'Doctor Bartholomew will attend to me,' said Aelfrith quietly. "I see no need to call upon the services of another physician.'
'That is your own choice, Father,' responded Wilson disparagingly, his tone making it clear that he would have no hesitation in taking his patronage elsewhere.
Bartholomew studiously avoided Wilson's gaze, not trusting himself to speak civilly. He saw clearly that many of the objections that Wilson had raised to his appointmentfour years before would now be voiced; indeed, would be used against him at every opportunity, and perhaps Wilson would succeed in bringing about his dismissal from the College. Wilson gazed at Bartholomew in a hostile manner for several moments before continuing.
'Father William, would you arrange to have the bodies moved to the church? Then you and Brother Michael must do what is necessary for their souls. Master Alcote, I would like you to take the news to the Bishop, for we will need his services when our murderer is caught.'
Since, like most scholars at the University, Augustus had taken minor orders, any crimes of which he might be accused would be dealt with by Church, rather than secular, law. 'Master Swynford, Master Abigny, perhaps you would oversee the search. Make sure that every nook and cranny is investigated. Augustus must be found!'
The Fellows scurried off to do his bidding.
Bartholomew and Aelfrith made their way down the stairs together, heading for Bartholomew's room. As they reached the courtyard, Bartholomew went to look at the ground under Augustus's window. If anyone had managed to squeeze out of the first-floor window and jump, there would be some evidence, but there was nothing to be seen. There were a few tendrils of bindweed creeping up the walclass="underline" had someone leaped from the window, the plants would have been damaged or displaced. Bartholomew saw nothing that indicated anyone had made an escape from Augustus's window.
He stood up slowly, wincing at his stiffening knee.
Wilson gave him a cold glance as he left, guessing what he was doing and disapproving of it. Bartholomew knew that Wilson would regard his action as a direct challenge to his authority, but was disturbed by Wilson's eagerness to accept the first excuse that came along and to dismiss any facts that confounded it.
Aelfrith waited, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his monastic robes. 'Our new Master seems to dislike you, my son,' he said.
Bartholomew shrugged, and began to limp towards his room. Aelfrith caught up with him, and offered his arm for support. The tall friar was surprisingly strong, and Bartholomew was grateful for his help.
They arrived at the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines. It had been used originally to store wood, but Sir John had ordered it cleaned for Bartholomew's use because he thought it was not healthy for him to sleep with the smell of his medicines.
The blacksmith still slept on the pallet bed, snoring noisily. Bartholomew had forgotten about him. He would have to send Cynric to ask his family to come to collect him. Aelfrith wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of stale wine fumes, and went to Bartholomew's own room next door. Abigny had thrown the shutters open before he had left, and the room was bright and sunny. Neither Bartholomew nor Abigny had many possessions — a few clothes, some writing equipment, and Bartholomew had a book he had been given by his Arab master when he had completed his training; all were stored out of sight in the large chest that stood at one end of the room.
Aelfrith looked around approvingly. The room was clean, with fresh rushes and herbs scattered on the floor, and a servant had already put the bedding out of the window to air. Bartholomew had been taught that dirt and disease went hand in hand — his insistence on cleanliness was another reason he was regarded as an oddity.
He sank down onto a stool. He had not realised what a wrench he had given his knee, and he knew it would slow him down for a few days. He made to stand again, remembering that he should be tending Aelfrith's head. Aelfrith pushed him back down firmly.
'Tell me what you need, Matthew, and I will get it. I am sure you can doctor me as well sitting as standing.'
As Aelfrith fetched water, linen, and some salves, Bartholomew thought about Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.
He had been fond of Paul, and only now did the shock of his cruel death register. He took a shuddering breath, and blinked away tears.
Aelfrith drew a stool up next to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Bartholomew smiled weakly, and began to tend to the wound in the friar's scalp. It was a nasty gash, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Aelfrith had been rendered unconscious. He could easily have been insensible for several hours. Aelfrith, like Bartholomew, was showing signs of delayed shock, with shaking hands and sudden tiredness.
Bartholomew inspected the ragged edges of the wound, and prodded gently to ensure no splinters were left that might fester. Satisfied that it was clean, he bathed it carefully, and tied a neat bandage around the tonsured head. Aelfrith rose to leave. He leaned out of the window, looked both ways, and closed the shutters and the door.
"I am too befuddled to think now,' he said in a low voice, 'but I am appalled at the wickedness that has been perpetrated in this house of learning. Our Master is mistaken in his explanation, and I, like you, know that Augustus was dead last night. I believe there is sinister work afoot, and I suspect that you think the same. Now, I will say no more, but you and I will meet later today to talk when we are both more ourselves. Trust no one, Matthew. Keep your counsel to yourself.'
His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew's blood ran cold and he suddenly felt inutterably tired. He was a physician, dedicated to healing, and here he was being sucked into some vile intrigue where the taking of life appeared to be of little consequence. Aelfrith seemed to detect Bartholomew's feelings, for he gave one of his rare smiles, his eyes kindly.
'Rest now, Matthew. We will deal with this together, you and I.'
He was gone before Bartholomew could respond.
Bartholomew put cold wraps around his knee and hobbled over to his bed to lie down. It was gloomy in the room with the shutters closed, but he could not be bothered to get up to open them again. He thought of the drugged commoners. He should really go to see to them. And he should check the blacksmith's leg. And Agatha would be wondering what to do with the woman he left with her last night. And he had promised his sister he would visit today. With his thoughts tumbling around inside his head, Bartholomew fell into a restless doze.
Bartholomew awoke, the sun full on his face, to the sound of the bell ringing to announce that the meal was about to be served in the hall. Like most of the Colleges and hostels, the main meal at Michaelhouse was between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, with a second, smaller meal around four, and bread and ale for those that wanted it later in the evening.
He was disoriented for a moment, since he seldom slept during the day. Then the events of the morning came flooding back to him, and some of the brightness went out of the sunshine. Abigny had returned and opened the shutters, and was sitting at the table writing.
He turned when he heard Bartholomew moving, his face lined with concern.
'At last!' he said, "I have never known you to sleep a day away before. Are you ill?'
Bartholomew shook his head. His knee felt better already from the rest. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratching of Abigny's quill as he finished what he was writing, and Brother Michael's footsteps as he moved about in the room above. Brother Michael shared a room with Michaelhouse's two Benedictine students, but Michael's footsteps were distinct from the others' because of his weight. After a few moments, he came thundering down the stairs, bent on being the first to the meal. Bartholomew heard him puffing as he hurried across the courtyard.