‘Why should I not?’ asked Ayce, shrugging again. ‘I have never liked Cambridge. But it is late and I am tired. If you are going to hang me tomorrow, I want my last night to myself.’
‘You will not hang tomorrow,’ said Tulyet softly.
Ayce’s composure slipped a second time. ‘What? But I am a rebel. Of course I will hang!’
Bartholomew stared at him, weighing the weary hopelessness in the man’s eyes and the injudiciously taunting remarks. ‘You want to die,’ he said in understanding. ‘You will not risk Hell by committing suicide, so you are hoping that someone else will take your life–’
‘Lies!’ snarled Ayce, although Bartholomew could see that he was right. ‘You know nothing about me!’
‘I shall keep you alive for as long as it suits me,’ said Tulyet, turning on his heel and stalking out. ‘Perhaps for years. Sleep on that, Robert Ayce.’
At that point, Ayce’s equanimity broke, and he began to howl curses and threats.
‘It seems I managed to capture the one man in that nasty little army who cannot be bribed with his life,’ said Tulyet bitterly, as he walked up the steps. ‘Luck was not with me today.’
It was impossible for Bartholomew to leave so many vulnerable patients that night, so he stayed at the castle. He slept for an hour around midnight, when Gyseburne relieved him, but then there was a crisis with the man who had been shot in the neck, and it was dawn before matters quietened again.
He had just ensured that everyone was resting comfortably when he heard footsteps. It was Holm, and he had brought visitors: Dunning and Julitta were at his side, while Weasenham, Ruth and Bonabes brought up the rear. Dunning and Bonabes wore swords, although the Exemplarius’s was ancient, and looked as if it had been dragged out of some long-forgotten store.
‘Dunning and his daughters insisted on viewing my handiwork,’ said Holm in response to Bartholomew’s questioning glance, waving a casual hand towards the more serious cases with a proprietary air, even though he had been nowhere near them the previous day. ‘And Bonabes is here to protect us all, should the invaders strike again.’
‘My father taught me how to wield a blade,’ explained Bonabes. Then he regarded the weapon anxiously. ‘However, it has been many years since–’
‘So you have said, to the point of tedium,’ interrupted Holm rudely. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘How are my patients? I hope they all survived the night?’
‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Dunning, leaping backwards when he saw Bartholomew’s clothes. ‘What in God’s name have you been doing?’
‘I imagine blood is inevitable when dealing with battle wounds, Father,’ said Ruth dryly.
‘I never make a mess when I perform,’ declared Holm. He smiled engagingly at Julitta. ‘I have always found it is better to leave a patient’s blood inside his body, where it belongs.’
‘If you really think that, then why do you practise phlebotomy?’ asked Bartholomew, tired enough to be confrontational.
‘Every respectable medical authority says that bloodletting is beneficial to health,’ replied Holm shortly. ‘And only maverick eccentrics claim otherwise. Besides, it is carefully controlled, and bowls are to hand. There is no wild splattering, such as I saw yesterday.’
‘Will they all live?’ asked Julitta, looking around with gentle compassion.
‘They have a good chance now,’ replied Holm, before Bartholomew could speak. ‘It is a good thing I was here, because Cambridge could not have managed this crisis without a surgeon.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bonabes, humour flashing in his dark eyes. ‘I imagine your arrival in the town will be celebrated on Easter Day for many years to come. Just as they will celebrate having a dependable old warrior like me to protect them.’
Holm either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and sailed away to inspect the injured, resting his hand on their foreheads to test for fevers, and poking at their dressings. They seemed reassured by the presence of another medicus, and as their well-being was his prime concern, Bartholomew resisted the urge to send him packing. Dunning went with him, and did even more to aid their recovery by pressing coins into their hands.
‘I hope you were not making sport of my fiancé, Bonabes,’ said Julitta quietly. ‘He has every right to be proud of his achievements.’
‘Well, someone needs to be,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘Because his colleagues are not: Rougham told me that he was more menace than help yesterday.’
‘That is because Rougham is jealous of him,’ said Julitta stiffly. ‘So he told lies.’
‘You may be right,’ said Bonabes soothingly. ‘Holm is a lot nicer than Rougham, after all.’
‘Do you think so?’ Bartholomew was surprised enough to voice the thought aloud.
Julitta’s eyes narrowed, and Bartholomew wished he had managed to hold his tongue: the last thing he wanted was to annoy her. She inclined her head rather coolly, and went to where Holm was talking to a man with a broken leg.
‘She adores him,’ said Ruth, watching her go. ‘And he knows exactly how to charm her, of course. I am glad she is happy, but I wish she saw him more clearly. She will be disappointed when she learns he is only human, like the rest of us.’
‘I will make her see it,’ offered Weasenham eagerly. ‘I have soured more than one happy union in the past, and will be more than pleased to do it again. Just give the word, and I shall begin.’
‘No!’ said Ruth sharply. Then she softened. ‘I appreciate your offer, husband, but your interference is likely to raise him even further in her estimation. I must think of another way.’
‘Then do not leave it too long,’ advised Weasenham. ‘The nuptials are in less than three weeks.’
Bartholomew left the sickroom after a while, to escape Holm’s self-important drone. He stood in the bailey, watching the castle’s occupants rise and go about their duties. It was still not fully light, although at least a dozen cockerels were crowing, and two cows lowed impatiently, to say they were ready for milking. The atmosphere was tense among the human occupants: they spoke in whispers, and even the smallest stable boy carried a dagger. After a while, Dunning came to stand next to him.
‘That sickroom reeks,’ he said in distaste. ‘Blood, vomit, urine and strong medicine. Horrible!’
Bartholomew nodded, although it was a smell he barely noticed any more.
‘Julitta has decided to nurse these fellows, because some of them said that a woman about the place made them feel better,’ Dunning went on. Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘I begged her to reconsider, but she is a lass who knows her own mind. Ruth has offered to help, too.’
Weasenham and Holm joined them, both bristling with indignation. ‘Who will assist me in my shop if Ruth stays here?’ demanded the stationer angrily. ‘I have already lost Adam and the London brothers. Now I am to lose Ruth, too. Well, thank God for Bonabes. He will not desert me.’
‘I say we leave them to it,’ suggested Holm sulkily. ‘They will soon learn not to waste their time on dying men.’
‘Dying men?’ asked Dunning. ‘But you just told them all that they were going to get better.’
‘Of course I did,’ explained Holm silkily. ‘All medici say that – it is the only way people will let us get anywhere near them. My dear old father always said that to be a surgeon, you need not a sharp knife and a steady hand, but a silver tongue.’
Bartholomew, disgusted and irritated in equal measure, watched Holm and Weasenham walk away. Dunning lingered, chatting about the Feast of Corpus Christi, and how it was even more important to make it a day to remember now, as morale in the town would be low.