‘Tomorrow, after Gonville,’ offered Bartholomew, content just to lean against the wall and watch the sunset. ‘Will it count as a consultation for the Corpse Examiner, and earn me fourpence?’
Michael glanced at him sharply before realising he was being teased. When the gate creaked, his expression hardened. ‘Here comes Quenhyth, to pester you with questions again. Is no time sacred to the boy? Can he not even allow you a few moments of peace at the end of the day? He is worse than a wife!’
‘He is all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is just keen to learn.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Quenhyth, approaching with his hat held in his hands. ‘But Sheriff Tulyet has asked you to go to his house. His son has had an accident.’
‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew in annoyance. ‘Not Dickon again! This will be the third time they have summoned me in as many weeks, and Dickon is not the easiest of patients.’
Michael agreed. ‘The boy is a monster. I do not envy you your duty, Matt, not even for a goblet of Dick Tulyet’s fine wine.’
‘You will not come with me, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed. ‘It would be good to have reinforcements.’ He did not add that it would be especially good to have someone of Michael’s size when dealing with Tulyet’s fiendish brat.
‘I will not,’ said Michael firmly.
‘I will,’ offered Quenhyth. ‘The messenger said something about a dried pea in the ear, and we learned about ears last week. I shall fetch your bag – assuming that Redmeadow has not been in it, stealing its contents, like he takes my ink and parchments.’
‘Redmeadow is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, not looking forward to the imminent battle with Tulyet’s infant son, or to having Quenhyth with him while he did it.
Quenhyth gave him a look that indicated he knew better. They set off, and Michael accompanied them as far as the Jewry, an area that had earned its name because it had once housed a number of Jewish moneylenders. They had been expelled from the country the previous century, although not before the King had confiscated all their property. When the monk stopped opposite King’s Childer Lane and claimed he had business nearby, Bartholomew was suspicious. The woman he secretly loved lived in the Jewry, and he suspected Michael planned to visit her and take advantage of the fact that she kept an excellent cellar, a good kitchen and cushioned benches around a pine-scented fire. He enjoyed spending evenings with Matilde himself, and was envious that Michael should be able to do so while he was obliged to see Dickon. He watched the monk stride into the maze of tiny alleys with considerable resentment.
Quenhyth chattered as they walked the remaining distance to the handsome house on Bridge Street, where the Tulyets lived. Bartholomew listened reluctantly, not especially interested in the diagnosis that Cheney’s partiality to blood pudding rendered him choleric, or in the intelligence that Deynman had been seduced by Isobel de Lavenham. However, he was interested in the news that Deynman had been the butt of jokes following his announcement of Chancellor Tynkell’s pregnancy, and was determined to prove himself correct. He closed his eyes: preventing Deynman from doing something dreadful to the University’s figurehead was yet another task for which he would have to find time.
He was about to approach Tulyet’s house when he saw a lonely figure standing on the Great Bridge. Because it was almost dark, the bridge was deserted, and the felons who were repairing it had been escorted back to the Castle. The figure was Bess, and she leaned over the scaffolding-swathed parapet in a manner that was far from safe. The way she stood, cupping her face in her hands, jogged his memory so sharply that his hand froze halfway to the door.
‘Katherine Mortimer!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘That is who Bess reminds me of.’
‘One of the Mortimer clan?’ asked Quenhyth, who had not been in the town when the baker’s wife was still alive. ‘Bess has Edward’s colouring, I suppose.’
‘Katherine was his mother. The likeness has been nagging at me ever since I first saw Bess. It is just a coincidence. Bess is too young to be Katherine – and I was with Katherine when she died, anyway. But the likeness is uncanny.’
‘Perhaps they are related,’ suggested Quenhyth. ‘And that is why Bess came here from London.’
‘London?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is that where she usually lives?’
‘So she says. It is a big city, with thousands of inhabitants, so it is possible. But perhaps she came here because her addled wits reminded her that she has kin in the town.’
‘What do you think is wrong with her?’ Bartholomew asked, curious to know whether his student would remember what he had been taught about ailments of the mind.
‘Melancholy?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Perhaps she is about to jump.’
‘Then we should stop her,’ said Bartholomew, hurrying towards the bridge.
‘We should not,’ said Quenhyth, snatching at his sleeve and missing. He sighed and ran to catch up. His teacher tended to move very quickly when he thought someone needed his help. ‘We should let her choose her own destiny, sir. She is clearly unhinged and deeply unhappy, so why should we condemn her to more misery by forcing her to live?’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you know what the Church teaches about suicide? And what it teaches about those who stand by and do nothing while it happens?’
‘I know what you think,’ countered Quenhyth. ‘You do not always condemn suicide when you think the victim has good reason for ending his life. And you do not always commit him to a grave in unhallowed ground, either. I know exactly how Father Ailred of Ovyng perished – he was a suicide, without question – but he lies peacefully in St Michael’s churchyard.’
Quenhyth was right, and Bartholomew saw he would lose that particular argument. He turned his attention to Bess. He approached slowly and took her hand when he was close enough, so he could ease her away from the edge of the bridge. She regarded him with her flat black eyes, and then settled her gaze on Quenhyth.
‘Where is my man?’ she asked softly.
‘I do not know your man,’ said Quenhyth stiffly, evidently loath to be addressed by someone who was addled. ‘When did you lose him?’
‘He has gone away,’ she whispered. ‘Many moons ago. He went, and he never came back.’
‘I am sorry for you,’ said Quenhyth, not sounding at all sympathetic. ‘But you should step away from the bridge, madam. It is narrow, and a cart might come past and spray you with filth.’
‘Filth,’ said Bess blankly.
‘Muck,’ elaborated Quenhyth helpfully. ‘Dirt. Sewage. You know.’
‘I know,’ replied Bess distantly. ‘Have you seen my man? He went away.’
‘She is raving,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, impatient to be away. ‘You have saved her from death, so we should leave her, and go to see Dickon before he pushes the pea so far into his ear that you will need to remove it through his nose.’
‘We cannot leave her alone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the Canons at the Hospital of St John will take her again. She seems distressed this evening, and I do not want her to harm herself.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Bess, looking from Bartholomew to Quenhyth with desperation in her eyes. ‘Please take me to my man.’
‘What is his name?’ asked Bartholomew gently.
‘My man,’ echoed Bess softly. ‘He has a name. He has gone away.’
‘And so should we,’ said Quenhyth, growing even more impatient. ‘Give her a penny, sir. She can go to the King’s Head and buy a bed in the stable loft.’
‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his empty purse.
Quenhyth regarded him in disbelief. ‘But we have visited seventeen patients over the last five days. They must have paid you something.’