‘I had four,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are there any taverns open?’
Michael laughed softly. ‘You are drunk, my friend! I have never before known you to suggest that we break the University’s rules and go carousing in the town’s inns.’
‘I do not want to carouse; I just want to sit somewhere warm and forget about Michaelhouse.’ He became aware of Michael’s hand moving rhythmically in the darkness. ‘Do not scratch, Brother. You have already made your arm worse.’
‘It itches like the Devil,’ complained Michael. ‘I thought it would ease once you had extracted the sting, but it did not.’
‘I will give you a salve to relieve it,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced up, aware that the sky was tipping and swirling unpleasantly. ‘Look, there is Matilde’s house with the candles lit.’
‘That means she is awake, then,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘Come on, Matt. I have not enjoyed a drink with her for a while, and she serves a better brew than you will find in any tavern.’
‘We cannot visit her now,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘It must be nearing midnight.’
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Neither of us wants to return to Michaelhouse yet, and I often drop in on Matilde at the witching hour. She will not be surprised to see me.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You live dangerously, Brother! What would your Bishop say if word was leaked to him that his best agent was frequenting the houses of prostitutes in the middle of the night?’
‘He would probably assume I was there on his business,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde is an excellent source of information with her network of whores.’
‘And would he be right to assume such a thing?’
Michael laughed and gave him a soft jab in the ribs. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy, Matt? You had your chance – the woman is far more fond of you than you deserve, and yet you will not take the plunge and give her what she wants.’
‘I hope you do not …’ Bartholomew faltered, uncertain how to put his question.
Michael laughed and poked him again. ‘I am a monk who has sworn a vow of celibacy.’ He gave a leering wink that was at odds with his claim, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, was across the road and down the dark alley in The Jewry to where Matilde’s house stood. He knocked on the door and waited. Low voices that had been murmuring within stopped abruptly.
‘She has company,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. ‘We should not have come.’
When Matilde answered the door, he was already halfway back up the alley, chagrined that they might be interrupting the town’s loveliest prostitute while she was entertaining clients. His feelings towards Matilde were ambiguous. While he considered her the most attractive woman he had ever set eyes on, her profession made any serious relationship with her difficult. Still, she was a good friend, and he had missed their long, intelligent discussions and shared confidences since his extra students and his ever-expanding treatise on fevers had claimed most of his spare moments.
He heard Matilde’s exclamation of pleasure when she recognised Michael, and saw the monk ushered inside her house. Before she could close the door, Michael poked his head around it and called to the shadows.
‘It is safe for you to come in, Matt. Matilde’s visitors are only some of her sisters.’
Bartholomew smiled sheepishly; the town’s prostitutes usually referred to themselves as sisters, much as members of the town’s guilds referred to themselves as brethren. Like a reluctant schoolboy on his way to lessons, he slowly retraced his footsteps down the alley and entered Matilde’s pleasant home.
Matilde’s home in The Jewry had changed since Bartholomew had last seen it. The walls had been painted in an attractive diamond pattern of red and yellow, and there were matching tiles on the floor, partly covered by thick wool rugs. She had a new table, too, a handsome piece carved from pale oak, and there was a delicately wrought bowl of spun silver standing on it. Bartholomew wondered whether they were gifts from grateful clients.
Matilde stood in the middle of the room holding a jug of wine. Yet again, Bartholomew was struck by her beauty. She had long, straight hair that shone with health and cleanness, and her simple dress of cornflower blue accentuated the exquisite curves of her slender body. Unlike others in her trade, she used no paints on the delicate pale skin of her face, and her complexion was smooth, soft and unblemished.
She was entertaining two other women, both of whom Bartholomew had treated for various illnesses in the past. One was Una, the daughter of a sergeant at the Castle, and the other was Yolande de Blaston, the wife of one of the town carpenters who knew all about his wife’s nocturnal activities and felt nothing but grateful appreciation for the extra money she could earn to help support their nine children.
Matilde was surprised to see Bartholomew. She froze in the act of pouring Yolande a drink when he stepped across her threshold, and regarded him with arched eyebrows.
‘And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to supply information about the latest murder you are investigating? Or do you need me to arrange support for digging a new town rubbish pit or cleaning the wells?’
Bartholomew was taken aback by the coolness in her voice, and wondered what he had done to offend her. Meanwhile, Michael squeezed between Yolande and Una on a cushioned bench that was barely large enough for two, and settled himself comfortably, fat legs thrown out in front of him, and his arms stretched along the back of the seat, almost, but not quite, touching the shoulders of the two women.
‘Right,’ said the monk, favouring Matilde with a contented beam as the two women giggled. ‘Do you have any of that good Italian wine you shared with me last time I was here?’
Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. ‘And when was that?’
Michael flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I do not recall precisely. But as it happens, Matilde, you are right – there is a case that you might be able to help us with.’
‘I thought there might be,’ she said, leaving to fetch the wine from the small parlour at the back of the house. ‘That is the only reason he would visit me these days.’
‘You seem to be out of favour, Matt,’ said Michael once she had gone.
‘Small wonder,’ said Yolande, treating Bartholomew to an unpleasant look. ‘He only ever comes to see her when he wants something. She was telling us only last night that he had not visited her in almost two months, and now he turns up only to see whether she knows anything about some horrible University crime. But, since he is here, I have a swollen foot that he can look at.’
‘And I have painful gums,’ added Una. ‘It is good he came tonight – now I will not have to rise early in the morning to go to see him.’
‘You want me to examine you now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically, wishing they would not talk about him as though he were not there. And anyway, with the room revolving around him in a way that was making him feel sick, he did not feel he should be doctoring anyone.
‘You are a physician and here are two charming ladies who need physicking,’ said Michael contentedly. ‘Where lies the problem? Get on with it, man!’
Bartholomew was kneeling on the floor with Yolande’s foot in his hands when Matilde entered with the wine. He glanced up, then grabbed at Yolande’s knee as the sudden movement upset his precarious balance.
‘You have had more than enough wine already, Matthew,’ she remarked, as she handed Michael his cup. ‘You are drunk!’
‘He has imbibed four cups of Widow’s Wine,’ explained Michael.
‘That is an apprentices’ brew!’ said Matilde incredulously. ‘Why would a perfectly sane adult who values his health drink Widow’s Wine? Was he trying to do away with himself?’