‘That was your mother?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘We heard Ursula de Spayne had prescribed an inappropriate remedy to a pregnant woman, but no one told us her name.’
Christiana nodded. ‘It was her. Matilde and my mother were friends, and Matilde was furious when she learned what Ursula had done. But, perhaps Ursula was as much a victim as anyone. My mother was deeply unhappy about the match with Kelby, and told me she would rather die than marry him. She would never have taken her own life, so she did the next best thing: she asked Ursula for a tonic, and she neglected to mention her pregnancy.’
‘How could she have known Ursula’s remedy would have such a deadly effect?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘And I do not mean to distress you, but bringing about the premature expelling of a child is not an easy end.’
Tears sparkled in Christiana’s eyes, and she rubbed them away impatiently. ‘She was a devout woman, and saw her suffering as penance for what was so dangerously close to self-murder. She had been caring for the hospital inmates here, so had some knowledge about the medicinal properties of plants. I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she asked for that particular electuary.’
‘If your mother did not love Kelby, then who was the father of her child?’ asked Michael.
Christiana managed the ghost of a smile. ‘That is an ungentlemanly question, Brother! However, not all couplings take place with both parties willing, and my mother was given an unpleasant glimpse of her life to come.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Matilde know about …?’
‘My mother’s rape? I doubt it. It is not the kind of thing one chatters about, and Matilde would have been very angry. She would have said or done something to make matters worse. If you know her, then you will be aware that this is true.’
‘She would not have ignored it,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Did your mother tell you all this?’
Christiana nodded. ‘To warn me against taking a man I do not like. Our lives had been parallel until then – both married at fifteen, and widows ten years later. She urged me to take the veil rather than accept a man who is unworthy, and she told me why. I have shared this with very few people, and I am uncertain why I am confiding in you now. Perhaps it is because you have a kind face, Brother.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Your confidences are safe with us.’
‘It is not really a secret, although you will appreciate the subject is a painful one for me. So, based on her advice, I informed His Majesty that I would rather become a nun than accept a man I do not like, and since the Crown will not benefit financially if I join a convent, he is prepared to grant me a degree of leeway.’
‘There is nothing wrong with life in the cloister,’ said Michael.
‘Maybe not for men, who can enrol at universities and ride across the country to accept lucrative honours. But women are locked away until they grow old enough to be abbesses, at which point they prefer to stay at home by the fire. It is no life for a lady with an enquiring mind.’
‘There are ways around those difficulties,’ began Michael. ‘I am–’
‘Did Matilde tell your mother where she might go, if she ever left Lincoln?’ blurted Bartholomew, certain the monk was about to regale her with a list of ways to enjoy amorous liaisons without being caught, and equally certain he would be no friend if he let him do so.
Christiana dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, and took a deep breath, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘Matilde once expressed a desire to see Cambridge, and she said she had kin in Poitiers.’
‘She is not at either of those places now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
Christiana regarded him with a puzzled frown. ‘You told Hamo that you just hoped to renew an acquaintance with Matilde, but it seems to me that you want to do rather more than that.’
‘Everyone at Michaelhouse loved Matilde,’ said Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, trying to think of a way to reply without revealing too much about his intentions. ‘And we were concerned when she left Cambridge so abruptly. All we want is to be sure she is safe and happy.’
‘She once told us a story,’ said Christiana. Her eyes became distant again, as if she had transported herself to another time. ‘It was about a woman about to be pressed into an unwelcome marriage, but she conspired to disappear so completely that no one ever knew what happened to her. Matilde’s purpose was to show my mother that there was an alternative to life with Kelby, but it also proved to me that she knew how to make herself vanish, too. I was under the impression she had done it before – perhaps even that it was her own story she was telling.’
Bartholomew nodded. It was not the first time he had been warned that Matilde had known what she was doing when she had left Cambridge. And she had once confided to him that she had escaped a betrothal by running away.
‘Disappearing can be useful in a convent,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘A wise monk or nun always knows how to find a quiet spot, away from enquiring eyes.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Christiana, wide-eyed. ‘And how might that be achieved, when one’s every move is watched? Hamo and his brethren are very solicitous of me.’
‘Do you know anything about Aylmer’s death?’ asked Bartholomew, determined to prevent the monk from teaching her sly tricks. Michael shot him an unreadable glance.
Christiana folded her hands in her sleeves. ‘I heard the uproar when Father Simon found the body. My first instinct was to assume Simon had killed him – he is a rough sort of fellow for a priest – but he says he was in the chapel when Aylmer was killed, so I suppose he must be innocent.’
‘Who else do you think might have been responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I could list dozens of men who wanted Aylmer dead, but those with the strongest motive are at the cathedral. They did not want him as a Vicar Choral, and there were fierce arguments in Chapter meetings about it. Here is Sabina, back already. I must leave you, gentlemen.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, disappointed.
She touched his wrist with her fingertips. ‘I have religious duties to attend. I may not have taken holy orders yet, but I still set myself daily chores. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’
When she had gone, Michael gazed at the hand she had brushed, then raised it to his cheek.
When the Gilbertines’ bells clanged to life at five o’clock the following morning, Bartholomew pulled the blanket over his head in a futile attempt to muffle the racket. During a brief interlude, when the ringers took a break, the chamber was filled with Michael’s nagging voice, ordering Cynric to kindle a lamp so he could read his psalter. From his bed, Suttone declared that rowdy bells would bring the next wave of plague, while de Wetherset and Simon seemed to be embroiled in a private battle to see who could issue the most fervent prayers. Going back to sleep was clearly going to be impossible, so Bartholomew forced himself up, exchanging a weary grin with Cynric at his colleagues’ antics.
When the crashing clappers were finally stilled, the Michaelhouse men, with de Wetherset and Simon at their heels, left the guest-hall and crossed the yard, Simon heading for the chapel and the others for the gate. Michael had been serious when he had declared a preference for prime at the minster, while Bartholomew wanted to visit Mayor Spayne as soon as it was light, hoping to catch him before he went out to work.
‘Where are you going?’ cried Hamo, breaking into a run to intercept them. Whatton was behind him. ‘You cannot leave! It is Saturday, and we always have extended singing on Saturdays.’
‘In that case I am definitely going to the cathedral,’ muttered Michael. He cocked his head. ‘Lord! I can hear the racket from here, and all the chapel doors and windows are closed.’