‘Barber Cook said you were too busy to bother with us any more,’ explained one crone tearfully. ‘And that we must hire him instead. So we are glad you found a few moments to visit Mother Sago, because she got worse when he took over her care.’
Bartholomew felt his temper rise – not only that Cook should dare tell his patients lies about him, but that they should be fobbed off with worthless remedies into the bargain. He prescribed better ones for the people who pressed eagerly around him, assured them that he would never abandon them to the likes of Cook, and began to stalk back down the hill, aflame with righteous indignation. Unfortunately, Cook happened to be coming up it. The barber stood still for a moment, then darted down the nearest lane. Bartholomew caught him with ease.
‘Stay away from my patients,’ Bartholomew snarled furiously, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. ‘You might have killed one with–’
He only just managed to jump back when Cook swiped at him with a dagger. He stumbled, and suddenly he was pinned against the wall with Cook’s blade at his throat. Too late, he realised that he had been deliberately lured there – to a deserted place, where no one would see what was happening. The knife began to bite.
‘I am tired of your arrogance,’ Cook hissed. ‘How dare you challenge my authority!’
More angry than afraid, Bartholomew fumbled for a knife of his own, but could not reach his bag. He tried to twist to one side, and when that did not work, he kneed Cook in the groin. The barber grunted with pain, but the grip did not loosen. Bartholomew was just gathering strength for a struggle that would see him free, when Cook was suddenly hauled backwards.
‘Enough!’ barked Sergeant Helbye, when Cook lunged forward with murder in his eyes. ‘I do not know what is going on here, but you will scarper if you have any sense.’
‘He started it,’ hissed Cook between gritted teeth. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’
Helbye glared at the barber until he slouched away, then turned crossly to Bartholomew.
‘I know you scholars love a scrap, but please try to control yourself. We cannot afford to lose the town’s only barber-surgeon.’
‘He has been foisting useless remedies on my patients,’ explained Bartholomew, loath for the sergeant to see him as a brawler.
‘Perhaps he has, but fighting is no way to make him stop.’ Helbye’s stern expression softened. ‘I appreciate that you long for the battlefield, Doctor. Cynric is always telling us about your prowess at Poitiers, and I like a skirmish myself. But the Sheriff will not approve of you breaking the King’s Peace, so no more of it, eh?’
Bartholomew winced. When Matilde had left, he had embarked on a determined hunt to find her, and bad timing had put him and Cynric in the place where King Edward’s troops were preparing to take on a much larger French force. He had been pressed into service, and had comported himself adequately, although it had been in tending the injured afterwards that he had made a real difference. Cynric loved describing the clash, and his accounts had now reached the stage where he and Bartholomew had defeated the French all but single-handed.
But Helbye was right – Bartholomew was a medicus, and chasing colleagues down dark lanes was unworthy of him. He nodded his thanks for the rescue, and went on his way.
There was a scything wind to accompany the plummeting temperatures that afternoon, and Bartholomew walked briskly towards St John Zachary. He met Petit on the way. The mason had his apprentices at his heels, and was beaming happily.
‘I have just won the commission for Tynkell,’ he announced gleefully. ‘He will be buried under the bells in St Mary the Great – in the narthex – although I shall have to make his tomb very narrow, or it will be in the way of the ceremonial processions that stream past it. Still, that is no problem for a man of my talents.’
‘Edith will dismiss you, if you start Tynkell without finishing Oswald,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And she will sue you for breach of contract.’
Petit regarded him coolly. ‘We were on our way to work in St John Zachary now, as a matter of fact. In the interests of good customer relations, we have agreed to overlook our distress at being in the place where poor Lucas was murdered. Is that not so, lads?’
There was a growl of agreement, after which he put his nose in the air and strode away, his boys at his heels. Bartholomew followed them into the High Street, where he was met by a curious sight. The men who wanted to be Chancellor had taken up station at strategic points along it, to demonstrate their oratory skills to those scholars who were walking home from the day’s general lectures.
Hopeman had chosen the corner with Bridge Street, and was by far the loudest. He brayed about Satan, while his besotted deacons cheered his every word. Most Regent masters – those eligible to vote – were giving them a wide berth, and only those with radical opinions of their own stopped to listen.
Thelnetham was next, and had attracted a huge group of scholars, all of whom were laughing fit to burst – the Gilbertine had the enviable talent of being able to entertain and instruct at the same time, which was why he was so popular with students. Bartholomew noted that Thelnetham had dispensed with his trademark accessories, although he had not been able to lose the mince, which was still very much in evidence as he flounced back and forth. Secretary Nicholas limped among the listeners, asking politely for their votes.
‘He is very clever,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘But there is more to being Chancellor than making us chuckle – namely having the kind of royal contacts that Godrich possesses in abundance.’
‘And Thelnetham needs to brush up on his geometry,’ said Tinmew of the Hall of Valence Marie. ‘A chancellor should be well-versed in the quadrivium, as well as law and theology.’
‘I suppose a knowledge of angles and lines might come in useful for some ceremonial occasions,’ acknowledged Braunch cautiously. ‘Although I would not say it is an essential skill.’
From that response, Bartholomew assumed that Braunch was no geometrician himself, although he thought Tinmew’s pretext for not supporting Thelnetham was unreasonable. The Gilbertine was an excellent scholar, far better than the other candidates, so condemning him for having a poor grasp of one specialist subject was hardly fair.
Godrich was outside King’s Hall, where he could reinforce the fact that he had the University’s biggest and most powerful College at his back – literally as well as figuratively. His discourse was arrogant and disjointed, but it did not matter, because he made up for his lack of eloquence by distributing free wine to his audience. Whittlesey was one of those who was passing a jug around.
‘Godrich will make an excellent leader,’ the envoy said, coming to offer Bartholomew a sip of claret. ‘There is no other choice as far as I can see.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Bartholomew, as Godrich began a sneering discourse about the shabby tabards worn by hostel men, either ignorant or uncaring of the fact that most could barely afford rent and food.
Whittlesey smiled wryly. ‘He will learn tact in time.’
‘Yes, but by then his offensive opinions might have torn the University apart.’
‘He is more than capable of quashing riots,’ shrugged Whittlesey. ‘He is a skilled warrior, after all.’