‘How did you find it? Did she give it to you?’
‘She gave it to Richard in return for helping her to escape from St Radegund’s.’
Matilde chuckled. ‘So that is where all the nuns’ trinkets go. She gives them to various men in exchange for some undetermined help in the future. I actually heard her bargaining with William Heytesbury one night. He is her lover of the week. She seldom keeps them for longer than that; I think she is afraid they might do something dreadful, like try to hold a conversation with her, if they come to know her too well.’
Bartholomew recalled that Tysilia had once said much the same to him herself. ‘Did Brother Timothy tell you about the lepers wanting your charity?’ he asked, wishing that the Junior Proctor did not know that Matilde had been helping Michael.
She shook her head. ‘When was he supposed to come? I left the convent just before sunset.’
‘This afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said he would tell you that the lepers desperately need the food that you sometimes send them.’
Matilde nodded. ‘The Benedictines have been giving all their eggs and butter to the ailing Brother Adam this year. Janius has taken the lepers nothing for weeks now.’
‘Really,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, recalling that Janius had walked with them to Barnwell the day Timothy had been appointed Junior Proctor. He had carried a basket that he said contained food for the lepers, which he had covered with a cloth, ostensibly to protect it from the rain. Why had he taken a long walk in the drizzle, when it had not been an errand of mercy that had called him? Had it been to drop Walcote’s purse near the Barnwell Priory for the eagle-eyed Sergeant Orwelle to find? Was that why he had placed the cloth over the basket, so that Bartholomew and Michael would not see that it was empty of provisions for the lepers?
Bartholomew turned to Matilde. ‘I wish you would go to Trumpington, away from all this. I would feel happier knowing that you are safe.’
She reached up and touched him gently on the cheek. ‘I know. And I appreciate your concern. You cannot know what a comforting thing it is to have a good friend in a place like this, where nothing is ever what it seems.’
‘What do you mean? Are you referring to Tysilia again?’
Matilde shook her head slowly. ‘I do not know, Matthew. Perhaps we were wrong, and there is nothing more to that woman than an empty-headed wanton. She was certainly not feigning her pregnancy. I was surprised I had not noticed it before, given that it is so well advanced.’
‘It is true, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an excuse to come to threaten you.’
‘She really is with child,’ Matilde repeated. ‘Her habit disguises the signs to a certain extent, but there is no question about it. Poor Eve. The convent will miss the money the Bishop pays to have Tysilia looked after.’
‘They have not looked after her very well if they have allowed her to become pregnant. It would serve them right if the Bishop took her away.’
‘I defy anyone else to have done better,’ said Matilde. ‘The woman is virtually uncontrollable and I wonder whether she is not so much cunning as deranged.’
Bartholomew did not know what to think. He stayed for a while, drinking wine and listening to her stories about convent life until he felt himself begin to fall asleep. Cynric’s sudden appearance at the door as he was about to walk home almost made him jump out of his skin, and he was not sure whether to be relieved or more confused to learn that the two nuns had gone directly back to St Radegund’s and had not stopped at taverns or to meet any accomplices. When he reached Michaelhouse, he washed quickly and dived between his cold, damp bed-covers, his mind still whirling with questions as an exhausted sleep finally claimed him.
Chapter 12
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS EASTER SATURDAY, AND Bartholomew attended the obligatory services in the church, ate his meals and worked on his treatise on fevers, trying not to dwell on what he planned to do that night. As evening approached, the clouds thinned, so that flashes of golden sun started to break through them. By dusk, they had fragmented to the point where there were only a few banks left, each one tinged salmon pink as the sun began to set. Cheered by the sight of a clear sky after so many overcast days, Bartholomew wandered into the orchard, and watched the bright orange globe sink behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. The clouds seemed more vividly painted than he had ever seen them before; they glowed amber and scarlet, before fading to the shade of dull embers and then to a misty purple as darkness fell.
He walked back to his room, lit a candle and worked a little longer. The bell rang for the evening meal, and he picked at the unwholesome mess of over-boiled cabbage and under-cooked beans without much appetite. The students were in a state of barely suppressed excitement, because it was the last day of Lent and the following morning would see all the miserable restrictions lifted. When he found part of a dead worm in the shredded cabbage that was heaped on his trencher, Bartholomew began to long for the end of Lent, too.
Michael sat next to him, crowing triumphantly over the fact that Heytesbury had finally signed his document, somewhat unexpectedly, and that the nominalist would leave Cambridge the following day. Father William was of the opinion that Heytesbury should leave before he had given his lecture, because he did not believe that the Oxford man would be able to resist talking about nominalism. Bartholomew hoped William was wrong, certain that if one philosophical tenet passed Heytesbury’s lips, the man was likely to be lynched by rabid realists waiting for just such an opportunity.
While Michael tried to inveigle himself an invitation to consume another barrel of Langelee’s excellent wine, Bartholomew returned to his room and dressed for his pending raid on Brother Timothy’s quarters. He donned thick black leggings, a dark woollen jerkin, and shoes that were easier to climb in than his winter boots. He was reaching for one of his surgical knives, in case he needed to use force to prise open a window, when Cynric slipped into his chamber.
‘Are you ready?’ the Welshman asked. ‘If we can have this finished in less than two hours, I will still be able to go to the Easter vigil. Ely Hall is only a stone’s throw from St Mary’s Church.’
‘You plan to come with me?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You believe that Timothy and Janius are the killers?’
‘Not really,’ said Cynric bluntly. ‘But I do not want you to do this alone. I was hoping that the delay I recommended yesterday would make you see sense, but I can tell from the expression on your face that you intend to go ahead with this foolery.’
‘It is not foolery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tonight we will see a pair of murderers revealed.’
‘If you say so,’ said Cynric. ‘Well, come on, then. I do not want to be breaking into other people’s property all night. It is too cold.’
It felt odd to be gliding through the darkness with Cynric moving like a ghost in front of him. Bartholomew and Cynric had shared many such nocturnal adventures, which Bartholomew was sure the Welshman had enjoyed a lot more than he had, but the physician’s life had been blissfully free of them for several months. A familiar uneasiness settled in his stomach, and he found his hands were shaking, although whether it was as a result of the cold of the starlit night or from anticipation, he could not say.
He followed Cynric along the High Street, where everything was in complete darkness, except for one house where the cries of a baby indicated a sleepless night for the hapless parents. A dog howled in the distance, like a wolf, and the sound sent shivers down Bartholomew’s spine. He glanced up at the sky: the stars glittered and twinkled so brightly that he could make out the outlines of the road and the ditches below, even though the moon was temporarily hidden behind a lone cloud.