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.’
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.’
‘It most certainly was not my idea. I want nothing to do with it.’
‘But it might be an excellent opportunity for us to lose Langelee. He can hardly remain a Fellow of Michaelhouse if he has eloped with a merchant’s niece. Fellows are not permitted to marry.’
‘But how can you consider implicating yourself in all this?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘You are always stressing how important it is to maintain good relations with the merchants. Deschalers will be outraged if you marry Julianna to that brute of a man.’
‘We must weigh up the pros and cons,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘And being free of Langelee is a pro not to be lightly dismissed.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think I will accede to their request. I can always claim later I did not know the arrangement was anything but legitimate.’
‘In the middle of the night? In a dark church?’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You have a point. But my grandmother tells me Julianna is pregnant, so I can always claim I thought the secrecy was because of that. Speaking of which, I must tell her about this. It will amuse her no end!’
He strolled away, whistling, leaving Bartholomew speechless for a second time. He determined to put the whole unsavoury business from his mind and went to bed early that night so that Michael might not be tempted to ask him to help. He was overtired, and thoughts of his sister and her continuing distress over Rob Thorpe tumbled through his mind in an uncontrolled fashion. His room was freezing and flakes of snow found their way through the cracks in the window shutters to form damp little piles on the table: he did not know whether to be grateful or irritated that his teeming, unpleasant dreams were so often interrupted because he woke from the cold. When Michael shook his shoulder to wake him for mass early the following morning, he felt exhausted.
Swearing under his breath, he hopped from bare foot to bare foot across the flagstone floor to the water in the jug Cynric left each night, while Michael waited for him, eating some nuts given by a patient in lieu of payment.
‘It has frozen solid again,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, shaking the solid mass in the jug to see if he could hear water slopping about underneath. There was nothing. ‘I will have to fetch some from the kitchen.’
‘You washed yesterday,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Is there no end to this cleanliness nonsense? Just get dressed and let us be off before we are late for the third time this week.’
‘Did you marry Langelee and Julianna last night?’ asked Bartholomew, fumbling around in the dark for his shirt.
‘Not so loud, Matt! You will wake the others,’ warned Michael. ‘Just because we have to be at the church early does not mean that the entire College needs to be up with us.’
Bartholomew hauled the cold, damp garment over his head. ‘Sorry. But what of this nocturnal wedding? What happened?’
‘We will speak of the matter after mass,’ said Michael. ‘I will meet you by the gate. Hurry or you can pay my fine for being late as well as your own.’
Bartholomew finished dressing and, hauling his tabard over his head, ran across the snowy yard to where Michael had pulled the bar from the wicket gate. There was no sign of Walter, but the weather was foul – sleet being driven almost horizontally by a bitter wind – and Bartholomew imagined very little would extract him from his cosy room to open the gate for scholars off to early morning mass.
‘It is dark this morning,’ mumbled Bartholomew, glancing up at a black sky laden with heavy clouds. He shivered as icy flakes flew into his face. ‘And cold.’
Michael was walking up the lane towards the High Street with uncharacteristic speed, but Bartholomew was grateful because it stirred the blood in his veins and he felt some warmth begin to creep through his body. He followed Michael through the knee-deep drifts of snow in St Michael’s graveyard to the porch. Someone already waited there and Bartholomew froze in his tracks.
‘Julianna!’
She came towards him, surprised. ‘I did not expect you to be here,’ she said. ‘I thought you were against my marriage to Ralph.’
Bartholomew spun round to Michael, realising exactly why the night seemed to black and why he felt so tired. It was not nearing dawn at alclass="underline" it was midnight!
Michael raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘I did not lie to you. I only said we would speak of the matter after mass. Which we will do I am sure. If the marriage is to be legal, I need a witness and you are the only one I can trust to do it discreetly.’