‘It might,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, a fire will be far more distressing. I wonder how the Tangmers will deal with it.’
He watched the people inside, trying to distinguish patients from staff. Most were busy with the fire, although two distinct groups were not: the nuns, and a dozen respectably dressed individuals with children, who stood near the hall. Curiously, there was none of the frantic yelling that usually accompanied such crises, and the whole operation was conducted in almost complete silence. It was peculiarly eerie.
‘Of course, the nuns should be at the conloquium,’ said Michael, watching them crossly. ‘Magistra Katherine is due to lecture there shortly, and the other delegates will be wondering what has happened to her.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I thought you put twenty ladies here. I only count nineteen.’
Michael looked around wildly. ‘The Prioress – Joan de Ferraris! She is missing!’ Then he gave an irritable tut of relief. ‘There she is – in the stables. I might have guessed. She has always preferred horses to people.’
He nodded to where a massive woman, who would stand head and shoulders above her sisters, was soothing the animals. She looked rather like a horse herself, with a long face, large teeth and big brown eyes. She had rolled up her sleeves to reveal a pair of brawny forearms.
‘She is an excellent rider,’ Michael went on, and as he had lofty standards where equestrianism was concerned, Bartholomew supposed she must be skilled indeed. ‘And she single-handedly built her priory’s stables, which are reputed to be the best in the country. I should love to see them.’
‘But is she a good head of house?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that riding and stable-building were not especially useful skills for running a convent.
‘She is stern but fair, and not afraid to delegate tasks she feels are beyond her. She can also repair roofs, clean gutters and chop wood. Her nuns like her, and Lyminster is a happy, prosperous place, so yes, she is a good leader. But I had better go and pay my respects.’
He and Bartholomew started to walk towards them, but were intercepted by three men – Sheriff Tulyet and his two new knights, who were stationed just inside the gates.
‘Tangmer has asked us to keep sightseers out,’ explained Tulyet, raising a hand to stop the scholars from going any further. ‘He says they frighten his inmates.’
‘They do not look overly concerned to me,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew was aware of being eyed by the group near the hall. ‘They do not look particularly mad either.’
‘Insanity is not something you can diagnose at a glance,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, that is what Tangmer told me, when I suggested much the same.’
‘How dare he use us as free labour,’ growled huge, black-haired Sir Norbert. ‘We are not servants, to be ordered hither and thither. We are friends of the King.’
‘You offered your help,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘And this is how Tangmer chose to deploy it. It is your own fault for recklessly putting yourself at his disposal.’
‘I know why he wants everyone kept away,’ said fair-headed Sir Leger sourly. ‘Because madmen are exempt from the King’s call to arms, so are eligible for hire as proxies. Several scholars have already been here, clamouring to buy substitutes, and Tangmer aims to put a stop to it.’
‘By “scholars” he means Chancellor de Wetherset and his henchman Heltisle,’ put in Norbert, and spat. ‘Cowards!’
‘Speaking of cowards, have you made any progress with finding whoever dispatched Bonet the spicer?’ asked Michael.
‘None,’ replied Leger. ‘The killer left no clues, and there are no witnesses. Ergo, I am not sure we will ever–’
‘That man is on fire!’ interrupted Tulyet urgently, and stepped aside. ‘Your services will be needed, Matt. If Tangmer complains, tell him I let you in.’
By the time Bartholomew arrived, the burning man had smothered the flames by rolling in the grass, saving himself from serious injury. One arm was scorched, though, so Bartholomew sat him down and applied a soothing salve. Grateful for his help, the man began to chat, saying he was Tangmer’s cousin, Eudo. He was enormous by any standards, larger even than Sir Norbert, and reminded Bartholomew of a bull – powerful, unpredictable and not overly bright.
‘Everyone who works here is a Tangmer,’ Eudo said. ‘Henry and Amphelisa have no children, but his father had six brothers, so he has uncles and cousins galore. Lots of us were eager to come and work for him.’
Bartholomew had been told this before, and remembered that the policy of kin-only staff had caused great resentment in the town – there had been an expectation of employment for locals, and folk were disappointed when none was offered. Worse, the Tangmers declined to socialise outside the Spital, which, along with them refusing visitors, had given rise to rumours that it was haunted and that all its patients were dangerously insane.
‘Do you like Cambridge, Eudo?’ Bartholomew asked conversationally.
Eudo shook his massive head. ‘I used to go there to buy candles – before we started making our own – and there was always some spat between students and apprentices. I think it is a violent little place, so I try to avoid going there.’
‘You are not obliged to practise your archery, like the rest of us?’
‘Cousin Henry arranged for us to do it here instead, which is much nicer than rubbing shoulders with brawlers.’
When he had finished tending Eudo’s burns, Bartholomew started to walk back to the gate, but was intercepted by the founders themselves – Henry and Amphelisa Tangmer.
They were a curious pair. Tangmer was a heavyset, rosy-cheeked man who could have been nothing but an English yeoman. His wife was an elegant lady in a burgundy-coloured robe, who smelled strongly of fragrant oils. To Bartholomew’s eye, her facial features and casual grace were unmistakably French, and with sudden, blinding clarity, he understood exactly why they discouraged visitors. It was a sensible precaution in the current climate of intolerance and unease.
‘Thank you for helping Eudo,’ said Tangmer, stiffly formal. ‘But we can manage now. The shed is lost, but it was due to be demolished anyway, so it does not matter. All it means is that we shall have to build our bathhouse a bit sooner than we anticipated.’
‘Bathhouse?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately interested.
Amphelisa smiled. ‘We feel cleanliness is important in a hospital.’
Bartholomew thought so, too, although he was in a distinct minority, as most medical practitioners considered hygiene a waste of time. He opened his mouth to see what else he and Amphelisa might have in common, but Tangmer cut across him.
‘The children love to play in the shed, and I imagine one knocked over a candle. But the blaze is under control now, so if there is nothing else …’
‘I saw children by the hall,’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Are they patients?’
‘No, but we believe madness can be cured faster when the afflicted person is surrounded by his loved ones,’ explained Amphelisa. ‘We encourage our inmates to bring their families.’
‘Does it work?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.
Amphelisa was willing to discuss it, but her husband cleared his throat meaningfully, so she made an apologetic face. ‘Perhaps we can talk another time, but now I must soothe those who are distressed by the commotion.’
‘I can help,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘A decoction of chamomile and dittany will–’
‘We have our own remedies, thank you,’ interrupted Tangmer, polite but firm. ‘And now, if you will excuse us …’
He took Bartholomew’s arm and began to propel him towards the gate, but stopped when there was an urgent yell from Eudo, who had returned to help with the fire. At the same time, a flame burst through the roof in a slender orange tongue.