‘She did not know why. It was just one of those things.’
‘Do you know where she might have gone?’
‘Christiana is preparing a list and I shall give her my ideas. You can have it when it is complete.’
‘Why not tell me now?’
She regarded him astutely. ‘Is there some urgency in this quest, then? There is more to your search than just ensuring she is well?’
‘No, My Lady,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could think of a good way to answer for himself. ‘It is just that the roads are getting bad for travel, and we want to be on our way as soon as we can.’
‘You will not leave before Michael’s installation, though, and we shall have our list to you before then,’ said Eleanor.
Bartholomew was not sure whether Cynric had been fully believed, so he changed the subject before she could ask him anything else. ‘You were about to walk up the hill. Is there something I can do for you, to save you the journey?’
‘I need to see Ravenser or John Suttone, who are duty librarians this week. I must return the book they loaned me, because someone else wants to read it.’
‘I can do that.’
She relinquished a slim volume, which she had kept protected under her cloak. ‘Do not give it to the dean, though. He may offer to see it back on its shelf, but you must hand it to Ravenser or John.’
‘Why not the dean?’
She regarded him oddly. ‘Because he is forgetful,’ she replied after a moment.
With the natural curiosity of the scholar for any book, he unfolded the cloth in which it was wrapped. ‘Hildegard of Bingen – her mystical visions. And there is an appended chapter by Trotula. I have always admired Trotula.’
She was surprised. ‘There are not many physicians who regard her a worthy authority, and I am inclined to think they are right. That particular epistle contains her thoughts on childbirth, and I found it confusing and contradictory. It is obvious she was no scholar, not like Hildegard.’
‘Why are you interested in childbirth?’
‘I am not, but the scribe who copied the Hildegard found himself with a few empty pages at the end of the tome, so he added the Trotula to use them up. It is a common practice in scriptoria, as you know. So, when I finished the Hildegard, I discovered a short essay all about how some plants can be used to a mother’s advantage, but how misuse can kill. There is one particularly horrible herb called wake-robin, which Trotula said brings fits and death. It did not make for pleasant reading.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Wake-robin can also expel the afterbirth in cases where it sticks. Midwives use a little at a time, over a period of hours. However, I am seldom required to prescribe it.’
And he was even less likely to be asked now Matilde had gone, he realised with a pang. She had often summoned him to help ailing prostitutes with labour problems, but they were unlikely to come of their own volition. Such matters were the domain of midwives, who were jealous of their territory.
Eleanor shuddered. ‘What a dreadful responsibility these women bear. Some must kill by accident, despite their very best intentions.’
‘Not with wake-robin. Good midwives know how much to use and when to stop. Motherwort is another example. A little settles the womb, but too much brings on a lethargy that–’
Eleanor stopped him hastily. ‘Enough, Doctor, please! I have no stomach for your trade, which is why I prefer to pray for the sick than to tend them physically. Are you sure you do not mind walking up the hill on my behalf?’
‘I have to return a scroll to the library anyway. And Cynric is always eager for an opportunity that might end in an encounter with Bishop Gynewell.’
Cynric’s sense of humour did not stretch to irony, and he was bemused by Bartholomew’s comment. He spent most of the journey up the hill regaling the physician with reasons why it was wise to avoid Gynewell, a feeling that seemed to have intensified as he had learned more about him. Hugh’s mention of devil’s cakes had been carefully analysed, and Cynric had convinced himself that the baker had summoned culinary assistance from Hell, to create fare suitable for a demonic palate. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, recalling how Matilde had smiled at Cynric’s fixations and prejudices. She would certainly have derived plenty of amusement from his theories regarding the hapless prelate.
They reached the cathedral, where they walked through its echoing expanse, looking for the duty librarians. However, Ravenser and John were nowhere to be found, and the Vicars Choral supervising the pilgrims at the Head Shrine and Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb said they had not seen them all day. Cynric crossed himself, as he gazed up at the carved imp.
‘Do you think it chose that spot, so it has a good view of these regal entrails?’ he asked. ‘Everyone knows demons are interested in guts, and that imp is perfectly positioned to devour Queen Eleanor’s when they rise up on Judgement Day. She will not be able to stop him, not while the rest of her is in London. By the time she gets here, it will be too late.’
Bartholomew fought the urge to laugh, and led the way down the South Choir Aisle, past Little Hugh. Unusually, the child’s tomb was devoid of petitioners, so he stopped to look at it. Through the delicate tracery in its side, he could see the gifts that had been inserted – coins, prayers on pieces of parchment, jewellery, and flowers that had withered. Few were near the edges, and he supposed that either pilgrims made sure their offerings were shoved well into the middle, or people – hopefully cathedral officials – had removed the more readily accessible items for safekeeping.
He saw a new piece of white parchment, and supposed it was the one Hugh had put there. Cynric noticed it, too, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he had drawn his dagger and speared it out.
‘I doubt that cheeky lad will bother. Make sure it is the right one, and I will put it in its proper place. Both saints will be pleased, and we need their good graces with that bishop on the loose.’
‘I cannot read a man’s private petitions,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Only a priest can do that.’
Cynric sighed. ‘I shall do it, then, although it will take me a while. Despite your teaching, I am still slow at Latin.’ He jumped out of the way when Bartholomew made a grab for it. ‘Fortunately, Simon has big writing. It is just a list of names, though. Look.’
‘No!’ Bartholomew lunged a second time, but was no match for the agile Welshman.
Cynric frowned in concentration. ‘Simon asks the saint to remember him at his canonisation. Then he asks for a blessing on someone called pater et mater mea, mortuum’
‘His parents,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dead parents. Stop it, Cynric. This is highly unethical.’
‘Then there is a bit I damaged with the tip of my dagger. It says ami … Christi … possibly with another mortuum. Hah! It must say Christiana amantes, mortuum. That means his dead lover, Christiana. So, now we know the real father of the older Christiana’s child.’
Bartholomew’s jaw dropped at the liberal translation. ‘Rubbish, Cynric! It could mean all manner of things, including amicus Christi – Christ is dear to me. And the declension of amator–’
Cynric was not interested in grammatical niceties. ‘Next, his sorora – sisters! – again with a mortuum, and a frater called Adam Molendinarius, with no mortuum. That must be his brother …’ He stopped backing away abruptly, allowing Bartholomew to snatch the parchment from his unresisting hand. The physician folded it quickly and posted it back inside the tomb, giving it a hard shove that saw it well beyond the reach of men with knives. He suspected Cynric was right, and young Hugh would not bother to rectify his mischief, but better the prayer lay in the wrong shrine than left in a place where it could be retrieved and pored over by nosy visitors.