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her?’
    ‘We saw him with women,’ replied Godric precisely. ‘But since we do not know what Dympna looks like, we do not know which
     one of them was her. However, I doubt whether any of the rough ladies he courted openly was Dympna. I think he only ever met
     her in secret.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘You have just said you do not know what she looks like, so she could be any of the prostitutes
     Norbert enjoyed. God knows, he was fined enough times for that.’
    Godric’s expression was earnest. ‘I think she is better than the others. She
wrote
to him – on
parchment
, using a
pen
!’
    Parchment was expensive, and while some people couldread, far fewer extended their education to the more skilled process of writing. The very act of putting pen to parchment
     suggested a woman who was a cut above the average.
    ‘Did you read these personal notes?’ asked Bartholomew of Godric. ‘You know what was in them and who they were from, so you
     must have done.’
    ‘Really, Godric!’ exclaimed Ailred in horror. ‘I thought you had more honour. Did no one ever teach you that it is wrong to
     pry into the personal missives of others?’
    ‘I am sorry, Father,’ muttered Godric, red-faced with embarrassment. ‘We meant no harm. We were just curious.’
    ‘Being nosy is not an excuse,’ said Ailred sternly. ‘But since you have already broken faith with a colleague by reading letters
     not intended for your eyes, then I suppose there is no further harm in telling us what was in them. What did they say?’
    ‘Nothing much,’ said Godric, still shamefaced. ‘They were rather curt, actually, and not at all like the kind of love-letters
     we have heard sung about in ballads. They just mentioned her name, and a time and a place for a meeting, followed by a series
     of numbers.’ He brightened. ‘They were probably astrological observations, to do with the best time for practising love.’
    ‘You seem to have a very rosy view of Norbert’s love affairs,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh at the notion of the
     lazy, hedonistic Norbert engaging in anything as orderly as running his life according to the alignments of the celestial
     bodies. Godric, like many men who entered the priesthood young, had some very odd ideas about courtship.
    ‘You said these notes specified a meeting place,’ said Michael, ignoring the friar’s embarrassed reaction to Bartholomew’s
     observation. ‘Where was it?’
    ‘St Michael’s Church,’ replied Godric.
    ‘Our church?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Are you sure?’
    Godric nodded. ‘I know Norbert spent his last night at the King’s Head, but it was Dympna’s call for love that sent him out
     in the first place. He went to meet her!’
    Godric and the others could tell them no more about the mysterious Dympna, nor could they identify anyone in particular who
     wanted to harm Norbert, so Bartholomew and Michael made their farewells and walked back to Michaelhouse. As soon as they opened
     the gate they saw Bartholomew’s slight, dark-featured book-bearer picking his way across the yard towards them. The yard’s
     rutted, potholed surface was a danger at the best of times, but it was worse when snow camouflaged its hazards. Cynric gave
     a nervous grin as he approached, and Bartholomew felt a wave of apprehension that the normally nonchalant Welshman was so
     clearly uneasy.
    ‘It is cold today,’ said Cynric, glancing up at the heavy-bellied clouds above. ‘It will snow again tonight.’
    ‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew. Cynric never wasted time with idle chatter about the weather. ‘Is my sister unwell?’
    ‘No, but I have a message from her,’ replied Cynric. ‘Well, not her. From her husband, Oswald Stanmore. You know that I am
     married to his seamstress, and that my wife and I have a room at his business premises on Milne Street. He asked me to come
     here to see you.’
    ‘You are gabbling, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew,