Robert looked at Bartholomew as though he were insane. ‘I feel I have risked enough just talking to you. I will not tell another soul – not even my brother John. John does not share my interest in precious stones, and found the hand sufficiently repulsive that he did not look at it long enough to recognise Jamie’s ring.’
Bartholomew felt in his bag, pulling out a small packet.
‘Take this. It is a mixture of herbs I give babies when they are teething and will do you no harm. If anyone should ask why you have been talking with me for so long, tell them you still feel feverish and wanted some medicine.’
The student gave Bartholomew a grin and took the packet. ‘I should go,’ he said, with another glance over his shoulder. ‘I am glad I could help. I want you to catch Jamie’s killer.’
As Bartholomew left, he heard Robert slide the bar into place behind the door, and frowned thoughtfully.
Assuming Robert was not mistaken, Kenzie’s ring on the hand found at Valence Marie lent yet more evidence to the fact that Thorpe’s relic was a fake: if Kenzie had worn the ring a few days before, there was no legitimate way the bony hand could have been wearing it for the last twenty-five years. Bartholomew walked slowly, his head bent in concentration. Will, the Valence Marie servant, might have been near the place where Kenzie had died. Had he discovered Kenzie’s body, stolen the ring, and then decided to adorn the hand with it?
Bartholomew sighed. He was back to a question he had asked before: who else would recognise the ring? Kenzie would have done, certainly, but he was dead. Dominica, assuming Bartholomew was right in his assumption that she was Joanna, was also dead. Thomas and Cecily Lydgate would know it, especially Cecily. Had Kenzie been killed just so that the ring could be put on the hand for the Lydgates to see? It seemed a very elaborate plot and there was nothing to say that the Lydgates would ever go to view the hand. Also, it necessitated a high degree of premeditation: Kenzie was killed several days before the relic appeared, and it was surely risky to kill for a ring, then just toss it into the Ditch on a skeletal hand in the hope that it might be found by the dredgers.
Try as he might, Bartholomew could make no sense of it all. Only one thing was clear. His left sleeve had a small tear in it that he had been meaning to ask Agatha to mend. Because of this, he had been careful to put the two rings into his right sleeve the night before. But when he had shown the rings to Robert, they were in his left sleeve. Although the hiding place was perhaps an obvious one, there was only one person who might guess that he would use it. Bartholomew frowned again, wondering why Michael had searched not only his gown the previous night as he slept, but also his room the day before.
The day of the Founder’s Feast dawned bright and clear.
All the scholars of Michaelhouse rose long before dawn to help with the preparations for the grand occasion.
Agatha, who had not slept at all the night before, bellowed orders at the frantic kitchen staff and at any scholars who happened to be within bawling range. Bartholomew smiled when he saw the dignified Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote, struggling irritably across the courtyard with a huge vat of saffron custard, trying not to spill any on his immaculate ceremonial gown.
‘Sam Gray!’ yelled Agatha from the door of the kitchen, loud enough to wake half of Cambridge. Gray’s tawny head appeared through the open window shutters of his room, looking anxious. ‘Run to the Market Square and buy me a big pewter jug for the cream. That half-wit Deynman has just cracked mine.’
‘How can he have cracked a pewter jug?’ called Gray, startled. ‘They are supposed to be unbreakable.’
Bartholomew heard Agatha’s gusty sigh from the other side of the courtyard. ‘That is what I always thought but Deynman has managed it. So, off to the market with you. Now.’
Gray rubbed his eyes sleepily. ‘The market stalls will not be open yet,’ he called. ‘It is still dark.’
‘Then go to the metal-smith’s house and wake him up!’ shouted Agatha, exasperated. Even the wily Gray knew better than to disobey a direct order from Agatha, and he scuttled away, running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tidy it. Meanwhile, Agatha had spotted Bartholomew who, with Father William, was draping one of Alcote’s luxurious bed-covers over the derelict stable that teetered in one corner of the yard.
‘And what do you think you are doing?’ she demanded in stentorian tones to Father William. He looked taken aback, apparently considering that the purpose of their task was obvious to any onlooker.
‘Father Aidan said he thought these crumbling walls were an eyesore and he suggested we cover them.’ He shook his head in disapproval. ‘All vanity! We should be saving our guests from the eternal fires of hell, not pandering to their earthly vices by disguising ramshackle buildings with pieces of finery! ‘ He gave the bed-cover a vicious tug as though it were personally responsible for Father Aidan’s peculiar recommendation.
‘I meant why are you forcing Doctor Bartholomew to help you?’ she roared. ‘He should not be cavorting about with you when his stars are bad.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair, wondering yet again how much longer Gray’s diagnosis would continue to haunt him. Still, he thought, trying to look on the positive side, at least his recent accident had meant that Agatha had forgiven him for inviting Eleanor Tyler to the Feast, and he was now back in her favour. When he opened his eyes again Father William was regarding him uneasily.
‘I can finish this, Matthew,’ he said. ‘You go to your room and lie down.’
‘I am perfectly healthy,’ Bartholomew snapped, pulling the bed-cover into place with unnecessary roughness. ‘In fact, much more so than you.’
‘Me?’ asked William, surprised. ‘How can you tell that?’
‘You keep rubbing your stomach and you are as white as snow. Did you eat that fish-giblet stew that has been making an appearance at every meal since last week?’
William winced and looked away queasily. ‘It tasted much stronger than usual and I should have known not to eat it when some of it spilled and the College cat would not touch it.’
Bartholomew stepped back, satisfied that the unsightly, tumbledown stable would not now offend the sensibilities of Michaelhouse’s august guests. Of course, some of them might well wonder why a bed-cover was draped over one of the buildings in the yard, but that question could be dealt with when it arose.
‘I can give you some powdered chalk mixed with poppy juice. That should settle it down. But if you take it you must avoid drinking wine today.’
‘I was not planning to indulge myself in the sins of the flesh,’ said William loftily. ‘A little watered ale is all I shall require at the Feast. And I certainly shall not be eating anything.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, setting off towards his room, Father William in tow. He stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, Lord! There is Guy Heppel. I hope he has not found another body in the King’s Ditch.’ It crossed his mind, however, that investigating such a matter might be a perfect opportunity for him to extricate himself from the delicate situation he faced with his two female guests that day.
William snorted. ‘That canal is a veritable cemetery! I cannot see that either the town or the University will be keen to dredge it again after all it has yielded this time.’
He watched Heppel making his way delicately across the uneven yard, holding his elegant gown high, so that it would not become fouled with the mud, some hard and dry but some sticky and thick, that covered it.
‘That man is a disgrace! To think he was appointed over me to keep law and order in the town!’ William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose as the Junior Proctor approached. ‘And I think he wears perfume!’
Heppel arrived, breathless as always. He was apparently to be someone’s guest, perhaps Michael’s, for he wore ceremonial scarlet and a pair of fine yellow hose.
Uncharitably, Bartholomew could not but help compare the skinny legs that were thrust into them with those of a heron.
‘Th
ank the Lord you are awake,’ said Heppel to Bartholomew in relief. ‘I must have this astrological consultation before I enjoy the pleasures of your Founder’s Feast today. After the last one I attended, I was ill for a week. I must know whether my stars are favourable, or whether I should decline the invitation.’
Father William gave a sudden groan and clutched at Bartholomew to support himself. ‘Oh, I do feel ill, Matthew,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I think I might have a contagion.’
‘A contagion?’ squeaked Heppel in alarm, moving backwards quickly. ‘What manner of contagion?’
‘One that is both painful and severe,’ said William, holding his stomach dramatically. ‘I do hope its miasma has not affected Matthew. You might be better waiting a while for this consultation, Master Heppel, in case he passes it to you.’
Heppel took several more steps away, and shoved a vast pomander to his nose.
‘Saturn is still ascendant,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should at least try to ease Heppel’s obvious concern for his well-being. ‘So take a small dose of that angelica and heartsease I gave you and eat and drink sparingly today. That should see you safely through the ordeal. And avoid anything that might contain fish giblets.’
‘Are fish giblets under the dominion of Saturn, then?’ asked Heppel, puzzled and taking yet another step backwards as William reeled.
‘Yes,’ said William before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Say a mass before you come to the Feast, Master Heppel, and pray for me.’
Heppel bowed briskly to Bartholomew and William and walked out of the yard a good deal more quickly than he had walked in. Bartholomew took Father William’s arm, although the ailing friar made a miraculous recovery once Heppel had been ushered out of the front gate by the porters.
‘Did you smell it?’ William growled to Bartholomew. ‘Perfume! Like a painted whore! And God knows whores have no business in a place of learning!’
Bartholomew swallowed hard and hoped Michael had ensured that Matilde was not seated anywhere near Father William at the Feast. He unlocked the little storeroom where he kept his medicines and mixed a draught of chalk and poppy syrup. William gulped it down and pulled a face.
‘God’s teeth, Matthew, that is a vile concoction! You should give a dose to that reprehensible Heppel. That would stop him coming after you for his astrological consultations.’
‘Remember,’ Bartholomew warned as the friar left. ‘No wine.’
‘I am not one of your dull-witted students, Matthew,’ said William pompously. ‘I only need to be told something once for it to sink in. No wine.’ He looked Bartholomew up and down disparagingly. ‘I do hope you are going to change into something a little more appropriate. You look very scruffy this morning.’
‘But wearing fine clothes would be indulging in the sins of the flesh,’ Bartholomew pointed out to the man who professed to have no wish for material goods and to care nothing for appearances.
Aware that he had been caught out in an inconsistency, Father William pursed his lips. ‘You have my blessing to indulge yourself today, Matthew. After all, we cannot have Fellows of other colleges thinking that Michaelhouse scholars are shabby, can we? I, of course, as a lowly friar, own no fine clothes, but Agatha washed my spare habit specially for the occasion. Unfortunately, it shrank a little and is now a lighter shade of grey than it should be, but it is spotlessly clean.’
‘Are you telling me that this is the first time it has ever been washed?’ asked Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘You have had the same two habits since before I became a Fellow here and that was eight years ago!’
‘Grey does not show the dirt, Matthew. And anyway, I was afraid laundering might damage them. I am well aware of your peculiar notions about washing, but I personally believe that water has dangerous properties and that contact with it should be avoided at all costs.’
‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew, noticing, not for the first time, that the friar’s everyday habit was quite stiff with filth. He imagined there was probably enough spilled food on it to keep the College supplied for weeks.
‘Well, I must go and prepare the church for prime,’ said William. He raised a hand to his head. ‘The burning in my stomach has eased but I feel a little giddy. Is it that potion you gave me?’
‘It might be,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, it might equally well be the terrifying notion of wearing a clean habit. You will need to take another dose, probably just before the Feast. I will leave it for you on my table, so you can come to get it when it is convenient. Only take half of it, though. The rest is to be drunk before you go to bed.’
William nodded and was gone. Alone, Bartholomew washed and shaved and donned a clean shirt and hose, although both were heavily patched and darned. Cynric slipped into the room with Bartholomew’s ceremonial red gown that he had painstakingly brushed and ironed.
Bartholomew took it reluctantly, guessing that Cynric had been to some trouble to render it so smart. The physician was careless with clothes, and knew it would be only a matter of time before something spilled on it or it became crumpled.
‘It should be a fine day,’ said Cynric, nodding to where the sky was already a clear blue. ‘I hope you have a good time with that Eleanor Tyler.’
His good wishes did not sound entirely sincere and Bartholomew glanced at him, puzzled. ‘First Agatha and now you. What is wrong with Eleanor Tyler?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Cynric hastily. He hesitated. ‘Well, she is a touch brazen, boy, if you must know the truth. And she is after a husband. With no father to negotiate for them, those Tyler daughters are taking matters into their own hands. That is what makes them brazen.’
But not as brazen as a prostitute, Bartholomew thought, wondering what Cynric would say when he found out about Matilde. It crossed his mind that Cynric, Agatha and even Father William, might excuse his choice of guests on the grounds that his stars were misaligned, assuming, of course, that they did not discover that the invitations were issued long before he was hit on the head.
The day was already becoming warm as the scholars assembled in the yard to walk to the church for prime.
Bartholomew found he was uncomfortable in his thick gown, and warned Cynric that watered ale might be required at some point of the proceedings if someone fainted. Master Kenyngham, the gentle Gilbertine friar who was head of Michaelhouse, beamed happily at his colleagues, blithely unaware of Gray scampering late into his place near the end of the procession. Agatha approached Gray nonchalantly, and a large pewter jug exchanged hands, even as the line of scholars began to move off towards the church.
Michael walked next to Bartholomew, behind the Franciscans, his podgy hands clasped reverently across his ample stomach. He wore his best habit, and the wooden cross that usually hung around his neck had been exchanged for one that looked to be silver. His thin, brown hair had been trimmed, too, and his tonsure was, as always, perfectly round and shiny.
‘You look very splendid today, Brother,’ Bartholomew remarked, impressed by the fact that, unlike everyone else, the monk had escaped being involved in the frantic preparations that morning.
‘Naturally,’ said Michael, raising a hand to his hair. ‘A good many important people will be at this Feast, not to mention your gaggle of hussies. I must make a good impression.’
‘Did you ask the steward to make sure Matilde was not near William?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
The monk nodded. ‘Eleanor will be next to Father William. Matilde will sit between you and our esteemed Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote.’
‘Are you insane?’ Bartholomew cried. The Franciscans looked round to glower at him for breaking the silence of the procession. He lowered his voice. ‘Alcote will be worse than William, if that is possible, and William will be horrified to find himself next to Eleanor!’
‘That cannot be helped,’ said Michael primly. ‘You should have considered all this before inviting a harem to dine in our College.’
The church was gloomy in the early mo
rning light but candles, lit in honour of the occasion, cast wavering shadows around the walls. The procession made its way up the aisle and filed silently in two columns into the chancel, Fellows in one and students in the other. The body of the church was full of townspeople and scholars from other colleges. Eleanor Tyler was standing at the front and gave Bartholomew a vigorous wave when he saw her.
Michael sniggered unpleasantly and then slipped away to join his choir.
‘What in God’s name is Father William wearing? ‘ hissed Roger Alcote from Bartholomew’s side. ‘Has he borrowed a habit from Father Aidan? It is far too small for him – you can virtually see his knees! And the colour! It is almost white, not grey at all!’
‘He washed it,’ explained Bartholomew, smiling when he saw William’s powerful white calves displayed under his shrunken habit. ‘He said he thought that water might be dangerous to it, and, from the state of it, I would say he was right!’
Michael cleared his throat, and an expectant hush fell on the congregation.
‘Let us hope he has chosen something short,’ muttered Alcote, as Michael raised his hands in the air in front of his assembled singers. ‘Or we may find we have fewer guests for the rest of the day than we had anticipated.’
His uncharitable words were not spoken lightly. As one, the congregation winced as the first few notes of an anthem by the Franciscan composer Simon Tunstede echoed around the church. What Michael’s singers lacked in tone was compensated for by sheer weight of numbers, so that the resulting sound was deafening. Michael gesticulated furiously for a lowering of volume but his volunteers were out to sing for their supper and their enthusiasm was not to be curtailed. The lilting melody of one of Tunstede’s loveliest works was rendered into something akin to a pagan battle song.
The door of the church opened and one or two people slipped out. Bartholomew saw his sister standing near the back of the church, her hand over her mouth as she tried to conceal her amusement. To his horror, he saw Eleanor Tyler had no such inhibitions and was laughing openly.
A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 27
