Upstairs, the other brothers moved about much more quietly, their sandalled feet making little sound.
Suddenly, something clicked in Bartholomew's memory.
As he had lain at the bottom of the stairs, after being pushed, he had heard footsteps, presumably those of his attacker. He could not tell where they came from, but they had been very distinct. The south wing, where the commoners roomed, was better built than the north wing where Bartholomew lived-he had climbed the stairs that morning without making a sound, which was why he had taken his attacker by surprise. While Bartholomew could usually hear sounds from the upstairs rooms in the north wing, he had noticed that the south wing was very much quieter, and the ground-floor residents were seldom disturbed by the people above them.
So how was it that he had heard footsteps? Had he imagined it? Bartholomew had the feeling that if he could work out why hearing the footsteps bothered him, he would be much nearer to solving the mystery.
For now, the answer eluded him, and he told himself that mysterious footsteps in the night were the least of his concerns compared to the murders of his colleagues.
He hauled himself up, splashed some water on his face, tried to restore some order to his unruly black hair, and made his way out. Abigny watched him.
'Well, you are in a mess,' he observed. 'No gallivanting off today, Physician. And I was going to ask you to come to St Radegund's with me to see my sister!'
Bartholomew glowered at him. Abigny's sister had been committed to the care of the nuns at St Radegund's following the death of her father a year before. It had not taken Abigny long to observe that his pretty, fair-haired sister and his scholarly chamber-mate seemed to find a lot to talk about. Philippa would give her brother no peace when he visited without Bartholomew in tow, though, for the life of him, Abigny could not imagine what his sister, who had spent the greater part of her life in convents, could ever have in common with the world-wise Bartholomew.
'Well, perhaps I should invite her to Michaelhouse,' he said playfully. 'You brought a woman here yesterday.
I must tell Philippa about that; I am sure she would find it most amusing.'
Bartholomew shot him another withering glance.
"I am going,' Abigny said cheerfully, and waved folded piece of parchment at Bartholomew. 'One advantage that a philosopher has over a physician is that he can write decent love poetry. So first, I am away to deliver this little work of genius to the woman of my dreams!'
' On which poor soul do you intend to prey this time?' asked Bartholomew drily. Abigny's innocent, boyish looks had cost many a girl her reputation, and Abigny seemed to move from relationship to relationship with staggering ease. He was playing with fire, for if Wilson had any inkling of what Abigny was doing, the philosopher would be forced to resign his fellowship and would have grave problems finding a teaching position elsewhere.
'That lovely creature from the Laughing Pig over in Trumpington,' replied Abigny, tapping Bartholomew on the shoulder gleefully. 'Now, do not look like that!
I met her at the house of your very own sister, so she must be a woman of stainless reputation.'
'At Edith's?' queried Bartholomew. Edith's large household in the village of Trumpington, two miles away, was run with the style and elegance that befitted her husband's wealth and status. Bartholomew could not imagine how Abigny had met a tavern-maid there.
'Three weeks ago, at the farewell meal she had for young Richard going to Oxford,' said Abigny, seeing Bartholomew's confusion. "I met her in the kitchens where she was delivering eggs. She has invited me to sample the fine ale that she has been brewing.'
'Giles, have a care! If you are caught frequenting drinking houses, Wilson will drop on you like a stone.
He wishes himself rid of you only slightly less than he wishes himself rid of me.'
'Oh, come, Master Physician,' laughed Abigny, 'not so gloomy on such a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am in love!'
Bartholomew looked dubiously at Abigny's piece of parchment. 'Can this barmaid read?' he asked.
Abigny laughed again. 'Of course not! So she will never know that the words here are actually a list of books I made for my students last term, now embellished with a few decorated capitals for appearance's sake. Parchment is expensive!'
Bartholomew noted that Abigny was wearing his best robe and hose, implying that his intentions towards the barmaid were serious, if not honourable. Abigny set off, jauntily waving his hat in the air before disappearing through the door. He put his head back a moment later.
'By the way,' he said, 'your smelly patient has gone. I sent Cynric to tell his family to come and remove him. I could not bear to have him lying about here all day! He said to tell you he would keep his side of the bargain whatever that might mean.'
He had disappeared a second time before Bartholomew had a chance to reply. Bartholomew saw that Alcote had emerged from his room on the next staircase, and, since his window shutters were open, had probably heard their entire conversation.
Of all the Fellows, Alcote was the one who most strongly disapproved of women having anything to do with the College. Bartholomew wondered if he had once been married and the experience had driven him to extremes.
Alcote was a small, fussy man who reminded him of a hen.
He was impatient with his less-able scholars, and most of his students lived in fear of his scathing criticisms.
Bartholomew made his way slowly round the courtyard, Alcote walking silently next to him.
'Has Augustus's body been found?' Bartholomew asked.
Alcote looked sharply at him. 'Augustus has not been found yet,' he said. 'We are still searching and will bring him to justice, never fear. He could not possibly have left the College grounds, because the porters at the main gates were awake all night owing to the racket the students were making in the hall, and they are positive no one went past them. And your woman kept Mistress Agatha awake all night weeping, and she says no one went out of the back gate.'
'How are the commoners?'
Alcote smiled gloatingly. 'Waking with dreadful heads and sick stomachs, and it serves them right,' he said. 'Next time they will beware of the sin of gluttony.'
Bartholomew stopped and grasped Alcote's wrist.
'Are they really sick? Why did no one wake me? I may be able to give them something to relieve the symptoms.'
Alcote freed his wrist. 'There is nothing you can do. They will live.'
Aelfrith joined them. 'How is your head?' Bartholomew asked.
'My years of learning must have given me a tough skull,' said Aelfrith with a smile, 'for I feel no ill effects at all.'
They reached the main building and climbed the wide spiral stairs to the hall. The borrowed tapestries that had adorned the walls the night before had been removed, but evidence of the festivities was still apparent in the scraps of food that littered the rushes on the floor, and in the smell of spilled wine.
'Master Abigny?' asked Wilson, his voice loud in the otherwise silent hall.
'Visiting his sister,' replied Brother Michael. It had become a standard excuse. Sir John had not been too particular about whether his Fellows chose to eat in College or not, but, judging from the way Wilson's mouth set in a firm line of displeasure, from now on Fellows would be required to attend meals in hall.
Alcote whispered something to Wilson that made the master's eyes glitter with anger. Bartholomew had no doubt that Alcote was telling him about what he had overheard. Spiteful little man, he thought, and turned to see Michael raising his eyes heavenwards, much to the amusement of the students at the end of the table.