An Order for Death (17 page)

Personally, Bartholomew had little cause to deal with the nuns, and so had no idea whether the accusations were true or not,
although his suspicions had been aroused when he had seen the state of Dame Martyn that morning. Michael, whose calling as
a Benedictine meant that he was privy to information about the convent that was not widely available, cheerfully maintained
that the allegations were entirely true. Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him or not, given that the monk was not
averse to flagrant exaggeration and that the notion of a convent of
willing ladies was something that appealed to his sense of humour.

Michael strode up a path that wound through an attractive grove of chestnut trees, and tapped on the gatehouse door. Bartholomew
followed him slowly, the once familiar track bringing back uncomfortable memories. The last time he had visited St Radegund’s
was during the plague, when he had been betrothed to a woman named Philippa Abigny. Philippa had been deposited in the convent
for safe keeping by her parents, although Bartholomew had visited her regularly. Once the Death had moved on, leaving the
survivors to deal with its ravages as well as they could, Philippa had decided not to take an impoverished physician as a
husband after all, and had married a wealthy merchant instead.

Bartholomew wondered how different his life would have been had he taken a wife. He would have been forced to resign his Fellowship,
since Fellows of the colleges were not permitted to marry, and there would have been no teaching and no students. But there
would have been compensations, such as a family and a real home. A sudden vision of Philippa entered his mind – tall, fair
and lovely – and he experienced a sharp pang of loneliness. His painful reminiscences were interrupted when a metal grille
in the door clicked open in response to Michael’s knock, and a pair of dark eyes peered out at them.

‘Yes?’ asked the owner of the eyes expectantly. Bartholomew recognised her as the novice who had been so blunt about her Prioress’s
condition earlier that morning; he also recalled that her name was Tysilia. ‘What can we do for you?’

Michael sniggered and waved his eyebrows at her. ‘Let us in and I will tell you.’

The grille snapped shut and Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look, seeing that Michael’s inappropriate flirting had lost
them the opportunity to talk to the nuns about Walcote’s death. They were hardly likely to admit such a flagrant lecher into
their midst. So Bartholomew
was startled when the door was flung open, and Tysilia swung her arm in an expansive gesture to indicate that they were to
enter.

‘Come in, then, good scholars, and tell us what you had in mind,’ she said, giving Michael an outrageous wink. ‘Do not keep
us wondering.’

Michael shot through the door, leaving Bartholomew to follow more cautiously. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he muttered.
‘Perhaps we should have Edith with us, or Matilde …’

‘Oh, yes, we should have brought Matilde,’ Michael whispered back facetiously. ‘It is always a good idea to bring a prostitute
to a convent as an escort, Matt – although I confess that, in this case, I do not know who would be protecting whom.’

‘Well?’ asked Tysilia, hands on hips as she looked the two scholars up and down appraisingly, as a groom might survey a horse.
She no longer wore the cloak that had covered her that morning, and Bartholomew was surprised to note that her black Benedictine
habit was fashionably tight, cut rather low at the front, and sported a large jewelled cross that was a long way from the
simple poverty envisioned and recommended by St Benedict. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have questions of a confidential nature that pertain to a delicate investigation I am conducting,’ said Michael pompously.

‘Eh?’ said Tysilia, a blank expression on her pretty features. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We want to speak to the Prioress,’ translated Michael.

‘Oh! Why did you not say so? Come upstairs, then. I expect our Prioress will not mind a couple of guests. She likes surprises.’

‘Perhaps you should announce us first,’ suggested Bartholomew tactfully. ‘It is time for sext, and she may not want to be
disturbed at her offices by unexpected visitors.’

Tysilia and Michael regarded Bartholomew as if he were insane.

‘Follow me, then,’ said Tysilia, after an awkward silence. ‘Everyone is in the day-room.’

‘I believe “solar” is the fashionable way to refer to that chamber these days,’ said Michael conversationally, as they walked
with her through a narrow slype between the church and a parlour to reach the cloister. ‘I have not heard anyone referring
to a “day-room” for years. Even my grandmother does not use such an antiquated term.’

‘I keep forgetting it,’ said Tysilia. She gave a weary sigh. ‘There is such a
lot
for a young woman to remember these days – like threading a needle with silk
before
starting the embroidery; not wiping my lips on the tablecloth at mealtimes if anyone else is watching; and going to church
occasionally.’

‘It must be very taxing for you,’ said Michael sympathetically, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips as she preceded him through
the cloister. Aware of his attention, she lifted her robe higher than was necessary to keep it from trailing in the puddles
on the paving stones, revealing a pair of shapely white calves and some shoes that were ridiculously inadequate for anything
other than lounging indoors.

‘I am Tysilia de Apsley,’ she said, glancing around to give Michael a smile that had the undeniable qualities of a leer. Her
disconcerting behaviour confirmed the impression Bartholomew had that morning: that she was not clever, and that she was being
trained to hide the fact by flaunting her good looks. She certainly knew how to charm Michael. ‘I expect you have heard of
me.’

‘I hear a great many things,’ replied Michael ambiguously, stepping quickly around her to open a door before she reached it.
She disappeared inside, and then gave a shriek of delighted indignation. Bartholomew glanced up just in time to see Michael
returning his hands to their customary position inside their wide sleeves. ‘But just remind me in what context I might have
heard a pretty name like Tysilia de Apsley.’

‘My uncle is the Bishop of Ely,’ she said, her voice echoing
back down the stairs as she climbed them. ‘Thomas de Lisle.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I would not have done that, had I known. Still, I think she enjoyed it.’

‘And what did you do exactly, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael chuckled softly. ‘Nothing I would recommend you try, now that we know who she is. I should have remembered she was
here. My lord Bishop told me that he had placed his wanton niece at St Radegund’s out of harm’s way; I recall telling him
it was a very good place for her.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. ‘Do you mean it is good because it is a convent and will cure her indecent behaviour,
or because she will probably feel at home in an institution with a reputation like St Radegund’s?’

Michael’s smile was enigmatic. ‘What do you think?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is unwise to trust someone like her with gate duties. It seems to me that she will
allow anyone inside as long as he is male.’

‘The Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, is no fool,’ replied Michael ambiguously. ‘I expect she knows what she is doing, although I
cannot say the same for that sot who is currently drinking her way through the convent’s once-impressive wine cellars.’

‘Do you mean Prioress Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she was happy to avail herself of other people’s wine cellars,
too, if her collapse at the side of the road that morning had been anything to go by.

‘Have you met her?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose you have been called to give her cures for over-indulgence, although the nuns
usually try to conceal her excesses.’

‘You look familiar,’ said Tysilia, turning to Bartholomew with a slight frown marring her pretty features. ‘I think I have
seen you before.’

‘This morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You were on your way home from the Panton manor, and your Prioress was taken ill.’ ‘She
was not ill; she was drunk,’ stated Tysilia uncompromisingly. ‘But, yes, I think I remember you. However,
you wore a pretty ear-ring this morning. What happened to it?’

‘An ear-ring?’ queried Michael, startled.

‘That was my nephew,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘Your nephew is an ear-ring?’ asked Tysilia, frowning harder than ever.

‘Lord help us!’ breathed Michael, regarding her uncertainly. ‘No wonder the Bishop wanted her out of the way.’

‘I am sorry I am confused,’ said Tysilia, looking anything but contrite. ‘But all men look the same to me when they wear black.
If they wear pretty colours, I recall them better, but there is nothing memorable about black.’

‘That must be awkward for you, considering men of your own Order wear black habits,’ said Michael dryly.

Tysilia giggled, then pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. ‘It has proved embarrassing on occasion. But here is our
day-room – I mean our … what did you say it was called again, Brother? I have forgotten already.’

Bartholomew gazed at the scene in the solar, and fought hard not to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. A large fire burned
in the hearth, and so that the room was warm to the point of being overheated. A number of nuns were there, some sitting at
a large table and engaged in communal embroidery, while others lounged on cushion-covered benches or were comfortably settled
in cosy window-seats. Two things caught Bartholomew’s eye immediately. The first was that not all the nuns were fully clothed,
although they did not seem to be especially discomfited by the sudden presence of two men in their midst; the second was that
they were not alone.

Simon Lynne was there. He sat near a window, his freckled face flushed and his mop of thick hair tousled and unruly. He regarded
Bartholomew and Michael warily, then rose slowly to his feet. The physician was not surprised that the Carmelite student-friar
was red and tangle-haired, given that he must have run very quickly from Barnwell Priory to reach
the convent before Bartholomew and Michael. He wondered whether Lynne had overheard Nicholas telling Michael about Walcote’s
mysterious visits to the convent, and had determined to ask his own questions before the Senior Proctor could – or perhaps
he had even come to warn the nuns that Michael was heading their way.

‘You arrived here remarkably quickly, Lynne,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But it is good to see you, nevertheless. There are a few
questions I would like to put to you.’

‘Another time,’ said Lynne rudely, reaching for his cloak. ‘I am late for my duties and must go.’ He gave a brief nod to the
nuns, who watched the exchange with amused detachment, and headed for the door. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand
that was as expert at grabbing recalcitrant students as it was at making passes at Bishops’ nieces.

‘Then you can tell your Prior that you have been with me,’ said the monk. ‘What were you doing at Barnwell a few moments ago?’

‘You are mistaken, Brother. I have not been at Barnwell,’ replied Lynne hesitantly. ‘And I do not have time to discuss it
with you. I am late.’

‘You can discuss it here or in my cells,’ said Michael sharply, and the icy gleam in his eye made it clear that he was not
bluffing. ‘It is your choice, Master Lynne.’

‘Really, Brother,’ came a slightly slurred voice from one of the couches near the fire. ‘Can a lad not even visit his aunt
without being questioned by the Senior Proctor these days?’

‘Not when that lad knows something that may be of relevance to a murder enquiry, Dame Martyn,’ said Michael, not relinquishing
his grip on Lynne. ‘And you have never mentioned a nephew before. Is it true? Or is it a convenient lie told for this little
tyke’s benefit?’

‘Of course it is true,’ said Dame Martyn, not sounding particularly offended that Michael had effectively accused her of being
a liar. ‘And do call me Mabel. You know I am not a woman for unnecessary formality.’

‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that she did not look it. Her heavy face was unnaturally ruddy, and
there was a bleariness about her eyes that spoke of poor health.

‘Better than what?’ she asked blankly.

‘The doctor stopped to help us this morning when you were taken ill,’ said the Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, tactfully. Although
almost all the other dozen or so nuns in the solar had followed Dame Martyn’s example of shedding unwanted clothes, Eve remained
fully dressed, with a starched wimple cutting uncomfortably into her strong chin.

‘When you were drunk,’ supplied Tysilia, less tactfully. Dame Martyn shot the younger woman an unpleasant look. ‘Go back to
your mending, Tysilia. And this time, remember that the large hole at the top of a glove is to allow the hand to go in. You
do not sew it up.’

‘I will remember,’ said Tysilia brightly, making a show of sitting on a stool and arranging her habit so that it revealed
a good part of her long slim legs. She picked up the glove and immediately began to hem across the top with large, uneven
stitches. Bartholomew watched her uncertainly, wondering if her action was a deliberate rebellion against the Prioress’s authority,
or whether Tysilia was so slow-minded that she did not realise what she was doing.

Dame Martyn smiled weakly at Bartholomew. ‘So, it was you who came to my assistance this morning. I am grateful to you – for
your discretion as well as for the medicine you gave me.’

‘The cloves,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Cloves? For being in her cups?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘Perhaps your nephew Richard is right about physicians being charlatans
after all.’

Dame Martyn ignored him. ‘Unfortunately, we are poor, and I am unable to pay you for your services. I assume that is why you
are here? But perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’ asked Michael, before
Bartholomew could tell her that payment was not required.