‘I am sure it is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I only hope it never runs away. I would not like to think of you wandering the town shouting “Black Bishop of Bedminster” as you try to lure it back.’
Richard scowled, and then swung himself up into his saddle. The horse pranced and reared at the weight, and Bartholomew was not entirely sure that Richard had the thing under complete control. He watched from the safety of the stables, noting that the saddle was a highly polished affair with a pommel that gleamed a dull gold in the first glimmerings of day. Such an object would have cost Bartholomew at least a year’s salary.
Richard’s clothes were equally expensive looking. He had abandoned the soft wool hose and buttoned shirt he had worn the previous night, and sported leather riding boots with silver spurs, a black tunic with flowing sleeves and dark grey hose, all topped off with a long black cloak that he arranged carefully over the back of the saddle so that it would show off his finery to its best advantage. The gold ring that pierced his ear gleamed even in the dim light of early morning, and the smell of the scented goose-grease, with which he had plastered down his unruly locks and beard, was strong enough to mask even the odour of horse.
‘What do you intend to do in the town?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what the people of Cambridge would say when they saw such an elegant peacock strutting around their streets flaunting his wealth. Richard would be lucky if he survived the day without someone hurling a clod of mud – or worse – at such a brazen display of affluence. ‘I have to attend mass at St Michael’s Church, and then spend the morning teaching.’
‘Perhaps I will accompany you,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘Your new Master, Ralph de Langelee, has connections at court, and would be a useful man to know. He is an unmannerly lout, but I will have to turn a blind eye to that, if I am to make my fortune in Cambridge.’
‘It looks to me as though you have already made it,’ said Bartholomew.
Richard grinned. ‘I will do better yet if profitable business keeps coming my way. But I doubt I will stay long in Cambridge; it is too rural for a man like me. I will go to London soon – now there is a place for a man who intends to make his way in the world! Opportunities in London are like leaves on the trees.’
Bartholomew heartily wished his arrogant, ambitious nephew would take his black horse and ride to London that very morning. Eager to escape from the young man’s company as quickly as possible, he climbed on a bale of hay and made an awkward transition from it to the back of the palfrey. Fortunately, Michael had selected a mount that was fairly tolerant, and although it was startled by the weight that suddenly dropped on to it, it stood its ground. Hugh the steward opened the gate, and Bartholomew and Richard began the short journey to Cambridge.
It was a Tuesday, and farmers and peasants were already making their way to the town with carts and sacks full of goods to sell in the marketplace. Six dirty-white geese were being herded along by a listless boy who wore a piece of sacking as a cloak; the birds honked balefully as faster-moving pigs were driven through their midst. Chapmen with heavy packs slung across their shoulders plodded through the mud left by the rains of the previous night, cursing as their feet skidded and slipped in the treacherous ruts that formed the road. Richard complained bitterly about the stench left by the pigs, and only stopped when Bartholomew lent him a thick bandage to wrap around his mouth and nose. Bartholomew had seen courtiers do the same, claiming to be more easily offended by unpleasant odours than the common folk. The physician supposed his nephew hoped to give the impression with his silly bandage that he, too, was nobly born.
They were just passing the Panton manor on the outskirts of Cambridge, when they saw a small group of nuns standing at the side of the road. The nuns’ heads were swathed in white veils that were bright in the dim light, and their cloaks were splattered with muck from the road. One of them glanced up, and apparently decided that Richard’s fine horse, elegant apparel and face bandage marked him as a man of breeding and wealth and therefore someone she might ask for help. A pale hand flagged him down. Richard’s attempt to leap from his horse and stride boldly to her rescue was marred only by the fact that his spur caught in the stirrup: Bartholomew’s timely lunge saved him from a tumble in the mud.
‘How might we be of assistance, ladies?’ Richard enquired suavely, unabashed by an incident that most people would have found acutely embarrassing. Bartholomew envied his resilience and confidence.
‘It is our Prioress, Mabel Martyn,’ said one of the nuns. She was a tall woman, with dark eyes and smooth brown hair that poked from under her wimple. She looked the splendid figure of Richard up and down in a brazen assessment of his physique. ‘There is something wrong with her.’
‘My uncle is a physician,’ said Richard generously. ‘He will heal her.’
‘I thought you said physicians were charlatans, incapable of healing anyone,’ muttered Bartholomew, pushing the reins of his horse at his nephew and walking to three other nuns, who were clustered around a figure on the ground.
‘We are from St Radegund’s Convent,’ announced the young woman. ‘We are nuns. Well, I have taken no final vows yet, so I suppose I am not.’
‘I hope you do not decide upon a life of chastity,’ said Richard gallantly. ‘It would be a sin to shut away such beauty in a cloister.’
‘I agree,’ said the woman fervently. ‘Although better that than being married to some old man with no teeth who sleeps all the time. I do not find gums very attractive.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Richard, apparently unable to think of any other response to her peculiar revelations.
She beamed at him, and Bartholomew realised that she was a little slow in the wits and that a cloister might be the safest place for her. He turned his attention to the Prioress, who lay semi-conscious in the long grass at the side of the road. Her wimple was askew and her breathing deep and loud. The unmistakable smell of wine was thick in the air around her.
‘I think she had a sip too much at breakfast,’ he said carefully. His natural good manners rebelled against bluntly announcing that Prioress Martyn of St Radegund’s Convent was drunk.
‘But we have not had breakfast yet,’ objected the young woman, missing his point entirely. ‘So you must be wrong.’
‘Why are you out so early?’ asked Richard, voicing what Bartholomew had also been wondering: it was unusual to see nuns travelling towards their convent at such an hour in the morning. ‘Have you been to mass at Trumpington Church?’
‘We have been nowhere,’ said the young woman. ‘We are still coming back from last night.’
Richard looked confused, and one of the others hastened to explain. She was tall and strong-looking, about forty years of age, with thick red hair and eyes that were too wise for a nun.
‘We were invited to dine at the house of Roger de Panton yesterday. Time passed more quickly than we thought, and we have only just realised that we need to hurry so as not to be late for prime.’
Bartholomew pulled something from underneath the snoring Prioress and held it up for the others to see. It was an empty wineskin. He supposed that the Prioress’s last tipple was more than her constitution could bear after what sounded like a heavy night.
‘I told you to dispose of that, Tysilia,’ said the older woman sharply.
Tysilia pouted sulkily. ‘I did, Dame Wasteneys. I took it when she was in the latrine.’
‘Perhaps she has more than one,’ said Bartholomew, hauling the semi-conscious woman to her feet. She groaned, and opened bleary eyes. ‘The walk in fresh air will do her good. When you arrive home, give her plenty to drink and make sure she has a good breakfast.’