Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? I doubt the Almighty will listen to the petitions of a warlock.’
‘I hear you have lost a signaculum,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into introducing a subject he suspected would annoy her. ‘Did you buy it, like your husband bought his?’
He watched Heslarton, to see if he would react to this remark, but he remained impassive, and Bartholomew was not sure what to think. However, a flash of something unreadable from Emma’s black eyes warned him that he was on dangerous ground.
Celia smiled slyly. ‘It was a gift from an admirer. I decided to wear it on my cloak, but then some yellow-headed thief jostled me, and it was gone. Master Heslarton has promised to see him at the end of a rope for his crime.’
‘I am recovered,’ came a voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Odelina, smiling in a way that was vaguely predatory. ‘You saved my life, and I shall always be grateful.’
‘He probably did it with sorcery,’ said Celia snidely.
Suspecting denials would serve no purpose – and a little uncomfortable when Emma regarded him as if she was favourably impressed – Bartholomew returned to Edith, to begin studying the mourners for Michael. He looked around rather helplessly, not sure where to start.
The gloomy Prior Etone and gap-toothed Horneby stood near the front, but although they chanted the responses and stood with heads bowed, their expressions were distant, as though they were thinking of other things. Welfry was with them, his boot-shaped signaculum dwarfed by the larger badge that marked him as the University’s new Seneschal.
Etone’s wealthy pilgrims knelt to one side. Muttering furiously, the two nuns leaned towards each other, and Bartholomew realised with astonishment that they were competing to see who could recite the fastest psalms. Meanwhile, Fen’s eyes were fixed on the high altar, and his face wore an oddly ecstatic expression. Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, but could see only a wooden cross and two cheap candles. Poynton yawned, apparently struggling to stay awake.
Isnard and several cronies from the Michaelhouse Choir were behind them, and Welfry had trouble controlling his laughter when they joined in some of the musical responses. But his mirth faded abruptly when Emma edged away, one hand to her jaw. He was not a man to find amusement in the discomfort of others.
The surly scholars of Chestre Hostel were near the back, jostling anyone who came too close. Their victims included Brother Jude and Prior Leccheworth of the Gilbertines. Leccheworth stumbled impressively when he was shoved, but it was Neyll who reeled away clutching a bruised arm when the manoeuvre failed to have a similar effect on the beefy Jude.
Yffi and his lads lounged in the aisle. The apprentices looked bored, obviously wishing they were somewhere else. About halfway through the ceremony, Emma beckoned Yffi towards her and began whispering. Yffi nodded frequently, and there was an expression of sly satisfaction on the old woman’s face that was distinctly unsettling.
Odelina passed the time by making eyes at two knights from the castle. Celia was next to her, hands folded prayerfully. But the ritual was a protracted one, and it was not long before she began to sigh her impatience. Heslarton stared longingly at her all the while, clearly smitten.
Finally, there was a large contingent of Drax’s customers, including Blaston and a number of his artisan friends. Blaston was pale and suitably sombre, but the others were more interested in discussing whether it would be ale or wine provided after the ceremony for mourners.
Bartholomew looked around unhappily. The occasion had attracted a large crowd, but virtually everyone was there because it was expected of them – or for the free refreshments afterwards – not because they felt any sadness at Drax’s passing. Of course, he thought with a guilty pang, he was no different. Chagrined, he bowed his head and said his prayers, although Celia’s words kept echoing in his head, and he could not help but question whether the petitions of a man thought to commune with the Devil were doing Drax any good. At last the service ended. He saw Edith home, visited two more patients, then walked back to Michaelhouse.
When he arrived, Cynric was waiting to tell him he was needed at the Dominican Priory. With a weary sigh, he made for the gate again, grateful when the Welshman fell in at his side. His spirits were oddly low that day, and he welcomed the company.
The Dominicans’ convent lay outside the town, and to reach it Bartholomew exited through the Barnwell Gate and walked along the Hadstock Way. With no buildings for shelter, it was bitterly cold, and the wind sliced wickedly through his cloak. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, and he wondered if there was snow in the air. He said as much to Cynric.
‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘It will not snow again this year.’
‘You seem very sure,’ remarked Bartholomew suspiciously.
Cynric nodded. ‘I am sure. I dislike snow, because it makes you leave tell-tale footprints when you visit haunts you would rather no one else knew about. So I went to a witch, and enquired how much more we might expect this year. She told me none.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to ask what sort of places Cynric frequented that he would rather were kept secret. ‘You should ask for your money back, because it is snowing now.’
Cynric inspected the flecks of ice that were settling on their clothes, and sniffed dismissively. ‘This is not snow, it is a flurry. There is a difference.’
Bartholomew did not see how, but they had arrived at the priory, so he knocked on the gate. It was a large complex, comprising a church, chapels, refectory, dormitory, chapter house and a range of outbuildings. Virtually all the Dominicans had died during the plague, because they had bravely ministered to the sick and dying and had become victims themselves. But their numbers had grown since, and now they numbered about forty. They were under the command of Prior Morden – no academic but a popular leader. When a lay-brother opened the door, a gale of laughter wafted out.
‘I am not coming in,’ said Cynric, backing away. ‘Last time, they put a bucket of water over the door, so I was doused as I passed through. These Black Friars have a childish sense of humour.’
They did, and Bartholomew doubted the situation had improved since the arrival of the ebullient Welfry. He entered the convent cautiously, stepping over the almost invisible rope that had been placed to make visitors trip.
Prior Morden came to greet him. He had clearly been enjoying himself: there were tears of laughter in his eyes and he could hardly keep the smile from his face. He was one of the smallest men Bartholomew had ever met, although his head and limbs were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. He wore a beautiful cloak and matching habit, and a pair of tiny leather boots.
‘We had a mishap during our afternoon meal,’ said Morden, leading him towards the infirmary. He began to chortle. ‘I thought we should dine on something special today, you see. The winter has been exceptionally hard, and we are all tired of bread and peas.’
‘How special?’ asked Bartholomew warily, hoping the entire convent had not been provided with bad meat or some such thing. He did not think Morden’s idea of a joke was to poison everyone, but with the Dominicans, one could never be sure.
Morden grinned. ‘I added a little colouring to the pottage, so it turned blue. But that was not what caused the real trouble. It was the roof.’
‘The roof,’ echoed Bartholomew flatly, wondering what was coming next.
‘Brother Harold arranged for part of it to come down during the meal,’ explained Morden. ‘Well, not the roof exactly, but several baskets containing leaves, scraps of parchment, feathers and other sundries – things that float. It was his intention to shower the novices, and give them a start.’