Bartholomew had always known Michael was a man of culture and breeding – he was the younger son of an influential knight of King Edward’s court – but he had seldom been in a position to observe him in action. The monk skilfully manipulated the conversation to topics he sensed would interest and entertain the three nuns, ranging from issues of philosophy that had the Abbess eagerly inviting him to tell her more, to humorous anecdotes from the Bishop’s Palace that had Julianna enthralled and even the dry old Dame Pelagia chuckling in amusement. The physician marvelled at the transition from Michael the Senior Proctor to Michael the Courtier, and wondered whether he would ever know the monk well enough never to be surprised by his hidden talents and abilities.
After a while, as Julianna was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes at a story about the Bishop’s mother, and Bartholomew and the Abbess were kneeling solicitously at the side of Dame Pelagia – who had cackled so hard she had started to choke – the lay sister tapped on the door, and entered with a dish of small cakes and a jug of wine. Michael, apparently hungry after his display of courtliness, reached for the food almost before it had been set on the table.
‘What a splendid object,’ he said, taking the plate and inspecting it minutely. Several cakes slid from it into his lap and were suavely transferred to his mouth.
‘It is gold,’ said the Abbess, somewhat unnecessarily, given the way it gleamed in the pale light of the winter morning.
Dame Pelagia regarded it with interest, leaning forward to see more clearly. Even the Abbess’s cellarer, it seemed, was not privy to the full extent of the convent’s wealth.
‘It is very fine gold,’ said Michael, running his soft, white fingers across the delicately etched surface. ‘It is almost too fine for mere cakes.’
The Abbess reached out and removed the plate from Michael’s hands, firmly replacing it on the table. ‘It is the only serving plate we own. We do not often entertain in our humble home.’
Bartholomew and Michael looked around at the luxurious surroundings simultaneously. Perhaps they had been too long in the squalor of Michaelhouse, Bartholomew thought.
‘I understand the Countess of Pembroke stays here from time to time,’ he said, desperately trying to think of something to say in the silence that followed. Now that there was food to hand, Michael seemed to have passed the burden of conversation to Bartholomew, while he concentrated on fortifying himself for his next performance.
The Abbess smiled. ‘You understand correctly, Doctor,’ she replied. ‘But the Countess has her own apartments. She does not need to debase herself by using our plain rooms.’
Bartholomew’s already sumptuous vision of the Countess’s apartments escalated to the realms of the impossible. He wondered what the Abbess would make of Michaelhouse’s austere halls and stained pewter tableware.
‘When might the Countess next visit?’ asked Michael, licking sugar from his fingers. The cake plate, Bartholomew noticed, was empty, allowing Dame Pelagia to inspect it even more minutely.
‘She will be with us in a matter of days,’ said the Abbess. ‘King’s Hall celebrates its Foundation Day soon, and the Countess will visit us after she has attended the festivities there.’
Julianna suddenly started to cough in a way that, to Bartholomew, was clearly contrived, although it had her aunt jumping up to press a cup of wine into her hand. The Abbess hesitated, looking uncertainly at Bartholomew, but then seemed to make up her mind.
‘Since you are here, I wonder if I might impose on your good offices, Doctor. Julianna has been complaining of chest pains these last two days. It is doubtless the unhealthy vapours from the Fens, but I would appreciate your advice on the matter. She can provide you with the details necessary to calculate her stars.’
Julianna smiled at him, coughing forgotten, and Bartholomew found himself unaccountably flustered. ‘I cannot,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘I would need a set of astrological charts to calculate a horoscope, and mine were rendered useless when I fell in the river.’
‘Do not worry about that,’ said Julianna with a wide grin. ‘I have a set here that belongs to the Countess.’ She waved a scroll at him.
‘But I do not usually conduct astrological consultations,’ he objected. The more he practised medicine, the more he became convinced that the efficacy of his cures had nothing to do with the alignment of the celestial bodies. Because his personal beliefs did not exempt him from teaching his students how to do them, he performed the occasional horoscope just so he did not forget, but these were very few and far between, and he always resented the time he spent on them.
‘Rubbish!’ said Julianna, not to be deterred. ‘You are a physician, and all physicians read their patients’ stars. You saying you do not prepare horoscopes is like a merchant saying he does not like the feel of money!’
‘Well, I prefer doing other things,’ he said shortly. ‘I seldom calculate horoscopes.’
‘I would be grateful if you would make an exception,’ said the Abbess, laying a hand on her niece’s shoulder in motherly concern. ‘Julianna is very young to be suffering from chest pains, and I do not want to send her to Ely to see the infirmarian while there are outlaws at large on the causeway.’
‘Very well, then,’ he said reluctantly, realising it would be churlish to decline a request from the Abbess, given that they had availed themselves of her hospitality. He turned to Julianna, trying to become professional to hide his irritation. ‘Perhaps you can tell me when these pains started?’
‘Oh no!’ said Julianna with distaste. ‘Not here! There is a small chamber on the floor above that is far more private for you to ask your intimate questions.’ She looked pointedly at Michael.
‘I will not ask any intimate questions,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I only have to know the letters in your name – each letter of the alphabet has a specific astrological number and I need to add them together – and a few pertinent dates–’
‘I want more than that!’ said Julianna indignantly. ‘I want a complete astrological prediction that will tell me whether I should be forced to remain among the dangerous miasmas of these marshes, or whether I should be allowed to move to somewhere more conducive to my health.’
So, thought Bartholomew, Julianna regarded him as her escape route from Denny to somewhere more lively. He could not blame her: the Fens were not his idea of paradise, either.
‘You will see that your consultation will enable me to make the correct decision regarding my niece’s future,’ said the Abbess, a worried frown marring her face. ‘I would truly appreciate any advice you could offer.’
‘Upstairs, then,’ said Julianna, standing and stretching out a hand to Bartholomew.
The physician swallowed hard. ‘It would be better if there were another nun present,’ he said quickly. A dozen would be preferable, he thought to himself. He saw a brief flash of anger in Julianna’s eyes, and his discomfort intensified.
‘I will chaperone Doctor Bartholomew and Julianna,’ said Dame Pelagia, heaving her ancient body from her fireside chair.
‘Let me think,’ said the Abbess, as Michael slipped quickly into the chair Dame Pelagia had vacated, thus placing himself considerably closer to her. She stood and moved away, clasping her hands. Bartholomew could see her dilemma. Should she risk the reputation of her wanton niece with the physician, or should she risk her own at the hands of Brother Michael, whose interests were clearly not monastic? To send for another nun to chaperone them might be construed as offensive and the Abbess was far too well mannered to insult her guests.
‘Doctor Bartholomew is a professional man,’ pouted Julianna, ‘and he is only going to ask me about my stars. Why would we need a chaperone?’
The Abbess eyed her niece suspiciously and came to a decision. She apparently trusted her own abilities to fend off manly attentions over those of Julianna, whose brazen gazes led Bartholomew to wonder whether the skill of repelling male attentions was ever a part of her education.
‘D
ame Pelagia will go with Julianna,’ said the Abbess, ‘while Brother Michael will defend my virtue.’
She smiled lightly, as if she had made a joke, but her meaning was clear enough. Some of the glitter faded from Michael’s eyes, but he nodded politely.
Filled with trepidation, both for the Abbess and for himself, Bartholomew followed Julianna up a narrow flight of stairs to an attic above the solar. The room was as elegantly furnished as the rest of the building, and Bartholomew was impressed to see glass in the windows that was so fine and clear he could see right through them and out to the fields and Fens beyond. Dame Pelagia finally heaved herself up the stairs and stood wheezing in the doorway. Bartholomew helped her to a chair.
‘You seem more in need of a cure for chest pains than Julianna does,’ he said pointedly, as the old lady collapsed into the chair with evident relief. Julianna grinned at him, totally unabashed, and perched herself on a table where she sat swinging her legs.
Bartholomew started to ask her about her birth date and various other significant events in her life, to keep matters purely medical, and to prevent her from embarking on some tangential discussion of her own choosing. Dame Pelagia began to nod and doze in her chair, watched attentively by both Bartholomew and Julianna for entirely different reasons. Dame Pelagia’s head drooped and Bartholomew leapt noisily to his feet to pace the room. The old lady snapped awake, eyed him suspiciously and tried to pay attention to what was being said.
Several times he tried to bring the interview to an end, but Julianna knew as well as he did that ascertaining information to predict what would best favour a person’s future health with any degree of accuracy took time. She also seemed aware that he did not want to offend the Abbess by providing her niece with a less than accurate consultation. Wearily, he sat at a table, unrolled the charts and began to make his calculations.
Dame Pelagia’s head sank down onto her chest a second time and Bartholomew rapped the ink-well on the side of the table vigorously, pretending that its contents needed to be shaken. Pelagia looked up sleepily and resettled herself in the chair. But Bartholomew’s ploys could not keep the old lady from her midday doze indefinitely and it was not long before she was soundly asleep, her gentle snores whispering about the room.
‘Now,’ said Bartholomew as he sharpened a pen noisily, hoping to waken her yet again. ‘What phase was the moon in when you first experienced these pains?’
He pretended to drop the ink-well, sending it clattering to the floor, but Dame Pelagia did not even stir.
‘Now she is asleep, you will not waken her with your contrived racket,’ said Julianna, confident in her superior knowledge of the old lady’s habits. ‘We do not have long now you have successfully wasted so much time in keeping her awake. The bell for sext will ring at any moment and then our time alone together will be at an end.’ She advanced on him meaningfully.
Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, raising his hands to fend her off. ‘Sister Julianna! You are a nun – remember your vows!’
‘I am not a nun!’ said Julianna in disdain, her voice low. ‘And I have taken no vows. I am merely here in the care of my aunt until a suitable marriage can be arranged.’
Bartholomew glanced uneasily towards the door, assessing his chances of reaching it before Julianna blocked his way. He wondered whether being accused of seducing a nun was better or worse than being charged with ravishing the daughter of a nobleman. Julianna moved towards him and he edged away.
‘Keep still,’ Julianna whispered in sudden frustration. ‘I am risking my life by speaking to you, while all you do is back away from me like some old priest!’
‘Risking your life?’ This was worse than he had thought. Her family must be powerful indeed!
‘Yes. And I cannot say what I must too loudly, so come closer, near the window and away from the door.’ She waited impatiently and then raised her voice in exasperation. ‘I do not bite for heaven’s sake!’ She grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the window. ‘We must not be overheard.’
He was about to reply when the slightest of creaks from outside the door indicated that someone was there, listening.
‘Saturn was at its zenith,’ said Julianna loudly, her eyes wide with horror as she gazed at the door. Swallowing hard, she leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. ‘You must leave here today. You are in the gravest danger. Leave now – this afternoon – before it is too late!’
Chapter 6
Bartholomew regarded Julianna in disbelief, simultaneously they looked towards the door a second time as there was a slight, but distinctly audible, groan from the floorboards in the hallway.
‘And what day of the month did you notice this change in your humours?’ he asked, speaking as loudly as he could. Under the door, where there was a gap between wood and floor, a shadow moved, stopped and then passed on, while in her chair Dame Pelagia snored obliviously.
Julianna smiled quickly at him before becoming intense again. ‘They suspect I know. I am no longer safe and neither are you.’
‘Know what?’ said Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Safe from whom?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Julianna. ‘That is the frustrating part. There are comings and goings in the depths of the night and something is amiss, but I do not know what.’
‘Then how do you know you are in danger?’ asked Bartholomew. Perhaps Julianna had been locked up in the convent for too long, and her desire for something to break the monotony of her daily life had gained the better of her common sense.
She fiddled with her veil and glanced at Dame Pelagia. ‘There is not much time to explain. Last night, after compline, I went to the pantry for something to eat – I am always hungry here since the portions are so small – and I heard men in the kitchen. I heard one of them telling the others that you were not dead, but were recovering here along with that fat Benedictine and your servant. They were furious. Then I heard them say they would act tonight. As I went to leave, I knocked a plate off a shelf and they heard me. I escaped to the dormitory, but I think they guessed it was me who had been eavesdropping.’
‘What were these men like?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Mercenaries wearing boiled leather jerkins and helmets? Or a young man with a newly grown beard?’
Julianna shook her head. ‘I did not see them. But at least one of them was gently spoken. He was not a common soldier.’
Bartholomew was nonplussed. By no stretch of the imagination could Alan or any of the soldiers be described as gently spoken. But while Bartholomew could believe that the mercenaries might have discovered their whereabouts and intended to attack them again, surely there was not a second group of people who wanted his death and Michael’s? He wondered again if Julianna might be making up the story to inject some excitement into her life, or if she had misunderstood or misheard.
Julianna read the doubt in his face. Her eyes narrowed and her face became hard. ‘You do not believe me! I risk myself to come to warn you, and you do not believe a word I say. Well you will find out I am right, but then it will be too late.’
She began to flounce away, but he caught her by the arm.
‘Wait! You say you have risked your life to warn me, but people do not risk their lives for those they do not know. What were you intending to ask of me? Other than an astrological consultation to cure the cough we both know you do not have.’
Her eyes flashed with fury, but this was as quickly replaced by sudden humour. ‘You are astute!’ She looked towards Dame Pelagia and then to the door. ‘You have also guessed correctly. When you leave tonight, I want to go with you.’
He had been right: Julianna saw in Bartholomew and Michael an opportunity to escape from her tedious existence at Denny. Since she probably realised that there would be nothing in her horoscope to warrant the Abbess removing her from the Fens, she must have had an alternative plan to ensure she would be able to abscond.
‘And if we take you to Cambridge, what will you do then?’ he asked, to see how far she had
considered her arrangements in advance. He was not disappointed.
‘I will throw myself on the mercy of my uncle,’ she said promptly. ‘Thomas Deschalers, the grocer.’
It was a small world, he thought. ‘Are Thomas Deschalers and the Abbess kinsmen, then?’ he asked. ‘You are the niece of both.’
‘I know what I am,’ said Julianna imperiously. ‘But Thomas Deschalers is my father’s brother and the Abbess is my mother’s sister. They are not kinsmen really. When my parents died last year, he used my relationship with her to secure me here.’
‘You did not want to come, I take it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I did not!’ claimed Julianna vehemently. ‘I preferred life in London, although Cambridge was proving it might have possibilities. Uncle Thomas did not really give me time to find out before he had arranged for me to come to this godforsaken bog.’
‘You have not always been in a convent, then?’
Julianna grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, yes, I have spent most of my life with nuns. I had a few weeks of freedom in London after the death of my parents, and then a few weeks in Cambridge when I lived with Uncle Thomas. But I would rather be anywhere but here. You must take me with you.’
‘And what will you do if Uncle Thomas orders you straight back here?’
‘He will not!’ said Julianna defiantly. ‘I will tell him of all the strange happenings and he will inform the Sheriff who will investigate.’
‘What strange happenings?’
‘I have already told you!’ said Julianna impatiently. ‘Comings and goings in the night, strange men in the kitchens between matins and lauds–’
‘But there might be a dozen explanations for these things, Sis … Mistress Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently.
A Deadly Brew Page 17
