Bartholomew knocked on the door, and was admitted by a child with frightened eyes. He touched her shoulder reassuringly, and followed her to the bedchamber, where Yolande lay surrounded by her family. There were so many of them, all grave-faced, that he was uncomfortably reminded of the deathbed of a monarch or a high-ranking churchman.
‘Do not waste your time here,’ whispered Yolande. ‘I shall be dead in a week.’
Blaston’s face was as white as snow. ‘She cut her hand last night. Barber Cook heard about it, and came to do her a horoscope. But the news is not good.’
Bartholomew sat on the bed and unwrapped the bandages that swathed Yolande’s arm to the elbow. The wound was deep but clean, while the skin around it was pink and healthy, so there was no reason to think it would not heal. He looked at her in mystification.
‘My stars,’ whispered Yolande, her expression haunted. ‘They say that I shall be in my grave within seven days. Show him Barber Cook’s workings, Robert.’
Bartholomew did not believe in the predictive power of horoscopes, and for many years had refused to calculate them at all, considering them a waste of his time and the patient’s money. Such a stance had earned him a good deal of condemnation, and had contributed to his reputation as a maverick. However, age and experience had taught him that some patients recovered more quickly if they believed their stars were favourable, so he had come to accept that astrology had its place in a physician’s arsenal.
Yet the one Blaston handed him was like nothing he had ever produced – or seen devised by anyone else. It had a few Latin words, but they were in no particular order, and were interspersed with meaningless symbols and squiggles. All around the edges were drawings of horned serpents.
‘What does it say?’ he asked.
Blaston blinked his surprise at the question. ‘You are the one who can read Greek, Doctor. Barber Cook says that particular language is the best for matters pertaining to stars.’
‘This is not Greek,’ said Bartholomew, feeling anger stir within him as he pushed the parchment in his bag, intending to confront the surgeon with it later. ‘It is gibberish. And he is not qualified to produce horoscopes anyway. That is the domain of physicians.’
Yolande gazed at him, hope lighting her eyes. ‘So I will not die?’
‘Not yet, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And to prove it, I will read your stars. Then I will give my calculations to Rougham and Lawrence, who will check them for you.’
‘Three University men,’ breathed Blaston, impressed. ‘They will know a lot more than Barber Cook.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Bartholomew briskly, and set to work at once, while parents and children watched in taut silence, even the babies. When he had finished, he informed Yolande that there was no reason she should not live to be a hundred. She grasped his hand tearfully, but he could not hear her whispered thanks over the delighted whoops of her family.
He walked outside and looked around rather wildly, hoping to see Cook there and then. Instead, he spotted Rougham, who was just emerging from Trinity Hall.
‘Look,’ he said, all righteous indignation as he pulled the barber’s augury from his bag. ‘And Cook accuses me of trespassing on his domain! He gave this to Yolande.’
‘Heavens!’ Rougham took it from him gingerly. ‘It is a long time since I have seen one of these. They were sold during the plague, to those who thought the Church had deserted them. Do you see these horned serpents? They are the Devil’s mark.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
‘Desperate times called for desperate measures,’ replied Rougham evasively. ‘But I am told that witchery is becoming popular again – probably thanks to Suttone, who keeps announcing that the plague is about to return.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘So Cook is a proponent of witchcraft?’
‘It would seem so. Give that document to me, and I shall include it with the letter I am writing to Tulyet, asking him to banish Cook from our town. We do not want that sort of person practising medicine in Cambridge. He will give us all a bad name.’
By noon, the hunt for the missing bell had reached fever point. Unfortunately, it was causing friction, not only between the searchers and those people who owned the places they aimed to ransack, but between students and the town. On the High Street, Bartholomew witnessed a furious fracas over who should have first dibs on exploring St Edward’s crypt.
‘We do,’ one of Hopeman’s deacons was snarling. ‘Because that bell is University property, and it will be desecrated if secular hands maul it.’
‘But this church belongs to the town,’ retorted a butcher’s boy. ‘And that will be sullied if the likes of you is allowed inside. So sod off and–’
He stopped speaking abruptly when he saw Tulyet striding towards them. Under the Sheriff’s gimlet eye, both sides had the sense to break off their quarrel and slink away without further ado.
‘Who offered this reward, Dick?’ asked Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘It cannot have been the University. Michael would know better.’
‘Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Secretary Nicholas,’ replied Tulyet. ‘It was his idea, and he announced it before Michael could stop him. The money is his own, apparently.’
‘Well, he does love the bells.’
‘I like them myself, but it was stupidity itself to offer such an enormous sum to get one back again. But I am glad to have caught you, Matt. I have been looking everywhere for you. Will you come to examine Helbye? I think Cook did something terrible to his arm yesterday, because he is ill.’
He turned and set a cracking pace towards the castle before the physician could reply. He spoke in short, agitated bursts as they went, and Bartholomew saw the strain the last few days had brought, with the King’s favourite dead and thieves running circles around him.
‘Egidia knows nothing,’ Tulyet confided bitterly. ‘Her role in the affair was to distract Moleyns while Inge sneaked out. They did not want Moleyns to know what they were doing, you see, because he would have ordered them to stop, lest it interfered with his own antics.’
‘What will you do about Moleyns’ crimes against his wealthy “friends”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, afraid of what such an investigation might mean for Isnard.
Tulyet’s expression was wry. ‘Nothing, so you can tell Isnard not to worry. Moleyns’ victims do not want the King to know they are fools easily parted from their money, lest he tries to get some of it for himself – the royal coffers are always empty. I have been told to let it drop.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew in relief. ‘Not just for Isnard, but because Moleyns’ plan to humiliate you will fail. Now the King will never know that he escaped your custody to steal.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Tulyet, although his youthful face remained troubled. ‘We found no sign of Inge, by the way. I have soldiers scouring the marshes in ever-widening circles.’
‘Are you sure he is out there? He did not move those heavy items by himself, which means he has accomplices in the town. Perhaps one of them is sheltering him.’
‘You mean Isnard and Gundrede? I searched their houses – he is not there.’
‘No, I do not mean them! They were watching the tomb-makers when the bell was stolen – far more carefully than your guards, as it happens, because they are determined to prove their innocence. Besides, thanks to my incautious tongue, you know that they helped Moleyns. They could not have obliged Inge and Egidia as well.’
‘Oh, yes, they could,’ countered Tulyet. ‘But I shall give them the benefit of the doubt. However, I still want to know where they go when they disappear so slyly – such as on Saturday, when no one saw them for hours.’