Bartholomew was horrified: those were very powerful substances for an infant. ‘Have you tried dropping a little oil of camomile or mullein into the infected ear?’ he asked, struggling to be tactful. ‘It usually serves to reduce–’
‘I cannot be bothered with feeble remedies,’ said Holm dismissively. ‘I usually treat earache by inserting a probe into the patient’s ear, and waggling it about. It loosens any wax, you see.’
‘Christ!’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Do any of your patients go deaf after your ministrations?’
‘No one has complained yet,’ replied Holm shortly. ‘And I have poked around in the ears of dozens of small children.’
Children who might not appreciate the fact that they had been deprived of one of their senses, thought Bartholomew, deeply unimpressed. Dunning spoke before he could pursue the matter.
‘How about a little music, Holm? You say you have a fine voice, but we have yet to hear it, and I am in the mood to be entertained.’
Holm had hummed when he had ‘assisted’ Bartholomew with the surgery on Coslaye’s skull, and the physician recalled flinching several times at the sour notes that had emerged – and being obliged to ask him to desist in the end, lest it distressed their semi-conscious patient.
‘Another time,’ said Holm, but not before Bartholomew caught the flash of alarm in his eyes: he had lied about his accomplishments. ‘When you have a lutenist to accompany me.’
‘I can play the lute,’ said Bartholomew wickedly. He was not very good at it, but he suspected it would not be his lack of talent that would be evident.
‘And I sing,’ said Michael, who did indeed have a fine voice. ‘We shall perform a duet.’
‘A duet?’ cried Julitta, entering the room with a jug. ‘How delightful!’
Holm stepped forward, took her hand and raised it to his lips. For the first time, Bartholomew studied him closely, to see why so many women considered him attractive. Reluctantly, for he found himself loath to think anything good about the man, he conceded that Holm was unusually handsome: he had arresting dark blue eyes to go with his golden mane, and his tight-fitting gipon, or tunic, had been cut to show off his slender figure to its best advantage. When he smiled at Julitta, even Bartholomew, who was not usually very observant about such matters, could see her heart melting with adoration for him.
‘Not tonight, dearest. I am hoarse from advising patients all day, and when you hear me sing, I want my voice to be at its best. I should hate to disappoint you.’
Julitta held his hand and gazed fondly at him until Dunning broke the moment by beginning to describe the ceremony at which Holm had been installed as a member of the Guild of Corpus Christi. The surgeon preened when Dunning remarked that he had never heard the oath of allegiance taken with such gravitas and dignity.
‘Vale said the same,’ he confided smugly. ‘Before he died, of course.’
‘Did you know Vale well?’ asked Michael, pouring himself more claret.
‘Not really,’ Holm replied. ‘We both arrived in Cambridge on Easter Day, so as newly established practitioners, we were naturally drawn to each other. But we were not friends.’
‘You told me you liked him,’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling Holm’s wish, expressed as they had walked home together the previous evening, that it had been another physician who had died.
‘No, I said I preferred him to the other medici,’ corrected Holm pedantically. ‘That is not the same as liking him.’
‘So what did you think of him?’ Michael sounded a little exasperated.
‘That he was a scoundrel, particularly where women were concerned. No lady was safe from his pawing advances, not even married ones.’
‘Vale once boasted to Bonabes that he was going to seduce Ruth,’ said Dunning, scowling his indignation. ‘Bonabes said he would run him through if he tried.’
‘But please do not tell her,’ begged Julitta uncomfortably. ‘She does not know that part of the story, and it would embarrass her if she thought she had been the subject of such a discussion.’ She glanced pointedly at her father. ‘In fact, I thought we had agreed to keep it between ourselves.’
‘So we did,’ slurred Dunning, chagrined. ‘I forgot. Anyway, suffice to say that, out of spite, Vale put about a tale that Ruth was his secret lover. I imagine some folk believed it.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Holm chivalrously. ‘No one could believe ill of Sir Eustace Dunning’s daughters. They are paragons of virtue, as well as beauty.’
Greasy, thought Bartholomew sourly, recalling what Edith had said about the surgeon.
The discussion ranged off on to other matters then, and Bartholomew listened with half an ear, feeling his dislike of Holm mount by the moment. Was it because the man was an appalling sycophant, and his toadying was nauseating? Or because he was a dismal surgeon, too timid to perform procedures that should have been second nature, yet unafraid to dose children with unsuitable medicines or jab probes into their ears? Or because he was so flagrantly wrong for Julitta? Bartholomew studied her covertly. He longed to know her better, but in less than a month her marital status would mean that even the most innocent of friendships would be inappropriate.
‘Will some of these books wend their way to the Common Library?’ Michael asked when the conversation returned to Dunning’s collection. ‘Or will you spread your largesse more widely? Michaelhouse is always looking for new tomes.’
Bartholomew choked into his wine, startled by the brazen rapacity of the remark.
‘Michaelhouse cannot have these,’ replied Dunning. ‘They will be Julitta’s when I die.’
‘What if she would rather have them sooner?’ asked Holm. He smiled at his fiancée. ‘Perhaps you should consider making them part of her dowry. Then I shall be able to read them to her as we spend romantic evenings together by the fire.’
Julitta flushed with pleasure at the notion, although Bartholomew was inclined to suspect that the surgeon was simply trying to negotiate himself a more profitable arrangement. Or was jealousy making him ungracious? But when Dunning shook his head at the suggestion, and he saw the flash of avaricious disappointment in Holm’s eyes, he knew he was right to be suspicious.
‘She cannot have them yet,’ slurred Dunning. ‘I may not peruse the things myself, but I like to see them on my shelves. They look pretty in their neat rows. Do you not agree?’
Unwilling to listen to Holm’s gushing agreement, Bartholomew took down a psalter. He suspected, from the profusion of chickens, devils and ribauldequins, that it had come from the Carmelites, and was impressed by their collective talent. The weapon in particular was uncannily accurate, right down to the specks of rust on its metal barrels. He found himself thinking about Poitiers, and the fact that Dame Pelagia had admitted to being there, which led him to consider anew her reasons for descending on the town.
Had she dispatched Vale and the others, perhaps because they were experimenting on the sly, and she disapproved? But if she had, then surely she would not have lingered in Cambridge afterwards? Or had the quartet encountered the hooded men who had demanded the formula for wildfire, been mistaken for medici and killed when they had been unable to provide what was wanted? Bartholomew shuddered. It was not a comfortable thought.
The sun was setting, a great orange ball in a cloudless sky. A blackbird trilled from the top of the oak tree in Dunning’s garden, and there was a pleasing scent of warm earth and summer flowers. Michael settled more comfortably on a bench and refilled his goblet, but Bartholomew stood to leave. He still did not feel completely well, and knew it would be sensible to go home and secure a decent night’s sleep.