The physician walked slowly, thinking about Godric’s tears of grief when he heard Ailred was dead. Although shocked by his principal’s confessions, Godric insisted the recent changes in Ailred’s behaviour were an aberration, and said there must have been a bad alignment of celestial bodies to induce him to act in such a manner. Bartholomew thought about Turke, too, and his careless attitude towards the people he had killed. However, the physician gained no satisfaction from the knowledge that he had been right about why Turke had ventured near the Mill Pool the day he had died. It was not the kind of case where jubilation was in order.
The snow was still melting rapidly, and what had once been a pretty white carpet was now ugly brown sludge. Since the ice was thawing more slowly than the snow, the drains were still blocked, and filthy, slushy water stretched from one side of the High Street to the other in a foul lake. It was calf deep in places, and lumpy with pieces of rubbish, dead birds, straw, animal manure, fragments of ice and sewage. It was like walking through a cold porridge of filth and excrement.
Michaelhouse was alive with activity when Bartholomew returned. The snow had been dug away, so it was once again possible to enter the north wing. He went to his own room and threw open the window shutters, to fill the chamber with the milder air from outside and dispel the dank chill that pervaded it. He discovered a thin layer of ice coating the walls, where mildew and running damp had frozen solid, while there were slippery patches on the floor that reminded him of Ailred and Turke, and their diametric attitudes to ice. He begged some logs from Langelee and lit a fire, prodding it until it blazed furiously. Then he swept the last remnants of snow from the windowsill and shelves, while William shook the ice from the blankets on the bed. Eventually, the room began to look more homely.
Enjoying the luxury of a private fire, Bartholomew closed the shutters and sat at the table with a lamp. He worked on a lecture until the bell chimed for the midday meal, then strolled across the courtyard to join his colleagues in the hall. Michael was not there, but the monk often missed College meals when he was engaged on proctorial duties. Bartholomew was surprised, and a little disgusted, with himself when he realised he was disappointed, for there was a part of him that very much wanted to know the identity of Philippa’s lover.
Since it was the last day of Deynman’s rule, the student had gone to some pains to ensure it was pleasantly memorable. There was undiluted wine to drink, and several fine hams had been purchased, all glazed with honey and flavoured with winter herbs. The bread was made from expensive white flour, and there were pats of creamy butter to go with it. Bartholomew knew Michael would be chagrined to learn that spying on a lusty widow had deprived him of such a fine, if simple, meal.
After Deynman had struggled through what he considered to be an accurate rendition of the final grace and had dismissed his ‘court’, Bartholomew found Cynric waiting with a summons. Harold, Stanmore’s apprentice, had been hit with a snowball that contained something sharp, and had a bleeding scalp wound. Bartholomew grabbed his bag and set off at a trot to Milne Street.
When he arrived, he saw that Edith had been overly hasty in demanding that her brother come at once. Harold’s cut had clotted of its own accord, and the lad’s initial fright at the sight of his own blood was being assuaged by piles of comfits and candied fruits. Bartholomew cleaned the gash, although it was obvious that Harold just wanted the physician to go away, so he could concentrate on the array of treats that were laid out in front of him on the kitchen table.
‘They were throwing snowballs in the Market Square,’ said Edith, smiling fondly as she left the boy to his feast and led Bartholomew to the solar. ‘But the snow is not what it was yesterday, and it was apparently difficult to find a clean handful. In the excitement, missiles were thrown that contained more than snow.’
‘Harold has had quite an eventful day,’ said Bartholomew, following his sister up the stairs. ‘First he helped with Ailred’s rescue, and now he has himself a sliced head.’
‘Oswald was proud of him for acting so promptly, and wanted to reward him. The best of the snow will be gone tomorrow, and he decided to give him a last chance to enjoy it. Who knows when we will see its like again?’
‘Not too soon, I hope; I have only just retrieved my room. But this warmer weather must mean Philippa and Giles will be leaving soon?’
Edith nodded. ‘Tomorrow morning, assuming there is not another blizzard tonight. I like company, as you know, but I confess I shall be glad to bid them farewell.’
‘They have not been easy guests. Giles is no longer the carefree, amiable man he was before the Death, while Philippa is …’ He gestured expansively, not quite sure how to put his thoughts into words.
‘She is not the Philippa you were set to marry,’ supplied Edith. ‘Having a wealthy husband brought her luxury, but also disappointments. My heart broke when I saw what she had become.’
‘Rumour has it that she fashioned her own remedy to Walter’s inadequacies,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his sister to waste sympathies where they were not needed. ‘Michael followed her this morning, when she went to meet a lover behind the Gilbertine Friary.’
Edith was startled. ‘Philippa did not go to meet a lover this morning. She has been in her chamber, folding clothes and deciding which of her husband’s possessions to donate to the poor. Did I mention that one of his sleeves was covered in blood? I suppose it must have happened when he murdered Fiscurtune in London, although the stain looks more recent to me.’
‘She must have slipped past you,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in Philippa than in the fact that the stained sleeve was evidence that Ailred had been right about Turke killing Norbert. ‘I saw her myself, and we know she uses Giles’s cloak and hat to go about business of her own. It was not him who wandered freely around the town – he is restricted by his chilblains – but her.’
‘That may have been so in the past, but not today,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She is upstairs. Listen – you can hear her walking in the chamber above us. She has not left the house.’
‘It must be Giles,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is him you can hear.’
Edith cocked her head as footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Here she comes. You can ask her.’
Philippa seemed tired and careworn. She smiled at Bartholomew as she entered the solar, although her expression was more wary than friendly. She was already wearing clothes for travelling, the others presumably packed away. Attached to the belt around her waist was a knife and a pomander for warding off the foul smells she was likely to encounter on her journey.
‘Matt thinks he saw you out today,’ said Edith bluntly. ‘I have been telling him you have not left the house.’
‘Edith is right,’ replied Philippa, regarding Bartholomew with a face that was curiously devoid of expression. ‘There is much to do if we are to go tomorrow. Giles has gone to check the horses, and I am obliged to pack our belongings, since Gosslinge is not here to do it.’
‘Rachel is helping,’ said Edith, indignant that her guest appeared to be complaining when assistance in the form of Cynric’s competent wife had been provided. ‘She has been with you all morning – and continued the work when you were receiving your various guests here in the solar.’
Philippa gave an absent smile. ‘She has been very helpful, especially since visitors like young Quenhyth have interrupted me so often. But I shall be finished before dusk, and we will be on our way at first light tomorrow.’
‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did he come?’
‘He visits me often,’ replied Philippa. ‘His father is a colleague of Walter’s, and he feels obliged to see me on a fairly regular basis.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘London manners.’
Bartholomew glanced at her shoes as she left, half expecting to see the delicate leather sodden with muck from the High Street. But Philippa was not wearing her flimsy shoes, and he was not surprised she had been making such a noise on the wooden floor above when he observed the pair of heavy boots. He regarded them uneasily, wondering why she had donned such robust footwear when she had just claimed that she planned to spend the rest of the day packing.