With such hefty parents, their daughter Odelina was not going to be a petite beauty, and nor was she. Her fashionably tight kirtle revealed an impressive cascade of bulges, and her hair was oddly two-tone, as if she had attempted to dye it and something had gone horribly wrong. She was twenty-four, and had so far rejected the suitors her family had recommended, because a fondness for romantic ballads was encouraging her to hold out for a brave and handsome knight.
But by far the most dominating presence in the room was Emma de Colvyll herself. Extreme age had wasted her arms and legs, although she still possessed a substantial girth, and she never wore any colour except black. There was something about her that always put Bartholomew in mind of a fat spider. She had beady eyes, which had a disconcerting tendency to glitter, and she had been known to reduce grown men to tears with a single word.
‘You took your time,’ she snapped, when Bartholomew and Michael were shown in. She thrust out a hand, all wrinkled skin and curved nails. ‘Give me the box.’
‘What box?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
Emma glowered. ‘The box that yellow-haired villain stole – the one I sent you to retrieve.’
‘He did not have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would have slowed him down, so he must have–’
‘It was a small one,’ Emma interrupted harshly. ‘I imagine he tucked it inside his tunic, so it would not have slowed him down at all.’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I did not see a box. Are you sure he took it?’
‘Of course I am sure,’ hissed Emma. She eyed him coldly. ‘I assume from your replies that not only did you fail to recover my property, but you failed to lay hold of the scoundrel, too. How did that happen? You were only moments behind him.’
‘He could run faster than me.’ The reply was curt, but Bartholomew disliked being spoken to like an errant schoolboy. ‘And he had a horse saddled ready in the Griffin.’
‘It was unfair to send a scholar after a felon,’ added Michael, also resenting her tone. ‘We are forbidden to carry weapons, and Matt might have been injured had he–’
Emma sneered. ‘Everyone knows he fought at Poitiers, where he was rewarded for his valour by the Prince of Wales. A mere felon could not best him, armed or otherwise.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He had spent eighteen months overseas, when bad timing had put him in Poitiers when the English army had done battle with the French. He had taken up arms, but it had been his skill in treating the wounded afterwards that had merited the Prince’s approbation. Unfortunately, his book-bearer Cynric, who had been with him, loved telling war stories, and the physician’s modest role in the clash had been exaggerated beyond all truth.
Emma turned to Heslarton. ‘That box is important to me, Thomas. Would you mind…’
Heslarton beamed amiably. ‘Of course, Mother! I would have gone immediately, but you said Bartholomew could manage. I will get your property back, never fear.’
She smiled, and Bartholomew was reminded that, despite their disparate personalities, she was fond of her loutish son-in-law, a feeling that seemed wholly reciprocated. In fact, Emma and Heslarton seemed to admire each other a good deal more than either liked Alice.
‘Do be careful, Thomas,’ said Alice snidely, watching the exchange with barely concealed contempt. ‘Cornered thieves can be very dangerous.’
Heslarton pulled an unpleasant face at her on his way out, and Odelina did the same, before going to talk to someone who was sitting by the window. Bartholomew started: he had not known anyone else was in the room, because his attention had been on Emma and her kin. The visitor was Celia Drax, the taverner’s beautiful wife. She had been Bartholomew’s patient until rumours began to circulate about his penchant for unorthodox medicine, when she had promptly defected to another physician. He wondered what she was doing in the Colvylls’ company.
‘I will pull my mother’s hair out one day,’ muttered Odelina sulkily. ‘She has a cruel tongue.’
‘Now, now,’ admonished Celia mildly. ‘Come and sit by me. We have our sewing to finish.’
‘Thomas will catch the villain,’ said Emma confidently to Bartholomew and Michael, watching the younger women huddle together over their needles. ‘By this evening, I shall have that dishonest rogue locked in my cellar.’
‘You must hand him to the Sheriff,’ Michael reminded her. ‘It is his business to deal with felons, not yours. And if, by some remote chance, the culprit is a scholar, then he comes under my jurisdiction. You cannot dispense justice as you see fit.’
Emma inclined her head, although it was clear she intended to dispense whatever she pleased. Bartholomew glanced around the room, taking in the gold ornaments and jewelled candlesticks, and wondered what was in the box that meant so much to her. He asked.
‘Things my late husband gave me,’ she replied shortly. ‘Incidentally, did Michaelhouse say those masses for his soul that I paid for? When I die, I shall be furious if I arrive in Heaven and find he is not there, just because your College has not kept its side of the bargain.’
Michael raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘You seem very certain that you are upward bound.’
Emma regarded him askance. ‘I am generous to priests and I support worthy causes – like paying to mend your College’s roof. Of course I shall have a place in the Kingdom of God.’
‘I think you will find it is not that straightforward,’ said Michael dryly. ‘You cannot buy your way into Heaven.’
‘Actually, you can,’ countered Emma with considerable conviction. ‘And my great wealth will secure me the best spot available. Although, obviously, I will not be needing it for many years yet.’
Michael was spared from thinking of a reply because a sudden clatter of hoofs sounded in the yard outside. Emma told Alice to open the window, so she could see what was happening. It revealed Heslarton astride a magnificent black stallion. He had assembled a posse of about ten men, and his horses were far superior to any of Michaelhouse’s nags. His retainers were tough, soldierly types, and Bartholomew felt a pang of sympathy for the thief.
‘Do not stay out after dark, Father,’ called Odelina worriedly. ‘It is not safe.’
Heslarton grinned up at her, clearly relishing the opportunity for a spot of manly activity. ‘Do not worry, lass. This villain will be no match for me.’
‘I was thinking of other dangers,’ said Odelina unhappily. ‘Such as not being able to see where you are going, and the fact that it might snow.’
‘You may break your neck,’ added Alice sweetly. ‘That would be a pity.’
‘I will return by nightfall, Odelina,’ promised Heslarton, pointedly ignoring his wife, and then he and his men were gone in a frenzy of rattling hoofs and enthusiastic whoops.
‘We should go, too,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary is tomorrow, and there is a lot to do before then.’
‘You mean teaching?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the huge classes Michaelhouse’s Fellows had been burdened with after the Master had enrolled twenty new students the previous year, in an effort to raise revenues.
‘I mean making sure the cooks do not stint on food,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘I have not had a decent meal in weeks, and the Purification is one of my favourite festivals.’
Bartholomew suspected it was one of his favourites because a former Fellow had bequeathed funds to provide a post-church feast. It was not a large benefaction, however, and there were more mouths to feed than in previous years: the monk was likely to be disappointed. Still, Bartholomew thought, surveying the ample bulk with a professional eye, it would do him no harm. Michael had lost some of his lard over the previous weeks – a combination of being busy, and the College’s dwindling resources – and was much healthier for it.