‘Now to business,’ said Inges. ‘As this is my hospital, you will give me half the fees you earn today. You will, of course, not charge my bedesmen: they will be seen for nothing. Do not worry about collecting the money – we shall do that before anyone is allowed in.’
‘What about those who cannot pay?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
‘They will not be admitted,’ replied Inges. ‘I cannot abide beggars.’
Bartholomew moved towards the door. ‘Then I shall hold court in St Thomas’s–’
‘All right, all right. But they can only be seen when you have dealt with everyone else.’
‘They will be seen in the order in which they arrived.’
Inges considered for a moment, then thrust out his hand. ‘Agreed. The hospital will still make plenty of money, which will show those witches at St Thomas’s that they are not the only ones who can generate a decent income for the abbey.’
The terms having been negotiated, Bartholomew indicated that the first customer was to be shown in. It was a woman with a rash, and he lost count of how many people came after her, so when the last patient had been seen and sent on his way, he was surprised to see it was nearing dusk. He had been pleasantly impressed by Clippesby, who had proved himself invaluable, both by writing out instructions for the apothecary and by stopping Inges from cheating them.
‘Unfortunately, even after giving the apothecary everything we earned today, we still owe him eightpence for those who cannot afford their own remedies,’ the Dominican said as they walked through the marketplace, both grateful to stretch their legs after so long indoors. ‘Perhaps the abbey will pay. They are supposed to dispense alms, after all.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Welbyrn is tight-fisted with–’
‘That woman,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘She looks uncannily like Matilde.’
Bartholomew followed the direction of the friar’s finger, and felt his stomach lurch. The lady in question was walking away from them, but her natural grace and the cut of her kirtle told him that she was Matilde! He stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then ran like fury. He dashed in front of a cart, causing the horse to rear in alarm, and collided with Spalling on the other side.
‘Have a care,’ the rebel cried, grabbing his arm. ‘It is not–’
Bartholomew tore free, but the woman was gone. He raced as fast as he could to the end of the market, looking wildly up the alleys to the sides, but there was no sign of her. He set off up the main road, peering desperately into the open doors of the houses he passed, but was at last forced to concede defeat. He returned to Clippesby.
‘We must have been mistaken,’ said the Dominican. ‘Why would Matilde be here? If she were still … in the country, she would have contacted you.’
The hesitation told Bartholomew that Clippesby was one of those who thought she was dead, killed by robbers on England’s dangerous highways, because no one could have vanished so completely and still be alive. The physician stubbornly refused to believe it, and liked to think that she had reached wherever she had been going and was living happily there.
‘It looked like her,’ he said, feeling foolish for haring off so abruptly.
Clippesby smiled. ‘It did. But no harm is done, other than frightening that poor horse. I shall have a word with him tomorrow, to ensure that he knows it was not malicious.’
Bartholomew was deeply unsettled. It was not the first time he thought he had seen Matilde since she had disappeared from his life, but it had not happened since he had met Julitta. His mind seething with emotions he could not begin to understand, he followed Clippesby back to the abbey.
Chapter 4
It took Bartholomew a long time to fall asleep that night, and when he did, his dreams teemed with confusing visions. He had loved Matilde for so many years that it had been unthinkable that anyone else should take her place, but then he had met Julitta. At first, the attraction had been that she reminded him of Matilde, but he had quickly come to love her for herself. Yet he had desperately wanted the woman he had spotted to be Matilde, so what did that say about the strength of his feelings for Julitta?
He woke long before it was light the following morning and went outside, loath to disturb the others by lighting a candle to read. Although it was still dark, there were signs that it would be a pretty day – the sky was clear, the stars fading to softer pinpricks with the promise of dawn. He inhaled deeply of the scent of damp earth and summer flowers, aware that his agitation was, if anything, even greater than it had been the previous night. He began to wonder whether he would ever recover from the wound Matilde had inflicted.
To take his mind off it, he walked to St Thomas’s Hospital, where he found Lady Lullington awake and grey with pain. She smiled gratefully when he prepared more medicine, and he knew she hoped it would stop her from waking again. When she slept, he returned to the guest house, but his colleagues were still asleep, and he did not feel like being inside anyway.
As he leaned against the doorpost, trying not to think about Matilde and Julitta, he saw a shadow edging along the dormitory wall. It was moving in a way that could only be described as furtive, stopping every so often to ensure it was not being followed. When it emerged to cross the open space between the cloisters and the Abbey Gate, its silhouette was clearly visible, and Bartholomew was surprised to recognise Welbyrn’s hulking form.
It was none of his business, but Bartholomew followed anyway, curious as to why his old tutor should feel the need to skulk around his own abbey. Welbyrn unbarred the gate and threaded through the silent streets until he reached Westgate, and it did not take Bartholomew long to surmise that he was aiming for St Leonard’s Hospital. Once there, the treasurer glanced around carefully before unlocking the door and slinking over the threshold.
As he could hardly pursue Welbyrn inside, Bartholomew continued walking, but he did not go far before retracing his steps – it was hardly sensible to wander along the Torpe road alone, given what had happened to the Abbot and Pyk. He had just drawn level with the hospital again when a shape appeared with an unholy screech that made him leap in fright.
‘I am a tiger!’ It was Simon the cowherd, hands splayed to look like claws. ‘I shall tear you limb from limb.’
‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew, taking a deep breath to control his thudding heart. He forced a smile. ‘It is cold out here, Simon. Let me take you back inside.’
‘I will eat your bones,’ raved Simon, although he was unresisting as Bartholomew guided him towards the door. ‘And suck out your brains. Oxforde knew me as a tiger. I saw him in his golden grave when I was a youth. So did Kirwell.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, speaking softly to calm him. Simon would wake the other bedesmen if he continued to holler.
‘It was yesterday,’ declared Simon. ‘Ask my cattle. Do you know my cattle? They have all gone now, but I still know their names. Daisy, Clover, Nettle … I am a tiger!’
Bartholomew put his finger to his lips as he guided the cowherd upstairs to an empty bed, where he carefully tucked him in. The old man closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Inges, making Bartholomew start a second time by speaking at his shoulder. ‘Welbyrn must have forgotten to lock the door again.’
‘How long has Simon been a resident here?’ asked Bartholomew, following Inges out of the dormitory and out on to a landing, where they could talk without disturbing the others.