‘Are these dead scholars associated in any way?’ asked Matilde. ‘Both Wymundham and Patrick were men who loved to tell tales and peddle information. Perhaps they were killed to ensure their silence regarding the same rumour.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The only connection, as far as I can see, is that they were University men. There is doubtless a link between the murder of Wymundham and the death of Raysoun – who were at the same College – but not with Patrick.’
‘Are you certain?’ pressed Matilde.
Bartholomew regarded her curiously. ‘As certain as I can be, given that we have very little information about them. Why? Do you know differently?’
‘No,’ said Matilde. ‘I have had the sisters asking questions in all sorts of places to see what they might discover for you, but they have revealed nothing useful, other than what I have already passed on.’
‘It is good of you to be going to so much effort,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.
She smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. ‘It is because I am concerned for you. I do not like the way Brother Michael drags you into these affairs.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I would rather concentrate on my teaching and visiting my patients.’
‘And seeing your friends?’ asked Matilde softly. ‘Is that important to you, too?’
‘You know it is,’ said Bartholomew, a little confused by her question.
She stood on tiptoe, quickly kissed his cheek and then was gone, stepping lightly over the muddy ruts of the High Street as she walked towards her home. He smiled suddenly, and thought that Michaelhouse, Bene’t and their various troubles were not so important after all. Briskly he walked back to the College, where he wrote an inspired description of the symptoms of quartan fever before falling asleep on the table.
The dull ache of cold feet woke him two hours later. He glanced out of the window to see that it was late afternoon, and that candles already burned in some scholars’ rooms. He straightened, wincing at his stiff shoulders and back, and rubbed his face, trying to dispel the peculiar light-headed sensation that he always experienced when woken from a deep sleep in the middle of the day. He was about to walk to the conclave to see whether anyone had lit the fire so that he could doze in front of it, when he recalled that he had an assignation with his self-proclaimed fiancée at sunset.
He seriously considered not going to meet Adela in the Church of the Holy Trinity, but suspected that it would be wiser to thrust his head into the lion’s mouth and address the issue of her rumour-spreading directly.
In the back of his mind was the uneasy suspicion that unless he confronted her soon about her decision to marry him, she might very well assume his compliance and take matters a stage further by inviting people to their nuptial celebrations.
Still fastening his cloak, he set off up St Michael’s Lane, crossed the High Street and walked down Shoemaker Row to the church Adela had selected for their rendezvous. The sun was low in the sky, huddled behind a band of clouds, and the market people were beginning to pack away their wares as the shadows lengthened and the afternoon dulled. The air rang with the increasingly strident yells of vendors wanting to sell the last of their perishable goods, while horses and carts cluttered the streets as the others began to make their way home. Bartholomew bought an apple pie from a baker at a ridiculously low price. It was surprisingly good, so he bought one for Michael, too.
The Church of the Holy Trinity on the edge of the Market Square was a honey-coloured stone building with fine traceried windows. Bartholomew pushed open the great wooden door and stepped inside, feeling the temperature immediately drop and the air become chill and damp. It was also gloomy. The sun was too low to provide much light, and there were no candles lit except for the one on the altar, which was kept burning day and night as a symbol of the perpetual presence of God.
Three Cluniac monks knelt in the chancel, and their low voices whispered through the darkness as they recited their offices. At the back of the nave, a scruffy clerk yawned as he packed away his pens and parchment, while in one of the aisles a vagrant snored and snuffled on a wall bench as he slept off an afternoon of drinking. The church smelled rather strongly of cat, which all but masked the perfume of cheap incense, and Bartholomew saw at least six amber eyes gleaming at him from the shadows.
The effects of a night without sleep were beginning to tell, and as soon as he sat on one of the benches near the wall, his eyes began to close. From nowhere, a voice hissed at his elbow.
‘Want to buy some wine?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Bartholomew. The man who had spoken was a scruffy individual with a heavily whiskered face and the kind of purple nose that suggested he liked a drop to drink himself. He sighed impatiently. ‘Are you here for wine?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why would I come to a church for wine?’
The man looked hurt. ‘Because it is known all over town that I sell the cheapest wine in Cambridge, and that I can usually be found here late of an afternoon. I thought all scholars were aware of that.’
The selling of smuggled goods was not uncommon in Cambridge. Its location on the edge of the Fens meant it was easy to spirit contraband down the myriad of ditches and waterways without paying the heavy taxes imposed by the King to finance his wars with France. But Bartholomew had not been aware that Holy Trinity Church was the place to come for wines. He assured the man that he wanted nothing to drink, and watched him melt away into the shadows.
Adela was late, and Bartholomew gazed without much interest at the poorly executed wall paintings and at some graffiti that claimed in a bold hand that the Death would come again to claim all those who did not renounce their evil lives immediately. The sun set, and dusk settled in deeply, so that the shadows became impenetrably dark and Bartholomew could barely see the ground at his feet. He was about to give up and leave when the door crashed open, and Adela arrived. She slammed the door behind her, causing enough of a draught to douse the eternal flame.
‘I am glad you came, Matthew,’ she announced without preamble, grinning at Bartholomew with her long teeth. She either did not notice or did not care about the outraged scowls of the three Cluniacs who hastened to relight the altar candle. ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Is it anything to do with the fact that you have determined upon plans for my future?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows but not smiling back at her.
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, forget that silly nonsense. I have something much more interesting to tell you than stupid marriage stories.’ She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. ‘I am quite winded, Matthew! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find somewhere to tether a horse in Cambridge? I swear the streets are growing more crowded in this town. Soon it will be impossible to move at all, and we shall be stuck nose to tail in a solid line from dawn to nightfall.’
‘Then perhaps you should forgo horses and travel on foot,’ he suggested.
She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘The rumours are right about you – you do have peculiar opinions! A decent woman cannot be seen without a horse, and neither should a decent man. You should invest in a mount, Matthew. It would improve your standing as a physician in the town. I am sure your patients would be reassured to see you arrive at their sickbeds on a splendid filly, rather than crawling along the gutters in filthy boots.’
‘And I am sure they do not care one way or the other. Anyway, if they are in their sickbeds, they will not see me arrive at all.’
‘Do not quibble. The point remains the same: it is not fitting for a man of your station to be walking.’