He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence. She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.
‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’
Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceased Raysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.
‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to be talking to Michael about it.’
‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’
‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.
‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’
But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.
However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs, and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.
The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers, working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.
After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham for being late for his lecture. His younger students were restless and unable to concentrate on their lessons, obviously far more interested in speculating on which of the Fellows might succeed the gentle Kenyngham as Master.
His older students were not much better, and he could see their attention was wandering from the set commentary on Galen’s De Urinis. Bartholomew was not particularly interested in contemplating the ins and outs of urine on a cold winter morning, either, but it had to be endured if the scruffy lads assembled in front of him ever wanted to be successful physicians.
When the bell rang for the midday meal, Cynric came to tell him that he was needed at the home of Sam Saddler, a man afflicted with a rotting leg. Bartholomew had recommended amputation two weeks before, but Saddler had steadfastly refused. Robin of Grantchester had finally relieved him of the festering limb the previous day, and Bartholomew was astonished that Saddler had survived the surgeon’s filthy instruments and clumsy stitching. Saddler’s hold on life was tenacious, but Bartholomew knew it was a battle Death would soon win. The flesh around the sutures was swollen and weeping, and angry red lines of infection darted up the stump of leg.
Bartholomew always carried a plaster of betony for infected wounds, but Saddler’s state was beyond the efficacy of any remedy that Bartholomew knew about, although he spent some time trying to help. He prescribed a syrup to dull the pain, and warned Saddler’s two daughters to be ready to send for a priest within the next two days.
On his way back to Michaelhouse, he saw Adela Tangmer, arm in arm with her father, although who was leading whom was difficult to say. Adela strode along in her customary jaunty style, but the vintner walked stiffly, every step suggesting that something had deeply angered him. Bartholomew tried to slip past unnoticed, but Adela was having none of that.
‘Hello, Matthew,’ she boomed across the High Street, making several people jump. ‘We have just been to a meeting of my father’s guild, Corpus Christi. What a dreadful gaggle of people – all arguing and bickering. They need to get out more – do a bit of riding and see the world.’
‘Bene’t College is at the heart of it,’ muttered Tangmer furiously. ‘I wish to God the Guild of St Mary’s had never persuaded us to become involved in that venture.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘We were doing perfectly well in establishing a modest little house of learning, but that was not good enough for the worthy people of the Guild of St Mary,’ said Tangmer bitterly.
‘They brought in the Duke of Lancaster as a patron,’ explained Adela. ‘He donated some money, but we have just learned that there are strings attached.’
‘You mean like a certain number of masses to be said for his soul?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Similar conditions were imposed by Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton. We are obliged to say daily prayers for him.’
‘I wish that were all!’ muttered Tangmer. ‘Prayers cost nothing, especially if someone else is saying them.’
‘The Duke wants Bene’t to rival King’s Hall and the Hall of Valence Marie for splendour,’ said Adela. ‘The only problem is that his donation will not cover all the costs, and so the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary are obliged to provide the difference. And money spent on Bene’t would be better spent on good horseflesh.’
‘Do you think of nothing but horses, woman?’ asked Tangmer in weary exasperation. ‘You should marry – that would concentrate your mind on other matters.’
‘I do not want to marry,’ said Adela with the same weary exasperation. ‘I like my life the way it is.’
‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Tangmer, eyeing the physician up and down speculatively. ‘You are not betrothed, are you? Adela would make a fine wife for a physician.’
Adela closed her eyes, although whether from embarrassment or because the topic of conversation was tiresome to her, Bartholomew could not tell.
‘She certainly knows her remedies for equine ailments,’ he agreed carefully. ‘But Fellows are not permitted to marry, Sir Henry. I regret to inform you that I am not available.’
‘Pity,’ said Tangmer. ‘I shall have to think of someone else.’
‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ said Adela. ‘If I decide I want a man, I am quite capable of grabbing him for myself.’
Bartholomew was sure she was. He made his farewells, and resumed his walk to Michaelhouse. As he approached it, a thickset figure uncoiled itself from where it had been leaning against the wall. It was Osmun, the surly porter from Bene’t College.
‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said, moving towards Bartholomew in a manner that was vaguely threatening. The physician took two steps backward, and wondered whether his book-bearer would hear him from inside Michaelhouse if he shouted for help.
‘What do you want?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Is someone ill?’
‘If they were, I would not send for you to help,’ replied Osmun nastily. ‘I would rather call on Robin of Grantchester.’