‘Perhaps not, but it is you she admires. She was telling William how handsome and manly you are.’
‘Then she has better taste than I credited her with,’ said Michael, not sounding at all surprised that he had secured her devotions. ‘However, she will be disappointed to learn that I am unavailable. She will just have to resort to William, or someone equally inferior.’
‘She is a determined woman,’ warned Bartholomew, smiling. ‘You may find yourself powerless to resist her wiles.’
‘But I am a determined man. Still, I am more interested in her relationship with William than her perfectly understandable attraction to me. That suggests a plot, sure enough.’
‘We will see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Mackerell can throw some light on the matter. Come on, Brother. The sun is beginning to set and our fishy friend will be waiting.’
They had almost reached the priory’s back gate, beyond the neat rows of vines, when Bartholomew spotted someone walking ahead of them. Normally, seeing another person in an area populated by about a hundred monks and their servants would not have been cause for comment, but there was something about the way this figure moved that set warning bells jangling in Bartholomew’s mind. He grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him to one side. The vines were not tall, so the two scholars were obliged to crouch in undignified positions.
‘It is Sub-prior Thomas,’ whispered Michael, parting the foliage like a curtain and peering out. ‘You were right to suggest we keep out of sight, because he is moving in a way that says he is up to no good at all. I wonder what he is doing.’
‘Whatever it is, he must consider it important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These vineyards represent a hard walk for a man of his girth, and I cannot imagine he is doing this for fun.’
Thomas stood gasping for breath, fanning his cascading chins furiously in a vain attempt to cool himself down. Even from a distance, Bartholomew could see the rivulets of sweat that coursed down the man’s face and made dark patches on his habit.
They did not have to wait long to find out what had enticed Thomas to leave the luxury and comparative cool of the monastery buildings. Another figure emerged from the direction of the back gate. The person walked briskly towards Thomas, and they embarked on a hurried conversation, during which a neat white parcel was passed to the sub-prior.
‘Who is that?’ whispered Michael urgently, trying to push leaves out of the way. ‘Can you see?’
Bartholomew eased himself forward. ‘No. But it is someone who feels obliged to wear his hood pulled over his face. That in itself suggests something unusual, given the warmth of the evening. Should we try to get closer?’
‘Well, there is not much point in spying if you cannot see or hear what is going on, is there?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Hurry up, or they will have finished their business before we reach them.’
On hands and knees, Bartholomew and Michael edged towards the fat sub-prior’s trysting place. Crawling among the vines was such a ludicrously incommodious situation for a University Doctor and a Senior Proctor to put themselves in that Bartholomew started to laugh, thinking that he had not crawled around on all fours in the undergrowth since he was a child. Michael chortled, too, but his mirth was cut short by a litany of vicious curses when he put his hand on a thorn.
As they inched closer they tried to ensure they kept their heads low, so that they would not be visible above the stumpy bushes. Eventually, Bartholomew judged that they were within hearing distance, and risked a quick glance above the leaves. Neither Thomas nor the man he was meeting were where he expected them to be.
‘Have you lost something?’ asked Thomas coldly, the proximity of his voice making both Bartholomew and Michael jump violently. The physician was amazed that the obese sub-prior had been able to move so quickly and with so much stealth. His progress through the vineyard just a few moments before had indicated that he was incapable of speed or silence. Now he towered above the kneeling scholars, his large face flushed red from effort, anger and heat. He was still breathing hard, and the top half of his habit was soaked in perspiration. Bartholomew supposed that although Sub-prior Thomas could move with haste when necessary, the man’s body was neither accustomed to nor happy with sudden spurts of activity. It was a physique that would reward its owner with a seizure if obliged to do it too often.
‘My ring,’ said Michael, thinking quickly and waving a hand sadly bereft of the baubles with which Benedictines usually liked to adorn themselves. ‘I am so thin that it fell from my finger and Matt is helping me to look for it.’
‘What were you doing here in the first place?’ demanded Thomas, evidently unconvinced by such a flagrantly feeble excuse. ‘I sincerely hope you were not following me.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Michael innocently, using Bartholomew to haul himself up from his knees. ‘I am too busy to spend my valuable time stalking my fellow brethren through the bushes.’
‘It is my understanding that you would go to any lengths to help de Lisle remove himself from this spike upon which he is impaled,’ said Thomas accusingly. ‘It would not surprise me if you intended to have one of us blamed for Glovere’s death, merely to allow the Bishop to go free.’
‘That is unfair,’ objected Bartholomew, also standing and brushing dry soil from his hands. ‘Michael has devoted his entire life at Cambridge to ensuring that justice is done.’
‘Justice as he sees it,’ said Thomas nastily.
‘But that is what justice is, is it not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘It is someone’s idea of fairness, be that person a proctor, a judge, or even a sub-prior.’
‘I have no time to debate philosophical issues with you,’ said Thomas. ‘If I had wanted a university training, I would have gone to Oxford.’
‘That would not have rendered you any less ignorant,’ retorted Michael rudely. ‘But since you feel the need to question me, I shall question you: what are you doing here, when it is approaching the time for compline?’
‘That is none of your concern,’ replied Thomas icily. ‘However, I shall tell you, because I do not want to find my innocent actions turned into something sinister in order to allow de Lisle to blame me for the murder he committed.’
‘Well?’ asked Michael when Thomas paused, evidently casting around for an excuse he felt the monk would believe.
‘I was taking bread to one of the town’s children.’ Michael’s eyebrows shot up, but Thomas either did not notice or did not care. ‘I meet him here often of an evening, when I give him food for his family. I do not make my actions public, because my acts of charity are between God and I.’
‘You mean “God and me”,’ interjected Bartholomew.
‘And did he give you anything in return?’ asked Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s grammatical pedantry and thinking about the white package that was safely packed away inside the sub-prior’s scrip. Its outline could be seen, square and bulky, against the leather.
‘Of course not,’ said Thomas indignantly. ‘What could a shepherd boy give me, other than his gratitude?’ He poked at something on the ground with his foot. ‘But here is your ring, Brother. It seems not to have rolled very far.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, leaning down to retrieve it from the dirt. ‘I knew it would be here somewhere.’
‘I shall wish you both good evening, then,’ said Thomas, taking a deep breath as he contemplated the long incline that led towards the monastery buildings. ‘I do not want to be late for compline because I have been dallying with you. Do not stay out here too long. It is not unknown for wolves to frequent these parts after dark, and I would not like to think of anything untoward happening to you.’ He turned and began to huff his way up the hill.
‘Was he threatening us?’ mused Michael, replacing the ring as he stared thoughtfully after the sub-prior’s wobbling progress. ‘It sounded like a threat.’