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slight to his Order in the interests of learning what he wanted to know.
    ‘Christiana de Hauville,’ replied Hamo, glaring at his colleague for his intemperate remarks to honoured guests. ‘She is technically a lay-sister, although she is nobly born and owns property in the city. Dame Eleanor has taken a liking to her, and they are often together. As you can see, they are going to the Chapel of St Katherine for evening prayers.’
    ‘Eleanor says she has taken Lady Christiana under her wing,’ said Whatton. He smiled indulgently. ‘Yet it often appears the other way around – Christiana looks after Eleanor. But, suffice to say, they are devoted to each other. It is cold out here. Would you like to come inside?’
    ‘I would like to visit your chapel,’ said Michael transparently. ‘To give thanks for our safe arrival.’
    ‘You can do it by your bed, Brother,’ said Suttone, shooting Michael a look to warn him that the honour of his Order was at stake, and he should not prove the Gilbertines right by ogling the first female who crossed his path. ‘Our horses are already installed in a warm stable with a bucket of hot mash, and I would like to do the same.’
    ‘Would you?’ asked Hamo, startled. ‘I was planning to put you in the guest-hall, and provide you with a supper of roasted goose. But, of course, if you would rather eat oats—’
    ‘The guest-hall will be acceptable,’ said Michael, tearing his eyes from the chapel and indicating that Hamo should lead the way. ‘And I might manage a sliver of roasted goose, especially if it comes with a few parsnips and a loaf of bread.’
    ‘We are delighted to have you here, and we will cook you whatever you want,’ replied Hamo generously. Bartholomew hoped he would not regret the promise: Michael had a formidable appetite. ‘Ask for anything, and, if it is in my power to give, you shall have it.’
    ‘How kind,’ said Michael, inclining his head. ‘You are most hospitable.’
    ‘Yes, we are,’ agreed Whatton pleasantly. ‘We like guests, especially ones who might leave us a donation to mend our roofs. We suffered badly in the Death – there were sixty of us, but now we are only twelve – and PriorRoger says we may never recover. The biggest problem is that there are not enough of us to collect the tithes we are owed, and we sink ever deeper into poverty and debt.’
    ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Suttone. ‘But surely you can hire a bailiff to help you?’
    ‘We tried, but they kept absconding with our money,’ said Hamo mournfully. He opened the door of the long building that formed the guest-hall. ‘Here we are. You shall have the upper room, because it is nicer than the ground-floor chamber. Warmer, too.’
    He led the way through a dark, vault-like hall that had bedding piled around the edges, and headed for a spiral staircase. It emerged in an attractive room with clean white walls, wooden floors and the exotic luxury of a stone sink in one corner with a pail of icy water underneath it. He and Whatton set about lighting a fire, while Michael opened a window shutter to inspect the chapel. Bartholomew paced restlessly, thinking about William de Spayne, and hoping, despite the practical part of his mind that told him he was wasting his time, that the mayor might be able to tell him something useful about Matilde.
    ‘You mentioned a Miller’s Market when you asked why we had come to Lincoln,’ said Suttone conversationally while the Gilbertines busied themselves at the hearth. ‘What is that, exactly?’
    ‘It is an annual occurrence now,’ said Hamo, rolling straw into a ball for kindling, ‘although it does not usually coincide with the installation of canons. Those two events – along with the General Pardon – are why our city is so busy at the moment, and every bed taken.’
    ‘Is it?’ asked Michael, thinking about the empty chamber below.
    Whatton applied a tinderbox to Hamo’s straw. ‘Everyconvent is bursting at the