Bartholomew looked at the ground, uncomfortable with the lie. He had been limping, but it was because he had fallen off a horse the previous October, and the cold weather was creating an ache in a bone that was not long healed. It had happened when he and Michael had been travelling to Clare in Suffolk, and had been ambushed by robbers. Michael had decided the incident was God’s way of telling them they were not supposed to go, and had insisted on turning back. But Bartholomew liked what he had been told about the place, and intended to visit it later that year, when spring came.
‘We are very grateful for your efforts,’ said Fen politely.
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We shall continue our labours later, despite the fact that this is a holy day and we should be at our devotions. As should you.’
‘I know how to make my devotions,’ snarled Poynton. ‘I have been on twenty-two pilgrimages, and do not need a monk to direct me.’ He looked the Benedictine up and down in disdain.
‘We are on our way to the chapel now,’ said Fen, laying a warning hand on Poynton’s shoulder. ‘So we shall leave you to your business.’
‘I do not like them,’ said Michael, when they had gone. ‘Poynton is nasty, but Fen is worse. He pretends to be reasonable, but you can see the cunning burn within him. You think I say this because I despise his wicked profession, but you are wrong. I feel, with every bone in my body, that there is something untoward about that pardoner.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew.
He resumed his walk to Horneby’s chamber, reluctant to discuss it. Michael was always accusing pardoners of devious or criminal behaviour. Of course, he was often right – he had accumulated a lot of experience with felons as Senior Proctor, and his intuition did tend to be accurate. But Bartholomew had detected nothing odd about Fen, and thought the monk was letting his prejudices run away with him. Fen seemed perfectly amiable to him.
John Horneby did not look like a famous theologian. He was young, and his boyish appearance was accentuated by the fact that he was missing two front teeth. It was not many years since he had been an unruly novice, who preferred brawling to books, and Bartholomew was not the only one who had been amazed by his sudden and wholly unanticipated transformation into a serious scholar.
‘Bartholomew,’ he croaked, as the two scholars were shown into his room. There was nothing in it except a bed, a table for studying and a hook for his spare habit. The table was piled high with books, though. ‘I hope you can help me, because I cannot lecture like this.’
While Bartholomew inspected the back of Horneby’s throat with a lantern, Michael examined the tomes on the table. Books were enormously expensive, and the fact that Horneby had been allocated so many at one time was testament to the high esteem in which he was held by his Order.
‘You have the theories of Doctor Stokes,’ Michael said, picking up a manuscript. ‘The Dominican. I cannot say I admire his scribblings.’
‘He is dry,’ agreed Horneby. ‘But his thinking on the Indivisibility of the Holy Trinity is–’
‘Do not speak,’ advised Bartholomew. He adjusted the lantern, then turned to the lay-brother who had escorted them to the room. ‘This lamp flickers horribly. Is there a better one?’
‘That is the best light in the whole convent,’ replied the servant. ‘And I tested them all myself, because Prior Etone wants Master Horneby to be able to read at night. The honour of the Carmelites rests on the lecture he is to give, so we are all doing everything we can to ensure he is ready for it.’
‘And I am sure it will be superb,’ said Michael warmly, smiling at the Carmelite. ‘I have heard you speak on several occasions, and I know you will do your Order and our University justice.’
The monk possessed a fine mind himself and did not often compliment people so effusively, so Bartholomew could only suppose Horneby had reached heights he had not yet appreciated. Horneby started to thank him, but stopped when he caught the physician’s warning glance.
The friar’s throat was red, although Bartholomew could not see well enough to tell whether there were also the yellow flecks that would be indicative of infection. He decided to assume the worst, and prescribed a particularly strong medicine to rectify the matter. Horneby sipped the potion, and nodded to say the pain was less. Bartholomew left him to rest, cautioning the lay-brother to keep him quiet, and not to let him engage in unnecessary chatter.
As Bartholomew and Michael headed for the gate, the monk pulled a disapproving face when Poynton, Fen and the nuns sailed past the queue that had formed to pay homage to Simon Stock’s scapular, and pushed themselves in at the front. There were indignant glances from the other pilgrims, but no one seemed inclined to berate them for their selfishness, perhaps because Poynton and his companions were the Carmelites’ honoured guests. Idly, Bartholomew wondered whether the White Friars would be quite so accommodating if the quartet were not so obviously rich.
‘Do you think that scapular is genuine?’ Michael asked, speaking softly so as not to be overheard and offend anyone. ‘I find it hard to believe that a saint who lived almost a hundred years ago, and who died in some distant foreign city, should have left a bit of his habit in Cambridge.’
‘I am not qualified to say,’ replied Bartholomew. The notion that half the town considered him a warlock made him wary of voicing opinions that might be construed as heretical, even to Michael. ‘Prior Etone showed it to me yesterday, though. It looked old.’
‘So do I at times, but that does not make me an object to be venerated. Personally, I am uncomfortable with this particular shrine. For years, St Simon Stock’s vision was said to be a legend, with no actual truth to it, but all of a sudden here we are with a holy place of pilgrimage. And it is attracting pardoners, which cannot be a good thing.’
‘And thieves, if yesterday was anything to go by.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘The shrine will draw scoundrels as well as benefactors, and Poynton will not be the last visitor to fall prey to sticky fingers.’
By the time they returned to the College, it was nearing the hour when the rite of Purification would begin, so Bartholomew went to change into his ceremonial robes – a red hat and a scarlet gown that were worn only on special occasions. Unfortunately, both were looking decidedly shabby, but he could not afford to buy replacements when there was so much medicine to be purchased.
‘Ask your sister for new ones, sir,’ suggested Valence. ‘She can well afford them.’
It was true enough, and Edith was always pressing gifts of food and money on her impecunious brother, but he was acutely conscious of the fact that he was rarely in a position to reciprocate. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he disliked being so often in her debt.
‘She will give you whatever you want,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘And you repay her in kind, by turning out every time one of her husband’s apprentices has a scratch or a snuffle. She told me the other day that she was lucky to have you.’
‘Did she?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. Edith’s good opinion was important to him.
‘Yes, because she does not like any of the other physicians. She says Rougham is arrogant, Gyseburne is sinister, and Meryfeld does not know what he is talking about.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, deflated. He jammed the hat on his head, and supposed people might not notice the state of his clothes if the light was poor – it was an overcast day.
‘The feast this afternoon promises to be good,’ Valence chatted on happily. ‘Agatha has cooked a whole pig! We have not had a decent pile of meat in weeks!’