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and Peter leaned back in his chair as the bishop rested his elbows on his knees and minutely studied Baldwin.
    To Baldwin’s eye the bishop himself looked as though he would have benefited from more exercise and a diet of good red meat. Bertrand was surely in his early fifties, a stooped, prim-looking fellow with a long narrow face and sharp little eyes. His mouth was small and pursed, with bloodless lips, giving his face a sour appearance. His left hand was withered, and he left it in his lap, emphasising points with his right alone.
    “Sir Baldwin, I came here to ask the dean for his aid because I find myself caught in a cleft stick. I am sure you know that the good Bishop of Exeter is the Lord High Treasurer, and is with the King. In his absence he instructed me to ensure that the convents within his See are all obeying the strictures of their Rules. I am the visitor, and for the last two months I have been going to all the nunneries and monasteries in the diocese.”
    “A miserable time of year for so much travelling,” Baldwin observed.
    Bertrand raised his eyes to meet Baldwin’s. “Cold and wet enough, but one is kept warm when on God’s work. He protects His own.”
    Baldwin smiled and nodded, but could not help the mental aside that in his experience, whether God was assisting or not, the rain still fell as wet on a traveller’s back. He found he instinctively disliked the bishop. The man looked and sounded like a prig. His manner was affected and prudish, and Baldwin was quite certain in his own mind that Bertrand was not the kind of man with whom he could establish a friendship.
    Bertrand frowned. “Sir Baldwin, you will recall that all I am about to tell you is confidential? I have found that there are weaknesses in most of our institutions, and lapses occur not only among novices, but in the ranks of those who have taken the oaths. Even the Abbot of Tavistock regularly eats meat!”
    Baldwin recalled the ruddy-cheeked face of Abbot Champeaux. Not only did he eat meat: against all the laws he regularly and cheerfully hunted venison on Dartmoor. Abbot Champeaux was no hypocrite, Baldwin knew. He enjoyed his life to the full, it was true, but that did not affect his dedication to his abbey, nor to his monks or the secular folk of Tavistock.
    “It must be difficult for those who live the monastic life,” he said. “St Bernard designed the Rule for convents in warm, southern lands, where the sun is more conducive to study, and where the Nocturns can be attended without the risk of freezing at night.”
    “The good Lord keeps warm those who truly give Him their faith and trust,” Bertrand declared sententiously. “And I fear He will not be turning His face to some of the people I have been meeting. Sir Baldwin, I have found a convent in which the prioress is failing in her responsibilities.”
    Suppressing a sigh, Baldwin tried to nod understandingly. He was not surprised. In his experience many of the inhabitants of convents took their vows too young, before they could appreciate the lifelong nature of their promises. All too often girls went to a nunnery more from the desire to avoid an unpleasant marriage than from any religious ambition; men would join the monastery after being rejected by a woman, to escape the burdensome duties imposed on serfs, or - and Baldwin had met a Cistercian who admitted this - because he had got drunk while a youth and had dreamed God had called to him. That monk was forever peering into the bottom of his cup, trying to see his vision again.
    Baldwin had taken his vows gladly, offering his life to the Order which had saved him from death in the hell-hole of Acre, but he knew many who were even now incarcerated in religious Orders completely unsuited to them. This suffragan did not look like a man likely to forgive an errant nun; if anything he looked the sort who would demand the harshest penance for the slightest infraction of the Rule.
    The reflection made Baldwin’s