‘I did hear, but all I can tell you is what I said last time: that Aynton may well have written to me, given my important Court connections, but no letter from him ever arrived, delivered by Huntyngdon or anyone else.’
‘It is probably connected to his murder,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘So if you know anything about it – anything at all – now is the time to tell me.’
Narboro regarded him in alarm. ‘Are you saying that I might be in danger, too?’
‘You might,’ said Bartholomew, although the truth was that he had no idea. ‘So it is in your interests to help me catch the killer before he strikes again.’
‘But I cannot think of anything,’ wailed Narboro, unsettled. ‘Other than that Aynton must have wanted me to secure him a position at Court once he left the University.’
‘That cannot be it,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Aynton had no intention of abandoning Cambridge – just shedding the onerous responsibility of being Chancellor. Besides, Huntyngdon seemed to think the letter contained something important.’
‘Begging favours of me is important,’ countered Narboro huffily. ‘And I honestly cannot think of any other reason for him to write.’
‘Could it have been about your refusal to marry Lucy?’
Narboro blinked. ‘If so, it was none of his business!’
‘Perhaps he thought it reflected badly on the rest of us. A scholar’s word should be his bond, and you broke yours.’
Narboro glared at him. ‘It is all very well for you to take the moral high ground – your fiancée is pretty. Worse yet, I returned home to discover that Lucy had spent the last ten years educating herself. No man wants a wife who thinks she is cleverer than him.’
‘Especially if it is true,’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘Now, if there is nothing else, I am busy.’ Narboro stalked away, leaving the physician less sure than ever what to make of him.
Bartholomew began to traipse towards the castle, which stood on a hill to the north of the town, aiming to retrieve Huntyngdon’s purse from Dickon. His feet kicked dust from the hard-baked mud of the streets, staining his clean white shirt brown. He turned into Bridge Street and found it thronged with people. At first, he did not understand why it was so busy, but then he remembered that the bridge was closed so that Shardelowe could rebuild it.
He eased through the commotion, and saw that the only way to cross the Cam – short of swimming – was on Isnard’s ferry, as the ponticulus had also been shut. A long line of people waited to use it, and Bartholomew sagged, aware that queuing would be uncomfortable in the full glare of the sun.
Then it occurred to him that Dickon might be in the Tulyets’ Bridge Street house, rather than at the castle. He did a right-angled turn to cross the road, and for the second time that day, was assailed by the feeling that someone had just changed course to follow. But when he stopped to look behind him, there was nothing to see.
He knocked on Tulyet’s door and was admitted to the solar, a lovely room with views down the river. The window shutters were closed that day, though, partly to exclude the stink of the water, but mostly to mute the racket made by the builders and those waiting with ever-increasing fractiousness to use the ferry.
Neither Dickon nor his father was in, but Mistress Tulyet was there, entertaining a large group of women that included Edith, Matilde and Lucy. Rohese Morys was there, too, wearing a bodice that was cut precariously low, while her lips and cheeks were painted so scarlet that there was a moment when Bartholomew wondered if she was suffering from a hectic fever. Everyone’s attention was on a piece of embroidered cloth.
‘I am not sure,’ Lucy was saying. ‘It is rather coarse, and we want the best.’
‘I agree,’ said Rohese. ‘You should send these back, Matilde. After all, it is a day you will remember for the rest of your life, and it should be perfect.’
Bartholomew realised they were talking about his wedding, and was appalled that Lucy had chosen to discuss it with so many other people. He glanced behind him, wondering if he could escape before he was trapped into answering questions on matters he knew nothing about. He caught Matilde’s eye, and saw she was amused – not just by Lucy’s obsession with the event, but by his obvious fear that his own opinion might be solicited.
‘I doubt most of our guests will notice the table linen,’ she said, smiling indulgently at her friend. ‘Just the food and wine placed on it.’
‘I agree,’ said Edith. ‘These are perfectly adequate, Lucy.’
‘Oh, they are adequate,’ sniffed Lucy. ‘But who wants adequate when she can have exceptional? No, these will not do. We shall hold out for something better – something superior.’
‘What do you think, Matthew?’ asked Rohese, eyeing him as if he was something to eat, and making him more uncomfortable than ever.
‘Well,’ hedged Bartholomew, and glanced at Matilde, pleading silently for her help. She struggled not to laugh, but took pity on him.
‘Enough, Lucy. We should move on to the real business of the day: our school. We have raised sufficient funds to rent a house, pay teachers, and establish a small library. Now we must decide where to put it.’
‘On the High Street,’ replied Lucy promptly. ‘Where it will be seen.’
‘I think we should start somewhere more discreet,’ countered Edith. ‘We can always flaunt it later, once the University’s bigots have stopped trying to shut it down.’
‘Our current finances allow us to offer lessons not only in reading, writing and grammar,’ said Matilde, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, ‘but in arithmetic, music, philosophy, theology, Latin, Greek and medicine.’
‘Matt will teach the medicine, of course,’ put in Edith.
‘I will?’ gulped Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what his colleagues would say about it. Then it occurred to him that it would not matter, because he would no longer be a member of their University. He could do what he liked, no matter how controversial. He smiled suddenly at the prospect of new challenges, already compiling mental lists of the texts he would want his classes to study.
‘Stasy and Hawick offered their services,’ said Lucy with a moue of distaste. ‘But I declined. Our school will be a respectable place, and they are warlocks.’
‘But they can cure the flux and the common cold,’ countered Rohese.
‘So can Satan,’ said Lucy tartly. ‘But I would not advise soliciting his help, either. Stay away from them, Rohese. They are poison.’
At that point, Mistress Tulyet stood and indicated that Bartholomew was to follow her into the hallway, where they could speak without an audience. Unlike her husband, she accepted that Dickon was not very nice – she had seen him bully servants, terrorise other children, and make visitors think twice about calling. She might love her son, but she did not like or understand him, and was less inclined than Tulyet to excuse his disagreeable personality as a ‘passing phase’.
‘What has he done now?’ she asked, anxious and resigned in equal measure.
‘He borrowed something belonging to Huntyngdon and I need it back,’ replied Bartholomew, deciding that she had enough to contend with regarding her son, so did not need to hear that he was a corpse-robber as well. ‘Is he here?’
She winced. ‘He should be – we hired a tutor to teach him his letters.’
‘But?’ prompted Bartholomew.
‘But he escaped through a window, and is probably at the castle. Dick … well, he lays down the law, but he is secretly delighted to see such spirit in the boy. He thinks he will make a fine warrior one day.’