‘He said that to you?’ asked Bartholomew.
Valence grinned. ‘He did – but he is right: I would do anything to get the chalices back. Gosse is a terrifying man, but it would not stop me from fabricating stories to convict him.’
‘The Sheriff will be home soon, and he will put an end to such antics,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment on the lad’s ethics. ‘Do you know why Gosse threw mud at Edith?’
‘Well, he was in the Market Square, and Joan started to chat to him. Your sister asked how she knew him, and Joan said Gosse hailed from Clare, which is near her home village of Haverhill.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then he started to hint that he would like some ribbon, and your sister thought he should buy his own. When she pulled Joan away, he grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and threw it. I wanted to punch him, but she said you would not approve. Personally, I thought you would not have minded.’
‘I would have minded,’ said Bartholomew. He softened. ‘Although I appreciate you looking out for her.’
‘Who will do it while we are away?’ asked Valence, worriedly. ‘Her husband has gone to Lincolnshire, and I dislike the notion of her being unprotected. Perhaps I should forgo this exciting journey, and make sure Gosse does not hurl anything else in her direction.’
‘Cynric will stay with her.’
‘Then who will look after us?’ Valence’s expression was deeply anxious, but then it cleared. ‘You will! I had forgotten that you are a seasoned warrior who fought at Poitiers. Cynric is always talking about it. Of course we will be safe with you!’
Chapter 6
Bartholomew and Michael made the most of their last day in Cambridge. The monk engaged in a concerted effort to identify the man who had attacked Langelee, and questioned Shropham about Carbo, but his efforts came to nothing. A lead relating to the ambush transpired to be the drunken imaginings of someone who had not been there, while Shropham merely turned his face to the wall and refused to speak. Short of punching the truth out of him – and Michael was not a violent man – he was stumped as how to proceed. He returned to the College late that night in a dark mood, worried about the journey he was being forced to make, and reluctant to leave Cambridge when there were so many matters there that clamoured for his attention.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew passed the morning explaining why his students needed to learn the texts he had selected, making it clear that those not familiar with them by the time he returned could expect to be set exercises that would keep them indoors for a month. He did not really expect trouble. His lads were full of high spirits, but most were keen to learn and took their studies seriously. They were also acutely aware that a lot of men wanted the chance to study at Michaelhouse, and that Langelee would have no compunction in replacing anyone who misbehaved.
The afternoon was spent seeing patients. Some had summoned him, while others suffered from long-term maladies that required regular visits. He ensured all had enough medicine to last for the next week, then issued Paxtone with detailed instructions on what to do if there was a problem.
Sincerely hoping his colleague’s expertise would not be required – he liked Paxtone, but did not want him near his patients unless there was absolutely no alternative – he walked to the Dominican Friary, where one of the novices had been injured. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, because the other students were all at a lecture in King’s Hall, and were delighted when the case transpired to be a possible cracked skull.
‘How do we test for a cranial fracture?’ he asked, taking the patient’s head gently in his hands.
‘We look it up in Frugard’s Chirurgia,’ replied Risleye promptly.
‘And what happens if we do not have a copy to hand?’
‘We squeeze the bones together, to see whether they grate,’ said Tesdale, with rather ghoulish glee.
Bartholomew winced. ‘Not unless we want to kill him.’
‘Osa Gosse did this,’ said Prior Morden, holding the novice’s hand comfortingly, but staring fixedly in the opposite direction so that he would not see anything the physician might do. ‘He and James had words yesterday, and threats were made. Well, it seems Gosse acted on his violent words.’
‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ Bartholomew asked of James. A serious assault would give Michael the excuse he needed to arrest the fellow, and the monk would be much happier leaving his town if the felon was under lock and key.
‘Who else could it have been?’ asked James miserably. ‘The fight I had with the Franciscans was days ago now, and they will have forgotten that I called them villainous knaves whose mothers–’
‘James!’ exclaimed Morden, shocked. ‘You promised to leave the Grey Friars alone.’
‘They provoked me,’ objected James. ‘They said I was a dim-witted lout with no manners.’
‘Gosse,’ prompted Bartholomew, suspecting the Franciscans might have a point. ‘Can you be sure he was the one who attacked you today?’
‘No,’ admitted James reluctantly. ‘The villain wore a hood, and I could not see his face. I suppose it might have been a Grey Friar. They are certainly the kind of men to attack innocent Dominicans.’
Bartholomew was disappointed, but his duty was to treat the wound, not investigate the crime. He was just assessing James’s eyes when Morden suddenly jumped to his feet and shot towards the door.
‘I do not have the stomach to watch you crack open his skull and prod whatever you find inside,’ the Prior explained. ‘Do not look frightened, James. You will not be able to see it.’
‘Really, Father,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘I intend nothing so dramatic. Watch–’
But Morden had gone, leaving a terrified novice behind him, and it took the physician some time to convince James that cracking and prodding had no part in his plans.
When James was calm, he resumed his examination. There was no obvious depression or swelling, but there was a worrying pain caused by a boot stamping on an ear. He did not think the skull was fractured, but decided to apply Roger of Parma’s test to make sure. James was instructed to stop up his mouth, nose and ears, and to blow as hard as he could. The escape of air or tissue would imply a fissure.
‘But my brains will fly out if I do that,’ James wept, distraught. ‘And Prior Morden says I am short of them, so I cannot afford to lose any.’
‘You will not,’ said Valence kindly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew knows what he is doing.’
‘Besides,’ added Tesdale practically, ‘brains are too glutinous to fly – they are more prone to ooze. And I shall catch any that dribble out and shove them back in for you.’
‘Do not be a baby,’ ordered Risleye, regarding the novice disdainfully. ‘And if you do not trust your physicians – us – then you deserve to die. But you will not, because I will not let you.’
Strangely, it was Risleye’s cold arrogance that convinced James to do as he was told. Afterwards, satisfied the pain was caused by simple bruising, Bartholomew showed his pupils how to make a poultice to ease the ache, and when James said he was hungry – a good sign – he sent Risleye and Valence to the kitchen for broth.
While they were gone, Bartholomew found himself recalling how eagerly Yolande had devoured Isnard’s stew the previous evening. He suspected her children were also hungry, and did not want to return from Suffolk to find them half-dead from starvation. He handed Tesdale the money Morden had paid him to tend James, and told him what he wanted bought. The student was bemused.