‘I have no objection to sorcery,’ said Emma, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I employ it myself on occasion, and find it very useful. But Doctor Bartholomew did not contaminate the wine, Celia. I was with him the whole time he was here, and I would have noticed.’
‘I suppose you would,’ said Celia, rather ambiguously.
‘Where is Meryfeld?’ Bartholomew asked again, this time more firmly. He had better things to do than stand around and be insulted by Celia. ‘The messenger said he needed a second opinion.’
‘He does,’ said Emma. ‘He just does not know it yet. He calculated my horoscope, you see, but I am not very happy with it. I want you to make me another.’
Bartholomew regarded her with dislike, supposing the servant had been told to lie about Meryfeld’s complicity. He was annoyed by the deception, and determined not to oblige her.
‘You do not want a horoscope from me,’ he said frostily. ‘I make mistakes.’
‘You will not make mistakes in mine,’ said Emma, in the kind of voice that implied there would be trouble if he did. ‘No, do not edge towards the door, man! I want another one done, because Meryfeld’s said I had to go on a pilgrimage in order to get well. And I am not going anywhere.’
‘I cannot interfere,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘You are Meryfeld’s patient now, and I do not poach my colleagues’ clients.’
‘Why not? They poach from you,’ interjected Celia slyly. ‘They have stolen nearly all your rich customers, leaving you with just the poor ones. Here is your chance to pay them back.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And a pilgrimage will not cure you, Mistress Emma. Your tooth will continue to ache until it is pulled out.’
Emma shook her head in disbelief. ‘You earned my regard by saving Odelina – and I do not bestow my good opinion on many people. So why do you not strive to keep it? Most people would love to be in your position.’
Bartholomew was not sure how to reply, but rescue came in the form of Heslarton, who had tired of the discussion and suddenly stood up. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating violence, but the burly henchman merely indicated the stairs with a flick of his bald head.
‘Odelina took a chill this afternoon, and is asking for you. If you will not help my mother or settle our wager, then perhaps you will see to her instead. I will take you to her.’
‘Meryfeld will–’ began Bartholomew.
‘She does not want Meryfeld,’ said Heslarton. ‘She dislikes the way he keeps rubbing his filthy hands together, and I confess I see her point. The man gives me the shivers!’
Bartholomew did not want to visit Odelina, but decided a consultation was likely to be quicker than the argument that was going to arise from a refusal. It would not take him a moment to deal with a chill, after all. He followed Heslarton up the stairs to a fine chamber on the upper floor, where Odelina was reclining on a bed, clad in a tight, cream-coloured gown that put him in mind of a grub.
‘There you are, Doctor,’ she cooed, when her father had gone. ‘I thought you were not coming. Have you brought me a gift?’
‘A gift?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘That is the custom, is it not, when visiting the sick? To take a little something to make them feel better? A piece of jewellery, perhaps. Or some dried fruit.’
‘It is not the custom for physicians,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would hardly be practical!’
Odelina’s smile faded. ‘But surely, I am different from your other patients?’
While he struggled for a tactful response, Bartholomew’s eye fell on a book. It was one his sister had made him read to her many years before, and concerned a heroine with a tragic disease who was miraculously cured by a gift from a suitor. He glanced at Odelina’s clothes and posture, and was suddenly certain that she saw herself as the protagonist. With a sigh of irritation – she was surely too old for such games? – he resolved not to go along with the charade.
‘I am not well,’ she said feebly. Then her voice strengthened. ‘But I might feel better if you were to give me a talisman. You saved my life, thus forging a unique bond between us.’
‘It is not unique,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘All my patients are–’
‘I was almost at Heaven’s gates when you snatched me back,’ countered Odelina. ‘And that makes me special to you. I cannot imagine you rescue many patients from impending death?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Bartholomew, cornered. ‘Not many. But–’
‘Well, then.’ Odelina beamed, and she held out a plump hand. ‘Give me something of yours. Anything will do. A thread from your tabard, a scrap of your cloak.’
‘How about a remedy to make you sleep? I can tell your maid how to make it.’
Her face fell. ‘You are cruel! You know I do not want one of those!’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot start yanking my clothes apart for threads and scraps, anyway. They are old, and likely to fall off.’
The expression on her face made him wonder whether she found this notion as disagreeable as he thought she should have done.
‘Sing to me, then,’ she ordered. ‘I have heard that music helps the sick become well again, so it will be like dispensing medicine.’
‘I rarely sing.’ Bartholomew had had enough of her. ‘And loud noises are dangerous after catching chills at camp-ball games. So are long visits from physicians. Sleep now. Goodnight.’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, hurrying through the wet streets and grateful to be away from Emma’s stronghold. He stepped through the great gap where the gates had hung, nodding to the student-guards, and walked across the yard to his room. He found Valence there, working on yet another exercise that should have been completed the previous day.
‘There has been quite a commotion here tonight, sir,’ the student said, seeing where his teacher was looking and hastening to distract him. ‘Rain seeped through the sheet in Brother Michael’s room, and it is no longer habitable. And look at our walls!’
Bartholomew was dismayed to see rivulets coursing down them. His students were going to be in for a damp and miserable night. The medicines room, where he slept himself, was equally dismal, with water pooling on the floor and oozing through the ceiling.
‘Brother Michael and his theologians have been moved to the servants’ quarters,’ Valence went on. ‘And the servants are relegated to the kitchen. Fortunately, none of them objected.’
Bartholomew was sure they had not, because the kitchen was by far the warmest room in the College, and he would not have minded sleeping there himself.
‘I will organise a watch,’ said Valence. He saw his master’s blank look. ‘To protect your supplies. Neither this chamber nor the storeroom have window shutters any more, and our front gates have gone. In other words, anyone can slip into the College and help himself. The guards are doing their best, but…’
‘There is not much to steal, Valence. I cannot recall a time when I have been so low on remedies.’
‘All the more reason to defend what is left, then,’ said Valence practically.
Bartholomew thanked him and went to the hall, where he learned that supper had been served, eaten and cleared away. Fortunately, Suttone had provided cakes and wine in the conclave for the Fellows, to celebrate his Order’s victory over the Gilbertines. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, not sure he would take kindly to what was effectively gloating, but the canon was sitting impassively by the fire, and it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.
Not surprisingly, Langelee was holding forth about the game, delighting in the opportunity to analyse every move and skirmish. Clippesby was listening, although Ayera’s eyes were glazed. William and Suttone were discussing a theological text together, and Michael was out.