A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I will try anyway,’ said Bartholomew, picking up his bag from the floor. He slipped the Galen into it so he would have something to read if Eligius kept him waiting. ‘I have patients to see. I can try Eligius afterwards.’

  ‘Try if you must,’ said Michael, leaning back on the bed and closing his eyes, ‘but be careful. I would go with you, but it is too hot, I am tired from patrolling last night, and I have no reason to believe you will be successful in discovering the murderer of this woman.’

  Bartholomew shrugged off Michael’s apathy and left the College for the High Street. Two of the more seriously injured riot victims still needed his attention, and he wanted to see Mistress Fletcher, one of the first people he had treated in Cambridge, now dying of a disease of the lungs despite all his efforts. He tapped lightly on her door and climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the upper chamber where she lay in her bed. Her husband and two sons sat with her, one strumming aimlessly on a badly tuned rebec. They stood as Bartholomew entered and Fletcher moved towards him.

  ‘Please, Doctor,’ he said. He gestured at his wife lying on the bed, her breathing a papery rustle. ‘She needs to be bled.’

  Bartholomew experienced a familiar feeling of exasperation at the mention of bleeding. It was an argument he had had with many of his patients, most of whom believed bleeding would cure virtually anything.

  He looked down at the sick woman with compassion, and his resolve hardened. She was dying anyway and invasive treatments now would merely serve to make her last few days miserable. He had brought a strong pain-killer that would help her through to the end without too much discomfort. He sent one of her sons for a cup of watered wine then crumbled the strong powder into it. Kneeling next to her, he helped her sip it until she had drunk it all. She lay back, the potion already easing the pain in her chest, and smiled gratefully.

  ‘We could call Robin of Grantchester,’ said Fletcher. ‘He bleeds people for a penny, and applies leeches for two pennies.’

  ‘It is very cheap,’ added one of her sons hopefully.

  ‘I am sure it is,’ said Bartholomew, determined that the unsanitary surgeon would never set his blood-encrusted hands on poor Mistress Fletcher while he had breath in his body to prevent it.

  The sick woman made a weak gesture and her husband bent to hear her. ‘Please let Doctor Bartholomew treat me as he sees fit. He has already eased my chest. I want no leeches and no bleeding.’

  Her husband stood again, awkwardly. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘But this is difficult for us. I would do anything to give her a little more time.’

  ‘She does not want it,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Not like this.’

  Fletcher gazed down at his wife and said nothing.

  Seeing his patient asleep, her breathing less laboured than it had been, Bartholomew took his leave.

  The street was almost as deserted as it had been the previous night: there were few who cared to venture out into the burning heat of the mid-afternoon sun. After only a short distance, the tickle of perspiration begin to prick at Bartholomew’s back and he felt uncomfortably hot. He removed the tabard and shoved it into his bag. Guy Heppel could fine him for not wearing it, but the comfort of shirtsleeves would be worth it.

  After visiting the two riot victims, Bartholomew walked towards Valence Marie, hoping to waylay Father Eligius as he left Valence Marie to attend terce at St Botolph’s Church. Bartholomew was subdued because of his helplessness in treating Mistress Fletcher. He wondered what it was that caused wasting sicknesses in the chest and how they could be prevented. The more patients he saw and experience he gained, the more he realised how little he knew; the lack of knowledge depressed him.

  When Father Eligius told him Valence Marie’s French students had left that morning for London, Bartholomew grew even more dispirited. He walked past the town boundary, making his way across the meadows that led down to the river behind the Church of St Peter without Trumpington Gate. Reaching a cluster of oak trees, he stopped, dropped his bag, and sat with his back against one of the sturdy trunks. He squinted up into the branches, where the breeze played lazily with green leaves beginning to turn yellow. It was cooler in the meadow than in the town and the air smelled cleaner. It was also peaceful, with just the occasional raucous screech from a pair of jays that lived in one of the oaks and distant high-pitched chatter from children playing in the river to break the silence.

  He thought about Kenzie, a young Scot who had had the misfortune to fall in love with a woman whose father would never accept him, and who was forced to keep his relationship secret. So who had killed him? Was it Dominica’s angry father? Was it her mother? Since it did not take a great feat of strength to brain a man from behind, Bartholomew knew that a woman could have slain Kenzie as easily as a man. Perhaps Cecily’s guilt was the real reason for her sudden flight from home.

  Were the killers the friars from Godwinsson, who were the last people known to have seen Kenzie alive? Was his death a random killing by someone intent on theft? And if so, was it Kenzie’s ring that adorned Valence Marie’s relic? But why had the two French students been ushered out of Godwinsson when Michael had asked to speak to them? Perhaps they were the murderers, and not the friars at all.

  And what of poor Joanna? She had been buried at dawn that morning in a cheap coffin paid for by the town, like the other town victims of the riot. Bartholomew had attended the funerals after mass at St Michael’s, but he had been the only mourner for Joanna. While the family and friends of the other victims stood around the graves in St Botolph’s churchyard, Bartholomew had stood alone, watching the verger shovel dry earth on top of Joanna.

  He wondered whether her friends and family even knew that she was dead. If no one had cared enough to attend her funeral, certainly no one cared enough to avenge her murder. Michael had said it was none of the University’s affair, and anyway, the University was not in the business of hunting down its students for a crime on a victim that no one claimed; and Tulyet had neither the time nor the manpower.

  Bartholomew stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes. Godwinsson, David’s, Valence Marie and Maud’s. All four seemed to be interconnected somehow with the murders of Kenzie or Joanna. And the dead child? Somehow he had been overlooked in all this. He had been buried the day before, his bones bundled up in a dirty sheet and thrust into a shallow grave in St Bene’t’s churchyard. A small mound of brown earth marked the site now, but in a few weeks it would be gone, and he would be forgotten again, just as he had been all those years before.

  That thought brought a picture of Norbert into his mind, and Bartholomew smiled. It had been his only serious act of disobedience in Stanmore’s household but one that he still felt was just. Did Lydgate know that Bartholomew had finally revealed his long-kept secret?

  Although the crime was twenty-five years old, there were still many who would remember it, and the hunt that had taken place for Norbert the following day. Bartholomew winced. That had been an unpleasant day for him, wondering whether vengeful villagers would return with Norbert captive to reveal who had let him escape.

  Bartholomew wondered what he should do next. Should he follow the advice of Michael and Tulyet, and forget Joanna? The French students at Valence Marie had gone, so the only way forward was for him to talk to the two at Godwinsson. He knew their names and their faces, which meant he would not have to ask to see them through Lydgate. He stood up and reached for his bag, determining upon a course of action. The ailing Mistress Fletcher lived close enough to Godwinsson to allow Bartholomew to be nearby a good deal without arousing suspicion. He could even see Godwinsson from the windows on her upper floor. Starting tomorrow, he decided he would stay with Mistress Fletcher until he saw the Frenchmen leave, then follow until they reached a convenient place for him to confront them.

  He retraced his steps through the meadow towards the High Street. Absorbed in thoughts of Mistress Fletcher’s lungs and in ways to find Joanna’s killer, he wa
s so engrossed that he walked past Matilde without noticing her. It was only when she repeated his name, a little crossly, that he came out of his reverie and saw her.

  ‘You are in a fine mood today,’ she said, noting his grave face as he turned. ‘I thought you were pretending not to know me!’

  He smiled then. ‘Oh no! Never that.’

  But many men would, he knew. There were few who would converse openly with one of the town prostitutes in the middle of the High Street, at least, not during daylight hours. There were even fewer who would invite one to the most auspicious College event of the year, risking instant dismissal from their fellowships. He thrust that thought to the back of his mind, and listened to Matilde’s amusing account about how a number of stray cats had raided the Market Square fish-stall while its owner had slipped away to view the relic at Valence Marie.

  It occurred to Bartholomew, as he talked with Matilde, that she might very well know Joanna, the murdered prostitute with hair like Philippa. Bartholomew had no idea how many prostitutes worked in Cambridge, but he did know that they had an unofficial guild and held meetings during which they exchanged information and advice.

  When he asked her, Matilde looked taken aback.

  ‘I know of no sister called Joanna,’ she said. Bartholomew smiled to himself; he had forgotten Matilde referred to the other prostitutes as sisters. ‘What did this Joanna look like?’

  Bartholomew was at a loss for words. Joanna’s face had been so battered that to describe it was impossible. He remembered in vivid detail the wounds she had suffered during the rape, and the savage blow to her head that had killed her, but telling Matilde that would get him nowhere. ‘She was tall and had long, fair hair,’ he said lamely.

  Matilde spread her hands. ‘None of the sisters is called Joanna,’ she repeated. ‘I thought perhaps you may have been referring to one or two ladies in the villages who ply their wares here occasionally, but none of them has long, fair hair. Why do you want her? Perhaps I can help.’

  Realising how her words might be interpreted, she blushed. Bartholomew, seeing her embarrassment also looked away, feeling the colour mounting in his own cheeks. After a brief silence they looked at each other again, and smiled, so that the uneasy atmosphere was broken.

  ‘Joanna was killed in the riots,’ he said. ‘I wondered whether you might know her.’

  Matilde looked shocked. ‘No sister was foolish enough to be out when the riots were on, Matthew,’ she said. ‘All those men prowling around in gangs? Heavens, no! We may have been overwhelmed by business, but none of it would have been paid for. As soon as we saw what was happening, we put out the word that any sensible woman should remain indoors.’

  ‘Do you know what all this rioting was about? Michael, Sheriff Tulyet, my colleagues at Michaelhouse, and even my brother-in-law, are at a loss as to why there is such an atmosphere of disquiet in the town.’

  Matilde did not answer immediately, but looked away down the High Street. Bartholomew stared at her, admiring yet again her delicate beauty. She wore a plain blue dress that accentuated her lithe figure, and her unblemished skin, glossy hair and small, white teeth bespoke of health and vitality. She was also one of the few people Bartholomew knew who always seemed to have clean hands, and one of fewer still who did not have a perennial crust of dirt beneath her finger-nails. When she finally started to answer, Bartholomew found he had been so absorbed in looking at her, that he had all but forgotten what he had asked.

  ‘In our profession,’ she began, ‘your hear things. Recently, I have been hearing a great deal.’ She turned to look at him. ‘I trust you, Matthew, which is why I will tell you what I know, although you must understand that I am breaking one of my own rules by breaching the confidence of a client. I would not do it for anyone else.’

  ‘Are you sure you should?’ Bartholomew asked. He found himself wishing yet again that she was not a prostitute and was angry at himself. Philippa’s sudden rejection of him must have affected him more than he had originally appreciated; he felt he was becoming like Brother Michael, full of secret lusts!

  Matilde, unaware of the conflict within him, peered at him earnestly. ‘Are you well, Matthew? You look pale.’

  At his nod, she continued. ‘I have heard that the death of the Scottish student and the discovery of the child’s bones were used to start the riot. Rumours said that both had been murdered and students and townsfolk alike were goaded with accusations of cowardice because they had done nothing to avenge them. The rumours started among the stall-holders in the Market Square, who are notorious as sources of gossip.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his chin. So it seemed that Stanmore, Tulyet and Michael had been right after all – there was more to the riots than met the eye. Rumours had been deliberately started in a place where they would be sure to spread and inflame.

  Matilde watched him. ‘You had already guessed that much,’ she said. ‘I can see in your face you are not surprised. I heard that the rumour that the Scot was murdered by a townsman came from Godwinsson Hostel and the Hall of Valence Marie.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. Godwinsson and Valence Marie yet again!

  Matilde smiled, showing her even teeth. ‘There! Now I have told you something you did not already know.’

  Before he could stop himself Bartholomew asked, ‘Was the person who told you all this responsible for starting the rumours? He must be, or how else would he know?’

  Matilde pursed her lips. Bartholomew knew she was resentful that he should ask the name of her client when she had already overstepped her own personal code of conduct by talking about him in the first place.

  ‘The riot was started in order to hide something else,’ she continued, ignoring his question. ‘Two acts were committed that night and the riot was contrived to hide them.’

  ‘What two acts?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed. ‘The burglary of Deschalers’s property? The burning of the Market Square?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Matilde. ‘I am only repeating what I have been told. The riots were contrived to mask the true purpose of two acts. Those were the exact words of my client.’

  They talked a little more, before they parted to go separate ways. Bartholomew was mystified. He wished he knew the identity of Matilde’s client, so that he could discover what these two acts were that necessitated such bloodshed and mayhem to mask them. The burglary at Deschalers’s house had not been masked: several of Stanmore’s apprentices had heard the house being ransacked and had seen dark-cloaked figures running away from the scene of the crime. Could one of the acts be the death of the woman called Joanna? But why?

  Bartholomew distinctly remembered her clothes. They were of good quality but not luxurious, suggesting that she had been comfortable but not rich. So, why would anyone need to spark off a riot to harm her? If she had committed some offence, it would have been far easier to have dispatched her in a dark alley with a knife.

  Matilde was scarcely beyond earshot when Bartholomew was accosted by Eleanor Tyler, her dark hair bundled into a white veil and her grey eyes narrowed against the sun.

  ‘Eleanor!’ he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. ‘Good evening!’

  ‘Not so good,’ she muttered, looking down the street to where Matilde picked her way gracefully through the ever-present rubbish and waste.

  ‘Why? What has happened?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Is your mother ill? One of your sisters? Hedwise?’

  Eleanor pulled a sulky face at him and glanced back to where Matilde now stood talking to one of Stanmore’s seamstresses. Eleanor’s meaning suddenly struck home to Bartholomew. Did she believe he had been making arrangements for an assignation with Matilde? ‘Matilde is a friend,’ he began, wishing her to know the truth before it went any further. He hesitated. What more could he say without being offensive about Matilde – especially since it would not be long before Eleanor learned that Matilde was to be his other guest at the Founder’s Feast?

  ‘I heard you have a liking for her,
’ said Eleanor coldly.

  ‘It is not like you imagine,’ said Bartholomew, not certain that he was telling her the entire truth.

  ‘You mean you do not engage her professional services?’ said Eleanor bluntly. ‘All very well, but it does your reputation no good to be seen chatting with her so confidently in the High Street. And now, since I am talking to you, my reputation is also being damaged.’

  Bartholomew stared at her in disbelief. ‘I hardly think…’

  ‘For a man who has spent so much time travelling and seeing the world you have learned very little.’ She raised her hand to silence his objections. ‘I am not saying you have not learned your medicine. Indeed, you are generally regarded as the best physician in Cambridge, although you should know that many say your methods are dangerous, and disapprove of the fact that you are regularly seen in the streets talking to beggars, lepers and now prostitutes!’

  ‘But many of these are my patients…’

  ‘And,’ she continued, overriding him a second time, ‘you should know that this woman – Lady Matilde, as you doubtless call her – should not be trusted. She makes up stories about her clients. See her if you must, but I would warn you against it for your own good.’

  With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Bartholomew bewildered in the middle of the High Street. A shout from a farmer with a huge cart saved him from being trampled by a team of oxen and, regaining his composure, he was suddenly angry. He hardly knew Eleanor Tyler and felt she had no right to talk to him about Matilde in the way she had. A veritable fountain of responses came into his mind, in the way that they usually did when the situation for using them had passed.

  Then his anger faded. What did it matter? Eleanor had called him naïve. Perhaps he was – Matilde and Michael had both told him as much recently. It was clear that Eleanor strongly disapproved of Matilde and he should see her outburst for what it was: a simple, and not entirely surprising, dislike of prostitutes. He wondered whether Eleanor imagined she had some kind of claim on him following the invitation to the Founder’s Feast.