Bartholomew was not entirely happy, but those who lined up to secure his expertise did not seem to mind, and he was soon lost in his work. Most of the ailments were routine, but he took his time with each, not sure how long Cynric would need.
‘It is a pity Fletone is not here,’ said Udela, watching him lance a boil. ‘He loved this kind of entertainment, and always said he was happiest when Pyk was visiting.’
Bartholomew had never thought of his work as ‘entertainment’ before. ‘Who is Fletone?’
‘A shepherd who died a month ago,’ replied Udela sadly. ‘The day after the Feast of St Swithin.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Abbot Robert disappeared on the Feast of St Swithin.’
‘Yes, coming here to inspect our master’s paten.’ Udela turned to one of the maids. ‘Fetch it, Mary. Doctor Bartholomew will appreciate its fine craftsmanship, and Master Aurifabro is too modest for his own good. His work should be touted about for all to admire.’
‘How did Fletone die?’ asked Bartholomew, more interested in that than the paten.
‘Mountain fever.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Here? In the Fens?’
‘It is a serious condition,’ averred Udela, while the rest of the household nodded sagely. ‘I did my best, but he was beyond my skills. He needed a man like you.’
‘I have no experience with mountain fever. It is not very common in Cambridge.’
‘It is not very common here, either,’ said Sylle. ‘But Fletone always thought he would die of something unusual, and he was right. He made the diagnosis himself.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a little knowledge was a dangerous thing in his profession.
‘Of course, he was raving by the time Sylle found him,’ Udela went on. ‘He kept claiming that he had seen Pyk die.’
Bartholomew’s pulse quickened. ‘Did he say where?’
It was Sylle who replied. ‘Near that dead oak – the one we call the Dragon Tree – on the Peterborough road, which is where I found Fletone himself. But Pyk did not die there, of course, so it was his ghost that Fletone saw.’
‘How do you know Pyk did not die there?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that every onlooker was clutching some sort of amulet and murmuring incantations. It was, he thought sourly, like being in an entire room full of Cynrics.
‘For two reasons,’ replied Sylle. ‘First, because there was no Pyk when I found Fletone, dead or otherwise. And second, because Fletone’s sickness struck long after Pyk would have ridden past with Abbot Robert. Thus Fletone could not have seen Pyk die.’
‘Did Fletone tell you when he became ill, then?’
‘No, but that is the nature of mountain fever,’ said Udela with total confidence. ‘It strikes hard and fast. If Fletone had already been ill when Pyk and Robert went missing, he would have been dead long before Sylle discovered him the following day. It is a matter of logic.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Sylle. ‘He was crawling around on the road when I happened across him, and did not survive long after I brought him home.’
‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ said Udela sadly. ‘He lived for Pyk’s visits, and would have hated being without a physician to consult.’
‘What do you think happened to Pyk and Robert?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of their tale.
‘Outlaws, most likely,’ replied Sylle. ‘One thing is sure, though: they are definitely dead. Robert would never have abandoned his abbey, and Pyk would never have abandoned us.’
‘Pyk was a good man.’ Udela smiled fondly. ‘He was even nice to Reginald.’
‘That scoundrel!’ spat Sylle, while Bartholomew glanced sharply at Udela, wondering why she should have singled out the cutler for such a remark. ‘He has been up to no good of late, hammering away in his workshop at peculiar hours. And I warrant he is not making knives, either.’
Udela’s bright gaze was on Bartholomew. ‘You started when I spoke Reginald’s name. Why? Do you know something about him that the rest of us do not?’
‘Only that he is dead.’
‘From apoplexy?’ Udela nodded sagely. ‘We always knew he would succumb to that, because Pyk warned him time and again not to drink melted butter, but he refused to listen.’
‘He was a greedy devil,’ said Sylle. ‘And thought of nothing but money. It served him right that there was a rumour saying that he had found Oxforde’s hoard.’
Bartholomew studied him closely, ‘I do not suppose that tale originated in Torpe, did it?’
Sylle’s expression was sly, but the physician could read the truth behind it. ‘Who can say? However, it annoyed him, which was satisfying.’
Bartholomew turned the conversation back to Robert. ‘Did you like the Abbot?’
‘No,’ replied Udela shortly. ‘We do not like any of the monastery’s officers – Welbyrn, Ramseye, Nonton, Yvo, Appletre. We like the common monks though, especially Henry.’
‘My cousin Joan used to tell us such tales about the obedientiaries,’ added Sylle, shaking his head and pursing his lips. ‘Almoners who refuse to feed the poor, cellarers who drink their own wines, treasurers who creep around the town after dark on evil business…’
‘Welbyrn was ill,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the need to protect his old tutor from unfair gossip. ‘He went to St Leonard’s for the healing waters.’
‘Joan never saw him doing that,’ said Sylle. ‘But she did see him meet Reginald at the witching hour, so I think we can safely assume that whatever Reginald was doing in his workshop involved the abbey’s loutish treasurer.’
‘Welbyrn is dead as well,’ said Bartholomew, feeling like a harbinger of doom.
‘I am not surprised,’ sighed Udela. ‘He came to me in a terrible state not long ago, and asked if self-murder was in his stars. It was not and I told him so. However, there were signs that he would not die naturally, although I kept that from him – he was suffering enough already.’
‘Suffering from what?’
‘He thought he was going insane because he kept forgetting things. His father took his own life because he lost his wits, and Welbyrn was afraid that the affliction had passed to him. Pyk told him his fears were groundless and so did I, but he did not believe us.’
No one had any more to add, so Bartholomew worked in silence for a while, tending two earaches, one indigestion and a case of gout. His every move was watched minutely by his audience, and the only sounds were the occasional approving murmur and – once – spontaneous applause. It made a pleasant change from the yawns of bored students.
‘Joan is going to be buried next to Oxforde,’ said Sylle eventually. ‘It was in her will.’
‘I know,’ said Udela disapprovingly. ‘I told her to change it. A good woman like her deserves better than to be near that vile wretch.’
‘But Oxforde is a saint,’ objected Sylle. ‘Miracles have occurred at his grave.’
‘Miracles!’ spat Udela. ‘There were never any miracles. Kirwell lied about that blinding light, just to get a place in the hospital. And he has done well out of it, because it is his life of leisure that has allowed him to live so long, not his purported saintliness.’
‘Abbot Robert always said that Kirwell was holy,’ argued Sylle. ‘So does Prior Yvo.’
‘Because they like the money pilgrims pay to touch him,’ scoffed Udela. ‘But the practice is deceitful, and I hope the new Abbot will put an end to it.’
‘Who will win the post?’ asked Sylle eagerly. ‘Have you consulted the stars?’
Udela inclined her head. ‘Yes, I have, but all I can say is that it will not be Yvo or Ramseye.’ She became thoughtful, then addressed Bartholomew. ‘Your portly friend would be worthy of the post. He has natural dignity, a clever mind and he is honourable.’