Bartholomew took several steps away when Roger waved his rattle, making a deafening racket that served to make his brethren shriek all the louder. Hamo was yelling so loudly that his voice was cracking, while even Simon seemed slightly taken aback at the fervour exploding around him.
‘I think I would rather–’ began Bartholomew.
‘Is there a particular psalm you would like us to trill?’ asked Roger, almost screaming to make himself heard. ‘Hamo has translated some into English, so the lay-brothers can join in.’
Bartholomew looked longingly at the door. ‘The patient in the hospital will need–’
‘Praise the Lord!’ yelled Roger, almost delirious in ecstasy. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. As soon as Bartholomew was sure it would be a moment before he would open them again, he made his bid for escape, racing up the nave and flinging open the gate to freedom.
‘Steady!’ exclaimed Dame Eleanor, who was passing by outside. ‘You almost had me over.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, slamming the door behind him and leaning on it, in the hope that it would prevent Roger from coming after him.
She cackled her amusement when she understood what was happening. ‘You are not the first man to rush screaming from one of the priory’s Sunday masses. Roger is a very dear man, but his style of worship is not to all tastes.’
‘Would you like me to escort you to the cathedral?’ asked Bartholomew, keen to leave the convent.
She patted his arm. ‘You are kind, but I usually go later on a Sunday, and Christiana has already agreed to walk with me. Do not be afraid that Roger will hunt you out. He will be so engrossed in his ceremony that he will have forgotten about you by now. It is almost time for the organ – yes, I can hear it starting up now – and he always becomes rather animated once that is going.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what Roger might be like, when ‘rather animated’. ‘If ever I do take the cowl, I will never choose the Gilbertine Order.’
‘As far as I am aware, this is the only Gilbertine house that enjoys such passionate worship. There is Michael, about to visit the cathedral for his Sunday devotions. You should go with him, since he is investigating a nasty murder and this can be a dangerous city. He is a good man, so please look after him.’
‘I will try,’ said Bartholomew, watching the monk and Christiana emerge from a building he thought was a disused brewery. Michael was laughing at something she had said, and the physician thought it was no wonder they had been impossible to locate earlier – a defunct brew-house was not an obvious place to look. ‘But I do not think he wants my company at the moment.’
‘He and Christiana are only flexing their wits in bright conversation,’ said Eleanor indulgently. ‘Do not worry about your friend’s virtue. Christiana would never harm him.’
‘It is not him I am worried about.’
She chuckled again. ‘Christiana can take care of herself. She has been repelling passionate suitors for six years, and has become rather adept at it.’
She headed for the gate, and Christiana broke away from Michael to join her. Bartholomew could not help but notice how the younger woman moved her hips in a way that was sure to keep the monk’s attention. Bartholomew went to stand next to him, but Michael only turned to face his friend once the two women could no longer be seen through the mist. He seemed surprised to find Bartholomew regarding him with arched eyebrows.
‘What?’
‘You know what.’
‘I was just making sure Lady Christiana did not slip on ice. The convent yard is very slippery, and it would not do for her to fall and injure herself.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘She is likely to break bones, while old Dame Eleanor would simply bounce back up again. What is wrong with you, Michael? You are like a lovesick calf.’
‘You know nothing of such matters,’ said the monk loftily, ‘or you would not be riding all over the known world in a futile attempt to locate the woman you let slip from your grasp.’
Bartholomew was taken aback. ‘That is an unkind thing to say.’
Michael was unrepentant. ‘It is true, though. Besides, you forget that I am bound by vows of chastity, so do not preach at me. And I am not–’
He stopped suddenly, and when Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, he caught a glimpse of scarlet. ‘Chapman?’ he asked, straining his eyes in the swirling fog.
Michael nodded. ‘Now what would he be doing here, when all the brothers are howling their devotions in the chapel? I doubt he has come to admire the quality of their music. After him, Matt!’
Bartholomew regarded him coolly, still smarting from his remark about Matilde. ‘You go.’
‘Very well.’ Michael began the waddle that passed for a sprint in his eyes, calling over his shoulder as he went, ‘If he draws a dagger, I shall scream. Rescue would be appreciated.’
Rolling his eyes at the brazen manipulation, Bartholomew trotted after him. It did not take long for him to catch up with and then overtake the lumbering monk, and he reached the building around which Chapman had disappeared far more quickly. He stopped, trying to see through the layers of mist. Then he glimpsed a flicker of movement and broke into a run. His footsteps were oddly muffled in the damp air, but they were enough to make his quarry glance behind him. Then there was a flash of crimson and Chapman took to his heels. Bartholomew ran harder, racing past the hospital and into the gardens beyond. Ahead was a gate, and Chapman was in the process of hauling it open when Bartholomew caught him. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and pushed him up against the wall.
‘All right!’ Chapman shouted, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘I give up!’
‘What are you doing here?’
Chapman glared. ‘I came to see Simon, but he is in the chapel, so I decided to come back later.’
‘If your purpose was innocent, then why did you run?’
Chapman pointed to Bartholomew’s sword. ‘I always flee from armed men.’
‘What did you–?’
Suddenly, there was a dagger in Chapman’s hand, and he slashed at Bartholomew without warning. The physician jumped back, instinctively reaching for his blade, but it was a cumbersome weapon, and not quickly hauled from its scabbard. Chapman’s knife scored the thick material of his sleeve. Then the relic-seller reeled and slumped to his knees, gripping his head. Michael strolled up, wiping mud from his hands. He grinned, to show he was pleased with the accuracy of the stone he had lobbed.
‘I had him,’ said Bartholomew, bending to inspect Chapman and deciding it had been surprise, not injury, that had made him topple. ‘You did not need to break your vow to forswear arms.’
‘A pebble does not constitute “arms”, Matt, and this fellow is a sly fighter. I am not sure you would have won, which I confess pleases me. I was beginning to think you had turned into something of a warrior, and I am relieved to see you still reassuringly inept.’ Michael turned to the relic-seller, who was staggering to his feet. ‘So, we meet again, Master Chapman.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded the felon, trying to resist when Bartholomew removed the dagger from his hand. ‘You have no right to accost innocent men and chase them through gardens.’
‘I daresay you are right,’ said Michael. ‘But are you an innocent man? There seems to be an odd confusion about you. On the one hand, you are Miller’s friend and a member of the Commonalty, but on the other, you have made a living by selling relics to gullible priests. Like Father Simon.’
‘However, there is something peculiar about your dealings with Simon,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Prior Roger has seen you with him – as have I – but Roger did not recognise you as a man who has lived in Lincoln for the past twenty years, while Simon himself told us you were from Rome. Why is that?’