‘Not at mealtimes,’ suggested Bartholomew, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘He has far more important business to attend then.’
Michael shot him an agitated glance, then quickly turned his attention back to Tysilia: his loss of concentration had enabled her to extend one lightning-fast hand towards his person. He yelped and looked more outraged than Bartholomew had ever seen him. When the monk’s normally pale face turned red, the physician began to laugh.
‘Tysilia!’ The exclamation came from Ralph, the Bishop’s steward. Like Michael, he was horrified by her behaviour in such a public place. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’
Tysilia regarded him sulkily. ‘I am having a privy conversion with Michael. Go away.’
‘She means a private conversation,’ said Bartholomew, when the steward looked bemused.
‘Well, he does not look as though he wants to finish it, so make your farewells and come away. The Bishop has decided that you will be safer with him than with Blanche.’ Ralph turned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘That comment about throttling has deeply worried him, and he wants Tysilia in his own quarters.’
‘Good idea,’ said Michael flatly. ‘I imagine Blanche is at the end of her tether as caretaker. We would not want an accident, would we?’
‘Blanche does not wear a tether,’ supplied Tysilia helpfully. ‘Her lap-dog does, though.’
‘The Bishop would do well to invest in one, too,’ said Ralph to Michael, casting a meaningful glance at Tysilia. ‘And I do not mean a lap-dog.’
‘You can inform the Bishop that any future meetings between him and me will be in the priory,’ said Michael, moving away quickly as Tysilia advanced. ‘I am not coming to his house.’
‘But I will be at his house,’ said Tysilia, surprised. ‘If you do not come there, you will not see me.’
‘No,’ said Michael grimly.
‘Well, I shall just have to come with Uncle to the priory, then,’ said Tysilia, undeterred. ‘But he said he was going to that big church to pray, so we have some time to ourselves before he returns. Come to his lodgings with me, and we will–’
‘Go with Ralph,’ ordered Michael brusquely, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end. ‘And behave yourself.’
‘Come with me,’ she invited coyly. ‘And then you can make sure that I do.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Michael, twisting away quickly as she lunged at him. Ralph seized her arm and hustled her up the hill, although she struggled and fought every inch of the way. It was as well Ralph was a strong man, because she was a tall, vigorous woman and would have escaped from anyone weaker.
‘I do not know why you are not making the most of this,’ said Bartholomew, laughing as he saw the alarmed expression on the monk’s face. ‘It cannot be every day that a pretty woman favours you with her undivided attention.’
‘I am a monk,’ said Michael, as if he thought that explained it all. It did not. The vow of celibacy was not one to which he often gave much regard, and he used it only when it suited him.
‘What is the real reason for this aversion?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I have never known you run from this sort of situation before.’
‘De Lisle would not be amused if he thought I had tampered with one of the few people he feels any affection for,’ said Michael. ‘He is very protective of her, as you probably gathered from the conversation between him and Blanche.’
‘It is not Tysilia who needs the protection,’ said Bartholomew, laughing again. ‘It is you, and the hundreds just like you who have passed through her pawing hands.’
‘That is not how de Lisle would see it. And I will not risk his displeasure for a quick romp under the bedclothes with a woman like Tysilia. It would not be worth it.’
‘I just hope you know what you are missing, Brother. It may never happen again.’
‘It will,’ said Michael, confident that he was every woman’s dream. ‘Only it will be with a lady of my choice, who does not have an uncle with an unproven charge of murder to his name.’
They walked slowly, to allow the monks time to carry the body up the hill and deposit it in the Lady Chapel, where it would be washed, dressed in a clean habit and prayed for until it took its final journey to the monks’ cemetery. Bartholomew was certain that Robert would not be obliged to wait above ground like Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. No sooner had the thought gone through his mind than he spotted Father John. He decided to ask whether the parish of St Mary’s was still blessed with two festering corpses.
The priest was walking with Leycestre, while Leycestre’s nephews – Clymme and Buk – and Agnes walked some distance behind, as though intent on preventing anyone else from hearing what the priest and the disinherited farmer had to say to each other. Not surprisingly, given that their obsession was not with murdered monks, Leycestre and his cronies were among the few who had not followed de Lisle to the cathedral.
‘Father John!’ called Bartholomew, increasing his stride so that he would catch up with the priest. He was startled to find his arm grabbed, very firmly, by Clymme. He gazed at Leycestre’s nephew, too astonished that he had been manhandled to do anything about it.
‘I want to speak to the priest,’ he said, trying to free himself. The grip was a strong one, and he saw that the other nephew was ready to add his own brawn to the struggle if Clymme proved unequal to the task.
‘Let him go,’ snapped Agnes sharply.
‘But you said–’ began Clymme.
‘Release him!’ repeated Agnes, this time more forcefully. ‘He wants to speak to Father John.’
Bartholomew disengaged his arm from the bemused Clymme, and saw that his supposition had been right: the nephews and Agnes were indeed a sort of rearguard, whose duty was to prevent the discussion taking place between labourer and priest from being overheard. John, who had turned as soon as Bartholomew called his name, saw exactly what Bartholomew had deduced.
‘Leycestre and I were just talking about what could be done for poor Robert,’ he gabbled unconvincingly. ‘The violent death of a monk is a terrible thing.’
‘But no one liked Robert,’ Michael pointed out immediately. ‘And why should you do anything for him? You have done little enough for the other victims.’
‘That was before a fellow cleric had died,’ said John defensively. ‘We will do something now. Flowers, perhaps. Or candles. We have some candles left over from Haywarde’s mass.’
‘Then they belong to me,’ declared Agnes immediately. ‘I paid for his mass, God rot his soul, and any candles remaining are mine. They will not be used for Robert.’
‘You would give one for the cause,’ wheedled John, his eyes uneasy. Bartholomew had seldom seen behaviour that was more indicative that its perpetrator was up to no good.
‘“Cause”?’ Michael pounced immediately. ‘And what “cause” would that be? Inciting the populace to riot?’
‘No!’ declared John, a little too quickly. ‘But I am on my way to the cathedral to pray with de Lisle and cannot stand here talking all day. What did you want from me?’
‘I wanted to make sure that the other bodies had been buried,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Agnes said she paid for Haywarde’s mass, which means that he, at least, is below ground, where he should be.’
‘So are the others,’ said John. ‘Blanche gave me sixpence for Glovere, which only left Chaloner. And Bishop de Lisle provided the funds to get rid of him.’
‘De Lisle?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did he do that? It is not his concern.’
‘Blanche has been telling folk that he wanted his victims underground before the next new moon rises,’ said Leycestre. ‘Murdered folk walk abroad then, if there is no layer of soil to keep them down. But I think de Lisle was just being charitable.’
‘He was being charitable,’ insisted John. ‘He has no ties to Chaloner, but no one else came forward and offered to take responsibility for his body, so the Bishop gave me a shilling.’