Bartholomew walked into the halo of light cast by the lamp one of the servants held, hands above his head in the hope that the wary steward would not shoot him.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Stanmore, once he had recognised his brother-in-law. ‘How did you get in? The gates have been locked since dusk.’ His faced hardened. ‘The apple tree by the rhubarb patch! I thought you had grown out of that sort of thing years ago.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward slowly and wishing Stanmore would call off the dog. ‘Is Edith in?’
‘Is Edith in?’ echoed Stanmore in disbelief. ‘Of course she is in! It is almost midnight, man! Where did you think she would be?’
Bartholomew advanced a little further, and felt the dog’s teeth suddenly take hold of the hem of his cloak and pull furiously.
‘Are you alone?’ asked Stanmore, trying to see him in the dim light and the haze of drizzle. ‘Is Michael with you? Or your woman, perhaps?’
‘Woman? Why would a woman be here with me at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the peculiar question. With annoyance, he heard a sharp rip as the dog won the encounter with his cloak. ‘And which woman do you mean?’
‘You tell me,’ said Stanmore, putting his hands on his hips and regarding Bartholomew as if he had just dropped from the sky. ‘You are a changed man these days, Matt. Full of secrets and nasty surprises. So, is she with you, or are you skulking in my garden in the dead of night and distressing my dog all by yourself?’
‘I am alone,’ said Bartholomew, wondering who was the mysterious ‘she’ that Stanmore seemed to think might be lurking nearby. The chance would be a fine thing, he thought wryly; he could not imagine any woman being prepared to accept an impoverished physician who was about to forsake Cambridge for the dubious delights of Paris.
‘Well come in, then,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘It is cold with the door open, and it is raining, too. And put your arms down, man. You know perfectly well that Hugh will not shoot you.’
Noting the gleam of suspicion that lit the steward’s eyes, Bartholomew was not so sure. Hugh made no move to step aside for him, and he was obliged to edge around the man more closely than was comfortable. He considered giving the steward a shove as he passed, but Hugh was armed with a bow and wore a wicked-looking dagger at his belt, and Bartholomew knew when prudence was more sensible than futile displays of manly pride.
Inside, he was immediately aware of the familiar smells of Edith’s home – wood-smoke scented with pine needles, baking bread and the herbs she hung to dry in the rafters of the kitchen. It was an aroma that whisked him back many years, to a time when life had been happy and far less complicated.
The house was a simple hall-type structure, with a large ground-floor chamber, and several smaller rooms above. It was timber-framed and cosy, with rich woollen tapestries hanging from the walls and dark polished wooden floors. The embers of the hearth that stood in the centre of the hall still glowed red, and Bartholomew moved towards them, stretching his chilled hands to their feeble warmth. Stanmore dismissed the curious servants and the disapproving Hugh, and bustled about lighting candles and throwing an extra log on the fire. When the room was flooded with a pleasant amber glow, he turned to face his brother-in-law.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked in amazement, seeing for the first time Bartholomew’s bedraggled state. ‘You are soaking wet, filthy with grass stains and slime from the tree, and your clothes are ripped. Really, Matt! You are supposed to be a respectable citizen, but you arrive at my house in the middle of the night looking like a vagrant and offer me no explanation.’
‘You have not given me the chance,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I did not realise it was so late, or I would not have disturbed you. I saw a light and assumed you were still awake.’
‘We were talking,’ said Stanmore vaguely. ‘About you, as it happened. But what were you doing, roaming the dark countryside so that you do not even know what time it is?’
‘I was thinking,’ began Bartholomew.
‘I imagined academics thought all the time,’ said Stanmore, regarding him more curiously than ever. ‘And most of them do not end up looking like you do! You have been doing more than thinking, my lad!’
‘I am going to Paris,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On Sunday, probably.’
Stanmore gazed at him in stupefaction. ‘What for? Paris is full of Frenchmen.’
‘I have no choice – no real choice. Can I speak to Edith?’
‘I do not think so,’ said Stanmore. ‘You have done more than enough to distress her for one night. You can see her tomorrow.’
It was Bartholomew’s turn to gaze. ‘What are you talking about? What have I done? Why can I not see her? She is awake – you told me you were talking before I arrived.’
Stanmore sighed. ‘You really are obtuse, Matt. But very well. Since you insist, I will ask her to leave her warm bed and come downstairs so that you can pay her a visit at a time when all honest men are sleeping. Wait here a moment, and I will see whether she wants to see you.’
Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not understand. What am I supposed to have done?’
‘How can you even ask such a thing?’ said Stanmore reproachfully. ‘Edith was very upset by what you did. In fact, her dismay over you is the reason we were still awake – we were trying to think about what we might do to rectify matters.’
Bartholomew frowned in confusion, racking his brains to think of something he might have said or done to provoke such a strong reaction from the sister who was generally tolerant of his occasionally eccentric behaviour.
Stanmore sighed. ‘You are incorrigible, Matt. Which of your various actions do you think would be the one to upset your only sister? It is your betrothal to that dreadful Adela Tangmer.’
Wearing a dry shirt and hose of Stanmore’s, and with a cup of warm ale in his hands, Bartholomew began to feel comfortably drowsy. Edith was curled up on the cushioned bench next to him, a thick blanket around her shoulders, while Stanmore leaned towards the hearth and poked with an ornate iron poker at the merry flames that blazed there. Except for the cosy snap and crackle of burning wood, the room was silent, and the ceiling and walls flickered orange. Bartholomew realised it was the first time he had been really warm since Runham had become Master of Michaelhouse and had banned the unseemly wastage of fuel in the hall and conclave.
‘So, you are not really betrothed to Adela?’ said Edith yet again. ‘She is mistaken?’
‘I am not, and she is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine how she managed to interpret any of our conversations as a proposal of marriage. We did discuss Mayor Horwoode’s legs, but that was about as intimate as it got.’
‘His legs are very thin,’ said Edith distastefully. ‘Most women prefer a calf with a little more shape to it.’
‘But Mayor Horwoode’s disappointing physique apart, are you sure you did not offer yourself to this woman?’ asked Stanmore. ‘She seemed very certain about the arrangement when we met her this evening, and her father is even talking about how my business will benefit his once we are related: he wants the offcuts from my cloth as padding to protect his wine barrels when they are transported by cart.’
‘We did discuss marriage,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But only to acknowledge that we were both under some pressure to take spouses, and so were in similar positions. She told me we were allies against unwanted unions.’
‘What else did she say?’ asked Edith anxiously. ‘Did she mention children? Heirs?’
‘She did, yes, but not in a way that led me to believe she expected me to provide them. She told me she was opposed to marriage to anyone, and that she would sooner remain single.’