Emma turned to Heslarton. ‘That box is important to me, Thomas. Would you mind …’
Heslarton beamed amiably. ‘Of course, Mother! I would have gone immediately, but you said Bartholomew could manage. I will get your property back, never fear.’
She smiled, and Bartholomew was reminded that, despite their disparate personalities, she was fond of her loutish son-in-law, a feeling that seemed wholly reciprocated. In fact, Emma and Heslarton seemed to admire each other a good deal more than either liked Alice.
‘Do be careful, Thomas,’ said Alice snidely, watching the exchange with barely concealed contempt. ‘Cornered thieves can be very dangerous.’
Heslarton pulled an unpleasant face at her on his way out, and Odelina did the same, before going to talk to someone who was sitting by the window. Bartholomew started: he had not known anyone else was in the room, because his attention had been on Emma and her kin. The visitor was Celia Drax, the taverner’s beautiful wife. She had been Bartholomew’s patient until rumours began to circulate about his penchant for unorthodox medicine, when she had promptly defected to another physician. He wondered what she was doing in the Colvylls’ company.
‘I will pull my mother’s hair out one day,’ muttered Odelina sulkily. ‘She has a cruel tongue.’
‘Now, now,’ admonished Celia mildly. ‘Come and sit by me. We have our sewing to finish.’
‘Thomas will catch the villain,’ said Emma confidently to Bartholomew and Michael, watching the younger women huddle together over their needles. ‘By this evening, I shall have that dishonest rogue locked in my cellar.’
‘You must hand him to the Sheriff,’ Michael reminded her. ‘It is his business to deal with felons, not yours. And if, by some remote chance, the culprit is a scholar, then he comes under my jurisdiction. You cannot dispense justice as you see fit.’
Emma inclined her head, although it was clear she intended to dispense whatever she pleased. Bartholomew glanced around the room, taking in the gold ornaments and jewelled candlesticks, and wondered what was in the box that meant so much to her. He asked.
‘Things my late husband gave me,’ she replied shortly. ‘Incidentally, did Michaelhouse say those masses for his soul that I paid for? When I die, I shall be furious if I arrive in Heaven and find he is not there, just because your College has not kept its side of the bargain.’
Michael raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘You seem very certain that you are upward bound.’
Emma regarded him askance. ‘I am generous to priests and I support worthy causes – like paying to mend your College’s roof. Of course I shall have a place in the Kingdom of God.’
‘I think you will find it is not that straightforward,’ said Michael dryly. ‘You cannot buy your way into Heaven.’
‘Actually, you can,’ countered Emma with considerable conviction. ‘And my great wealth will secure me the best spot available. Although, obviously, I will not be needing it for many years yet.’
Michael was spared from thinking of a reply because a sudden clatter of hoofs sounded in the yard outside. Emma told Alice to open the window, so she could see what was happening. It revealed Heslarton astride a magnificent black stallion. He had assembled a posse of about ten men, and his horses were far superior to any of Michaelhouse’s nags. His retainers were tough, soldierly types, and Bartholomew felt a pang of sympathy for the thief.
‘Do not stay out after dark, Father,’ called Odelina worriedly. ‘It is not safe.’
Heslarton grinned up at her, clearly relishing the opportunity for a spot of manly activity. ‘Do not worry, lass. This villain will be no match for me.’
‘I was thinking of other dangers,’ said Odelina unhappily. ‘Such as not being able to see where you are going, and the fact that it might snow.’
‘You may break your neck,’ added Alice sweetly. ‘That would be a pity.’
‘I will return by nightfall, Odelina,’ promised Heslarton, pointedly ignoring his wife, and then he and his men were gone in a frenzy of rattling hoofs and enthusiastic whoops.
‘We should go, too,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary is tomorrow, and there is a lot to do before then.’
‘You mean teaching?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the huge classes Michaelhouse’s Fellows had been burdened with after the Master had enrolled twenty new students the previous year, in an effort to raise revenues.
‘I mean making sure the cooks do not stint on food,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘I have not had a decent meal in weeks, and the Purification is one of my favourite festivals.’
Bartholomew suspected it was one of his favourites because a former Fellow had bequeathed funds to provide a post-church feast. It was not a large benefaction, however, and there were more mouths to feed than in previous years: the monk was likely to be disappointed. Still, Bartholomew thought, surveying the ample bulk with a professional eye, it would do him no harm. Michael had lost some of his lard over the previous weeks – a combination of being busy, and the College’s dwindling resources – and was much healthier for it.
‘Are you coming?’ asked Michael, when the physician made no reply. ‘We have delivered the bad news, so you are free to leave.’
‘Where are you going, Doctor?’ demanded Emma, when the scholars aimed for the door. ‘Your chasing criminals on my behalf did nothing to relieve the agonies in my jaws, so we shall finish the consultation we began earlier. The monk can leave, though.’
‘I cannot stay,’ said Michael, determined to give the impression that he was leaving because he wanted to, not because he had been dismissed. ‘I am far too busy. Good morning, madam.’
‘I am going to the kitchen,’ announced Odelina, when he had gone. ‘The cook is making marchpanes, and you may share them, Celia. Mother may not – she needs to watch her figure.’
As Odelina was a good deal portlier than her dam, Bartholomew expected a tart rejoinder, but Alice merely rolled her eyes and followed her daughter out. It was not many moments before Bartholomew and Emma were alone.
‘My torment is getting worse,’ said the old lady, putting a gnarled hand to her face.
‘Well, yes, it will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I have explained before, you have a rotten tooth, and the pain will persist until it is taken out.’
‘But you have also informed me that the procedure will hurt.’
‘It will hurt,’ Bartholomew acknowledged. ‘But not for very long, and then you will recover. However, if you delay, the poisons may seep into your blood. They could make you extremely ill.’
Emma shook her head firmly. ‘I do not approve of this “cure” of yours. Devise another.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘There is no other cure, but if you do not believe me, then hire another medicus. Gyseburne and Meryfeld arrived in the town a few weeks ago, and they are skilled practitioners. Or there is Rougham of Gonville Hall.’
Emma grimaced. ‘Rougham is a pompous ass, while Gyseburne and Meryfeld are not members of the University. Besides, you come free, in return for my generosity in mending Michaelhouse’s roof, and I do not see why I should squander money needlessly. So, you had better consult a few books and invent a different treatment, because I am not letting you near me with pliers.’
Bartholomew tried to make her see reason. ‘But it is the only—’
‘Why can you not calculate my horoscope, and use it to provide me with potent herbs? I know you own such potions, because Celia Drax told me you gave her some when she was your patient.’
‘Potent herbs will afford you temporary relief, but they will not solve the problem long-term.’
‘I will take my chances,’ said Emma brusquely. ‘Besides, only barbers pull teeth, and you are a physician. It would be most improper for you to do it.’
It was something Bartholomew’s colleagues were always telling him – that not only was it forbidden for scholar-physicians to practise surgery, it was demeaning, too. But Bartholome
w believed patients should have access to any treatment that might help them, and as the town’s only surgeon now confined himself to trimming hair, he had no choice but to perform the procedures himself.
‘It is the only—’ he began again.
Emma cut across him. ‘Give me some of your sense-dulling potions, so I can rest for a few hours. The agony kept me awake all last night, and I am exhausted. We shall discuss the matter again later, when my wits are not befuddled by exhaustion.’
Bartholomew was tempted to refuse, in the hope that pain would bring her to her senses, but there was something in her beady-eyed glare that warned him against it. He was not usually intimidated by patients, especially ones who were less than half his size, but Emma was not like his other clients. With a resentful sigh, he did as he was told.
It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew had finished with Emma, and he left her house with considerable relief. Cynric, his book-bearer, was waiting outside with a list of other people who needed to see him. The most urgent was Isnard the bargeman, who had cut his hand. The gash needed to be sutured, and Bartholomew wondered how his fellow physicians treated wounds, when they would not insert stitches themselves and there was no surgeon to do it for them.
As he sewed, half listening to Isnard’s inconsequential chatter, he thought how fortunate he was that Master Langelee had never tried to meddle with the way he practised medicine. But would it last? He had recently learned that most of his patients were cheerfully convinced that he was a warlock, and that they believed he owed his medical successes to a pact made with the Devil. They did not care, as long as he made them better, but his colleagues objected to having a perceived sorcerer in their midst, and constantly pressed Langelee to do something about him.
He left Isnard, still pondering the matter. He heard a yell, and glanced across the river to the water meadows beyond, where a group of townsmen were playing camp-ball. Camp-ball was a rough sport, and the rivalry between teams was intense. The men stopped playing when they saw him looking, and stared back in a way that was distinctly unfriendly. He could only suppose they were practising some new manoeuvre and did not want him to report it to the opposition.
Ignoring their scowls, he entered the row of hovels opposite, to tend two old women, neither of whom he could help. Their bodies were weakened by cold and hunger, and they did not have the strength to fight the lung-rot that was consuming them. When he had finished, sorry his skills were unequal to saving their lives, he headed towards the Carmelite convent on Milne Street, where a case of chilblains awaited his attention. He had not gone far before he met someone he knew.
Griffin Welfry was a jovially friendly Dominican in his thirties, with a shock of tawny hair and a tonsure barely visible beneath it. He wore a leather glove on his left hand, and had once confided to Bartholomew that it was to conceal the disfiguring result of a childhood palsy. He was flexing the afflicted fingers as he walked along the towpath.
‘No, it is not the cold affecting it,’ he said in answer to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘It is agitation. The Prior-General of my Order has arranged for me to be appointed Seneschal – the University official who liaises with the exchequer in London.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew warmly. He liked Welfry, and was pleased his considerable abilities were being recognised. ‘You will make a fine Seneschal.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Welfry doubtfully. ‘My Prior-General told me only a few months ago that I was good for nothing except making people laugh. He intended it as an insult, but I was flattered. As far as I am concerned, humour is one of God’s greatest gifts.’
Bartholomew did not need to be reminded of Welfry’s love of mirth. All the Cambridge Dominicans liked practical jokes, but Welfry excelled at them, and since he had arrived a few months before, his brethren had rarely stopped smirking. Indeed, Bartholomew was fairly certain it had been Welfry who had hoisted the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof.
‘I suppose I had better accept,’ Welfry went on unenthusiastically. ‘The Prior-General sent me to Cambridge to pen a great theological tract that will glorify our Order, but I do not seem able to start one. Perhaps these solemn duties will concentrate my mind.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Prior-General was hankering after a lost cause. Welfry was incorrigibly mischievous, and the physician doubted he would ever use his formidable intellect to its full potential. Indeed, he suspected it was only a matter of time before Welfry played some prank on the exchequer, simply because he was bored. The King’s clerks were unlikely to appreciate it, and the University would suffer as a consequence.
‘I have been told I must be solemn at all times,’ said Welfry glumly. Then a grin stole across his face. ‘But maybe I should regard it as a challenge – I am sure I can make the exchequer laugh. Incidentally, how is the King’s Hall student who was gored by the bull? That was a nasty trick.’
‘It was,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But he is recovering. I have been told it was the work of Chestre Hostel. What do you think?’
Welfry grimaced. ‘There is insufficient evidence to say, although they did happen to be walking past when the crate was opened, which was suspicious. However, I cannot believe they intended harm. Jokes are never funny if someone is hurt when they are implemented.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away, wishing everyone shared Welfry’s benign attitude.
The Carmelites, popularly known as the White Friars, had done well for themselves since their priory had been established in Cambridge the previous century. It had been founded by St Simon Stock, an early Prior-General, and from humble beginnings it had expanded until they owned a spacious site and a number of elegant buildings.
Bartholomew was admitted to their compound by a lay-brother, and escorted to the pretty cottage in which Prior Etone lived. Etone was a grim-faced man, said to spend more time with his account books than at his prayers, although Bartholomew had always found him pleasant enough. He was suffering from chilblains, a common complaint in winter, when footwear never dried and feet were rarely warm. While Bartholomew applied a poultice to the sore heels, Etone regaled him with a detailed description of the new shrine he intended to build.
‘The number of pilgrims warrants the expenditure,’ he explained. ‘Four more arrived just this morning and they look wealthy. I am sure they will leave us a nice benefaction when they go.’
Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Why do pilgrims come? What shrine do they visit?’
Etone regarded him askance. ‘How can you ask such questions? I thought you were local!’
‘I am, but—’
‘It is because of what happened to St Simon Stock when he was here,’ interrupted Etone indignantly. ‘He had a vision: our Lady of Mount Carmel appeared to him, and presented him with the scapular all Carmelites now wear.’
A scapular was two pieces of cloth joined together and worn over the shoulders. It formed a distinctive part of the White Friars’ uniform.
‘I have heard the tale,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But I thought it was a myth – that no one could prove Simon Stock even had a dream, let alone when he was in Cambridge.’
‘It is most assuredly true!’ cried Etone. ‘And the increasing pilgrim trade proves it. Our Lady handed St Simon Stock his scapular here, in our very own priory, and I intend to exploit … I mean develop the place for the benefit of all mankind.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But just because pilgrims come does not mean it is a genuine—’
‘It is genuine!’ insisted Etone. He stood carefully, and slipped his feet into soft shoes with the backs cut away. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you where it happened. You will feel its sanctity. And if you do not, it means you are Satan’s spawn and God has not deigned to touch you.’
Bartholomew was not very susceptible to atmospheres, being a practical man of science, and did not want to be denounced as the Devil’s offspring by an influential friar.
‘
Another time, Father,’ he mumbled hastily. ‘I still have several patients who need—’
‘Even diligent physicians should never be too busy for God,’ declared Etone piously. ‘Come.’
Supposing he would have to prevaricate if not immediately overwhelmed by the shrine’s holiness, Bartholomew followed him across the yard to a wooden hut. It was well made, and had been nicely painted, but it was still a hut.
‘Is this it?’ he asked uneasily, not sure he could feign suitably convincing reverence over something that looked as though it belonged at the bottom of a garden.
Without speaking, Etone pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny altar with a brass cross, two candlesticks and an ornate, jewel-studded chest, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Then he stood aside, so the physician could inspect its contents. Bartholomew did so, and saw a piece of cloth. It was old, dirty and of indeterminate colour. He studied it for a moment, then looked blankly at Etone, wondering what he was supposed to say.
‘It is a piece of the scapular Our Lady presented to St Simon Stock,’ averred Etone reverently, crossing himself. ‘So, you see, this is not just a sacred place because of the vision that occurred here, but because we have this important relic.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, itching to ask how he had come by it: according to the legend, Simon Stock, as per the instructions given in his dream, was said to have worn the garment for the rest of his life and then had been buried in it. Etone did not look like a tomb robber.
‘It is a disgrace!’ came a sudden, furious shout from outside. ‘We are pilgrims, and you think people would respect that.’
‘It is a bad winter and the poor are desperate.’ Michael’s voice was soothing and calm. ‘I doubt he knew what he was taking. He just saw the glint of metal, and assumed it was a brooch.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 3