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such a small philanthropic gesture would have got her very far with her glossy-haired fellow, not given the child’s meagre appearance, dull wits and habit of wiping her nose on her hand.
    Where was I? He was becoming sleepy. Ah, yes, the swapped pies.
    No wonder he’d had difficulty imaging the innocuous Peter Ely as a murder victim. He hadn’t been. The poisoned pie hadn’t been destined for him, but for Tilly’s handsome man.
    And now the handsome man had gone on his way. He’d left more than three days ago, probably innocent of the fact that someone had just tried to kill him. With nobody knowing who he was, where he’d come from or where he was going, it looked as if Josse’s next step in unravelling the murder had already been laid down for him.

Chapter Three
    Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye Abbey, was recovering from a severe bout of fever.
    She said she was recovering. Her infirmarer, Sister Euphemia, said she was still very sick. The debate had reached an uneasy stalemate; Helewise had won the battle of whether or not she must remain in the infirmary, but Euphemia had triumphed over the question of putting a truckle bed and a small brazier in Helewise’s room.
    Now the Abbess could stay at her duties for as long as she could manage, then, when she had to give in and have a sleep, all she needed to do was walk acoss the room and lie down.
    Helewise was uneasy. It was not right for a nun to have the unheard of luxury of a fire in her room! Why, none of the other sisters enjoyed such comforts! Even in the infirmary, only the very sick had heat! What of my vows? Helewise demanded angrily of herself. What of poverty, when here I lie, snuggled under covers of soft wool, hot coals pulsing orange warmth not three paces from my bed!
    Back to work, she ordered herself. I have been sleeping since the midday meal, and it’s high time I did something constructive.
    She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Instantly her head began to spin and she thought she was going to be sick. Black spots floated before her eyes, quickly growing and massing together till they were one big black hole.
    Sinking back on to the bed, she reflected that perhaps Euphemia was right after all …
    *   *   *
    She dozed for some time, drifting in and out of a restless, guilt-ridden sleep. So much to see to! So much she ought to be attending to! Her anxiety permeated her dreams; she saw Brother Saul, the most capable of the lay brothers and her secret favourite, kneeling by her bed, whispering, ‘I know you’re sick, Abbess, but others are more sick, and need you to mend their hoods because the rain is getting in,’ whereupon he took a plump wood pigeon from his sleeve and stroked its throat until it began to sing like a blackbird. Then Brother Saul turned into fussy old Brother Firmin, who stood over her with a huge Bible in his gnarled hands, holding it above her face and bumping it none too gently against her forehead …
    … which, as she awoke with a start, changed into the regular pulsation of pain searing just above her eyebrows.
    All right, Helewise thought wearily as she sat up again – more slowly this time. All right. Back to work.
    She moved over to the high-backed wooden chair that stood behind the broad table at the end of her room. Both items were well-made and costly, relics from her former life as the wife of a knight. Dear old Ivo had given her the table, which, in those earlier times, used to be stacked with items representing the many aspects of Helewise’s duties: mending for the two boys – her sons had always been harsh on their garments; bundles of herbs or bunches of flowers, to be turned into some useful cream or potion for the benefit of some member of the household, human or animal; and, always, the accounts. Ivo, who himself hadn’t been able to write much more than his own name, had treasured his literate wife, her head for figures and her fine hand.
    Helewise brought herself back from her reverie