‘I have not seen one of these for years,’ he said. It was wizened and hard after its long journey from Spain or Italy, and probably long past its best. But to see an orange at all in the Fens in winter was remarkable.
Cynric eyed it with suspicion. ‘I heard those things poisoned Master Mortimer the baker.’
‘That was lemons,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Oranges should not poison anyone. Try some.’
Cynric shook his head quickly and turned his attention back to his bread and cheese. Michael poked suspiciously at the green and lumpy substance in the small dish covered by the linen.
‘What is that?’ he asked with some disgust. ‘It looks like something terrible has been done to a vegetable – and you know how I feel about vegetables.’
‘Pickled eels and samphire,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Stanmore bringing some as a gift for Edith many years before. His sister had eaten it only because she wanted to please her husband, and had paid for her courtesy by spending most of the night being sick. The next time Stanmore had presented some to her she had shown the good sense to feed it to the cat. ‘It is considered a great delicacy and is very expensive. We should be honoured the abbey is sharing such a dish with us.’
‘You eat it, then,’ said Michael, pushing it towards Bartholomew after a brief and decisive sniff. ‘It smells rank.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Brother. It tastes a good deal worse than it smells. That is why it is produced in such small quantities: like most delicacies, if it were common, no one would eat it. Oswald told me the King has a liking for pickled eels and samphire, and so, of course, it can be found in the houses of most people who consider themselves fashionable.’
Michael offered it to Cynric, who speared a piece of eel with his dagger and put it in his mouth. He spat it out again immediately, and pulled a face of such utter disgust that Michael and Bartholomew began to laugh.
‘That is quite horrible,’ said the Welshman, after he had taken a healthy swig of ale to wash away the flavour. ‘It tastes like bitter medicine! Far from being honoured, I would say the abbey is trying to get rid of us! You can keep your local delicacies, boy. We Welsh know how to cook seaweed better than that.’
‘Seaweed?’ whispered Michael, aghast. ‘They have given us seaweed?’
‘A particular type,’ said Bartholomew, feeling guilty that they were being uncharitable over the nuns’ generous attempt to provide them with extravagant foods. ‘It is not just any old weed picked up from the shores.’
‘That makes no difference, Matt,’ said Michael sagely, placing the dish as far away from him as possible. ‘Seaweed is seaweed and we should not eat it. It is not natural. We are not crabs!’
Bartholomew smiled and went back to poking the fire while the others finished their dinner. Despite Michael’s recovered humour, Bartholomew remained apprehensive about his determination that they stay in Denny for another night. He was certain that whatever it was that made him so insistent had nothing to do with the poisoned wine, or the attempt on their lives. Michael, thought Bartholomew, would not win his much-desired promotion from the Bishop if he indulged in a love affair with the Abbess of Denny!
Bartholomew awoke with a start to find a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He was about to struggle when he saw Cynric’s profile etched in the faint light from the embers of the fire. He relaxed and the hand was removed. When he had grown bored with sitting by the fire, he had fallen asleep on his bed and the room was now quite dark. He wondered what time it could be: he could hear no sounds coming from the convent and the guesthall was totally silent. He sat up on the bed and watched Cynric buckling his dagger to his belt.
‘What is it?’ he whispered.
Cynric edged nearer so that his voice would not carry. ‘Michael has gone.’
‘Gone where?’ Bartholomew stood up and went towards Michael’s bed, a pointless action since Cynric had just informed him that Michael was no longer there. He rubbed his eyes and tried to force himself to be more alert.
‘Shh! I do not know. He went out a few moments ago. Should I follow him?’ He drew his cloak around his shoulders in anticipation.
‘We both will,’ whispered Bartholomew, after a moment of indecision. He could sense Cynric’s disapproval, but the Welshman kept his thoughts to himself. Bartholomew knew Cynric had a low opinion of his abilities to creep around undetected in the dark, but it was only Michael they were following and, if anything, Michael was even worse at stealth than was Bartholomew.
Absently slipping his medicines bag over his shoulder, he followed Cynric through the door.
‘Why are you bringing that?’ hissed Cynric, pulling at it in the dark. ‘It will be in the way.’
Bartholomew shrugged: taking his bag was so instinctive, he had not even realised he had done it. His teacher, Ibn Ibrahim at the University in Paris, had taught him he should never be without it, not even in the bath. Bath! All very well in the civilised countries to the east, but Bartholomew had only ever seen one bath-house in England, and that was in the former villa of a Roman nobleman and had fallen into ruin many centuries before. It was all Bartholomew could do to persuade people to give their hands the most cursory of rinses before eating, despite the fact that he was sure it would prevent a veritable host of intestinal disorders if they did.
He forced his mind away from the perennial problems of medicine and back to Cynric’s silent shadow moving ahead of him. Michael was nowhere to be seen, but Cynric led the way unhesitatingly around the side of the guesthall and into the gardens behind the church. An empty snail shell crunched loudly under Bartholomew’s foot, making Cynric glance back at him with a weary look of warning to take more care.
The temperature had fallen dramatically with the coming of clearer weather, and the ground underfoot was crisp with rime. For the first time in many weeks, the stars could be seen glittering between the occasional drifting cloud and Bartholomew paused to gaze upwards before an impatient tug on his sleeve set him following Cynric through the fruit trees and rows of kitchen vegetables. Bartholomew shivered in the cold, and wished he had brought his cloak.
At first, he thought Cynric’s instincts must have been wrong and that Michael had traipsed off elsewhere in the darkness. But then he saw a movement and there was Michael, all but invisible in his black habit. He appeared to be waiting for someone, because he paced back and forth with an agitation Bartholomew had seldom seen in the sardonic monk. Bartholomew began to have serious misgivings over spying on his friend, for it was apparent from his demeanour that Michael was not meeting just anybody: he was anxious and tense and Bartholomew had attended enough nocturnal meetings with Michael to know he was not easily unsettled from his habitual complacency.
‘Come on,’ said the physician softly, pulling at Cynric’s sleeve. ‘This is not right. We should not be spying on Michael and his lady-love.’
Wordlessly, Cynric led the way out of the garden and back towards the guesthall. When he stopped, it was so sudden that Bartholomew bumped into him from behind. Cynric raised his hand to warn him not to speak, but Bartholomew had already seen the dark shadow flitting along the side of the guesthall. The nun looked around carefully, before moving soundlessly through the fruit trees to where Michael waited. Cynric drew Bartholomew into the shadows until she had passed, and then led the way back to the guesthall door. He fiddled with the handle.
‘Hurry up!’ said Bartholomew, shivering. ‘It is cold out here. It is all very well for you – you have your cloak, but I do not.’