‘Holm!’ muttered Ruth in disgust. ‘I wish she was betrothed to someone nicer.’
‘She assures me that he is everything she has ever wanted,’ said Dunning. ‘Not that she has much choice in the matter, of course. I want my family affiliated with his, because he is related to the Holms of Norfolk. But never mind that. Weasenham told me today that someone is going around dispatching scholars who voted for my library. Is it true?’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Sawtre’s death was an accident, and it is coincidence that the four men who died in Newe Inn’s garden happened to support the scheme.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Dunning worriedly. ‘Because I did not donate a house so that people could be murdered over it.’
The sun was shining brightly by the time Michael and Bartholomew reached the castle, the mist and cloud having burned away. Bartholomew could hear sheep bleating in the fields outside the town gates, and the scent of recently milked cows was in the air. It was yet another pretty day.
The castle was still in a state of high alert. Bowmen stood at every arrow slit, and two mounted knights were stationed by the Gatehouse, ready to charge at the slightest threat. Meanwhile, the soldiers who loitered in the bailey were tense, wary and wore full armour.
All the casualties in the ‘infirmary’ were doing better than Bartholomew had dared hope, and he suspected it was because of Julitta, who moved among them with cups of water – which she assured him had been boiled – and encouraging words. He said so, and she smiled in a way that made his heart lurch. Flustered, he joined Michael at Robin’s bedside.
‘Yes, my Aunt Agatha came to see me,’ Robin was saying. ‘She told me not to tell anyone that it was Coslaye of Batayl Hostel who was among the invaders.’
‘It was not Coslaye,’ stated Michael. ‘He was at the Carmelite Priory when the attack took place, squabbling with the friars about soot being thrown over his mural of Poitiers.’
Robin looked doubtful. ‘But I saw him, Brother. He was wearing armour and a helmet, admittedly, so he looked different, but I am sure it was him.’
‘You were mistaken,’ said Michael firmly. ‘It was someone who looked like him.’
‘It is possible, I suppose.’ Robin sighed. ‘But Aunt Agatha has ordered me to keep it quiet, and I value my life too much to cross her. I shall not discuss it with anyone else, do not worry.’
His eyes began to close, so they left him to rest. Bartholomew tended the other patients, rather disappointed to learn that none of his colleagues had been to visit. Unimpressed, he saw they had abrogated the entire responsibility to him, almost certainly because there would be no payment.
He set about changing dressings and checking wounds for signs of infection, pleased when Julitta offered to help. She had deft, gentle hands, and learned quickly what needed to be done. It was late afternoon by the time they had finished, and he lingered over Robin for no other reason than that he was enjoying Julitta’s company and was reluctant for it to end.
‘My reading lessons with you will have to be postponed,’ she said softly, nodding towards the patients. ‘It seems we both have more important things to do now.’
‘I could find the time,’ said Bartholomew quickly.
She touched his arm and his stomach did somersaults. ‘You are kind, but the wounded must come first. And now I must leave, because I promised to help my father with the finery he is to wear to the Corpus Christi celebrations on Thursday.’
Bartholomew watched her go, noting the way the sun caught her hair as she passed a window.
‘It is a pity she is promised to Holm,’ said Robin, also watching. ‘She is wasted on him.’
Bartholomew was grateful when Gyseburne arrived, relieved to be thinking about medicine and not the complex gamut of emotions that seethed within him. His colleague did not want to listen to a detailed report of each patient’s progress, however, and interrupted with an observation.
‘Boiling the dressings we applied to these open wounds does seem to have reduced infection, although I cannot imagine why. However, as my dear old mother always says, heat and Hell go together, so I can only assume that Satan is somehow involved.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked.
‘You think God likes cooked bandages, then?’ asked Gyseburne keenly. ‘And prefers to lay His holy hands on them, rather than ones torn straight from old clothes or bedding?’
‘I do not know.’ Bartholomew was never happy when theology entered medicine.
‘Well, there must be some explanation for why your technique works,’ insisted Gyseburne. ‘There is a reason for everything – even for yesterday’s attack.’
‘Yes, and Tulyet will find it,’ said Bartholomew, thankful to be on less contentious ground.
‘Possibly, but you should ask Ayera first.’ Gyseburne lowered his voice. ‘I am going to tell you something because I trust you, but you can never reveal to Ayera that it came from me. Do I have your word?’
Bartholomew nodded warily, sensing he was about to be told something he would not like.
Gyseburne took a deep breath. ‘He was among the raiders yesterday. There! It is out, and now it is your responsibility to make sure the relevant authorities hear about it. I am absolved.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not! He is a geometrician!’
‘He was a soldier before he came to Cambridge. A very fine one. I know, because I practised medicine in York before I came here, and that is his home city, where he was involved in several questionable incidents. Indeed, there was one that touched your Master Langelee – he had been entertaining, and summoned me when all his guests fell ill. They had been poisoned.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Langelee told me the tale when we went to York a few weeks ago, and Ayera mentioned it, too.’
‘Did Ayera also tell you that the cook who provided the soup was in his family’s employ? Of course, he claimed it was a mistake anyone might make, but I have my suspicions.’
‘Then they are wrong,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Ayera would have had no reason to harm Langelee’s visitors.’
‘On the contrary, the stricken men were enemies of his powerful uncle – the one who died recently but who transpired to be penniless. There was no evidence to prove anything, of course, but the entire episode stank. But regardless of this, I know what I saw yesterday.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew, both bewildered and unsettled by the claims.
‘Not long after dawn, I was returning home from seeing a patient in Girton – which is why I was late arriving to help you with the wounded – when I saw armed men racing away from the town at a tremendous speed. Ayera was among them. I hid, so he did not see me.’
‘Then it is your duty to tell the Sheriff. He will find there is an innocent explanation for–’
‘Yes, there might be,’ interrupted Gyseburne. ‘Although I cannot imagine what. However, I am not telling Tulyet anything. Ayera may seem courteous and refined, but there is murder in that man. I shall not cross him, and if you ever tell anyone that you heard this tale from me, I shall deny it. He is your colleague, so the matter is in your hands now.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Gyseburne had not burdened him with his unpleasant observations. He liked Ayera, and did not want to hear nasty tales about him.
‘And there is something else,’ Gyseburne went on. ‘I met Rougham on my way here, and he has spent a lot of time with the Carmelite scribe who had the seizure. Apparently, Willelmus fainted from fright, because of what he saw.’
‘What did he see?’ asked Bartholomew warily.