Rifling through an assortment of weapons, horse shoes, and pieces of armour, he found what he was looking for and presented Matilde with a bundle of greasy black sacking. She declined to sully her hands with it, and indicated that it was for Bartholomew.
Curiously, the physician peeled away the material to reveal a pair of shiny forceps, equipped with a pair of jaws that opened to the size of a small head. Bewildered, he gazed at them and then at her.
‘They are the tool that midwives use for drawing forth babies from their mothers,’ she explained.
‘I know what they are,’ said Bartholomew, as he turned them over in his hands. They were beautifully crafted, with wide ends that would allow the pressure to be spread across a wider area of the skull and so lessen the chance of damage to the baby’s brain, and the metal had been polished smooth, so that rough edges would not harm the mother. ‘But why are you giving them to me?’
‘Rosa Layne,’ said Matilde in a soft voice. ‘Do you remember her?’
‘Yes, of course. She died in childbirth last week. Her family had hired a charlatan midwife, who killed the poor woman. A real midwife, armed with a pair of these forceps, would have saved her.’
‘She was a sister,’ said Matilde quietly. ‘A prostitute. In fact, she was the sister who told me that your murdered Brother Patrick was such a gossip.’
‘A friend of yours, then,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘I am sorry, Matilde. I was called too late, and there was nothing I could do to save her.’
‘I know that,’ said Matilde. ‘But a group of us were discussing the problem penniless women now face in securing qualified midwives for difficult births. We know you occasionally attend such women, so we decided you should be properly equipped for the task. The gift is to be used to honour the memory of Rosa Layne.’
Bartholomew did not know what to say. ‘There are good midwives in Cambridge–’
‘Two. But they are expensive to hire, and they do not deign to attend whores when they could be hovering at the scented bedsides of merchants’ wives. We need someone who does not condemn us, and who knows what he is doing. We would prefer a woman, of course, but you are the next-best thing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, supposing it was meant to be a compliment.
‘We did quite a bit of investigating before we settled on this design,’ Matilde continued, looking down at the instrument in Bartholomew’s hands. ‘The person who helped us most was Adela Tangmer. She told us all about a pair she had devised for assisting the birth of foals, and so we modelled ours on hers, although smaller, of course.’
‘They are perfect,’ he said, performing a few trial grabs with them, and making the blacksmith and his assistants wince. ‘They could well save a woman’s life.’
‘Good,’ said Matilde warmly. ‘That is what we hoped. And we are friends again now – I was angry with you but it is impossible to be cross with you for long. But I should go. Poor Yolande de Blaston had just learned that she is to bear her tenth child, and she is all but overwhelmed with the first nine. She is in sore need of a little cheerful company and a lot of practical advice about managing household expenses.’
‘You might do better telling her how to avoid unwanted pregnancies in the first place,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.
‘Really, Matthew!’ exclaimed Matilde, and Bartholomew could see that not all her shock at his blunt suggestion was feigned. ‘What a dreadful thing to say to a respectable woman!’
‘Sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew, mortified.
‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘You should not believe all you hear, you know.’
And with that enigmatic statement, she was gone, weaving in and out of the late afternoon crowds and clutching a piece of bright green ribbon in her slender fingers.
When Bartholomew felt he had outstayed his welcome at the forge, brandishing and snapping his new forceps, he carefully wrapped them in some clean cloth and slipped them inside his medicine bag, where they all but doubled its weight. He supposed he should leave them in his storeroom, to be collected whenever he was summoned to a childbirth, but was too pleased to abandon them just yet. Somewhat guiltily, he began to make a list in his mind of all the pregnant women he knew, in anticipation of putting his latest acquisition to practical use.
He realised that he had delayed his visit to St Bene’t’s Church for far too long, and left the forge to set off down the High Street. But he needed the permission of the Master of Bene’t College to examine the bodies: he did not want to be caught tampering with the corpses of another College’s scholars without first obtaining the blessing of their Master. Physicians in Italian universities had a sinister reputation for using dead human bodies to teach anatomy, and Bartholomew did not want to be accused of prospecting for potential subjects.
When he reached the part of Bene’t College that faced the High Street, he saw that his medical colleague, Master Lynton, must have done as he had threatened and complained to the Sheriff about the unsafe state of the scaffolding. Parts of it had been dismantled, and the incessant clatter that had driven Bartholomew to distraction at Michaelhouse was refreshingly absent.
Like all the Cambridge Colleges, Bene’t was being built to repel invaders. There was a substantial gatehouse, which comprised a stocky tower with an entrance large enough to allow a cart through it, some chambers on the upper floors, and a dim little hole in which the porters lurked. Since the door was usually kept closed, anyone wanting to enter or leave the College was obliged to pass the porters first.
Bartholomew tapped on the gate and waited to be admitted. He knew the porters were in their lodge, because he could hear the click of bone against bone as dice were rolled and the muted sniggers of one player as he won a game. He knocked again, a little louder.
‘Go away,’ came an irritable voice from within. Bartholomew recognised it as that of Osmun. ‘Bene’t College is closed to visitors.’
‘I have come to see Master Heltisle,’ called Bartholomew. ‘I have business with him on behalf of the Senior Proctor.’
‘That is too bad,’ came the reply. ‘Shove off.’
Although Bartholomew knew of the Bene’t College porters’ reputation for rudeness, he had never experienced it first hand. He considered doing as they suggested, unwilling to become embroiled in a physical confrontation. But he was a doctor of the University and one of its most senior Fellows, and he did not see why he should be sent away by a mere porter, especially given that his purpose for entering the College was to try to solve the murders of Bene’t’s own scholars.
‘Tell Master Heltisle I am here to see him,’ he snapped. ‘At once.’
‘He is busy,’ growled Osmun, and a clatter from within suggested that the dice were being rolled again. ‘Shove off, or I will break your arms.’
Bartholomew gazed at the closed door for a moment, debating what to do. He stepped forward and put his hand to the wicket door. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open, stepped across the threshold and started to walk across the courtyard towards the hall, hoping to find a student who would tell him where the Master’s rooms were located.
‘Hey, you!’ bellowed Osmun in disbelief, tearing open the door to the porters’ lodge and pounding after him. ‘I told you the College was closed. Now get out, before you regret it.’
‘You cannot just close a College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am on University business.’
‘I do not care what you want or who you are,’ snarled Osmun, grabbing a handful of Bartholomew’s cloak and beginning to haul him towards the gate. ‘You cannot come in.’