia, then she may very well know something about this plot to kill you. Perhaps she was the one who devised it in the first place.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do something like that? I am her father’s best agent, and she has no reason to wish me harm.’

‘If she is as clever as Matilde believes, then perhaps the plot is her way of striking at Bishop de Lisle. Or perhaps she wants to take your place, and become as indispensable to him as you are.’

‘This is pure fantasy, Matt. You and Matilde seem to find it difficult to believe that some people – even women – are very stupid. You are quite wrong about Tysilia.’ He sniffed the air suddenly, and groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, Matt! Dinner is more of that stinking fish-giblet stew again! Not only is it freezing cold in this godforsaken place, but we are forced to eat stewed fish entrails and yesterday’s bread.’

‘Delicious,’ boomed Father William, rubbing his hands together as he came to sit next to them. ‘Lent is my favourite time of year. Sinful practices like over-indulgence and fornication are forbidden, there are none of those reeking flowers in the church to distract you from your prayers, and there are no frills and such nonsense adorning your altars. And yet we are still treated to tasty delicacies like fish-giblet stew.’

‘And we think Clippesby is insane!’ muttered Michael, eyeing the dirty friar doubtfully. ‘Anyone who thinks boiled fish intestines in watery broth is the ultimate dining experience should be locked away.’

‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded the Franciscan, looking around him as if he imagined the Master would suddenly appear out of the rushes that were scattered across the floor. ‘We cannot start the meal until he has said grace.’

‘He is not a great lover of fish, and so probably feels no great compunction to hurry here,’ said the Carmelite Suttone, scratching his short white hair with his large-knuckled fingers. ‘He is talking to Clippesby, anyway.’

‘Clippesby,’ said William in disapproval. ‘I caught him pulling the tail feathers from the porter’s cockerel this afternoon. He said Cynric told him that burning them in a dish with a mixture of mint leaves and garlic has the power to remove curses. And he claimed that Cynric had this information from Prior Pechem.’

‘The head of the Franciscans?’ asked Michael gleefully. ‘That sounds like heresy to me, William. Removing curses with feathers and garlic indeed!’

‘Cynric misheard,’ stated William immediately. ‘Assuming that Clippesby even had half the story right, that is.’

‘Clippesby puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes he seems quite normal, and yet other times he indulges in these peculiarities of behaviour. I do not understand him at all.’

‘That is because he is insane,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘The whole point about insane people is that their actions are incomprehensible by those of us who are normal.’

‘But on occasions, what he says makes perfect sense, and his opinions are worth listening to.’

‘Only if you are insane yourself,’ said William firmly. He glanced at the door at the end of the hall, then at the painted screen near the spiral staircase that led to the kitchens. Behind it, the servants were waiting with the food in huge steaming cauldrons. ‘I wish Langelee would hurry up. The soup is getting cold.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘The longer that abomination is kept from our tables, the better. And if we sit here long enough, it will be time for breakfast. Lukewarm oatmeal is not my favourite, either, but I would sooner eat that than rancid fish guts floating in greasy water.’

Bartholomew saw Suttone wince at the description. One or two students, sitting at the tables placed at right angles to the one where the fellows ate, also heard, and Bartholomew could see them reconsidering their options for dining that night. Since Langelee had been made Master, it had become much more difficult for the students to slip out of the College for a night in the town, but they were encouraged to lay in their own supplies of food, called ‘smalls’. This had the advantage of saving Michaelhouse a certain amount of money and it prevented the students from wanting to eat in taverns.

‘Have you caught your murderer, Michael?’ asked William conversationally, picking at a lump of old food that adhered to the front of his habit. When it was off, yet another dark spot joined the multicoloured speckling on the Franciscan’s chest. ‘My offer of help is still open, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael politely. ‘It is good to know who one’s friends are these days.’

He raised his voice so that it would carry to Kenyngham, who was already muttering his own, much longer, version of grace, and who was oblivious of any meaningful comments or looks from the monk who sat to his right.

‘I said, it is good to know who one’s friends are these days,’ said Michael, more loudly still. This time, even Kenyngham was among those who looked at him in surprise, startled by the sudden volume in the monk’s voice.

‘Are you addressing me, Brother?’ asked Kenyngham, smiling in his absent-minded way. ‘Are you in need of a friend? Join me after the meal, and we will pray together.’