‘Do not blame him,’ called Anne from her window, and Michael grimaced. He had forgotten that she could eavesdrop on discussions outside the church as well as through the squint. ‘And all was not peace and light anyway. The two sides have been sniping at each other for years, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.’
‘Do you really think Jan is the culprit?’ Bartholomew asked her, although with not much hope of a sensible answer.
He did not get one. ‘Yes, because he is a rogue, as I have told you before. And Quintone is innocent – he is not very nice, but he is no killer.’
Bartholomew was about to ask more when a dirty lad hurried up to him with a message from Grym. He opened it, and learned that before galloping off to hunt hermits with Albon, Nuport had trounced Adam the baker, as a punishment for making such a fuss about the prank that had seen him set alight. Grym wanted Bartholomew’s help to repair the damage. To encourage him to go, Grym offered a free demonstration of how hemlock could be used to dull pain.
Bartholomew set off at once, leaving Michael to help the Austins. He was glad to be thinking of medical matters – he was a lot more comfortable with those than with murder and mayhem.
The boy conducted him to Grym’s house on Rutten Row, which was like no other home he had ever visited. It had been built to accommodate a very large man. The front door was twice as wide as all the others on the street, and the furniture had been reinforced to take the additional weight. Bars had been fitted to the walls next to each chair, so that the occupant could use them to heave himself upright, and every pot, platter and bowl in the kitchen was large enough to feed ten.
‘No!’ gulped Bartholomew, when he saw how much hemlock Grym was about to give Adam. He did not want yet another death to aggravate the trouble that was brewing – and the dose Grym had prepared for the baker was perilously close to the amount that might prove fatal. ‘We shall use poppy juice, lettuce and bryony instead.’
He expected Grym to argue, but the barber shrugged amiably and they set to work. Grym transpired to be an indifferent practitioner, but was happy to let Bartholomew do what was needed, so the baker was spared too much discomfort. When they had finished, four more patients were waiting for their services – men who had evaded the friars’ patrols, and had managed to engage in fisticuffs with hotheads from the castle.
It was dark by the time they had mended everyone as best they could. Wearily, they retired to Grym’s solar, where there was a roaring fire and a gargantuan feast waiting. Bartholomew accepted an invitation to dine gratefully, although he felt like an elf in the lair of a giant, dwarfed as he was by everything in the room.
It was not long before Michael arrived, ostensibly to ask after Adam, although Bartholomew was sure some innate sense had told him that good food was on offer. Yet even the monk could not match what Grym packed away, and the two of them watched in awe as four ducks, a haunch of venison, three loaves and a whole turbot disappeared into the barber’s churning maw.
‘And a dried apricot,’ he said with a smile, holding it in the air before popping it into his mouth. ‘Because all good medici know the importance of a balanced diet.’
‘I suppose you refer to Galen,’ said Michael sourly. ‘The bane of my existence. Matt is always braying to me about his nasty theories. Personally, I think there was something wrong with the fellow, because it is not natural for red-blooded men to fuss about with vegetables.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Grym, much to the monk’s delight. ‘But you must eat one dried apricot every week, because it keeps the blood rich.’
Bartholomew was about to remark that he had never heard such arrant nonsense when there was a clatter of footsteps, followed by Thomas’s distinctive voice, barking at Grym’s servants to let him in.
‘Oh,’ he said curtly, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘They are my guests,’ replied Grym pleasantly before they could speak for themselves. ‘Why? Is there a medical emergency?’
‘An accident,’ replied Thomas. ‘Sir William has fallen off his horse and cracked his head.’
Chapter 11
The next day was cold, wet and windy, and Bartholomew woke long before dawn, dragged from sleep by rain pounding on the roof. Langelee and Michael were already up – it was only when the downpour reached Biblical proportions that it had penetrated the physician’s consciousness – and were sitting by the hearth, talking in low voices.
‘You would never make a soldier, Bartholomew,’ remarked Langelee. ‘You would drowse right through an attack, and only stir when it was over and you had missed all the fun.’
Bartholomew yawned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Discussing Lichet’s claim that Albon flung himself from his horse deliberately, because he realised he had made a mistake about the hermit and could not face the disgrace of being wrong.’ Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘I fail to understand why the Lady does not send him packing. She is an intelligent woman, and must see he is a charlatan.’
‘More warlock than charlatan,’ countered Langelee. ‘Word is that he has bewitched her.’
Bartholomew rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘You did not tell us how you fared last night in your search for Jan and Bonde.’
‘Because there was nothing to report,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘We found neither hide or hair of them. But I was not here when you outlined your conclusions regarding Albon. Obviously, we can rule out suicide, so was it an accident or murder?’
‘He died of a wound to his head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It might have been caused by him falling from his horse, but it is equally possible that someone hit him.’
‘In other words,’ said Michael acidly to Langelee, ‘our trusty Corpse Examiner refuses to commit himself.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I am no Lichet, inventing evidence that is not there.’
‘When I got back, I inspected Albon’s saddle,’ said Langelee, ‘bearing in mind what happened to poor old Talmach. But there were no suspiciously “frayed” straps. Then I assessed his destrier. It is a solid beast, trained for battle, so unlikely to shy for no reason – and even if it had, Albon was a knight who should have been able to manage.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his martial skills left a lot to be desired.’
‘He was a poor warrior, but a respectable horseman,’ explained Langelee. ‘Which suggests to me that his death is definitely suspicious. After all, what are the chances that he should die in exactly the same manner as Talmach?’
‘But Talmach’s saddle had been sabotaged,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Whereas you have just told us that Albon’s was not.’
‘There are more ways to make a rider fall than tampering with his tack,’ said Langelee. ‘And the killer is not a fool. He will know not to go a-sawing through leather a second time.’
‘Murder, then,’ concluded Michael. ‘So who did it? The hermit, to avoid being arrested?’
Langelee grimaced. ‘Even Albon should have been able to fend off that feeble specimen.’
‘Bonde?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Albon happened across his hiding place.’
‘Or a townsman,’ countered Langelee. ‘They were furious when Albon invaded Godeston’s woods without asking his heirs first.’
‘Or a squire,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘Because they know Albon’s ineptitude would have got them killed in France. They admired him outwardly, but they may have harboured secret misgivings. Especially Thomas and Mull, who are no fools.’