Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, wondering whether the monk had genuinely forgotten the meaty meals he had devoured over the past few weeks or whether his intention was merely to deceive his colleagues into believing he had been following the season’s dietary prohibitions – similar to those of Lent, although not quite so long.
‘There is only one more day for you to endure,’ said Kenyngham kindly. ‘And then it will be time for feasting, as we celebrate the birth of our Lord.’
‘Cynric told me that Philippa Abigny’s brother, Giles, is here, too,’ remarked William, somewhat out of the blue. He beamed at Bartholomew in a friendly fashion, as though he imagined the physician would be pleased to chat about the presence of his old fiancée in the town.
Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he realised that even if he managed to put Philippa from his mind, his colleagues’ interest was such that they would be constantly raising the subject. Giles Abigny, after all, had known them, too.
‘Do you remember Giles, Michael?’ the friar went on airily. ‘He was Matthew’s room-mate during the Death.’ He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. ‘I recall him very well. He was a flighty fellow with long yellow hair. I would have fined him, if I had been Junior Proctor then.’
‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Bartholomew. He did not know how the Franciscan dared to be so strict with others, given his own appearance. William’s habit was so stiff with filth that it was virtually rigid, while there were circles of ancient dirt under his cracked, yellow fingernails. He was too mean to pay a barber to shave his tonsure and opted to do it himself, which resulted in an irregular oval that sprouted hairs in varying stages of growth. The spiky curls that surrounded the tonsure were brown and thick with grease.
‘Short of stature,’ added Michael, recollecting Giles Abigny, as he reached for the ale jug. ‘But with the same fair complexion and blue eyes as his beautiful sister. You were a fool to let her go, Matt. You should have married her while you had the chance.’
‘She married someone else,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘I had little say in the matter.’
Michael scratched his head as memories floated back to him, most more than slightly distorted by time. ‘Philippa went to London after the Death, because she was restless in Cambridge and Giles was no longer here to look after her.’
‘He did not look after her, anyway,’ said William pedantically. ‘She was at St Radegund’s Convent, under the watchful eye of the abbess. I recall that there was some pressure on her to take holy vows and become a nun, so that the convent could keep her dowry.’
‘That was not going to happen as long as Matt was courting her,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But, fortunately for Philippa, parents and abbess died during the plague, and Giles left her free to choose her own destiny. She followed him to London, doubtless anticipating that Matt would not be long in joining her. What happened to Giles, Matt? He was never a very committed scholar.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. He had tried to put his entire association with the Abigny family behind him. He had liked the flighty and unreliable Giles, but Philippa’s defection to another man had not encouraged him to maintain a correspondence with her brother.
‘He became a law clerk,’ said Michael, snapping his fingers as fragments of memory drifted back to him. ‘Although the post was not an especially prestigious one.’
‘Why did you not marry Philippa, Matthew?’ asked William bluntly. ‘I was under the impression it was a sound match.’
‘The problem arose with Philippa herself,’ said Michael, carelessly dispensing the details of Bartholomew’s failed love affair as he might give a public lecture. ‘Once she had sampled the delights of London, she realised she could not bear to spend her life as the wife of an impoverished physician, so she married a wealthy merchant instead. And that was the end of Matt’s hopes for wedded bliss – with her, at least.’
‘You are better off here, with us,’ said William, in what was meant to be a consoling tone, but served to make Bartholomew wonder where he had gone wrong.
He pictured Philippa’s merry eyes and grace. He could have been celebrating Christmas with her that year, surrounded by their children. But even as the cosy image entered his mind, he knew the reality would have been different. Michael was right: Philippa had set certain standards for her life, and Bartholomew’s haphazard way of collecting fees from his patients would never have met them. He would have made her miserable with poverty, while she would have nagged him to spend time with wealthy clients who needed an astrologer rather than a physician. Abruptly, the image faded to a chamber with a meagre fire, occupied by a discontented wife and dissatisfied children. He supposed he should be happy with what he had: his teaching, Michaelhouse, his poor patients with their interesting diseases, and Matilde. The thought of Matilde coaxed a smile to his face.
He tried to analyse his thoughts rationally, to determine why Philippa’s presence in the town should matter to him. Logically, he knew he should not care, but illogically, the prospect of encountering her filled him with dread, and he seriously considered visiting a friend in some nearby village until she had gone. But he enjoyed Christmas, with its feasts, games and entertainment. And he liked the chaos that ensued when the students elected their Lord of Misrule, who would dictate what happened in Michaelhouse over the Twelve Days. It would be a pity to miss that, just because a woman he had once loved happened to be passing through.
Or would it? Michael would drag him into Norbert’s murder investigation, while Gray was almost certain to be elected Lord of Misrule. Because Gray was Bartholomew’s student, he suspected that he might be held responsible for some of the lad’s wilder schemes – and Gray could be very wild indeed. Perhaps it would be a good time to renew friendships with folk who lived somewhere other than Cambridge. But then hard pellets of snow pattered against the hall’s glass windows, and he was reminded that it was no time to be considering journeys into the country.
‘We should not be discussing this lady here,’ said Kenyngham sympathetically, breaking into his thoughts. ‘It is never wise to dwell on matters that were once painful.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael, as though he had many jilted fiancées of his own to consider. ‘Now, what were you saying earlier about unactualised forms and qualities, Matt?’
‘I do not hold with talking at the table,’ said William, who did not want to resume a debate that he would probably lose. ‘The season for chatter at mealtimes is not yet upon us, so summon the Bible Scholar, Master, and let us consider some religious text.’
Langelee snapped his fingers, and the student who received a free education in return for reading from the scriptures during meals stepped up to the lectern. The lad opened the book and rested his elbows on the edge of the stand, then gave a howl of alarm as the whole thing toppled to the ground with a resounding crash. After the initial shock, the other students started to laugh.
‘God’s blood!’ swore Langelee. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone has taken a saw to it,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the tell-tale striations in the wood from where he sat. He found himself looking at Gray, whose face revealed nothing, and Deynman, whose expression bespoke abject guilt. ‘I suppose this was one of the tricks planned for the Season of Misrule.’
‘William will have to do without his Bible today,’ said Langelee. ‘And if the lectern is mended, I may be prepared to overlook this sorry incident.’
Deynman puffed out his cheeks in a sigh of relief, although, predictably, there was still no reaction from Gray. Bartholomew thought Gray should choose his accomplices with more care; Deynman had given them away almost at once. But it would not matter for much longer, because Gray planned to leave Michaelhouse soon, to take up a prestigious post in Suffolk. Bartholomew was certain he would be successful – the lad was too sly and manipulative to do otherwise.