‘Your compassion overwhelms me, Master,’ said Thelnetham dryly. He turned to Michael. ‘Did you know that Drax went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham? He always wore a badge under his hat. He showed it to me recently, and said he had travelled to Norfolk.’
‘His wife told me he had bought that token to save himself the journey,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘I wonder which of them was telling the truth.’
‘Celia is,’ said Clippesby, who was feeding soup to the piglet he held in his lap. Bartholomew was amused to note it was the only creature in the hall that was enjoying its victuals.
‘How do you know?’ asked Thelnetham curiously. Then he held up his hand. ‘On reflection, do not tell me. It will be some lunatic tale about a bird or a hedgehog.’
Clippesby had a disturbing habit of finding quiet places and then sitting very still as he communed with nature. It meant he often witnessed events not meant for his eyes, although he tended to make people wary of accepting his testimony by claiming it came from various furred or feathered friends. Of all the Michaelhouse Fellows, Thelnetham was the one who struggled hardest to come to terms with the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies.
‘On the contrary,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘I know because I saw Drax make the purchase myself. And if you do not believe me, then ask the King’s Head geese, because they were there, too.’
‘Hah!’ Thelnetham grimaced. ‘I knew there would be an animal involved somewhere. Ignore him, Brother. The man is moon-touched.’
‘Unfortunately, none of us could see the seller,’ Clippesby went on. ‘But we can tell you that the transaction took place outside the Gilbertine Priory last Friday night.’
Thelnetham started. ‘Last Friday? Then I saw the transaction, too! And I saw the geese, although I did not notice you. However, I wondered what had set them a-honking. I watched Drax approach a man who gave him something. It was that burly lout – Emma’s son-in-law.’
‘Heslarton?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he be selling pilgrim badges? And why outside a convent, when Drax’s wife is a regular visitor to his home, and he could have given it to her?’
‘Perhaps he did not want his fearsome mother-in-law to know what he was doing,’ suggested Thelnetham. He shuddered. ‘I would certainly not enjoy having the likes of her breathing down my neck at every turn. However, I did hear Heslarton tell Drax that what he was about to purchase – which I now learn was a signaculum – was solid gold, and that it came with a special dispensation for pardoning all sins.’
Clippesby pulled a face. ‘Personally, I do not think God is very impressed by indulgences.’
‘That is heresy,’ said William, who always had opinions about such matters. ‘The Church has been selling indulgences for years, and it is sacrilege to say they are worthless.’
‘You both misunderstand the meaning of indulgences,’ snapped Thelnetham testily. ‘They are not pardons, to secure the buyer’s salvation, and they cannot release the soul from Purgatory.’
‘Thelnetham is right,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the extra-sacramental remission of the temporal punishment due, in God’s justice, to a sin that has been forgiven–’
‘Rubbish,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘Some writs of indulgence specifically state indulgentia a culpa et a poena, which means release from guilt and from punishment.’
‘That is not what it means,’ declared Thelnetham. Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, as they often did when his colleagues embarked on theological debates. ‘Such a notion runs contrary to all the teachings of the Church. What it means is–’
‘It means the rich can buy their way into Heaven,’ said William. ‘It is unfair, but it is not for us to question these things. And anyone who disagrees with me is a fool.’
They were still arguing about the nature of pardons and indulgences when they adjourned to the conclave – the small, comfortable room next to the hall – for a few moments of respite before the rest of the day’s teaching. Thelnetham announced that he had been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, where he had bought a signaculum – in this case, an ampoule containing a piece of cloth soaked in St Thomas Becket’s blood. He had given it to his Mother House at Sempringham.
‘But they sold it to a merchant for a lot of money,’ he concluded with a grimace. ‘And I learned the lesson that only idiots are generous. It probably ended up with a man like Drax – a sinner who lied about doing the pilgrimage himself. Perhaps it is divine justice that he came to such an end.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply, thinking it was not a remark most clerics would have made. He also recalled that Thelnetham had not been teaching in the hall when the accident had occurred, although the Gilbertine had joined the Fellows in watching Drax excavated afterwards. He shook himself angrily, and wondered whether he had helped Michael solve too many crimes, because it was hardly kind to think such unpleasant thoughts about his colleagues.
‘Some signacula are very beautiful,’ mused Michael wistfully. ‘I have always wanted to examine one closely. Perhaps even to hold it, and admire its craftsmanship.’
‘I bought you one,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly remembering something he had done a long time ago, and that he had all but forgotten. ‘Although I cannot recall if it was especially beautiful.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘You never did!’
‘It must still be in the chest in my room. I keep meaning to unpack it, but there is never enough time. I bought it two years ago, when I was looking for … when I was travelling.’
Bartholomew had been going to say when he had been looking for Matilde, but was disinclined to raise a subject that was still painful for him.
‘Where from, exactly?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘I know you went to Walsingham and Lourdes.’
‘From Santiago de Compostela.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is one of the three holiest pilgrim sites in the world, on a par with Jerusalem and Rome! Are you saying you brought me a gift from a sacred shrine, then simply forgot to hand it over, even though you have been home for nigh on eighteen months?’
Bartholomew supposed he was, but Michael was glaring, and it did not seem prudent to say so. He flailed around for a pretext to excuse his carelessness, but nothing credible came to mind.
‘Do you still have it?’ asked Suttone eagerly. ‘I have never seen a pilgrim token from Compostela. Did you touch it against the shrine? Wash it in holy water, and do all the other things that make these items sacred?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the Bishop blessed it for me.’
‘I had no idea you visited Compostela,’ said Ayera, eyeing him curiously. ‘Why have you never mentioned it? I was under the impression you spent all your time in foreign universities, watching necromancers perform anatomies on hapless corpses.’
‘Not all my time,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Langelee stood. ‘Then let us find this token. Michael and Suttone are not alone in never seeing one from Compostela, although I have handled plenty from Walsingham, Canterbury and so forth.’
‘And Cambridge,’ added Suttone. ‘Cambridge is a place of pilgrimage, too, because it is where St Simon Stock had his vision. At the Carmelite Priory.’
‘You want me to look now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled when all the Fellows followed Langelee’s lead and surged to their feet. ‘But I may not be able to find it, and teaching starts soon.’