‘Do you have one I can borrow? I will return it as soon as I am paid.’
‘You will forget,’ cried Quenhyth, clutching his bag protectively. ‘You care so little for your own money that you place scant importance on that belonging to others, too. But I am short of funds myself at the moment, and had to borrow from Deynman today. I was going to talk to you about a loan from one of the College hutches. I have no spare pennies to lend you.’
Bartholomew rifled through the contents of his medical bag, to see whether there was something that might be sold in order to raise the needed money. Or perhaps he could offer the landlord of the King’s Head a free consultation in exchange for a bed and a meal for Bess.
‘I have a penny,’ said Bess, reaching into the wrappings around her unsavoury person and producing a groat. ‘See? It is a pretty thing, is it not? It has the King’s face on it.’
‘Very pretty,’ said Bartholomew, pushing her hand back into her clothes and hoping no one else had seen it. A groat was a lot of money, and Cambridge was no place to flaunt coins, especially at dusk. Shadows writhed and slunk in dark doorways, where thieves waited to prey on the unwary and vulnerable. ‘Put it away, and do not show it to anyone else.’
As he glanced around, he became aware that a solution was at hand. Matilde was walking towards him, in company with the carpenter Robert de Blaston and his wife Yolande, who were staying with her. Their own house had collapsed during heavy winter snows, and Matilde had offered the family a home until it was rebuilt. Bartholomew was surprised to find himself maliciously gratified that Michael had had a wasted journey, if he had intended to visit her.
‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed in pleasure, breaking away from the Blastons and coming to greet him. The couple lingered, unwilling to leave her at a time when decent folk were already inside their houses and the town became the domain of a rougher, more dangerous breed of people. Matilde’s eyes strayed to Bartholomew’s shorn hair. ‘Oh, dear!’
‘Lenne’s handiwork,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was probably his last customer.’
‘Just as well,’ he heard Yolande mutter.
‘I heard about the deaths in the King’s Mill,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew. ‘Poor Bottisham. You must be upset, because I know you liked him. But I have been worried that you might become embroiled in another of those nasty plots.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, grabbing Bess’s arm as she made to return to the Great Bridge. Her attention had wandered and she was muttering about flying over the pretty water. He supposed Quenhyth was right, and she did intend to hurl herself over the edge, although he did not know whether it would constitute a deliberate attempt to end her life, or whether her wits were too scrambled to understand the consequences. Either way he intended to prevent it.
‘I mean there are rumours that the murders relate to the quarrel between the Millers’ Society and the Mortimers.’
‘They might,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although I am not sure how.’
‘Well, there is the fact that Bottisham was one of the lawyers the Mortimers hired to present their case, for a start. You do not need me to tell you that the whole thing stinks of corruption and malice, Matthew. You should take care.’
‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, although he felt he had no real cause for concern. He had nothing to do with either side in the dispute, and did not care who won the case that had been taken to the King.
‘I have something for you,’ said Matilde, turning to the carpenter and gesturing that he should pass her the basket he carried. She rummaged inside it and produced a package. Curiously, Bartholomew removed the protective cloth to reveal a scroll.
‘Trotula!’ he exclaimed in delight, turning it this way and that in an attempt to decipher some of the words in the failing light. It was a good copy, illustrated lovingly by some scribe who had taken pride in his work. ‘Her musings on childbirth.’
‘I thought you would like it,’ said Matilde, smiling at his pleasure. ‘It may come in useful soon, because Yolande has just informed me that she is pregnant again.’
‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding the woman in awe. It would be her eleventh. He looked at the scroll, then, with great reluctance, handed it back to Matilde. ‘I cannot accept this. It probably cost a good deal of money, and I do not have a penny.’
‘It is advance payment for the services you might soon render to Yolande,’ said Matilde firmly, pushing it back at him. ‘Do not refuse me, Matthew. I do not want to employ Rougham in your stead, and I might have to, if you will not accept your dues.’
‘Do not hire him for poor Yolande,’ said Quenhyth fervently. ‘Rougham knows nothing about women’s problems.’
‘Then thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected Yolande would need no help from him. She might require a midwife briefly, but she was strong and healthy, and he did not expect anything to go wrong with so experienced a mother. ‘I shall treasure it. But I need another favour. I do not want to leave Bess alone, but I have been summoned to attend Dickon …’
‘You want me to give her a bed,’ surmised Matilde. She smiled. ‘I am sure we can find a corner, although my little home is very crowded these days with an additional two adults and ten children under my roof. Another visitor arrived today, too. We are crammed inside like herrings in a barrel of salt.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he should be jealous. Matilde’s past life was a mystery to him; it was rumoured that she had been lady-in-waiting to a duchess before being dismissed for entertaining one too many courtiers at night. Matilde gave the impression that she found such stories amusing, and enigmatically refused to say whether or not they were true.
Matilde gave him a mischievous smile that made his heart melt, then cocked her head and started to laugh. ‘You will need to come for a drink when you finish with Dickon, Matthew. I can hear the little angel screaming from here!’
Bartholomew watched her walk away with Bess and the Blastons, then turned back to the Sheriff’s house. It was a sumptuous affair, with walls made from stone, rather than the more usual wattle-and-daub, and boasted a new roof that stood proudly above the rough reed thatches of its neighbours. It was three storeys high, and the Tulyets and their only son had enough room to claim a sleeping chamber to themselves, an almost unimaginable luxury when there were servants and retainers to be housed and a steady stream of visitors claiming hospitality.
Bartholomew knocked on the door, but the enraged screeches that emanated from within were so loud that he was obliged to hammer another three times before a harried maid finally heard him over the commotion. He was about to follow her inside when a tiny movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He spun round, and saw Thorpe leaning against a doorway, half hidden by shadows.
‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded, unsettled by the man’s sudden appearance.
Thorpe uncoiled himself and jerked a thumb in the direction of Tulyet’s home. ‘I was passing and heard a racket. I was curious to know what is going on. Will Brother Michael offer his services in the form of reinforcements tonight? It sounds as though you might need a burly arm.’
Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Dickon only fights battles he is sure he can win.’
‘Very wise,’ said Thorpe, giving one of his unpleasant grins before walking away towards the town centre. Bartholomew watched him go in puzzlement, but Dickon’s shrieks reached a new level in volume and the maid appealed to him with desperate eyes, so he pushed Thorpe from his mind and entered the small hell that comprised Dickon’s domain.
‘Thank God,’ said Tulyet shakily, when Bartholomew was shown into the solar. ‘I do not think I can stand much more of this. He is in pain, but we do not know what to do.’
Young Dickon, a child of just over three years of age, was perched on his mother’s knee. His little face was scarlet with the effort of producing the ear-splitting screams that were having exactly the effect he wanted on his long-suffering parents. Adults fluttered around him, trying to calm him with kisses and sweetmeats, while the little hellion learned how he might manipulate them even more efficiently in the future.