‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But this affair has worn both of you to the bone.’
Bartholomew grinned wryly. ‘Weasenham and other like-minded men have assumed our exhaustion is due to energy expended on each other, but the truth is that we have been so weary that we can barely exchange greetings. Frolicking in any form has been out of the question.’
‘Damn Rougham,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘He does not know what he has done.’
‘Come with me,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Matilde was sleeping. Tenderly, he covered her with a blanket, and led the way upstairs. ‘Rougham can tell you his tale himself.’
Michael followed him to the upper room in Matilde’s attractive home. A bed filled most of the chamber, loaded with furs and cushions. A man lay among them, his eyes bright with ill health and his face flushed. His breathing was shallow and rapid, but he seemed alert enough. To Bartholomew, he was dramatically improved; there had been times when he had been certain that his fellow physician would die. Now the fever was receding, and all he needed was to regain his strength with rest and a carefully designed diet.
‘There you are,’ said Rougham peevishly. ‘I have been knocking for hours. You promised there would be someone with me every minute of the day.’
‘You no longer need that degree of attention,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the bed, and holding the man’s wrist to assess the rate of his pulse. ‘You are on the road to recovery and will be able to go home soon.’
‘No!’ breathed Rougham. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was objecting to leaving Matilde, and was about to say that he had imposed himself on her for quite long enough, when he glanced up to see Rougham’s eyes fixed on Michael. ‘You promised to keep my secret! You have broken your word!’
‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said Michael sharply. ‘And you owe him a good deal. Do you have any idea what coming here every night has cost him? And Matilde, who has been obliged to look after you all day while he teaches, tends his patients, examines corpses for me, and tries to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss?’
‘I will pay them,’ said Rougham angrily. ‘I am a wealthy man, and reward people for good service and discretion.’ He glared at Bartholomew in a way that indicated he felt he had not been given either.
‘Gold is not everything,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And before you abuse the two people who saved your life, let me inform you that they have kept their promise. I guessed Matt was coming here to nurse a patient, although I confess I was surprised when I learned it was you – I thought it would be one of the Frail Sisters. How in God’s name did you allow yourself to be seduced by a whore?’
There was a pause, during which Rougham regarded Michael in disbelief, scarcely crediting that one man should ask such a question of another. Eventually, he answered. ‘Surely even a monk must understand that normal males need women to rebalance their humours? I rebalance mine with Yolande de Blaston every first Monday in the month. It helps to be regular. That is a medical fact.’
‘Is it?’ Michael asked Bartholomew. The physician shrugged that he did not know, so Michael went back to regarding Rougham with distaste. ‘You visit Yolande in her house? Where she lives with her husband and children?’
‘Well, I can hardly invite her to Gonville, can I?’ snapped Rougham. ‘Besides, her family are very accommodating, and I always take marchpanes for the brats. Her husband, meanwhile, is grateful for any money that can go towards feeding them all.’
‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew, who had known about the Blastons’ peculiar marital arrangements for years. Personally, he believed the family would have been a good deal smaller if Yolande’s nocturnal enterprises had been curtailed, and was certain very few of her offspring were fathered by the carpenter. But every child was deeply loved, regardless of the fact that several bore uncanny resemblances to prominent townsmen and high-ranking members of the University.
‘I always hire her late at night, and tell my colleagues that I am going to see a patient,’ Rougham went on. ‘It is not unusual for physicians to be called out at odd times, so they never question me.’
‘So, did Yolande or one of her family hurt you?’ asked Michael, indicating the bandages that swathed the man’s shoulder.
‘Of course not! I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting.’ Rougham snapped his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate he was thirsty, and only continued with his tale when watered wine had been brought. ‘I was approaching her house for our usual liaison, when I sensed something amiss. Someone was watching me. I could not shake off the feeling, but I had paid Yolande in advance and I was loath to waste my money by going home again; and there was my medical need to consider. I decided to continue with my …physic. I knocked on her door, and it was then that the attack occurred. I recall very little about it, other than that it was quick and very vicious.’
‘Yolande could not keep a seriously injured man in her house,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘There is no room. So, she and her husband carried him here. The next day Matilde sent for me.’
‘It is not a crime to be attacked,’ Michael pointed out, puzzled. ‘Why did they not take him to Gonville, where he could be nursed by his students?’
Rougham grimaced. ‘I am a physician. I know what happens to men in the grip of fevers – and I felt a terrible one coming upon me. I knew I would rant in my delirium, and did not want my colleagues to hear me praising the delights of Yolande de Blaston. Bartholomew and Matilde agreed to treat me here, taking turns to watch over me as the fever peaked.’
‘Most charitable,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But why were they so obliging?’
‘Look,’ said Rougham, pulling away the bandage to reveal the wound underneath. It was inflamed and raw with marks that were unmistakably the imprints of human teeth. Rougham had been bitten on the shoulder, near his neck. He shuddered as he covered the injury again. ‘I had the sense that the man wanted to rip my throat from my body! It was horrible, like being at the mercy of a wild animal.’
‘A bite,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘That certainly explains why you needed Matt, but not why he agreed to help you – at such cost to himself.’
Rougham closed his eyes. ‘Because of who attacked me.’
‘You cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew, and from the tone of his voice, Michael sensed this was something they had argued about before. ‘Not for certain. You said you did not see him clearly.’
‘I am not a fool,’ said Rougham tiredly. ‘And there was more than enough evidence to tell me who launched himself from the shrubs, just as I was raising my hand to knock on Yolande’s door. It was Clippesby, Michaelhouse’s resident madman.’
Michael’s jaw dropped open in astonishment. ‘Clippesby?’
‘It was not him,’ argued Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Rougham accused him, but Clippesby says someone else is responsible.’
‘Clippesby is a lunatic, who thinks animals talk to him,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘He claims I was attacked by a giant wolf! Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? The truth is that he bit me, but he is so deranged that he has convinced himself that someone else is at fault.’
Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘He is addled enough to imagine such a thing, Matt.’
‘The man is downright dangerous,’ continued Rougham. ‘You were right to take him away and lock him up where he can do no more harm.’
After a while, Rougham began to doze, exhausted by the effort of talking. With deft, instinctive movements, Bartholomew bathed his head, and adjusted the covers, so he would not be exposed to draughts. When his breathing became regular with sleep, Michael spoke in a low voice.
‘So that is why you have refused to let Clippesby return to Michaelhouse. We thought you were being overly protective of him, but you are afraid he really did harm Rougham.’