A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Oh?’ said Bartholomew cautiously. ‘Which ones came?’

  ‘Which ones!’ echoed Gray admiringly. He gave Bartholomew a conspiratorial wink. ‘And all this time we thought you were destined to take the cowl, like Brother Michael. Now we find out you have a whole secret life that is positively teeming with some of the loveliest females in town.’

  ‘I have nothing of the kind,’ snapped Bardiolomew testily. ‘I simply invited one or two young ladies to the Founder’s Feast.’

  ‘And one to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels,’ added Deynman helpfully. ‘And she was the prettiest of them all.’

  All? thought Bartholomew in horror. How many of them had there been? He sincerely hoped one of them had not been Matilde. Bulbeck, more sensitive to his teacher’s growing discomfort than his friends, put him out of his misery.

  ‘It was just the four Tyler women and your sister, Edith,’ he said. ‘They were concerned about you. And Agatha, of course.’

  ‘That is no woman,’ declared Deynman.

  ‘You should keep your voice down,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Or she might hear you and then I will not be the only one with a cracked head.’

  The three students exchanged fearful glances, and Deynman crossed himself vigorously. Bartholomew smiled. He was beginning to feel better already. He was not at all surprised that the kick had rendered him insensible, especially given the sensations of sickness and dizziness he had experienced on the way back to Michaelhouse.

  He thanked his misaligned stars that astrology had been the subject of his recent discussion with his students, and not trepanation, or he might have awoken to find Gray had relieved him of a chunk of skull rather than simply predicted his horoscope. Dim memories began to drift back. Had Michael accused him of vomiting on Master Wilson’s grave? If that were true, he really ought to do something to atone for such an act of sacrilege. When the pompous Master Wilson had died during the plague, he had made a deathbed demand that Bartholomew should oversee the building of his fine tomb. Three years had passed, and, apart from ordering a slab of black marble, Bartholomew’s promise remained unfulfilled.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was early morning and daylight was beginning to glimmer through the open window. On a pallet bed next to him, Gray slumbered, fully clothed, his tawny hair far too long and very rumpled.

  Bartholomew sat up warily, and then stood. Apart from a slight ache behind his eyes, he felt fine. So as not to wake Gray, he tiptoed out of his room, taking the pitcher of water with which to wash and shave. Then he unlocked the small chamber where he stored his medicines. Pulling off the heavy bandage he fingered the lump on the back of his head. He had felt worse, although not on himself.

  He went back to his room for clean clothes, tripping over the bottom of Gray’s straw mattress. The student only mumbled and turned over without waking. Bartholomew wondered at the usefulness of having him in a sickroom if he slept so heavily, but then relented, knowing he was a heavy sleeper himself. It was not the first time Gray had kept a vigil at Bartholomew’s bedside, and he knew he should not be ungrateful to his student, whatever his motives for wanting his teacher hale and hearty.

  Outside, the air was cool and fresh. The rain of two nights ago seemed to have broken the unbearable heat and the breeze smelled faintly of the sea, not of the river. Bartholomew looked at the sky, beginning to turn from dark blue to silvery-grey, ducked back inside to his room for his bag – noting that someone had thought to dry it out after the heavy rain – and walked across the yard to the front gates. Then he made his way to St Michael’s Church. The ground was sticky underfoot, and here and there puddles glistened in the early light.

  He reached the church and walked furtively to Master Wilson’s grave, relieved to see that nothing appeared to be amiss.

  In the church, Fathers William and Aidan, Franciscan friars and Fellows of Michaelhouse, were ending matins and lauds. Bartholomew sat at the base of a pillar in the cool church and let Father William’s rapid Latin echo around him. William always gave the impression that God had far better things to do than to listen to his prayers, and so gabbled through them at a pace that never failed to impress Bartholomew. However, if Bartholomew would ever be so rash as to put his observation to William, the friar would scream loudly about heresy and they would end up in one of the interminable debates that William so loved.

  Aidan favoured Bartholomew with a surprised grin, revealing two large front teeth, one of which was sadly decayed. While Aidan fiddled about with the chalice and paten on the altar, William gave Bartholomew one of his rare smiles and sketched a benediction at him in the air. On the surface, Bartholomew and William had little in common and argued ceaselessly about what was acceptable to teach the students. Any display of friendship between them was usually unwillingly given, although beneath their antagonism was a mutual, begrudging respect.

  In pairs and singly, Michaelhouse’s scholars began to trickle into the church, and Bartholomew took up his appointed place in the chancel. Master Kenyngham arrived and gestured to the Franciscans to begin prime.

  The friars started to chant a psalm, and Bartholomew closed his eyes, relishing the way their voices echoed through the church, slow and peaceful. Roger Alcote, the Senior Fellow, stood next to him and enquired solicitously after his health. Bartholomew smiled at the fussy little man: he had no idea he was so popular among his colleagues – unless, like Gray, they knew that they would have a serious problem trying to find a replacement Regius physician to teach medicine at Michaelhouse.

  During the morning’s lectures, his students were uncommonly considerate, keeping their voices low, even during an acrimonious debate about the inspection of urine to determine cures for gout. Bartholomew was amazed to learn that they had been instructed to keep the noise down by Deynman of all people, which was especially surprising given his uncharacteristic loudness during the night. Apparently, he had thought Bartholomew might be deaf because the bandage had covered his ears. Bartholomew wondered what it was like to see the world in such black and white terms as Deynman.

  When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew sent for the town’s master mason. While he waited, he read his borrowed Galen: although Radbeche’s message had been that Bartholomew might use it as long as he liked, to be in possession of a hostel’s one and only book was a grave responsibility, and he wanted to return it to them as soon as possible.

  When the mason arrived, Bartholomew handed him the small box that contained the money Wilson had given him for the tomb. The mason opened the box and shook his head, clicking his tongue.

  ‘Three years ago this would have bought something really fancy, but since the plague everything costs more – tools, wages… Even with the stone already bought, I can only do you something fairly plain.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bartholomew, his spirits lifting. ‘Master Wilson wanted an effigy of himself with a dozen angels, carved in the black marble and picked out in gold.’

  The mason sucked in his breath and shook his head.

  ‘Not with this money. I could do you a cross with some nice knots at the corners.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Bartholomew and a deal was struck. He did not know whether to feel relieved that the hideous structure Wilson had desired would not now spoil the delicate contours of the church, or guilt that his intransigence had meant that Wilson’s tomb-money had so devalued.

  As he pondered, Michael sought him out, his face sombre. ‘Mistress Fletcher died yesterday,’ he said. He squeezed Bartholomew’s shoulder and then went to sit on the bed. ‘I went to her when word came that she was failing. She had fallen into a deep sleep in the afternoon and did not wake before she died some hours later. There was nothing you could have done and she would not have known whether you were there or not.’

  Bartholomew looked away and said nothing. They sat in silence for a while. Michael played with the wooden cross around his neck, and Bartholomew stared out of the window into the sunny yard. He wa
tched some chickens pecking about in the dirt and saw Deynman chase a hungry-looking dog away from them. Deynman spied Bartholomew gazing out of his window and waved cheerily. Absently, Bartholomew waved back.

  ‘Damn Bigod!’ he said in a low voice. ‘I promised her I would be there.’

  Michael did not reply. Bartholomew stood up, knocking something from the window-sill as he did so. As he stooped to retrieve it, he saw it was the candle he had been looking for the night he and Michael had been attacked.

  Pangs of guilt assailed him when he remembered thinking that Gray might have taken it. He replaced it on the shelf, wondering who had moved it in the first place. Cynric, perhaps, when he was cleaning.

  Michael stood, too. ‘I am going to talk to Tulyet about your notion of persuading Lydgate to look at the ring on Thorpe’s skeleton,’ he said. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘We have Kenzie murdered; a recently dead hand claimed to be a relic; riots possible every night and we do not know why; your raped and murdered prostitute; the attack against you in the night; and the child’s skeleton. All unsolved mysteries, and I can think of no way forward with any of them. Tulyet will help us because he is as baffled as we are and I can think of nothing else to do.’

  Bartholomew picked up his bag. ‘I had planned to sit with Mistress Fletcher and watch Godwinsson at the same time. The French students were bound to go in or out sooner or later and I was going to follow them and question them about Joanna.’

  ‘Forget them for now,’ said Michael. ‘We know where to find them.’ He hesitated, then sat again, fiddling with the wooden cross that hung round his neck. Bartholomew waited, sensing the monk had something to say. He put the Galen in his bag, then perched on the edge of the table. Michael gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘Two days ago, when you were indisposed, I went to see Master Bigod of Maud’s Hostel. He denies totally the charge that it was he who attacked us in the street. I asked to see Will at Valence Marie but was told he was visiting a sick sister in Fen Ditton, and had been gone since the night the relic was found. Then I went to Godwinsson and, in the company of Guy Heppel, put the fear of God into Huw, their steward, and that scullion Saul Potter who you said kicked you. Do you know what I discovered?’

  Bartholomew shook his head, setting his bag down on the table while he listened to Michael.

  ‘Nothing!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Not even the tiniest scrap of information. Huw and Saul Potter claim they spent the evening cleaning silver, and went to bed by eight o’clock. I collared other Godwinsson servants, and they confirmed that the hostel was locked up and everyone was asleep long before the church clock struck nine. It was past midnight before we were attacked.’ He turned to the physician. ‘Are you certain that it was Will, Huw, Saul Potter and Bigod you recognised?’

  Bartholomew thought back to the attack: Huw swearing at him in Welsh, Saul Potter’s piggy eyes glittering as Bartholomew had torn away his hood, and Bigod demanding to know where something was.

  ‘I injured one as we fell – his hand broke,’ he said, the memory dim. ‘Did any of the men you spoke to have injuries? What about Will from Valence Marie? Perhaps he left Cambridge to hide the fact that he was wounded.’

  Michael looked pained. ‘Damn! Your memory has played us false! You told me originally that the man had broken his arm, not his hand, and you said Will had been holding me down, not fighting with you. I inflicted no broken bones – although I certainly bit someone fairly hard – and so Will cannot be in hiding to cover his wounds.’

  He banged his fist on the table in frustration. ‘I wondered at the time whether you might not have been rambling. You were weaving all over the road like a drunk. When I went haring off to confront Bigod and the others, I had no idea your injury was so serious. Gray warned us you might lose some memory after he consulted your stars. I should have waited.’

  ‘Stars!’ spat Bartholomew in disgust. ‘I do remember Bigod, Huw, Saul Potter and Will there. Others too. The lightning lit up their faces.’

  Michael looked sceptical. ‘How many were there?’

  Bartholomew thought, struggling with the blurred images that played in his mind. ‘Will and two others fought with you, while Huw, Saul Potter and Bigod fought with me.’

  One of the Benedictines in the room above began to sing softly as Michael shook his head. ‘Wrong again, Matt. Only two had been allocated to me; one sat on my back, while the other held my gown over my face and almost smothered me. But there were five men fighting you. I saw them. I had been taken by surprise and was knocked to the ground before I could react. You had more time to defend yourself and were able to fight harder. Do you remember any words they spoke?’

  For a brief moment, Bartholomew considered not answering, feeling foolish and vulnerable at his lapse in memory. ‘I heard Huw speak in Welsh, and Bigod asked me where something was,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘I heard no Welsh,’ said Michael, ‘and I heard every word that was spoken, lying as I was immobilised. Damn! Should I apologise to Bigod for accusing him wrongly? The servants I do not care about but the Principal of a hostel is another matter.’

  ‘I am certain I saw those four,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘And I heard and felt the sharp crack of a bone breaking…’

  He stopped, aware that Michael was regarding him unconvinced.

  ‘I suspect I saw a good deal more than you, since I was pinned helplessly on the ground for several minutes while you fought,’ said the monk. ‘The faces of our attackers were very carefully concealed – I saw nothing. And I am sure they would not have left us alive had they the slightest suspicion that they might have been identified. Yet you claim to have recognised four of the seven. It must have been your imagination that led you to name Bigod, Will, Saul Potter and Huw. I can come up with no other explanation than that these were professional outlaws hired to collect something from you.’

  ‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, uncomfortable at the way in which Michael was so blithely dismissing his recollections. ‘And why me, not you? You are just as deeply involved in all this business as me – perhaps more so, since you are the Senior Proctor.’

  ‘Perhaps it has nothing to do with “this business”, as you put it,’ said Michael. ‘I have given the matter considerable thought. The attack was most definitely aimed at you, since you were the one who was lured out on the pretext of a medical emergency; I was merely incidental. No one knows you have that ring you found at Godwinsson, except me, so it cannot be that – unless you were seen picking it up. The only answer I can come up with is that these men were hired by a patient of yours to get something…’

  ‘Such as what?’ interrupted Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Medicine? Most people know I prescribe medicine perfectly willingly and do not need to be ambushed for it.’

  ‘Perhaps you took something in lieu of payment that someone wants back,’ suggested Michael. ‘You are often given all manner of oddments when people have no money.’

  ‘Exactly! ‘ said Bartholomew. ‘ “Have no money.” Which means that they also would not be able to afford to pay outlaws to get whatever it was back again. And I hardly think seedcakes, candle-stubs and the occasional pot of ink warrant such an elaborate attack. Anyway, as Gray will attest, I often overlook payment when a patient is in dire need.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael testily. ‘But I can think of no other reason why you alone should be enticed out of college and searched for something. You have some rich patients – they are not all beggars.’

  ‘But they pay me with money,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the motive for the attack was not theft, because neither of us was robbed.’

  Michael was becoming impatient. ‘Perhaps your misaligned stars have led you to forget something obvious. Some transaction with a patient?’

  ‘I have not!’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘And my stars are not misaligned!’

  A distant screech of raucous laughter from the kitchens spoke of the presence of Agatha. For a frightening instant, Barthol
omew, who had heard the laugh often, thought that it sounded alien to him. Gray’s physical diagnosis had been right: it was only to be expected that some of his faculties might be temporarily awry following a hefty blow to the head. Perhaps a clearer memory of the fight would emerge in time. Then again, perhaps it would not.

  But Bartholomew knew that his stars had nothing to do with the fact that his memories were dim. Ironically, it seemed as though his reluctant adherence to teaching traditional medicine would backfire on him, if Gray was telling all and sundry that his master’s stars augured ill. People would treat anything he said with scepticism until he, or better yet, Gray, showed that his stars were back in a favourable position. He almost wished he had been discussing trepanation rather than astrology, after all.

  Bartholomew was torn between doubt and frustration for Michael’s dilemma. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain that the men he had named were their attackers, but the details remained hazy. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

  ‘You should rest,’ said Michael, watching him. ‘And I must go to see Tulyet.’

  Checking that the Galen was in his bag, Bartholomew followed Michael out of his room. He felt claustrophobic in the College, and wanted to be somewhere alone and quiet, like the meadows behind St Peter without Trumpington Gate. Ignoring Michael’s silent glances of disapproval that his advice about resting was being so wilfully dismissed, Bartholomew walked purposefully across the courtyard, and up St Michael’s Lane. Less decisively, he wandered along the High Street and began to notice things he had not seen before: there was a carved pig on one of the timbers of Physwick Hostel; one of the trees in St Michael’s churchyard was taller than the tower; Guy Heppel had a faint birthmark on one side of his neck.

  ‘I am delighted to see you up and about,’ breathed the Junior Proctor, sidling up to him. He rubbed his hands up and down his gown in his curious way. ‘I was most concerned to hear your stars are so unfavourable.’