He nodded towards Roos, who was creeping towards his quarry with one hand extended for a grope. With a hiss of alarm his friends hurried over to stop him. Wanting nothing to do with any of them, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and returned to Michael and Langelee.
‘They do not know about the Lady,’ he said. ‘And I am disinclined to tell them.’
‘So am I,’ said Michael, ‘but I imagine they will hear the news when they book into their respective inns. And if not … well, it is hardly our problem.’
Worried about the expense that six nights in Clare would incur, Langelee disappeared to locate the cheapest available tavern, leaving his Fellows with strict instructions to stay in the church until he returned. Bartholomew did not mind, content to examine the paintings in more detail. He roamed the nave, while Michael chatted to Nicholas about the Lady.
‘She was unwell a couple of weeks ago,’ the vicar obliged, ‘but Master Lichet put her right. Or so he claimed. Personally, I think it was Grym’s posset that finally settled her stomach.’
‘Who is Lichet?’ asked Michael. ‘A physician?’
‘A learned man,’ replied Nicholas. ‘At least, that is how he describes himself. To me, he is the Red Devil and an ignoramus. When he arrived here a few months ago, he did not even know that we have an anchoress and a hermit.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Michael mildly, unwilling to confess that neither had he. ‘I have not met an anchorite since I was last in Norwich. Where is she?’
‘In her anchorhold, of course,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where else would she be? Like all her ilk, she is walled inside it, and the only way to extricate her would be to smash a hole in the stonework.’
‘I know how anchorites live,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What I meant was: where is her cell? Here in the church, or has she chosen a more remote place for her life of saintly contemplation?’
‘She is near the chancel,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our hermit is the one who lives in the wilds. Well, at the back of the castle, actually, although he can always be seen at the market of a Wednesday, as it is when he likes to buy his groceries.’
‘A hermit who goes shopping once a week,’ drawled Michael, amused. ‘And who has chosen a busy fortress for his retreat. Singular!’
‘We are lucky to have him,’ said Nicholas sharply, sensing an insult. ‘Pilgrims will flock here to see him once the word spreads. And Anne the anchoress will draw crowds, of course, not to mention the hordes who will come to see the fan vaulting. We shall be inundated with visitors. But speaking of Anne, when would you like to meet her? Now or later?’
‘Neither,’ replied Michael. ‘I imagine she would rather be left to her devotions.’
Nicholas smiled indulgently. ‘She loves company, and there will be hell to pay if I do not introduce her to scholars from the University at Cambridge. Come.’
Bartholomew tagged along, too, as the vicar led the way to the chancel, where the anchoress’ cell abutted the church’s north wall. It was unusually well constructed – most anchorholds tended to be rough lean-to structures built by the occupants themselves, but Clare’s was made of stone and possessed a tiled roof. The cell was spacious, with a screen across one end, which allowed the inmate to do some things without an interested audience.
Bartholomew had visited such places before, and braced himself for an unpleasant smell – personal hygiene tended not to feature very high on anchorites’ lists of priorities. Anne’s abode, however, was fragrant with the scent of fresh straw, and he peered through the squint to see a pile of clean clothes, water for washing and a broom for keeping the cell tidy. Like everything else about Clare, its holy woman was rather more superior than average.
‘I shall leave you to it,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘But do not take up too much of her time. She usually has a nap about now.’
‘A nap?’ blurted Michael in astonishment, but the vicar had gone.
The anchoress sat on a stool, humming over some sewing, although she put it aside when she saw strangers at her squint. She was of indeterminate age, and wore a fine blue gown with a bright white wimple. Bartholomew blinked his surprise – not just at her handsome attire, but at the fact that she should be indulging in needlework. Most people who allowed themselves to be walled up inside churches tended to reject earthly pursuits in favour of the spiritual.
‘You are like no anchoress that I have ever met before,’ he remarked, unable to help himself.
Anne chuckled. ‘You mean I am not some smelly old fanatic who would rather babble nonsense at the Almighty than wash?’
‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And they are not usually so well dressed.’
Anne smiled as she smoothed out a couple of wrinkles in her elegant kirtle. ‘I tried wearing sackcloth, but it is difficult to pray when all you want to do is scratch, so I begged some more comfortable apparel from those who come to ask for my blessings.’
‘What about food?’ asked Michael, cutting to what would matter to him. ‘Do you have enough? Itchy clothes are unpleasant, of course, but being hungry would be worse.’
‘Most folk are generous,’ she replied, ‘and those who fall short can expect a piece of my mind. I am not in here being holy for nothing, so if they want me to petition God on their behalf, they can damn well provide me with proper victuals. And they do, generally speaking. Indeed, I usually get so much that I have plenty left over to sell.’
‘Sell?’ echoed Bartholomew warily, while Michael stepped smartly away from the squint so that Anne would not see him smile. ‘You mean for money?’
‘Of course for money! What else? Then I can buy nice things for myself, like scented water, hairpins and silk thread for sewing.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling the grim little cells he had seen in France, where the occupants were so absorbed in matters of the soul that they had to be reminded to eat.
‘Perhaps I should become an anchorite,’ mused Michael, struggling to keep the humour from his voice. ‘Then I could lounge about all day, doing nothing but gorge.’
‘And being holy,’ Anne reminded him earnestly. ‘Not everyone can manage it. But I have a reputation for sanctity, and people from the castle and the town come to me for religious guidance.’
‘What prompted you to take this particular path?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that ‘sanctity’ was the word he would have used to describe what she had to offer visitors.
‘I was called by God, of course. He asked if I would mind sitting in here, dispensing wisdom on His behalf, and He phrased it so nicely that I decided to oblige.’
‘I am sure He is grateful,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s large frame quaking with silent laughter next to him.
‘Oh, He is. And it is not a bad life. I got that architect – Cambrug – to put a fireplace in here, so I am very snug of an evening. And once pilgrims come en masse to admire the fan vaulting, they will pay me handsomely to solve their personal problems. Which is why I am here, of course.’
‘Is it? I thought it was to lead a life of quiet communion with God.’
Anne waved a dismissive hand. ‘Giving advice is a lot more fun. Now, do you need my guidance on anything? All it will cost you is a flask of Rhenish wine.’
‘I do not have wine of any description. Does that mean you will withhold your help?’
‘It means we can negotiate,’ she replied smoothly. ‘But do not think you can cheat me, because I am very well versed in the sly ways of men.’
Michael guffawed aloud the moment they were out of earshot, amused by the concept of a recluse with such a worldly outlook on life.