A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘But I can assure you that they are becoming more favourable by the hour.’

  Heppel looked surprised at his vehemence. ‘I am glad to hear it. I was hoping to have my astrological consultation from you soon. My chest is a little better with that angelica you gave me, but now I have a stiffness in my knees. I almost went to Father Philius at Gonville Hall when you were ill – I am told he does an adequate job – but now you are well again, I am glad I waited. Brother Michael informs me you are by far the best man in Cambridge for stars.’

  Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed and he walked away, leaving Heppel somewhat bewildered. He had not gone far when he saw Matilde. She approached him shyly and smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘Agatha told me you were better,’ she said. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘My stars are badly aligned, apparently,’ he said, turning to glower at the retreating figure of Guy Heppel, who was still rubbing his hands up and down the sides of his gown.

  ‘They have certainly put you in an ill-humour,’ she said wryly. ‘Or was that the doing of the Junior Proctor?’

  ‘It was the doing of Brother Michael, telling people I am good at astrological consultations. If he spreads that tale around, I shall never be able to do any work.’

  Matilde smiled. ‘Then you should tell Heppel that his stars will augur well if he devotes himself to music, and persuade him to join Michael’s choir. Heppel sings like a scalded cat and it will serve Michael right.’

  Bartholomew regarded her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure a scalded cat would not serve to improve Michael’s choir? I cannot imagine it could be any worse than it is. It used to be quite good but he has not spent the time needed on it because of his extra duties as Senior Proctor.’

  ‘Time has nothing to do with it, Matthew. It is not lack of practice that has made the choir what it is, but Michael’s policy of providing bread and ale after each rehearsal. For many folk, it provides the only decent meal they have in a week.’

  ‘I wondered why so many people were so keen to join,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew it had nothing to do with their appreciation for music.’

  ‘Even so, I am looking forward to hearing it on Tuesday.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘Unless you have changed your mind, or you feel too unwell, that is.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said quickly, although his predicament with his two guests had completely slipped his mind. He forced himself to smile. ‘Just remember to bring something to stuff in your ears.’

  After he had left Matilde, he met Oswald Stanmore, who asked whether his stars had improved. Bartholomew regarded him coolly and silently cursed Gray’s enthusiasm for the subject. Puzzled by the uncharacteristic unfriendliness, Stanmore changed the subject and told him about a fight in Milne Street the night before between the miller’s apprentices and students from Valence Marie.

  Bartholomew barely listened, preoccupied with how he might neutralise Gray’s diagnosis. Stanmore put up his hands in a gesture of exasperation when he saw his brother-in-law was not paying him any attention, and let him go. The merchant then strode to the small building where his seamstress worked. She was there talking to Cynric, who had been courting her slowly and shyly for more than a year. Stanmore beckoned him over, and within moments Cynric was slipping along Milne Street behind Bartholomew.

  The sun was hot but not nearly as strong as it had been.

  White, fluffy clouds drifted across the sky affording temporary relief and there was a breeze that was still relatively free of odours from the river. Bartholomew continued to walk, acknowledging the greetings of people he knew but not stopping to talk to them. He passed St Bene’t’s Church, where he and Michael had been attacked, and reached St Botolph’s. Glancing across the churchyard to where Joanna and the other riot victims were buried, he saw a figure emerge from where it had been standing behind some bushes. Curious, and with nothing else to do, Bartholomew climbed over the low wall and walked towards the back of the church. He peered out round the buttresses and saw that as he had thought, the person cloaked and hooded, even in the hot sun – was standing by Joanna’s grave.

  Bartholomew abandoned stealth and approached the mourner openly. The figure turned to see who was coming and then looked away, it was a man of Bartholomew’s height, taller even. Bartholomew drew level and was about to address him, when the man spun round and shoved Bartholomew so hard that he fell back against the wall of the church. Then he raced off along the path back towards the High Street. Bartholomew’s feet skidded on wet grass as he fought to regain his balance.

  But as the man ran his hood fell away from his face and Bartholomew, for the briefest of moments, was able to recognise him.

  Bartholomew tore after him but on reaching the High Street saw that the man had disappeared into the mass of people walking home from the market. As he looked up and down the road in silent frustration, he saw that Cynric had materialised next to him.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Bartholomew gasped. ‘It was Thomas Lydgate, standing at Joanna’s graveside.’

  Cynric looked at him perplexed. ‘You are still addled, lad,’ he said gently. ‘There was no one here other than you.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Bartholomew was growing exasperated, while Michael and Cynric listened to him with a sympathetic patience that only served to make him feel worse. He rubbed his head and flopped down into the large chair next to the kitchen hearth from which Agatha oversaw the domestic side of the College.

  ‘So, you say you saw Lydgate at Joanna’s grave,’ said Michael. ‘And that Lydgate is her father.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I think Joanna must be Dominica and it is she who lies in the grave.’

  ‘But Joanna is a prostitute,’ said Michael. ‘How can she be Dominica?’

  Was Michael trying to force him to give up his theory by being deliberately obtuse? Bartholomew wondered.

  Michael was not usually so slow to grasp the essence of his ideas. He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to ease the nagging ache there, and tried again.

  ‘Joanna is not a prostitute known to Matilde,’ he said. ‘Ergo, I believe Joanna was not a prostitute at all. I think someone deliberately misled Tulyet with a false name, and that Joanna’s real identity is Dominica, whom no one has seen since she was sent to these mysterious relatives in Chesterton.’

  ‘But she was sent to them before the riots, to keep her away from her lover – before you think she was killed,’ said Michael. ‘She is probably still there with them. In Chesterton.’

  ‘Then check. I will wager you anything you like she will not be there,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her death the night of the riot explains the curious actions of her parents. Cecily went to Maud’s, and stayed briefly talking to Master Bigod. Perhaps she was asking him if he had seen Dominica. Why else would a respectable lady, who seldom leaves her house anyway, be out on the night of massive civil unrest?

  Meanwhile, Thomas Lydgate was missing all night, and gave a false alibi to Tulyet. He was probably also searching for her. The next day he and Edred went to the Castle to identify the friar who died, whom I thought was you.’ he faltered. That memory at least was burned indelibly into his mind.

  ‘And you think that while Lydgate and Edred were at the Castle, they also had a look at this Joanna and satisfied themselves it was Dominica?’ finished Michael.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why else would Lydgate be at her grave?’

  He saw Michael and Cynric exchange glances, but was too tired to be angry with them. Cynric had not seen Lydgate, but that did not mean he had not been there.

  Because Michael doubted Bartholomew’s memory over the events of two nights ago, the monk was prepared to doubt him now. How long would he continue to doubt?

  A few days? Weeks? For ever? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision.

  He wondered how Cynric had happened to be so close to hand all of a sudden, appearing at the church so fortuitously? It o
ccurred to him that Cynric must have been following him. Probably not from Michaelhouse, but from Milne Street, where he had been alerted by Stanmore. Gray’s insouciant diagnosis – made when the student did not have the most basic information necessary to allow an accurate prediction – was impinging on every aspect of Bartholomew’s life. If only he had been teaching something else that week! He wondered whether he could bribe his fellow physician Father Philius to provide a more favourable astrological reading. But Philius and Bartholomew opposed each other on virtually all aspects of medicine, and Philius would probably seize on the notion that his colleague was unbalanced with the greatest of pleasure.

  Michael was speaking, and Bartholomew realised he had not heard anything the monk had said. When he asked him to repeat it, Michael stood abruptly.

  ‘I was saying that there might be all manner of reasons why Lydgate might visit Joanna’s grave. Perhaps she was his personal prostitute, which might be why Matilde did not know her – it would mean she remained exclusive to him and did not tout for business on the streets. Perhaps he thought he was at the grave of his friar and not Joanna’s at all. And if you persist in your theory that Dominica was Joanna, who do you think raped and killed her? It would hardly be the French students of Godwinsson!’

  Bartholomew was too weary to try to reason it all out.

  ‘Did you speak to Tulyet about asking Lydgate to identify the ring?’ he asked, partly for information, but mostly so that he would not have to answer Michael.

  The monk nodded. ‘He advises – and on reflection, I believe he is right – that we should ease up on our inquiries into Kenzie’s death until the town is more peaceful. Inflaming a man like Lydgate by suggesting his daughter’s ring is on Valence Marie’s relic will serve no purpose other than to risk more violence.’

  ‘So the next time I wish to murder someone, all I need to do to make sure I get away with it is to start a riot,’ said Bartholomew hitterly. ‘It is a good thing to know.’

  Michael sighed theatrically. ‘We are simply being practical, Matt. I would rather one murderer went free than another nine innocents – including someone like your Joanna – die in civil unrest. But we should not be discussing this while you are incapable of drawing rational conclusions. You should rest and perhaps the planets will be kinder to you tomorrow.’

  Cynric agreed. ‘You look tired, boy. Would you like me to see you to your room?’

  ‘I am not one of Oswald Stanmore’s seamstresses,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound irritable when Cynric was attempting to be kind. ‘I do not think I am likely to be accosted by ruffians while walking from the kitchens to my room.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Michael, smiling. ‘You might be if Father William has caught wind of all your dalliances with these women!’

  Bartholomew trailed across the courtyard to his room as the last orange rays of sun faded and died, still feeling helpless and angry. He took a deep breath, scrubbed at his face, and went over to the chest for the pitcher of water that usually stood there. It was on the floor. He frowned. He never kept it on the floor because he was likely to kick it over when he sat at the table. He looked around more carefully. The candle he had replaced on the shelf that morning now lay on its side, and one of his quills was on the floor. He picked it up thoughtfully, and looked in the chest. He was tidy in his habits and kept what few clothes he owned neatly folded, but the shirts in the chest had been moved awry.

  He took the key from his belt to the tiny chamber where he kept his medicines, and tried to unlock the door. It was open already. He entered the room cautiously and peered around in the gloom. Several pots and bottles had been moved, attested by the stain marks on the benches.

  When he crouched to inspect the lock, there were small scratches on it that he was certain had not been there before, suggesting that someone might have picked it.

  Locking the door carefully, he went back to his room.

  Only he had the key to the medicines room, on the grounds that he necessarily kept some potions that, if administered wrongly, might kill. Gray and Bulbeck were allowed in, Deynman was not, for his own safety. Could Gray or Bulbeck have entered the medical store while he was ill? It was possible, although neither of them was likely to rummage through his chest of clothes: they had no earthly reason to do so since Bartholomew probably owned fewer clothes than either of them, and those he did own were darned and patched and could scarcely be coveted items, even to impecunious students.

  So, the only logical conclusion was that someone else had been in his room and the medicines store. Could this person have been looking for the object Bigod was so keen to have? Bartholomew thought again. He knew that either Gray, Bulbeck or Deynman had been with him the whole time he had been ill, so the first opportunity for anyone else to search his room would have been that day, either while he was teaching, or when he had gone out later. He frowned and rubbed the back of his head. He had been unable to find the candle stub the night of the thunderstorm; the notion crossed his mind that his room must have been searched before he was attacked, too.

  He saw a shadow on the stair outside and saw Michael pause to glance in at him, before going upstairs to his own room. ‘What is the matter?’ asked the monk. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I think my room has been searched,’ Bartholomew replied. ‘Several bottles have been moved in the storeroom, and the water pitcher…’ He stopped when he saw the expression on Michael’s face.

  ‘Good night, Matt,’ Michael said and climbed the stairs to his room.

  A light rain was falling when Bartholomew awoke the next morning, the clouds after the previous clear days making dawn seem later than it was. Bartholomew had slept well, feeling better than he had done for days as he washed, shaved, dressed and walked briskly across the courtyard towards the gates. Walter eyed him speculatively.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded rudely.

  Bartholomew was nonplussed. Where did Walter think he was going? Where did scholars usually go at this hour in the morning? Then it struck him. It was Sunday and the morning service was later on Sundays. Something in Walter’s gloating look made him reluctant to admit his mistake and give the porter proof that he was mentally deficient as well as astrologicaHy lacking.

  ‘I am going visiting,’ he replied briskly, lifting the bar from the gate himself since Walter apparently was not going to do it for him. ‘As I often do on Sundays.’

  ‘In the rain?’ queried Walter. ‘Without a cloak?’ Suspicion virtually dripped from his words.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, opening the gate and stepping out into the lane. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.’ He closed the gate, and then opened it again moments later, catching Walter halfway across the yard. ‘And I do not need Cynric to follow me,’ he shouted.

  He walked quickly towards the river, following a sudden desire to be as far away from Michaelhouse as possible.

  There was a thick mist swirling on the dull waters, rolling in from the Fens. He began to walk upstream, thinking that he would visit Trumpington and have breakfast with Stanmore and Edith. Abruptly, he stopped. They would be as bad as the scholars of Michaelhouse: they would see him arriving early, having walked to them in the rain, and would doubt his sanity.

  So, downstream then, he thought, and struck out enthusiastically along the towpath that led behind the Hospital of St John. Once he saw a spider’s web encrusted with more tiny drops of water than he thought it would have the strength to hold and stopped to admire it.

  Further on, past the Castle and St Radegund’s Convent, he came face to face with a small deer, which stared at him curiously before bolting away into the undergrowth.

  After a while he came to the village of Chesterton, where Dominica Lydgate, the unfortunate daughter of the Master of Godwinsson, was supposed to be staying with her mysterious relatives.

  The bell in the church was beginning to toll for the early morning sendee. Bartholomew waded across the river, still shallow from weeks
of dry weather, and made his way through a boggy meadow towards it. He opened a clanking door and slipped inside as the priest began to say mass. One or two children regarded him with open interest and Bartholomew wondered how he must appear to the congregation: cloakless, tabard dripping wet, shoes squelching from fording the river. One child reached up and patted his bag, giggling afterwards with her sister at her audacity. Bartholomew smiled at them, increasing their mirth, until a nervous mother moved them away.

  The Chesterton priest apparently had better things to do with his morning than preaching, for he raced through the mass at a speed that would have impressed Father William. The quality of his Latin, however, was appalling, and once or twice he said things that Bartholomew was certain he could not mean. As he intoned his unintelligible phrases, he eyed his few parishioners with what was so obviously disdain that Bartholomew was embarrassed.

  After the brief ceremony, the priest stood at the door to offer a limp hand and a cold nod to any who paused long enough to acknowledge him. Bartholomew loitered, taking his time to finish his prayers, and then pretending to admire the painted wooden ceiling. When he was certain everyone else had left, he headed for the door.

  The priest nodded distantly at him, and almost jostled him out of the building so that he could lock the door.

  ‘Nice church,’ said Bartholomew as an opening gambit.

  The priest ignored him and began to stride away.

  Bartholomew followed, walking with him up the path that led to the village – a poor collection of flimsy cottages clustered around a square, squat tower-house.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked politely. ‘It seems a pleasant village.’

  The priest stopped. ‘I do not like scholars in my church,’ he growled, eyeing Bartholomew with open hostility.

  ‘I am not surprised, given your atrocious Latin,’ Bartholomew retorted. Since the polite approach had failed, Bartholomew considered he had little to lose by being rude in return.