‘You know about them, too?’ asked Bartholomew, mortified.
‘She nodded soberly. ‘But I do not want my parting words to be nagging ones, so I shall say no more. Just this: be careful and trust no one – especially sweet old men from your past.’
Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You mean Master Duraunt? Why? What has he done to make you wary of him?’
Edith lowered her voice further still. ‘I was in the apothecary’s shop when he bought a good deal of poppy juice. Now, there is nothing wrong with that, but when the apothecary questioned the high potency of the dosage, Duraunt said you had recommended that strength to him the previous evening. I happen to know you did not, because you were with Matilde all that night. He lied, Matt.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled. ‘I have never recommended a sedative to him – weak or strong.’
Edith grimaced. ‘So, beware of him. But I must go, or Oswald will wonder where I am.’
She kissed Bartholomew again, and darted off down the High Street, more like a girl than a mature woman ten years Bartholomew’s senior. He watched her go fondly, trusting she would have a safe journey along the King’s highways, and that she would not be too distressed by what he was sure she would find when she invaded her debauched son’s domain.
‘I bought a new set of urine flasks recently,’ Paxtone said conversationally when she had gone. ‘Would you like to see them, Matt?’
‘He is going to visit Dickon Tulyet,’ said Michael, before his friend could accept the enticing offer. ‘He should not dally.’
‘He should,’ argued Paxtone fervently. ‘Because then the brat might have expired by the time he arrives – with luck.’
‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Dickon is a child.’
‘So his parents claim,’ said Paxtone grimly. ‘But I think otherwise. The boy is a monster, with his hot temper and unruly behaviour. You should dally, Matt. It will allow him to use up his strength by tormenting his helpless parents, so he will be more docile with you. I would not tend him if Tulyet made me a gift of Cambridge Castle!’
Without further ado, he took Bartholomew’s arm and guided him towards the impressive edifice that comprised King’s Hall. Not averse to Dickon expending some of his violent energy before their visit, and accepting the sense in Paxtone’s logic, Michael followed.
Founded almost forty years earlier, King’s Hall was a training ground for men who wanted to enter the King’s service or for those destined for exalted posts in the Church. Because it was a royal foundation, it was never short of funds, and no expense had been spared in providing its scholars with a supremely comfortable home. It comprised buildings gathered around a neat, clean yard, and well-tended grounds of orchards, fields and vegetable gardens that extended to the river. As a senior Fellow, Paxtone had been allocated two stately rooms for his personal use – an unthinkable luxury in a University where space was at a premium – both of which were elegantly furnished.
As they strolled across the scrubby grass in front of Paxtone’s window, someone hailed them. It was the Warden, a quiet Welshman with long front teeth and a shock of lank grey hair. Thomas Powys had been in office for several years and was a popular master, being kindly, tolerant and ready to grant his Fellows considerable freedom on the understanding that they did not break College or University rules. He was more strict with his students, though, which Bartholomew thought was a good thing: there were more of them in King’s Hall than in any other Cambridge institution, and the possibility of serious trouble with such a large body of closely knit young men was very real.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Powys, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘I have been meaning to report to you that we are down two Fellows this term. You need to know for your attendance records.’
‘Robert de Wolf and Richard de Hamecotes,’ elaborated Paxtone. ‘It is highly inconvenient to be without them, actually – as you will know yourself, Brother. I understand Michaelhouse is missing poor Clippesby at the moment. Insanity again, is it?’
‘Are they absent with your permission or without it, Warden?’ asked Michael, ignoring the impertinent query and not revealing that he already knew about the King’s Hall truancies from his University spies.
Powys looked uncomfortable. ‘Hamecotes wrote to us saying he has gone to Oxford to purchase books for our library. We are short of legal texts, so his journey will be of great benefit to the College.’
‘If he wrote telling you what he planned to do, then it means he asked for permission after he had gone,’ Michael surmised. ‘You did not grant him leave: he just went.’ He eyed the Warden questioningly.
‘I do not want trouble,’ said Powys softly. ‘Hamecotes had no business abandoning us during term, but he has never done anything like this before. I confess I am surprised by his conduct, but if he returns loaded with books, then I am prepared to overlook the lapse.’
‘What about the other Fellow?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf. Did he just decide to slip away, too?’
Powys nodded unhappily. ‘He is in debt – expenses unpaid from last year – but we had agreed to postpone the matter for a few weeks, because he was expecting an inheritance. I am astonished he decided to take unauthorised leave, too, and we miss him sorely. He is an excellent teacher and a popular master.’
‘Debt?’ asked Michael. ‘How much does he owe?’
‘Quite a bit,’ admitted Powys. ‘I know scholars with serious financial troubles sometimes abscond, so they will not have to pay their dues, but I do not think Wolf is one of them.’
‘Hamecotes’s room-mate was as surprised as the rest of us when he left, but Wolf’s was not,’ said Paxtone, rather imprudently, given that he was talking to the Senior Proctor – the man who might later penalise his colleagues for breaking the University’s rules. ‘Wolf likes women, and I suspect he is enjoying himself with one and has lost track of time.’
‘For eleven days?’ asked Powys archly. ‘She must be quite a lady!’ He turned to Michael. ‘Come to my office, Brother, so I can write down their details for your records.’
‘You are very honest,’ said Michael, as he started to follow. ‘Most Colleges would have tried to conceal the matter, because Wolf and Hamecotes will certainly be fined when they return.’
‘I considered keeping quiet,’ admitted Powys. ‘But we have too many students, and we cannot trust them all not to chatter. Besides, it is always best to tell the truth.’
‘I wish everyone believed that,’ said Michael wistfully.
Bartholomew left Michael to deal with the absent Fellows, and went with Paxtone to his chambers. These overlooked the herb gardens at the back of the College, and when the window shutters were thrown open, the rooms were filled with their rich scent, fragrant in the warmth of early summer.
‘You look tired,’ said Paxtone sympathetically, as Bartholomew flopped into a large oak chair that was filled with cushions. ‘Did a patient keep you up again last night?’
‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, wondering whether this was his colleague’s discreet way of mentioning that he, too, knew about Matilde. Since even his sister was aware of it, he supposed it was not out of the question that the Fellows of King’s Hall were, too.
‘You must learn to refuse,’ advised Paxtone, peering into Bartholomew’s face, concerned. ‘You will make yourself ill if you persist in burning the candle at both ends. A man needs his rest just as much as he needs his daily bread.’
‘There are just not enough hours in a day to do everything,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight, knowing he would fall asleep in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber if he allowed himself to settle too deeply into the chair.
‘I know you are overburdened,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘So, to help you, I visited one of your patients in the hovels at All-Saints-next-the-Castle last night – a morbid obstruction of the liver. He sent for you, but your porter said you were out, so his woman came to me instead, although she had no money to pay for my services.’