Langelee and Ayera were still missing when the scholars assembled to process to the church, and so was Clippesby. The Dominican had not been seen since he had given up his trawl of the convents the previous night, when he had told William that he was going to visit some bats.
‘You know what he is like,’ said William apologetically. ‘I tried to tell him it would be safer to come home, but he would not listen. And I was too weary to reason with him.’
They attended their daily devotions, which went on longer than usual because Suttone was officiating and he was inclined to be wordy – and there was no Langelee to hurry him along with impatient sighs and meaningful glares. When the ceremony was finally over, Cynric was waiting to tell Bartholomew that Holm had visited the wounded men in the castle, and had meddled with their dressings. Several were now in pain.
Bartholomew strode there quickly, aware that the streets were busier than they had been the previous day. The atmosphere was curious – a mixture of fear and unease from those who had possessions to lose if the raid did occur; and happy expectancy from those with nothing, who were looking forward to the celebrations that had been so long in the planning.
Determined to have the pennies folk had been hoarding for the occasion before anything went wrong, the Guild of Corpus Christi had decided to start the festivities early. Bakers’ ovens were going full blast, ale was being sold in the churchyards, portable stalls were open to sell trinkets, and entertainers were ready with their miracle plays. The taverns were open, too, and there was a maypole near the Round Church where a band of musicians filled the air with a lively jig.
‘It was not his fault,’ said a pale Julitta, when Bartholomew arrived at the castle and regarded Holm’s handiwork with dismay. ‘He was trying to help.’
‘She is an angel,’ murmured Tulyet in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘She visits my men every day, and they rally when they see her. It is a pity her fiancé is rather less adept with the sick.’
Bartholomew unbound the dressings, appalled by the amount of ‘healing balm’ Holm had slathered on the wounds. It smelled rank, and took him some time to rinse off. Julitta helped, but said little, and he saw she was distressed by the patients’ suffering. He recalled Michael saying she would be a suspect if Browne transpired to be dead, and wondered how the monk could think ill of such a dignified, compassionate woman.
‘He did it last night,’ she said, after a while.
Bartholomew had been enjoying her proximity and the soft touch of her hands when their fingers met. Idly, it occurred to him that he had not visited his widow since meeting Julitta, and was surprised to discover that he had not thought of her once. The realisation made him ashamed, and he supposed he would have to go to her and explain his recent neglect, although he did not know what he could say: he could hardly inform her that his mind had been full of another man’s bride.
‘Who did what last night?’ he asked, wondering whether his reverie meant that he had missed part of a discussion.
‘My fiancé – he came to minister to the wounded. I was worried when some of the men said their wounds were throbbing afterwards, so I came early this morning, to see how they were. I sent for him when two seemed feverish, but he was out. So I summoned you instead.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Bartholomew assured her.
‘Holm will not touch them again,’ vowed Tulyet, when she had gone to fetch clean water. ‘He is banned from now on. Julitta is a fool for him – he does not deserve her.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, watching her stop to exchange words with Robin. Agatha’s nephew was in pain, but her approach made him smile, which said a good deal about the place she had claimed in his heart. In fact, Bartholomew was sure her nursing had made a difference between life and death for some of the wounded, and he was grateful to her for it.
‘My wife thinks I should tell her what she is marrying,’ Tulyet went on. ‘But I doubt she would listen to me. Even her sister cannot make her open her eyes.’
‘It is worth a try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is worth a try.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Although you must remember that her father is a very powerful and decisive man, yet Julitta can wind him around her little finger. She is not a submissive nonentity, but an extremely intelligent, capable and determined young woman.’
‘Even more reason for her not to wed Holm, then,’ said Bartholomew.
Chapter 11
It was evening by the time Bartholomew had finished at the castle, and he left to find Cynric waiting with a message that Isnard needed to see him. The bargeman had taken full advantage of the Guild of Corpus Christi’s decision to celebrate early, and had managed to knock himself senseless as he had tottered drunkenly along the towpath.
‘The riverfolk found me and brought me home,’ he explained feebly.
Bartholomew frowned when he saw the painful-looking lump on the back of Isnard’s skull. ‘How did you say this happened?’
‘I tripped,’ explained Isnard. ‘One moment I was walking along, thinking about Holm’s five-mark bet with you, and the next thing I knew was Torvin looming over me.’
‘It is hard to bang the back of your head when walking forward. I suspect you were struck from behind.’
‘The bastard!’ exclaimed Isnard in sudden indignation. ‘He smiled and simpered at me so prettily, too, the Judas!’
‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, applying a poultice to the bump and indicating that Isnard should lie back. He decided to fetch Valence to sit with him, because the blow had been vicious.
‘Frevill,’ replied Isnard. ‘The one who is the carpenter, working at Newe Inn.’
‘Why would he hit you?’
Isnard frowned. ‘I cannot recall now. Perhaps accusations were made … but no, it will not come. The clout he gave me must have knocked it clean out of my head.’
Or the copious quantities of ale he had consumed had addled his wits, Bartholomew thought uncharitably. He left the bargeman and walked back to Michaelhouse, where his students had finished reading the texts he had set them, and were about to escape.
‘When was the last time you heard Nicholas’s Antidotarium?’ he asked, raising his hand to stop them. One or two regarded him with expressions that verged on the murderous, although the bulk merely sighed and looked resigned.
Valence brightened, though, seeing an avenue of escape. ‘We consulted it this week, when you mentioned poisoning by lily of the valley.’
‘Consulting is not the same as reading,’ said Bartholomew, and set them a section that he could manage easily in an hour, blithely unaware that it would take them considerably longer.
They slouched back to the hall with faces like thunder, while Valence danced towards the gate, delighted to be granted a reprieve in the guise of monitoring Isnard. Then Michael approached, grey with fatigue and scowling.
‘Where have you been all day? I have been racing all over the town like a bluebottle, trying to investigate murder and find our errant colleagues. It would have been good to have had your help.’
‘Shall we resume our hunt for Ayera and Langelee tonight, Brother?’ asked William, coming to join them before Bartholomew could reply. The other Fellows – except Clippesby – were at his heels. ‘Thelnetham has offered to stay here and supervise our students, if you think we should.’
‘Our lads should not be allowed out this evening,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘Far too much ale has been swallowed by the town’s rowdier elements, and the streets do not feel safe.’