‘She buries herself in work,’ he replied. ‘Running Oswald’s business.’
‘He was wise to have left it to her,’ said Knyt. ‘Not only because it gives her life purpose while she mourns, but because I doubt your nephew would make a good clothier. Two dozen people rely on that venture for their livelihoods, and it is safer with Edith than with Richard.’
Bartholomew nodded, although he feared that Edith’s increasing familiarity with the work might teach her things about it that she would rather not know. Like most successful merchants, Stanmore had not always been gentle or honest, a fact he had carefully concealed from his wife and son. Bartholomew might have remained in ignorance, too, were it not for patients who had complained to him. Thus every time Edith spoke with a customer or opened a ledger, he braced himself for her dismay at discovering something upsetting. Ten weeks had passed without incident, but this only meant that the shock would be all the greater when she did find something amiss.
‘I am surprised Richard is still here,’ Knyt went on. ‘His father’s death left him a very rich man. I thought he would have dashed straight back to London to make the most of it.’
Bartholomew was also bemused by Richard’s disinclination to leave, as his lawyer-nephew had always professed to find Cambridge dull after the heady delights of the city. Unfortunately, rather than being a comfort to his mother, Richard was a strain. She could pretend he was sober and hard-working when he was away, but it was difficult to maintain the illusion when he was living under her roof.
‘Poor Stanmore,’ sighed Knyt. ‘His death was a great shock to us all. It was so sudden.’
It had certainly been a nasty blow for Bartholomew. Stanmore and Edith had raised him after the early loss of his parents, so his brother-in-law had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. He might have deplored Stanmore’s shabby antics in commerce on occasion, but he had loved him as a kinsman, and his death left a hole that would never be filled.
‘The University’s students are returning, I see,’ remarked Knyt, as they stepped on to a High Street that teemed with people. ‘Is it my imagination, or are there more of them than usual?’
‘There are more,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Most have come to apply to Winwick Hall. I did not realise that law was such a popular subject.’
Knyt laughed. ‘Stanmore always said you were unworldly, and that remark proves it. Everyone knows that law is the most lucrative of professions.’
‘Is it?’ Bartholomew had never cared about money. He could have made a princely living if he had confined himself to calculating horoscopes for affluent townsmen, but he was more interested in genuine diseases, which meant that most of his clients were poor and unable to pay.
‘Oh, yes. We have several lawyers in the Guild, and they are by far our richest members. And look at the clerk who founded Winwick Hall – one of the wealthiest men in the country.’
‘So I have heard.’
‘Yet I would not trade places with him for the world. He might have power and pots of money, but I live in a town I love, surrounded by friends and family. And as Secretary of the Guild, I spend a lot of time helping people in need. What could be more rewarding than that?’
They stepped aside to let a gaggle of young men strut past. Bartholomew supposed a senior member of the University and the Secretary of the Guild of Saints should have stood their ground, but he disliked pointless confrontation, and was glad Knyt did, too. Unfortunately, they were seen by several apprentices, who scoffed at their pusillanimity. He grimaced, suspecting there would be serious trouble between the newcomers and the town before long.
‘Have you heard about the recent increase in burglaries?’ asked Knyt, as they resumed their journey. ‘They coincide with Potmoor’s resurrection.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘Potmoor was not dead – he had catalepsia. And it is not my fault that he has decided to indulge in a crime spree either.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Knyt soothingly. ‘Personally, I do not believe that Potmoor is the culprit, and I spoke not to rebuke you, but to warn you – there are folk who think you are to blame, so be on your guard. We cannot afford to lose the only physician who helps the poor.’
‘Lawrence helps the poor.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Knyt. ‘But not to the same extent. Still, he is better than the other medici, who do nothing at all. Especially Surgeon Holm, who refuses point blank when I ask him to tend deserving cases. Incidentally, he seems to have taken a rather violent dislike to you.’
Bartholomew blushed. Holm’s antipathy stemmed from the fact that Bartholomew was in love with his wife. The surgeon was naturally indignant, but his homosexuality meant he was not in a strong position to win her back. The couple had reached an understanding about the friendships each wished to pursue, but that did not mean that Holm was happy about being cuckolded.
‘Will you be at the Cambridge Debate tomorrow?’ asked Knyt when there was no reply to his observation. ‘The Guild has agreed to sponsor the refreshments afterwards.’
‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The topic is apostolic poverty, with monks arguing that friars should denounce all property and privileges, and friars arguing that they should be allowed to keep them. I am neither a friar nor a monk, and do not want to be drawn into it.’
‘The monks have a point: friars are meant to live like Christ, simply and modestly. They are not supposed to lounge in luxurious convents, eating and drinking like princes. Monks, however, live contemplative lives, which you cannot do effectively with a growling stomach.’
Bartholomew laughed, amused by the simplification of a row that was threatening to tear the Church apart. ‘I would not repeat that to a friar if I were you. You would never hear the end of it.’
Michaelhouse was the third College to be founded at Cambridge, and had recently celebrated its thirty-fourth birthday, although opinions were divided as to whether it would see its thirty-fifth. Its founder had endowed it with a pleasant hall, land in the centre of town, several houses and a church, not to mention the tithes of four parishes. Unfortunately, mismanagement and a series of unwise investments meant it was currently on the brink of ruin.
Bartholomew opened the gate and paused for a moment to survey the place that had been his home for more years than he could remember, and that he would miss horribly should the pessimists be right about the seriousness of its financial problems.
The courtyard had once been grassed, but was now an expanse of mud. On the far side was the hall, a large but shabby building with kitchens below and two large chambers above. The bigger room was the refectory, which boasted a pretty but glassless oriel window and a sizeable hearth; trestle tables were set out for meals, then stacked away when it was time for lessons. The other room was the conclave, exclusive domain of the Master and his Fellows.
At right angles to the hall were the two accommodation blocks. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated wing, where he had been allocated two rooms. He shared one with his students, while the second, no more than a cupboard, was used for storing medicines. He sometimes slept there, as the other was a tight fit at night when all the students unrolled their mattresses.
He arrived to find his pupils involved in an angry-voiced discussion that stopped the moment he opened the door. His current senior student, a red-haired, merry-faced lad named Aungel, quickly began to read aloud from the copy of Theophilus’s De urinis that lay on his knees, although his guilty expression suggested the quarrel had been about something else entirely – probably the results of their illicit gambling ring, or the proscribed delights of the town’s prostitutes.