‘I am certain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The blade pierced his heart. And, anyway, I saw him buried today in St Michael’s churchyard. Of course, if he is the Devil Langelee claims him to be, that will not be much of an obstacle to him.’
Matilde and Michael gazed at him in horror.
‘Matthew!’ breathed Matilde fearfully, glancing towards the door as though she imagined Harling might crash through it at any moment. ‘Do you think he will come back?’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, astonished that they should take him seriously. ‘Of course not. It was a joke.’
‘Not a very funny one,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘I have known many stranger things to happen in this town than dead men rising from their graves, and so have you.’ He shuddered, and sketched a blessing in the air, as if to ward off Harling’s evil spirit.
‘So all is well again?’ asked Matilde uncertainly, sipping her wine as her eyes went once more to the door.
Michael pursed his lips. ‘I would not go as far as that — we still have Langelee in our midst.’ He gave Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘Thanks to you.’
Bartholomew grimaced and wondered how long Michael would remind him of the fact. They sat in silence for a while, watching the flames creep slowly over a damp log.
‘Let us go back to when you snatched Langelee from the jaws of death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew eventually. ‘There is something I do not understand. How did you work out it was the stopper, and not the wine, that was poisoned?’
‘The Gonville cat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It smashed the bottle and drank the wine with no ill effects, yet the rat died. That detail had been bothering me for some time. When I saw Langelee tip the bottle to draw the stopper with his teeth, I realised that I had made the assumption that both cat and rat had drunk the wine. They had not. The rat had gnawed at the cork stopper. Mortimer had been about to pull the stopper from the bottle with his teeth, too, and Armel, the apprentice down the well, and Grene did the same — or drank from the bottle itself. That was why Philius did not die: he drank wine that had been poured and diluted with other ingredients for the weekly purge that Isaac made for him.’
‘It was lucky you happened to have a lemon in your pocket,’ remarked Michael. ‘A fig or a handful of currants would not have worked nearly as well.’
‘But a handful of currants would not have smashed Master Kenyngham’s beloved window,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘And I would not have to pay for its repair.’
‘True,’ said Michael archly. ‘So next time perhaps you will be a little more selective before you attempt to save someone’s life so selflessly. Langelee is a lout. Harling did right to leave him a gift of his wine. But I still cannot believe Langelee was so stupid, or so greedy, as to have attempted to drink it after all that had gone on.’
‘Did Langelee not offer to pay for the window?’ asked Matilde, surprised. ‘It would have been the least he could do.’
‘He did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not even agree to re-examine Bulbeck on account of his being ill when he took his disputation.’
Michael’s eyes gleamed with humour. ‘Just before we left to come here, he asked me if I would persuade you to let him borrow your copy of Aristotle’s De Caelo for his debate.’
‘I hope you told him to go and buy his own,’ said Matilde indignantly.
‘I said its hire for a week would cost him the price of a window,’ said Michael, leaning forward to refill his cup with spiced wine. ‘He said he would seek another copy.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘What a nasty business! And what has been gained from it? The town is in disgrace for smuggling; Edward Mortimer and Rob Thorpe are awaiting trial; I have lost my cloak and gloves; and we are stuck with Langelee — unless Julianna can come up with a plan to spirit him away. Perhaps I should have a word with her and see what we can devise.’
Matilde stood and presented him with a neatly wrapped package. ‘Edith gave me some cloth to sew this for you.’
Bartholomew looked at the warm, dark cloak with surprised pleasure, but then tried to pass it back.
‘I cannot take such a fine thing from you,’ he said reluctantly.
Her face fell. ‘Why not? Can you not accept a gift from a friend?’
‘That is not what I meant,’ said Bartholomew quickly when he saw he had offended her. ‘I am not good at looking after clothes — you heard what happened to the cloak Paul lent me. I would be afraid to wear it lest I damaged it.’
She smiled. ‘If you tear it, you will just have to come to me to have it mended. And at least it is long enough to hide that dreadful red patch on your leggings.’
Later, as they walked down the High Street on their way back to Michaelhouse, Michael poked Bartholomew in the ribs.
‘She likes you,’ he said.
‘She likes you, too,’ replied Bartholomew.
Michael shook his head impatiently. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Michael, she is a prostitute,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘There could be no future in such a relationship. An occasional indiscretion might be overlooked, but a longstanding affair with one will do more than raise a few scholarly eyebrows.’
‘Where is your evidence of her harlotry recently?’ asked Michael. ‘She is said to be particular in her customers, but I have discovered no one who has secured her favours for a long time now. Edith believes Matilde allows the rumours to persist because she finds them amusing, but that there is no truth in them any longer.’
‘But what about all the other prostitutes she mingles with?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How would she know them if she were not in the same business?’
‘I imagine they come to her for advice,’ said Michael. ‘They trust her: she is a sensible woman. My grandmother has a great respect for her. You might do a lot worse, Matt.’
Bartholomew stopped and looked back up the road to Matilde’s small house. On the upper floor, lamplight gleamed yellow through the shutters before it was doused. He turned away and walked back to Michaelhouse.
Epilogue
As the days passed, the memories of the unpleasant events with Harling and his smuggling empire began to fade in Bartholomew’s mind. He immersed himself in his teaching, determined that his students would pass their next disputations — even Deynman, if that were humanly possible. He taught each morning, visited his patients in the afternoons, while evenings were taken up with writing his treatise on fevers by the light of some cheap candles John Runham sold him — probably the remnants of his brush with the smuggling trade.
The mild weather ended abruptly and winter staked its claim with a vengeance. The river froze, and children made skates from sheep leg-bones to skid across a surface that was pitted and uneven from the rubbish that had been trapped in the ice. And then the snow came — tearing blizzards that turned the countryside from brown to white in the course of a day, and buried whole houses beneath drifts so deep that they were like rolling white hills. The country was paying dearly for the mild start to the year.
One afternoon, as the light was beginning to fade and cosy glows could be seen through the gaps in the window shutters of the houses in the High Street, Bartholomew finished setting the broken arm of an old man — who had been sufficiently drunk to believe he could still skate like a child across the King’s Ditch — and made his way back towards the College. The smells of stews and baking bread followed him as he walked, because the frigid temperatures suppressed the stench of sewage and rotting rubbish that usually pervaded the town.
The first flurry of snow, heralding yet another storm, tickled his face, and he drew his cloak more tightly around him, grateful to Edith and Matilde for their thoughtfulness. The wind stung his ears and blew his hood back, making his eyes water. He hurried down St Michael’s Lane, into Foul Lane and ducked through the wicket-gate into Michaelhouse. As he strode across the yard to his room, he was intercepted by Cynric, who gave him a message that Thomas Deschalers was ill and needed to see him immediately.
Since
Philius’s death Bartholomew had received a number of calls from the wealthy merchants who had been under the care of the Franciscan physician. He anticipated, with some relief, that they would not retain his services for long when they realised he had no time for malingerers and refused to leech his patients on demand or indulge them in time-consuming astrological consultations.
By the time he arrived at Deschaler’s house, it was snowing in earnest, great penny-sized flakes that drifted into his eyes and mouth as he walked, and that promised to settle and cover once again the filthy slush that lay thick across the town’s streets. Shivering, he knocked on the door, and waited a long time before it was opened the merest crack.
‘There you are!’ said Julianna, opening the door a little further. ‘I sent for you ages ago. Where have you been? I might have died waiting for you!’
‘I have other patients to attend,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And you do not appear to be at death’s door to me.’
‘How would you know that?’ she demanded. ‘You have not consulted my stars. Anyway, do not keep me out here in the cold with your idle chatter. Come in before you let all the heat escape.’
She gave him a predatory grin and stood back so that he could enter the house. He hesitated, backing away from her.
‘Oh, Doctor Bartholomew!’ she said, the grin fading as she gave an impatient stamp of her foot. ‘Do not start all this side-stepping and dancing around again. Come inside, man! I do not bite.’
Unconvinced, Bartholomew stepped across the threshold and stood uncertainly in the hallway. His reticence to be there with her increased a hundredfold when he saw her look furtively up and down the street before closing the door.
‘Is Master Deschalers ill?’ he asked nervously. ‘Because if not, I am very busy …’
‘We are all busy,’ retorted Julianna. ‘No one is ill, but I have something to ask of you. You heard what my uncle said: that you owe me a favour for saving your life. And do not try to claim otherwise because my uncle tells me that this Egil of yours was deeply involved with Vice-Chancellor Harling, and that he was trailing you across the Fens in order to kill us all.’
‘What do you want from me?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Have you had enough of life in the town, and want me to spirit you back to Denny Abbey in the dead of night?’
Julianna laughed. ‘Oh no! Life here is infinitely preferable to the drudgery at Denny. Since I have returned I have seen bodies dredged from wells, had soldiers searching our house for stolen goods, and witnessed a dramatic fight on the river bank between Tulyet and some outlaws.’
‘And what were you doing out at that time of night?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Looking for someone to kill with a heavy stone?’
Julianna’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is none of your business,’ she said coldly. ‘But we are wasting time. My uncle will be back soon, and he will think you are attempting to seduce me if he finds us here alone.’
‘Then I am leaving right now,’ said Bartholomew with determination, starting to push past her towards the door.
Julianna stopped him. ‘I want you to take a message to Ralph de Langelee,’ she said.
Bartholomew regarded her doubtfully. ‘Is that all? Then you will consider your favour repaid and will leave me alone?’
She nodded.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Give it to me, then. I will put it under his door as soon as I get back.’
Julianna sighed heavily. ‘I cannot entrust what I have to say to parchment. And, anyway, I do not write. You must memorise the message and repeat it to him.’
Bartholomew shrugged again, noting that there was a very distinct difference between ‘cannot write’ and ‘do not write’. ‘Very well. What is it?’
Julianna regarded him appraisingly for a moment. ‘You must promise not to tell.’
Bartholomew strongly suspected he was about to be drawn into something of which he would disapprove, or, worse still, which might lead him into trouble.
‘I hope this is nothing illegal …’
Julianna dismissed his objections with a wave of her hand. ‘Do not be ridiculous! What do you think I am?’ Bartholomew refrained from answering and Julianna continued. ‘You must tell Ralph to be prepared to admit me to his chambers at midnight tonight. He should have a priest at the ready and we will exchange our marriage vows in St Michael’s Church.’
Bartholomew regarded her dubiously and wondered, not for the first time, whether she was totally in control of her faculties. ‘How do you plan to get past the porter?’
She gave a snort of disdain. ‘Your porter sleeps all night. That will be no problem.’
‘Not since he was attacked,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I am sure his vigilance will not last for much longer.’
‘Damn!’ said Julianna, chewing her lip. She brightened suddenly. ‘No matter. I will meet Ralph at the church instead. That will be better anyway — it is not so far to walk.’
‘And where is Langelee supposed to find a priest who will marry you in a dark church in the depths of the night?’
Julianna shrugged. ‘Ralph says Michaelhouse is full of priests.’
‘Not ones who will agree to perform that sort of ceremony,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what do you plan to do afterwards? Go back to his chamber and ask his room-mate John Runham to turn a blind eye while you consummate your union?’
‘Ralph is to have horses ready and we will flee into the night.’ She twirled around happily, her eyes glittering with excitement.
‘Flee where?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘And what of Langelee’s position as Master of Philosophy? Is he to abandon it?’
Julianna gave another impatient sigh. ‘Of course he is. But that is none of your affair. You owe me a favour and I charge you to deliver this message to him.’
Bartholomew raised his hands. ‘All right, I will tell him of your plan. But have you considered that he might prefer a more conventional form of courtship? I see no reason why your uncle should refuse him permission to marry you now that your betrothal to Edward Mortimer is dissolved.’
Julianna pouted. ‘Uncle does not like Ralph.’ Bartholomew could see why. ‘He would not accept him willingly into our family. And, anyway, I am with child.’
‘Langelee’s child?’ asked Bartholomew tactlessly.
Julianna gave him a nasty look. ‘Of course,’ she said sharply. ‘And I will not be able to conceal it much longer. Look.’
Bartholomew glanced down to where she pulled her loose dress tight around her middle, and saw that she was right. It was fortunate that the novice’s habits at Denny had been loose-fitting, or her aunt might have noticed some weeks before. No wonder Julianna was prepared to go to such desperate lengths to leave Denny and to return to the arms of her paramour. He rubbed a hand through his hair and shrugged yet again.
‘I will pass your message to Langelee, but will return to inform you if he cannot make it at such short notice.’ He could not imagine that Langelee would agree to a midnight flight with Julianna, and did not like to think of her wandering the streets after dark alone — although, he reminded himself, she was more than able to look after herself if there were large stones to hand.
Julianna opened the door and ushered him out into the snow. She stood on the front step, her hands on her hips, and winked at him in a conspiratorial way that made several passers-by nudge each other and point at him. He wondered how she had succeeded in avoiding learning even a modicum of the decorous behaviour usually expected in the female relatives of wealthy merchants. He walked back to Michaelhouse in low spirits, and knocked at the door of the comfortable chamber Langelee shared with the smug Runham.
The philosopher was sitting at a table, scowling in concentration over Aristotle’s De Caelo in preparation for his forthcoming public debate. He had one of the largest lamps Bartholomew had ever seen, and the brightness that filled the room was eye-watering.
‘What do you want?’ he growled when Bartholomew put his head round the door. ‘I am busy.’<
br />
Bartholomew repeated Julianna’s message and watched Langelee’s eyes grow wide in his red face. When Bartholomew had finished, declining to mention Julianna’s advanced pregnancy, Langelee expelled his breath in a whistle and sat down on his bed.
‘She certainly knows her mind,’ he said admiringly. ‘Do you think Brother Michael will do the honours?’
‘You mean to go through with this?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded.
Langelee looked surprised. ‘Well, of course I do! Deschalers will never permit me to marry her otherwise. He thinks I want his money. I would not mind it, actually, and perhaps he will change his mind when presented with a fait-accompli.’
‘Perhaps he will disown the both of you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he will claim you took Julianna by force and apply to have the marriage annulled.’
‘He will do nothing so petty!’ said Langelee confidently. ‘Now, let me think. I must arrange for horses. Meanwhile, you ask Brother Michael whether he will marry us. He is more likely to agree if you put it to him.’
He bustled out of the room leaving Bartholomew to follow. Speechless, the physician walked into the courtyard, staring at Langelee’s broad back as he strode purposefully across the yard, humming to himself. And then he started to laugh. Michael, emerging from the kitchen after devouring a large plate of honey cakes — originally intended for Alcote who had paid for the ingredients — saw him, and picked his way mincingly across the slippery snow.
‘What were you doing in Langelee’s room? And what is so funny?’
Bartholomew told him, and Michael narrowed his eyes in thought. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped in horror, feeling the humour of the situation evaporating like the Fen mist in the sun.
‘Do not tell me you are going to oblige! This is madness, Brother. Deschalers would never let the matter rest: Julianna is all he has in the way of an heir for his business, and he will not let her go to someone he does not approve of.’
‘This was not your idea?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘You suggested to Matilde that you would see if you could persuade Julianna to spirit Langelee away so that we could be rid of him. I simply assumed all this was your doing.’
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