The red ribbon that had fluttered outside the house, to tell passers-by the nature of Lenne’s profession, had been taken down, probably by other barbers keen to secure his customers for themselves. When a feeble voice answered Bartholomew’s tap, he pushed open the door and entered, squinting against the sudden sting of smoke and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Mistress Lenne lay on a pallet, dangerously close to the fire.
‘I keep expecting him to come home,’ she whispered as Bartholomew crouched next to her. Michael busied himself by taking a broom handle to the flue in the roof, in an attempt to clear some of the choking pall that rose from the peat faggots in the hearth. ‘I think I hear him chatting outside with his customers, and that he will come in to tell me the gossip.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘How is your chest?’ asked Bartholomew, not knowing what to say, so taking refuge in practical matters. ‘Does it still ache when you breathe?’
‘They say he was drunk when he murdered my husband. Thomas Mortimer, I mean. Is it true, Doctor? Did he ride him down as though he was a dog, and then laugh at the damage he had done?’
‘He did not laugh,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully.
‘But he did not cry, either,’ she said bitterly. ‘He just lied to protect himself. Sheriff Tulyet tells me that he cannot charge him with my husband’s murder, because Bosel is dead. Mortimer has not even said he is sorry.’
She turned away, tears leaving silvery trails in the soot that dusted her cheeks. Bartholomew took her hand and held it while she sobbed. When she quietened, he helped her to sit up and drink a syrup of angelica he had prepared the previous evening, which he thought would soothe the racking cough that left her gasping for breath. Then he eased her under the covers again, and sat with her while Michael sang soft, haunting ballads. Eventually, she dozed.
Michael was silent when they left, closing the door gently, so it would not wake her. Bartholomew took a deep breath, wondering whether he would ever become inured to some aspects of life as a physician. He glanced around, in the hope that one of his students might be nearby, because he wanted someone to be with her when she woke again. He was in luck: Quenhyth was tugging insistently at the sleeve of Cheney the spicer, while informing him that his handwriting was the best in Michaelhouse, and that his rates for writing trade agreements were very low. Quenhyth was usually to be found at his studies, and Bartholomew had seldom seen him doing anything else. He listened with interest to the conversation that followed.
‘I do not need another clerk,’ snapped Cheney. ‘I already have Redmeadow.’
‘But he steals,’ said Quenhyth. ‘So, if you notice items missing, and you require a clerk whose honesty is beyond question, you will know where to come. To me.’
‘All the University’s scribes steal,’ said Cheney matter-of-factly. ‘It is a grim reality – and the reason why no sensible merchant ever leaves one unattended in his home or near anything valuable.’
‘Oh,’ said Quenhyth, deflated. ‘Well, I am no thief, I promise you, Master Cheney. My father is a wealthy merchant, just like you, and he taught me right from wrong.’
‘If he is wealthy, then why are you scribing for pennies?’ asked Cheney, not unreasonably.
‘He pays my fees and board,’ explained Quenhyth. ‘But the food has recently become inedible at Michaelhouse, and we are all obliged to buy victuals from elsewhere. That requires money.’
‘True,’ muttered Michael, watching the spicer waddle down the street, leaving a disconsolate Quenhyth behind him. ‘Buying supplies to supplement what Michaelhouse provides has become a necessity of late. We have friends who give us meals – do not look startled, Matt. You have dined out at least four times recently – but Quenhyth has not, and must win his victuals by scribing instead.’
‘Have you spoken to Wynewyk about this?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Quenhyth did not decide to practise medicine for money if he could not secure work by writing.
‘He says food prices are increasing – they always do at the end of winter – so we must economise.’ Michael was disgusted. ‘The words “economise” and “food” should never be used in the same sentence. They are anathema to each other, like “small” and “portion”.’
Bartholomew waved to catch Quenhyth’s attention, and told the student he wanted him or Redmeadow to visit Mistress Lenne three times a day until her son arrived from Thetford. Quenhyth nodded, eager to accept the responsibility. He took parchment and a pen from his scrip and wrote down his teacher’s instructions, doing so flamboyantly, in the hope that his literary skills might attract customers.
‘None of this is fair,’ said Michael bitterly, when Quenhyth had gone. The visit to Mistress Lenne had distressed the monk. ‘Look what Thomas Mortimer has done! He killed two people with his careless driving, because that old woman will not last long now her husband is gone. He was lucky Isnard is built like an ox, or there might have been three.’
‘Isnard is recovering well,’ said Bartholomew, wanting to say something to cheer him. ‘He is pestering Robert de Blaston to finish carving his new false leg. When he has mastered its use – which he anticipates will only be a matter of an hour or two – he plans to visit Mortimer.’
‘Then thank God wooden legs take time to make,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Isnard has a black temper, and Mortimer is likely to enrage him with his uncaring attitude. But we should visit Gonville before any more time passes. We must resolve this business with Bottisham and Deschalers, and–’
‘There he is,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to where Thomas Mortimer lurched through the market stalls with various packets and parcels in his arms. One fell, and an urchin had scampered forward and stolen it before his wine-addled brain had even registered that it had dropped. ‘He is drunk again, and it is barely past dawn.’
Michael’s expression turned into something dangerous. ‘His brother Constantine is with him. Shall we ask them why they have inflicted such suffering on our town with the careless driving of carts and the buying of pardons for killers?’
‘I do not think that is a good idea, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was likely to instigate a brawl. Many scholars were indignant about what had happened to a member of a University choir, and might well grab the opportunity to mete out justice with their fists. Meanwhile, the Mortimer clan employed a large number of apprentices, all of whom would fight to protect their masters’ good name.
But Michael was not listening. He strode up to the Mortimer brothers and beamed falsely at them. Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he saw he should not have taken the soft-hearted monk to visit Mistress Lenne. While Michael liked to give the impression that he was cool and dispassionate, few things enraged him as much as injustice and suffering among the poor. Bartholomew sensed the ensuing confrontation was going to be an unpleasant one.
‘Good morning,’ said Michael, addressing the reeling miller. Thomas Mortimer promptly lost the rest of his parcels and looked down at them with a bemused expression, trying to work out what had gone wrong. ‘Surely it is too early for wine? I have only just had breakfast.’
‘That is from last night,’ said Constantine, snapping his fingers at an apprentice, ordering him to retrieve the fallen items. ‘Thomas has had no wine this morning.’
Constantine the baker was a fighting cock of a man, who had once been notorious for his vicious temper and bullying manners – a smaller version of his brother Thomas. But his son’s exile and the death of his wife Katherine had affected him deeply, and rendered him milder and sadder. He was still loyally devoted to his numerous cousins, aunts and nephews, but he was not quite as pugilistic as he had once been.