‘I have been busy,’ said Bartholomew defensively, supposing it was not the time to say he would not be going. Living among so many clerics meant he was bored with theology.
‘That is no excuse, Matthew,’ said Etone severely. ‘You cannot be–’
‘Will you admonish everyone who crosses your path today, Father?’ croaked Horneby, while Welfry started to laugh. ‘Leave poor Bartholomew alone, or he may decline to come the next time we call him, and where would that leave us? Meryfeld is little more than a folk healer, while there is something about Gyseburne that I do not like at all.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Etone. ‘He is distinctly sinister. And damned furtive, too.’
‘True,’ added Welfry. ‘I asked where he lived while he studied at Oxford – I was at Balliol, you see – but he refused to say. He would not even submit to a pleasant chat about the taverns we both might have frequented. I confess, I was mystified. But perhaps all physicians are curious creatures.’ He winked at Bartholomew, to show he was teasing.
But Etone took him at his word. ‘They are, and Matthew is a “curious creature”, too, I am afraid to say. He skates very close to the edge of unorthodoxy.’
‘He does what is necessary to help his patients,’ countered Horneby. ‘Patients like me. So please leave him be, and let him do what he came here for.’
Bartholomew applied a poultice to Horneby’s neck, feeling that the best cure was rest and time. The inflammation was receding nicely, although he had no idea whether Horneby would be completely well by the time he was scheduled to speak. They would just have to wait and see.
Welfry went with Bartholomew when he left, and they walked across the yard together. They were momentarily distracted from their discussion of Horneby’s lecture when one of the pilgrim nuns loudly announced that the shrine was dirty, and needed sweeping.
‘Then I will take the holy scapular to the chapel,’ said Fen. ‘We do not want dust settling on it.’
He disappeared inside, and emerged moments later with the reliquary under his arm. Poynton bustled forward to help, although Fen was perfectly able to carry it by himself.
‘St Simon Stock may be grateful enough to confer a few blessings on you,’ Poynton declared by way of explanation. ‘And I am not a man to miss out on blessings.’
The nuns heard the remark, and promptly descended on the box, too, jostling as they vied for a handhold. Under such circumstances, it took some time to tote it the short distance to the chapel.
‘Perhaps we should stand back,’ chuckled Welfry. ‘There are more likely to be thunderbolts than blessings over that display of piety. Have you ever been on a pilgrimage?’
Bartholomew hesitated. He had visited several sacred sites, including Rome and Santiago de Compostela, but only because he had happened to be passing. His real purpose has been to locate the woman he loved, who had left Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. He had scoured the civilised world, but had found no trace of her. Michael had recently taken to assuring him that Matilde was safe and well, but it had been three years since she had left, and Bartholomew was finally beginning to accept that something terrible had happened to her.
‘You have,’ he said, deftly diverting the question by pointing at the discreet signaculum pinned to Welfry’s habit. ‘Although it is not a token I recognise. It looks like a shoe.’
‘It is,’ said Welfry with a smile. ‘From the shrine of John Schorne in North Marston, who conjured the Devil into a boot. I visited it last year, and found it just as thronged with devout pilgrims as Canterbury, Walsingham or Hereford. I wear it to serve as a reminder.’
‘A reminder of what?’
‘Of the narrow gap between the sacred and the profane – the acceptable and the unacceptable. As you know, I love a practical joke. Well, this boot is to make me remember that my jests must always be amusing, but never irreverent or unkind. Like the physician Hippocrates, I aim to do no harm.’
Bartholomew started to ask him about the illumination of St Mary the Great, but Welfry embarked on a comical account of the Carmelites’ Purification feast, when the two nuns had made a drunken play for Fen. The pardoner had fled in alarm, leaving Poynton to offer himself as a substitute. Welfry was a clever raconteur, and Bartholomew was still smiling when they parted company and he knocked on the door of the Gilbertine Priory.
‘There you are,’ said Prior Leccheworth, an old man with a shock of jet-black hair. It looked incongruous with his wrinkled face, and Bartholomew often wondered whether he dyed it. ‘One of my canons has hurt himself playing camp-ball, and there is blood. He says it is nothing, but…’
‘Camp-ball?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that a suitable pastime for ordained priests?’
‘He is on our team,’ explained Leccheworth. He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed. ‘For the annual match between us and the Carmelites the day after tomorrow. We usually select ruffians from the town to represent us, but Brother Jude is a talented player, and we thought he might help us win. We have recruited your Master, too, so we are in with a good chance this year.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, although he was still amazed to learn that a canon should be taking part in such a wild event – and that his prior was willing to let him do so.
He followed Leccheworth across the yard and out on to the huge field at the back of the convent. Sitting on the grass was the largest Gilbertine he had ever seen.
‘It is a trifle,’ said Brother Jude, revealing an injury that would have made most men swoon. ‘A scratch. Sew it up, and let me get back to the practice.’
Bartholomew sent for water to rinse the gash, then took needle and thread and began to insert stitches. He was astonished when the big man declared the pain insignificant, because he knew it was not. It was easy work, though, because Jude sat perfectly still, and there was none of the writhing and squirming he usually had to contend with.
‘It should heal neatly,’ he said eventually, sitting back and inspecting his handiwork.
‘Damn!’ muttered Jude, disappointed. ‘I was hoping for an impressive battle wound. By the way, has Prior Leccheworth asked whether you will be Official Physician for Friday’s game?’
‘Not yet,’ said Leccheworth. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘But the rules stipulate that one must be to hand, because these occasions can turn savage.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘But I do not think I am the right–’
‘You are the only suitable candidate,’ declared Jude firmly. ‘Meryfeld is worthless, Rougham too expensive, and Gyseburne would do nothing but ask for urine. And I do not like Gyseburne, anyway – there is something sly about the cant of his eyes.’
‘Do say yes, Doctor,’ said Leccheworth. ‘It carries a payment of three shillings.’
‘All right, then,’ said Bartholomew, capitulating promptly. It would keep the poor in salves and tonics for a month.
He frowned suddenly. There was a large building at the edge of the field, which looked as though it was deserted – its ground-floor windows were boarded over and its door nailed closed – but he thought he had seen a shadow move across one of its upper rooms.
‘That is Edmund House,’ said Leccheworth, seeing where he was looking. ‘It used to belong to our convent, but we were forced to sell it after the Great Pestilence, when we needed some ready cash. Emma de Colvyll purchased it from us.’
‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It looks abandoned, but I thought I saw someone inside.’
‘Pigeons,’ replied Leccheworth. ‘It is a pity, because they will ruin it. We are eager to buy it back now we have funds to spare, but Emma refuses to sell.’