Bartholomew watched him hobble out of the yard, and turned his thoughts to what they had learned. The high priest and his two helpers could not have been the same three Bartholomew had encountered in the orchard, because the man who had bitten him had been huge, and none of the three satanists were above average size. Could one of them be Sybilla's 'average man'? Bartholomew supposed that must be likely, since the high priest had forecast that another murder would occur before the new moon, and how else would he know unless he or one of his associates was planning to commit the crime?
Perhaps the high priest was Nicholas of York, newly returned from the dead to frighten the living daylights out of his coven. The more Bartholomew thought about it, and the other tricks used to keep the congregation in a state of terror, the more he became convinced it was plausible. What better trick than to rise from the grave? Especially since so many people had seen him dead.
'We must do something to stop another murder being committed,' said Bartholomew to Michael, who had poked his head around the door of Bartholomew's room.
"I agree,' said Michael, moving to sit on the bed.
'But what do you suggest? Shall we entertain the town's prostitutes in College to keep them off the streets for the next few nights?'
'No, but I know something we might do,' said Bartholomew, making for the door. Michael scrambled to follow, grumbling.
Bartholomew went to the kitchen and asked Agatha where he might find the Lady Matilde. The large laundress offered to show him, leaving through the back gate and cutting across the fields so that no one would ask why they were missing church. She took them to a small timber-framed house in the area near St John's Hospital known as The Jewry, dating from the time when it had been the home of Jewish merchants before their expulsion from England in 1290. Despite the fact that it was barely light, the town was already busy, and people ran here and there preparing for the day's business.
'Matilde,' Agatha yelled at the top of her voice, drawing the attention of several passers-by. 'Customers!'
Bartholomew cringed, while Michael looked furtive.
Agatha gave them a knowing wink and marched into the house next door, calling loudly for yet another cousin.
Bartholomew saw one or two people nudging each other at the sight of a physician and a monk outside the door of a well-known prostitute. Michael pulled his cowl over his head as if he imagined it might make him anonymous, and succeeded in making himself look more furtive than ever.
Matilde answered the door and ushered them inside, smiling at their obvious discomfort. She brought them cups of cool white wine and saw that they were comfortably seated before sitting herself. The room was impeccably clean, with fine wool rugs scattered about the floor, and tapestries on the walls. The furniture was exquisitely carved, and the chairs were adorned with embroidered cushions. A table with quills and parchment stood next to the window, suggesting that Lady Matilde could write as well as speak Court French.
'How may I help you?' she said. She gave Michael a sidelong glance that oozed mischief. "I assume you have not come for my professional attentions?'
Michael, his composure regained now that he was away from public view, winked at her, and grinned.
'We have come to give you some information,' said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could side-track them by flirting. 'We cannot reveal our sources, but we have reason to believe that there will be another murder in the town before the new moon.'
She looked at him intently, all humour gone from her face. The new moon is due in four days. When one is out at night, one knows these things,' she added, seeing Michael's surprise. She stood and went to look out of the small window, drumming her long, slender fingers on the sill as she thought.
Bartholomew watched her. She was indeed an attractive woman, with long, honey-coloured hair twisted into a braid that hung heavily down her back. She was tall, and carried herself with a grace that he had seen in few women other than Philippa, his betrothed. The thought of Philippa made him look away from Matilde guiltily: he had scarcely given her a thought since the business with the University chest had begun, and he realised he had not even remembered to write to her the day before the first Sunday he had not sent her a letter since she had left for London two months previously.
Thank you for telling me this,' said Matilde, turning to them, her voice breaking across Bartholomew's thoughts.
"I will ensure the word gets around to my sisters that they take extra care.'
'Sisters?' queried Michael, his green eyes dancing merrily.
'Fellow whores, Brother,' she said, with a gaze that would have discomfited most men.
Michael stared back unabashed, favouring her with what Bartholomew could only describe as a leer. 'Sisters mean something different to us holy men,' he said.
She smiled at him. 'Well, now you know what it means to us prostitutes,' she said.
Bartholomew had trouble dragging Michael away, and wondered yet again how someone with Michael's obvious interest in women could have chosen a vocation that demanded chastity. Bartholomew knew that Michael regularly broke other rules of his Order — he nearly always started eating before grace, he did not keep his offices, and his lifestyle was far from simple. Bartholomew wondered which other rules the large monk might bend or break.
They finally took their leave of Matilde, and walked home as early morning sun bathed the town. The High Street seethed with carts heading to the Fair, loaded way beyond safety limits with clothes, cheeses, meats, animals, furniture, and pots and pans. The drains at the side of the street were overflowing from the rain the night before, and great puddles of brown ooze forced Bartholomew and Michael to make some spectacular leaps to avoid them. In one, a sheep bleated pitifully as it stood up to its neck in mire, while a farmer tried to coax it out with a handful of grass.
Since they had missed breakfast, they bought hot oatcakes from a baker. Bartholomew winced as the coarse grain and particles of stone grated against his teeth. When he had finished, he was still hungry, but the few pennies in his pocket were not enough to buy one of the delicious pies carried on a baker's tray, nor the soft white bread carried in the basket of another. He saw some children jostle the man with the bread, and one of them escaped with a loaf. Two of the children were the tinker's daughters, and Bartholomew wondered if their younger brother were still alive.
Michael stopped off to report to de Wetherset, while Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse to test his students on the Galen that they were supposed to have read. He was not pleased to discover that they had become side-tracked before finishing the first paragraph.
'Brother Boniface says that predicting the outcome of a disease is tantamount to predicting the will of God, and that is heresy,' said Gray in explanation.
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.
Surely Boniface could not claim Galen's works were heretical? They had been standard, uncontroversial texts for physicians for hundreds of years. In fact, they were so old that newer discoveries were beginning to throw some of Galen's theories into question.
He picked up a cup from the table and held it in the air. 'Brother Boniface. If I allow this to fall from my hand, what will happen?'
Boniface eyed him warily. "It will drop to the floor,' he said.
'And if I drop a lighted candle into these dry rushes, what will happen?'
They will burn.'
'You are making predictions about events. Why is predicting the outcome of a disease any different?' "It is not heresy to predict the obvious,' said Boniface coldly. "It is heresy to predict whether a man lives or dies.'