glances were traded between the other Benedictines.
‘We did not imagine that you had,’ drawled Ramseye. He turned to Michael. ‘I am astonished to find you in company with friars and seculars. Could you not find any Benedictines to act as fellow Commissioners? The death of an abbot is hardly something we should share with other Orders.’
‘They are colleagues from Michaelhouse,’ explained Michael shortly, resenting being told what to do. ‘I trust them implicitly.’
‘Of course he does,’ said William, preening. ‘He often seeks my opinion, especially about theology. There is little I do not know about the King of Sciences.’
‘Except its name, apparently,’ said Ramseye scathingly. ‘It is more usually known as the
Queen
of Sciences.’
‘A king is higher than a queen,’ retorted William, flushing. ‘So I elevated it.’
‘I see,’ said Ramseye, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. It would not take long for the almoner to expose William’s intellectual shortcomings, after which the Commission was unlikely to be taken seriously. ‘However, it originates from … what is
he
doing?’
Everyone looked towards the altar, where Clippesby was muttering to a spider. Worse, he was cocking his head, as if he could hear what it was saying in reply. His face was pale, and his eyes wilder than they had been earlier, indicating that bloody murder committed in a holy place had upset him. Bartholomew’s heart sank further still: Clippesby distressed was likely to be odder than usual until the shock wore off.
‘He is a saint in the making,’ whispered Michael, so the Dominican would not hear and deny it. ‘I brought him with me, so that his holiness can touch your foundation, too.’
Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while William looked set to contradict, outraged that beatification should be bestowed on a member of an Order that was not his own.
‘Then we had better make sure he has the best available quarters,’ said Welbyrn, gazing at Clippesby with awe. ‘We do not want saints vexed with us because of their shabby treatment.’
‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘However, you must ensure his guardians are treated well, too. Quite aside from the fact that we are the Bishop’s Commissioners.’
When the abbey officials eventually turned their attention to Joan, the scholars were unimpressed, as none of them did or said anything useful. Michael was on the verge of suggesting that the Sheriff be summoned, on the grounds that someone was needed who would do more than tut and sigh, when Trentham arrived.
‘I was upstairs with Lady Lullington,’ the young priest explained breathlessly. ‘I did not know what had happened until the novice told me. Poor Sister Joan! I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Is Lady Lullington dead yet?’ asked Welbyrn with distasteful eagerness. ‘Do you know what she has left the abbey in her will?’
Angry tears glittered in Trentham’s eyes. ‘No, I do not, and a deathbed is hardly the place to raise such a subject.’
‘On the contrary, there is nowhere better,’ countered Welbyrn. He seemed genuinely bemused by Trentham’s emotional response, and Bartholomew recalled that he had been insensitive as a youth, too.
Trentham addressed Bartholomew, pointedly ignoring the treasurer. ‘She is sleeping very deeply, and her pain seems less. Thank you.’
Yvo smiled in a way that was probably meant to be benign but only served to make him seem vaguely sinister. ‘To take your mind off her, Trentham, you can find Joan’s killer.’
Trentham went wide-eyed with horror. ‘Me? But I would not know where to start!’
‘He does not want to accuse his beloved charges,’ surmised Welbyrn nastily. ‘But we all know who is responsible for this vicious crime: a bedesman. Or a bedeswoman.’
‘No,’ cried Trentham. ‘My old people would never harm Joan.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Yvo suddenly. ‘Does it mean Hagar will be in charge now? That is a daunting prospect!
‘We did not imagine that you had,’ drawled Ramseye. He turned to Michael. ‘I am astonished to find you in company with friars and seculars. Could you not find any Benedictines to act as fellow Commissioners? The death of an abbot is hardly something we should share with other Orders.’
‘They are colleagues from Michaelhouse,’ explained Michael shortly, resenting being told what to do. ‘I trust them implicitly.’
‘Of course he does,’ said William, preening. ‘He often seeks my opinion, especially about theology. There is little I do not know about the King of Sciences.’
‘Except its name, apparently,’ said Ramseye scathingly. ‘It is more usually known as the
Queen
of Sciences.’
‘A king is higher than a queen,’ retorted William, flushing. ‘So I elevated it.’
‘I see,’ said Ramseye, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. It would not take long for the almoner to expose William’s intellectual shortcomings, after which the Commission was unlikely to be taken seriously. ‘However, it originates from … what is
he
doing?’
Everyone looked towards the altar, where Clippesby was muttering to a spider. Worse, he was cocking his head, as if he could hear what it was saying in reply. His face was pale, and his eyes wilder than they had been earlier, indicating that bloody murder committed in a holy place had upset him. Bartholomew’s heart sank further still: Clippesby distressed was likely to be odder than usual until the shock wore off.
‘He is a saint in the making,’ whispered Michael, so the Dominican would not hear and deny it. ‘I brought him with me, so that his holiness can touch your foundation, too.’
Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while William looked set to contradict, outraged that beatification should be bestowed on a member of an Order that was not his own.
‘Then we had better make sure he has the best available quarters,’ said Welbyrn, gazing at Clippesby with awe. ‘We do not want saints vexed with us because of their shabby treatment.’
‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘However, you must ensure his guardians are treated well, too. Quite aside from the fact that we are the Bishop’s Commissioners.’
When the abbey officials eventually turned their attention to Joan, the scholars were unimpressed, as none of them did or said anything useful. Michael was on the verge of suggesting that the Sheriff be summoned, on the grounds that someone was needed who would do more than tut and sigh, when Trentham arrived.
‘I was upstairs with Lady Lullington,’ the young priest explained breathlessly. ‘I did not know what had happened until the novice told me. Poor Sister Joan! I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Is Lady Lullington dead yet?’ asked Welbyrn with distasteful eagerness. ‘Do you know what she has left the abbey in her will?’
Angry tears glittered in Trentham’s eyes. ‘No, I do not, and a deathbed is hardly the place to raise such a subject.’
‘On the contrary, there is nowhere better,’ countered Welbyrn. He seemed genuinely bemused by Trentham’s emotional response, and Bartholomew recalled that he had been insensitive as a youth, too.
Trentham addressed Bartholomew, pointedly ignoring the treasurer. ‘She is sleeping very deeply, and her pain seems less. Thank you.’
Yvo smiled in a way that was probably meant to be benign but only served to make him seem vaguely sinister. ‘To take your mind off her, Trentham, you can find Joan’s killer.’
Trentham went wide-eyed with horror. ‘Me? But I would not know where to start!’
‘He does not want to accuse his beloved charges,’ surmised Welbyrn nastily. ‘But we all know who is responsible for this vicious crime: a bedesman. Or a bedeswoman.’
‘No,’ cried Trentham. ‘My old people would never harm Joan.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Yvo suddenly. ‘Does it mean Hagar will be in charge now? That is a daunting prospect!
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