Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew was sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and the noonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.
‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light, her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called music seared right through me.’
‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.
‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief. If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’
‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’
‘You are not pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’
‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work, and a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.
She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’
Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs, although it was a temporary solution at best.
‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’
He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.
‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’
‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be–’
‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’
She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire, heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry, but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.
It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.
‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’
Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the first time, Bartholomew wondered what made them so obviously fond of each other.
‘We are waiting for second opinions,’ explained Emma. ‘Although the Doctor has given me medicine to ease my pain. That horrible choir should be deemed a hazard to health!’
‘I rather enjoyed their performance,’ said Heslarton, going to stretch his hands towards the fire. ‘I cannot be doing with silly, warbling melodies, and that was music for real men.’
‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. It was not often the choir earned compliments.
‘Thomas has been hunting the yellow-headed thief again,’ said Emma. Her unfriendly expression told Bartholomew that this would not have been necessary had he done his duty the previous day.
‘But I did not catch him,’ said Heslarton. ‘Yesterday, we tracked him to Chesterton before he slid into the Fens. However, it seems he immediately slunk back and committed a second crime.’
‘You mean the theft from the Carmelite Priory?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The pilgrims said they were victims of a man with golden hair, but Brother Michael thinks it is a different culprit.’
‘Then Brother Michael is wrong,’ said Heslarton. ‘I spoke to the pilgrims, too: their villain wore a green tunic with gold embroidery, which matched the one ours sported. So it is the same fellow. He was bold, coming back when he knew a hue and cry had been raised for him.’
Emma’s expression hardened into something dark and unpleasant, revealing the ruthlessness that had allowed her to grow rich by capitalising on the misfortunes of others. ‘We will have him,’ was all she said, but the remark made Bartholomew’s blood run cold, and again he pitied the thief.
‘We will,’ agreed Heslarton. ‘I shall retrieve your box, Mother, never fear.’
She inclined her head, and her expression softened. ‘Thank you, Thomas. But do not forget that I want him, too. No one steals from me and lives to tell the tale. Metaphorically speaking, of course.’
Heslarton laughed. ‘I will continue to scour the marshes. Of course, we all know how easy it is for folk to disappear in them.’
They exchanged a look that gave Bartholomew the distinct impression that more was meant than folk lying low. Or perhaps it was his imagination – the room was poorly lit, and he was cold and tired. Fortunately, there was a knock on the door at that point, and he was saved from further fevered imaginings by the arrival of his fellow physicians.
When the plague had arrived in Cambridge, almost a decade before, it had left the town bereft of trained healers. In the years that followed, the survivors had died, retired or moved away, until only Bartholomew and Rougham remained to serve the entire town. Alarmed that his Fellow was beginning to spend more time on medicine than on teaching, Langelee had written to his former employer, asking whether he had any spare medici. Obligingly, the Archbishop had supplied Gyseburne and Meryfeld, both of whom had set up shop in their new home within a month.
Their arrival was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they shouldered some of the burden, but on the other, they preferred patients who could pay, so that while they relieved Bartholomew of his wealthy clients, they had left him the bulk of the poor. The outcome was a shorter list of customers, but a radically reduced income. Bartholomew did not care about the money for himself, but there was no point practising medicine if his patients did not receive the potions required to make them better, and he found he could no longer afford to buy all that was needed.
He watched his colleagues being shown into Emma’s solar. Meryfeld was short, plump and energetic, and was always rubbing his hands together, like a fly that had landed on meat. He smiled a lot, and his amiable charm meant he was already popular. By contrast, Gyseburne never smiled at all. He had long, grey hair, a narrow face, and Bartholomew had never seen him without a urine flask – Gyseburne was of the opinion that much could be learned from urine, and tended to demand samples regardless of the ailment he was treating.