The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Bartholomew tried to dissuade him, but Valence was adamant. He gave way, and they walked briskly down the lane to the grand house currently leased by Kendale. Valence knocked, and while they waited for a reply, Bartholomew studied the building that Cynric said was haunted.

  During the day, he would have dismissed the book-bearer’s notion as fancy, but at night there was something vaguely unearthly about the place. It was darker than the surrounding houses, and its roof overhung rather forebodingly. In addition, its windows formed a pattern that looked like two eyes and a leering mouth. When he saw the route his thoughts had taken, Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted with himself for allowing his imagination to run so wild.

  Neyll answered the door immediately, and his black eyebrows drew down into a hostile scowl when he saw Bartholomew and Valence. The physician took a step back. Was someone playing a joke, deliberately sending them into an awkward situation?

  ‘We were beginning to think you were too frightened to come,’ the Bible Scholar growled sullenly. ‘Well? Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?’

  Inside, Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Kendale and his students had decorated Chestre’s walls with the skulls of animals they had slaughtered. Some were very fearsome, with great curling horns and gaping eye sockets. He saw Valence cross himself and felt the urge to do the same. He might have done, but Neyll was watching, and he had his pride.

  The house comprised a large hall on the ground floor, plus two smaller rooms for private teaching or reading. A flight of stairs led to the upper storey, and in the gloom he could see more bones adorning those walls, too; he wondered why Kendale had not settled for tapestries or murals, like everyone else. More steps led to a cellar, which a trail of muddy footprints suggested was in frequent use – probably, he thought, noting the number of telltale splashes on the walls, because it was where they stored their claret.

  ‘At last!’ exclaimed Kendale. He was sitting by the fire, and his hand was a mess of bloody cloths. All his students were there, and the place reeked of wine. ‘I know we hostel men are not a high priority, but I did not think you would leave me in agony for quite so long.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely contrite. ‘It has been a busy evening.’

  He knelt next to Kendale, and gently removed the dressings. The hand had indeed been crushed – the fingers were bruised, and there were deep cuts across the back of them.

  ‘I slipped on some ice,’ said Kendale, by means of explanation.

  ‘This is not the sort of injury that can be sustained by falling,’ remarked Bartholomew absently, inspecting it in the light of the fire.

  ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ demanded Kendale. There was an immediate menacing murmur from his students, and two or three came angrily to their feet.

  ‘Only if you are accusing me of being unable to distinguish between injuries caused by a tumble, and injuries caused by compression,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, declining to be intimidated.

  Kendale regarded him silently for a moment, then laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘All right, I did not slip. I caught it in the door.’

  ‘It must have been quite a door,’ muttered Bartholomew, not believing that tale, either.

  ‘You are as bad as Meryfeld,’ sneered Neyll. ‘He is all nosy questions, too. The last time he came, he asked so many of them that we had to put a knife to his throat, to shut him up.’

  Bartholomew glanced at him, to see whether he was making a joke, but the dour visage told him that the Bible Scholar was no more capable of humour than he was of flying to the moon. And if his claim was true, then it was not surprising the other medici had declined to answer Kendale’s summons.

  ‘Meryfeld is your physician?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Then why did he not come tonight?’

  ‘Neyll’s teasing must have frightened him off,’ said Kendale. ‘But does it matter how my hand came to be injured? I want you to mend it, not analyse how it could have been avoided.’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Knowing how a wound was caused tells me what sort of damage might lie beneath the skin. For example, the hard edges of a door will result in different harm than if your hand was caught between two flat surfaces.’

  ‘It was not two flat surfaces,’ said Kendale, after a moment of thought. ‘As I said, it was a door.’

  Bartholomew was disinclined to argue. He asked for a lamp, then began to suture the larger cuts with stitches any seamstress would have been proud of. Kendale gritted his teeth, although the reek of wine on his breath indicated he should not have been feeling a great deal.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kendale, sitting back in relief when the operation was over and the hand was wrapped in clean bandages. ‘And now sit down, and have a drink.’

  ‘It is late,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I do not—’

  ‘Drink,’ ordered Neyll, slamming a goblet on the table in front of him and filling it to the brim. ‘In my country, no guest leaves without refreshment. Not even members of pompous, rich Colleges. You, too, Valence. Sit, or we will be deeply offended.’

  Bartholomew did not want his refusal to be used as an excuse for a spat, so with a sigh of resignation, he perched on the bench next to Valence and picked up the goblet. ‘To good relations,’ he said, raising it in salute. ‘Between the hostels and the Colleges.’

  ‘I do not know about that,’ growled Kendale. ‘I am more inclined to toast continued hostilities. It is a lot more satisfying.’

  There was a cheer from the students, and the toast was repeated in a feisty roar.

  Because he was tired, the wine went straight to Bartholomew’s head. He finished it with difficulty, and started to stand, but Neyll grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down again, while another student refilled the goblet. Meanwhile, Valence was already on his third cupful.

  ‘We really must go,’ said Bartholomew, trying to struggle away from Neyll’s meaty hand. It was hopeless: the burly Bible Scholar was extremely strong.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Kendale. ‘You cannot have more patients at this time of the night. Or are you too good to drink in our hostel?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But patients summon me at all hours, and—’

  ‘Drink!’ ordered Kendale, flicking his fingers at an alebellied lad, who brought another jug of claret to the hearth. Kendale swallowed two brimming cups in quick succession, and indicated that the student was to pour him a third.

  ‘Easy,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Too much wine is not good after the shock of a wound.’

  Kendale sneered. ‘I am from the north. We can drink as much as we like without it having the slightest effect on us. Why do you think we win so many battles?’

  Bartholomew was not entirely sure how these two claims fitted together. ‘I see,’ he hedged.

  ‘My family’s history is peppered with glorious victories,’ Kendale went on. His students gave another cheer, and he grinned at them. ‘Indeed, we all have warrior blood running in our veins, which is why we can drink any mere College man into a state of oblivion.’

  ‘I am sure you can,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he and Valence would not be expected to meet the challenge. He changed the subject hastily. ‘What percentage of brimstone to pitch did you use when you lit up St Mary the Great? You see, I would like a lamp that burns with a constant light. It would be useful for situations like these, where it is difficult to see what—’

  ‘You could not see properly?’ demanded Kendale. ‘No wonder it hurt!’

  ‘I did not mean—’ began Bartholomew, realising he would have to watch what he said.

  ‘Drink up,’ interrupted Neyll. ‘Or is our claret not fine enough for you?’

  ‘It is very nice,’ said Bartholomew, taking another gulp. Someone had refilled his cup again, and he wondered whether they intended to keep him there all night. ‘Now, about the light—’

  ‘No,’ said Kendale firmly. ‘Why should I t
ell you how to create something that might make you rich? I would be better inventing such a lamp myself.’

  ‘Do it, then,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘It would have all manner of useful applications.’

  ‘No,’ said Kendale again. ‘I have better things to do. Such as besting arrogant Colleges.’

  There was yet another cheer from the students, and Kendale raised his goblet in a sloppy salute. Cups were drained and slammed down on tables, and the ale-bellied student began filling them again. Bartholomew tried to snatch his away, but his fingers were now clumsy and he was too late. He glanced at Valence and saw him glare defiantly at Neyll before downing the contents of his beaker in a single swallow. Neyll did the same, then reached for the jug.

  ‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, loath to spend the rest of the night dealing with cases of excessive intoxication, especially as he was now far from sober himself. ‘You have been more than generous, Principal Kendale, but it is time for us to go home.’

  ‘Yes, give us our fee, and we will be gone,’ slurred Valence. ‘A shilling.’

  Bartholomew winced. Payment had been a long way from his mind, and he wished it had been a long way from Valence’s, too. It was not the time for issuing demands for cash.

  ‘A shilling?’ demanded the ale-paunched student. ‘That is brazen robbery!’

  ‘It is non-negotiable, Gib,’ stated Valence, trying to stand and failing. He slumped into Neyll, who slopped wine on the floor. ‘You should have asked for a quotation before we started if you intended to bargain with us.’

  ‘Bartholomew is a surgeon, not a builder,’ snapped Gib. ‘You do not haggle with surgeons.’

  ‘He is a physician,’ declared Valence hotly. He hiccuped. ‘Not a surgeon.’

  ‘If Bartholomew were a physician, he would have prepared my horoscope and inspected my urine,’ said Kendale. ‘But he sutured my wounds. That is surgery. And surgeons are lowly, base creatures, so we shall pay accordingly. One penny.’

  ‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Valence, trying to stand again. ‘You are cheating—’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, wondering whether Chestre had intended to provoke a quarrel all along. He felt the room tip as he stood, and it was not easy to haul Valence up from the bench and keep him from falling. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Now please excuse us.’

  Valence managed a malicious grin. ‘The stitches will need to be removed in a week, Kendale. Do not attempt it yourself, because you will fatally poison your blood and die.’

  Neyll moved fast, and snatched Valence away from Bartholomew, to grab him by the throat. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between them, but Gib blocked his way. Valence gagged as Neyll’s fingers tightened. Bartholomew tried to dodge around Gib, but the lad pushed him hard enough to make him stagger. His medicine bag slipped off his shoulder, scattering its contents across the floor. Then Gib drew a dagger.

  ‘Stop!’

  Kendale had spoken softly, but his voice carried enough authority to make Neyll release Valence and Gib lower his weapon. Valence tottered away, hands to his neck. In the silence that followed, one of the younger students knelt and began shoving phials, pots and dressings back into Bartholomew’s bag. Then he handed it to the physician, and stood back.

  ‘There,’ said Kendale smoothly. ‘No harm done. But it is very late, and I am tired. Goodnight.’

  Bartholomew nodded coolly, seized Valence’s arm and left without another word. His heart hammered in his chest, and he expected at any moment that the Chestre students would attack them en masse. But no one moved, and it was with considerable relief that he stepped into the street outside.

  He tried to set a brisk pace towards Michaelhouse, but his legs were like rubber and Valence was weaving all over the place. They reached the College eventually and hammered on the gate, but Walter was evidently doing his rounds, so they were obliged to wait to be let in. Bartholomew sought the support of a wall, and leaned against it, feeling the world ripple and sway unpleasantly around him.

  ‘That was powerful wine,’ slurred Valence, also aiming for the wall, but missing and slumping to the ground. There was begrudging admiration in his voice. ‘I hate to say something positive about a hostel, but those Chestre boys certainly know how to handle their drink!’

  ‘That is not necessarily a good thing,’ began Bartholomew. ‘The body’s humours will—’

  He tensed when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He tugged Valence into the shadows, afraid Kendale might have changed his mind and had given his louts permission to finish what they had started. But Kendale did not so much as glance at Michaelhouse as he padded past, his students streaming at his heels.

  ‘I wonder where they are going,’ mused Valence drunkenly, trying to stand. ‘We had better follow them and see.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I do not think so!’

  ‘But they may mean us harm,’ objected Valence. Unable to walk, he began to crawl along the lane, so Bartholomew was forced to grab a handful of tunic, to stop him. ‘Let me go! I must see!’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have had enough trouble for one night.’

  The following morning was cloudy, but just as cold. There was a dusting of frost, and Michael claimed he might as well have slept outside, given that he had nothing but a sheet for a roof. Bartholomew felt he was in just as bleak a position, because Yffi had removed the window shutters from the ground-floor rooms, and the night had been windy. Bottles had jangled and parchment had rustled all night. He was usually a heavy sleeper, capable of dozing through all but the most frenetic of commotions, but the wine and the fracas at Chestre had left him unsettled, and he found himself waking every few moments.

  ‘I will show Chestre what happens to ruffians who intimidate members of my College,’ snarled Michael angrily, after the physician described what had happened.

  ‘You cannot, Brother. Technically, all they did was give us wine and engage us in conversation. Besides, Kendale may well have done it to exacerbate the trouble between the hostels and the Colleges, and we should not play into his hands.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Michael reluctantly. ‘We should not. But I will be watching him, and if he puts one foot wrong, he will learn what it means to annoy the Senior Proctor.’

  Once washed and dressed, Bartholomew limped lethargically into the yard to join his colleagues for their morning devotions. The leg he had broken falling off his horse the previous year ached from the cold, and the wine had left him with a nasty headache. Langelee regarded him in alarm.

  ‘You cannot be ill!’ he cried. ‘Not when you are supposed to be Official Physician for the camp-ball this afternoon. Prior Leccheworth said he would not let the game go ahead unless there was a qualified medicus on hand, to deal with mishaps.’

  ‘I disapprove of camp-ball,’ said Suttone, who was in an awkward position: should he support his Order or his Master? ‘Why could the Gilbertines not sponsor a lecture instead?’

  ‘Because they know what people like,’ explained Langelee impatiently. ‘Which do you think will be more popular among the masses – a lecture or an exciting game, full of blood and savagery?’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘And hundreds of people will be there to watch,’ Langelee went on, turning back to him. ‘So you had better pull yourself together. Go and lie down. Use my room, if you like. There is a fire burning, and the blankets are reasonably clean.’

  ‘I am not ill,’ said Bartholomew. He became aware that Thelnetham was regarding him oddly. He had been about to tell his colleagues what had happened at Chestre, but the Gilbertine’s expression made him reconsider, although he was not sure why. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘Then rest,’ ordered Langelee. ‘If you are not fighting fit by this afternoon I shall be very disappointed. And you do not want me disappointed, believe me.’

  ‘You had better do as he says,’ murmured Michael, while Bartholomew tried to decide whether he had just been
threatened with violence. ‘And afterwards, Valence can read to your class while you come with me to see Celia Drax. I know we have spoken to her already, but I am sure there is more to be learned from her.’

  Bartholomew decided to take Langelee at his word, and exchange a chilly hour in church for a pleasant interlude reading by the fire. He heard the procession leave a few moments later, and was already engrossed in Galen’s Tegni, when the door opened and Thelnetham walked in.

  ‘Are you sure you are not ill?’ the Gilbertine asked. ‘You are paler than usual.’

  For some reason, Bartholomew felt uneasy with Thelnetham in the room. The canon was older and smaller than he, and represented no kind of physical threat, but there was something about his manner that morning which was unsettling. His eyes seemed oddly bright, and his smile brittle.

  ‘Too much wine last night,’ explained Bartholomew, supposing he might as well be honest.

  ‘I see,’ said Thelnetham, his expression unreadable. ‘But I am forgetting the purpose of my visit. Agatha is outside, and wants to know if she can bring you some broth. She is reluctant to enter our rooms uninvited, as you know.’

  Agatha always did exactly as she pleased, and it was Thelnetham who made a fuss about her going where she was not supposed to be. Bartholomew could only suppose the Gilbertine had intercepted her, and ordered her to wait. He could not imagine she would be pleased, and knew he had to make amends fast – Agatha was vengeful, and her grudges lasted a long time.

  ‘I will come,’ he said, starting to stand. But Thelnetham waved him back down.

  ‘It is unseemly to entertain women in our quarters, but I will overlook the matter today, as you are unwell. I shall tell her she may enter, just this once.’

  Within moments, Agatha’s bulk filled the door, all sturdy hips and swinging skirts. Bartholomew was relieved when he saw Thelnetham had not accompanied her.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing Bartholomew a steaming bowl. ‘You cannot be ill for the camp-ball, because I am looking forward to it. And do not say Leccheworth can appoint another Official Physician, for none of the others will sew wounds.’