Michael gaped anew at the implications of that revelation. ‘How many of these horrible things did he have?’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, wondering whether to answer. However, the cat was out of the bag now, so there was no point in refusing to cooperate, especially as Michael could just ask Marjory. Besides, Tynkell had lied to him, and loyalty went both ways.
‘Lots,’ he mumbled. ‘Two dozen or more, of varying sizes. However, I never saw any indication that he attended covens or did … whatever it is that Satanists do. It is entirely possible that this so-called connection is completely irrelevant.’
‘Not if Lyng and Moleyns showed each other these symbols in St Mary the Great, where we know they met Tynkell for sly discussions.’ Michael continued to glare. ‘I cannot believe you kept such vital information from me, Matt. I am stunned!’
‘But I did not know it was vital,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps we are overstating its importance anyway. It is not necessarily a sinister–’
‘Anything to do with witchery is sinister, and all three men have been murdered. Of course it is important! Oh, Lord, here comes Cynric. Now what?’
‘A brawl at the King’s Head,’ the book-bearer reported tersely to Bartholomew. ‘Cook is there, tending the injured, but some are the Sheriff’s men and he wants you to see to them instead. It will mean trouble, boy. Cook will not like being deprived of customers.’
‘I will come at once,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the monk’s scolding tongue, even if it did mean another confrontation with the vicious barber.
Bartholomew gathered what he needed from his room, and set off at a brisk trot, Cynric loping at his side. The streets felt oddly uneasy for the small hours, and he was disconcerted to see lights in hostels that were normally in darkness with their occupants fast asleep. Lamps also burned in the Carmelite Friary, Bene’t College, the Hall of Valence Marie and Peterhouse, while the Gilbertines’ refectory was lit up like a bonfire. Scholars darted in and out of the shadows, visiting neighbours and friends in defiance of the curfew that should have kept them indoors.
‘They are plotting,’ surmised Cynric. ‘About how to install their preferred candidate. But Suttone need not worry. I have bought several costly charms on his behalf, so he will win.’
‘Bought them from Marjory Starre?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Cynric nodded. ‘She is very good, and she is kindly disposed towards Michaelhouse at the moment – because of Suttone himself, as a matter of fact.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘People have not forgotten the terrors of the plague, and he claims it is on the brink of return. His beliefs – which he has been airing in his election speeches – have driven folk to take all the precautions they can. Scholars and townsmen alike have flocked to Marjory for warding spells, and she says business has never been so good.’
‘Then we must tell him to stop,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially if he does win. We do not want half the University queuing up for her services.’
‘No,’ agreed Cynric. ‘It would be a nuisance for us regulars. However, it is Suttone’s intention to let scholars loose on townswomen that concerns me more. I do not want hordes of amorous academics after my wife – she may not like it. But Lord, it is bitter tonight! Marjory says we shall have snow the day after tomorrow.’
Bartholomew thought she might be right, as it was as cold as he could ever remember. It hurt to inhale; his nose, ears and fingers ached; and the frozen mud on the High Street made for treacherous walking. He began to wish he was back in the conclave, but then remembered that Michael would be there, and decided he was better off outside.
He and Cynric arrived at the King’s Head to find the carnage was not as great as they had been led to believe. Most wounds were superficial, although Cook was busily sewing them up anyway, so he could claim a fee. One victim was a ditcher named Noll Verius, who never had any money, and would almost certainly have to resort to crime to pay what was demanded.
‘That will heal on its own,’ he said, feeling it would be unethical to look the other way while Cook embarked on a painful and wholly unnecessary procedure.
Predictably, Cook resented the interference. ‘I was here first, so these injuries belong to me.’ His hands were red to the wrists, like glistening gloves, and his needle was thick with gore from his previous customers. ‘Now piss off.’
‘Watch your mouth, you,’ said Cynric dangerously. ‘Or I will–’
‘Good, you are here at last, Matt,’ said Tulyet, bustling up and blithely oblivious of the fact that he had just prevented a second brawl. ‘I want you to look at Robin. He has–’
‘He will look at no one,’ interrupted Cook angrily. ‘Surgery is my prerogative, not his.’
‘You may tend the patrons of this tavern, if they are reckless enough to let you near them,’ said Tulyet coldly, ‘but stay away from my men.’
‘Where and when I practise is dictated by the Worshipful Company of Barbers,’ flashed Cook. ‘Not you.’
‘How good are you at inserting stitches into yourself?’ asked Tulyet malevolently. ‘Because that is what you will need to do if you challenge me again.’
Even the combative barber knew better than to argue, and he prudently slunk away, although not without a vicious glower that would have unnerved any lesser man. Bartholomew went to tend Robin, who was white with shock, because someone had pinned his hand to a table with a dagger. Fortunately, the blade had missed bone, tendons and arteries, and would heal well enough. Helbye stood with a comforting hand on his shoulder, looking old, grey and tired.
‘Please do not leave,’ begged Robin, as the sergeant turned to go. ‘When that wretched barber sees Doctor Bartholomew with me, he will storm over and try to push him away. And I do not want Cook. Not when he killed Widow Miller and Mother Salter. You should never have sent for him.’
‘Of course I had to send for him,’ argued Helbye irritably. ‘He is the town surgeon – and a good one, too.’ He raised his sleeve to reveal a healing gash. ‘Look at that – a lovely neat job! Not even a woman could have done better stitches.’
‘You were lucky, then,’ said Robin. ‘Perhaps he likes you.’
‘Most folk do,’ quipped Helbye, although his grin did not touch his eyes, and Bartholomew saw he was shocked by the speed with which the trouble in the King’s Head had erupted. ‘But the hero of Poitiers can protect you from Cook, and I should hunt for Isnard before there is any more fighting.’
‘Isnard,’ sighed Robin. ‘I was right, you know – we should not have come in here, demanding to see him. We should have waited for him to come out, like we usually do.’
‘We have the authority to go wherever we please in the town we rule,’ said Helbye indignantly. ‘And that includes the King’s Head.’
‘Yes, but …’ began Robin, then decided there was no point in arguing. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘We wanted to ask Isnard about the new stuff that was stolen, you see – Wilson’s lid, Trinity Hall’s scaffolding, and some nails from Lakenham’s shed.’
‘Isnard is a rogue,’ said Helbye grimly. ‘And it cannot be coincidence that these things went missing at the exact moment that he and Gundrede returned from their mysterious excursion to God knows where.’
His voice was flat and strained, so that Bartholomew sensed he knew he had made a serious error of judgement by invading the King’s Head, and was embarrassed by it. He muttered something about finding Isnard and hurried away, his shoulders slumped.
Bartholomew finished with Robin and went to the next patient, a lad who had fainted at the first splash of blood and was still feeling queasy. He refused to let Cook puncture the boy’s eardrum to ‘release the excess of bad humours’, and instead settled him quietly in a corner with a cup of honeyed ale.