A Bone Of Contention Part 17

'Well, what do you think he wanted?' asked Michael, still dubious.

Bartholomew shrugged. 'I have no idea.' He stopped abruptly, turning to face Michael. 'Unless it could be that broken ring I found.'

Michael scratched his chin, the rain plastering his thin brown hair to his scalp, making his head seem very small atop his large body. 'It may have been, I suppose.'

'I think I may have broken the arm of one of our attackers: I was holding it when I fell and I heard it crack. He was wielding a knife, trying to stab me, and BiG.o.d called for him to stop. I struggled and he missed, striking the ground instead - I heard it sc.r.a.pe the ground next to my ear. I suppose the sight of the blood on my shirt led BiG.o.d to a.s.sume it was mine. I decided to play into their belief that I was dead so they would leave, but one of them, that Saul Potter I think, kicked my head.' He rubbed it ruefully. 'A tactical error on my part.'

'I do not think so, Matt,' said Michael soberly. 'They were certainly going to slit my throat. They only desisted at the last moment because they realised I really was a monk and not just Oswald Stanmore.'

Bartholomew tried to work out what the servants of G.o.dwinsson and Valence Marie could possibly want from him. Or Master BiG.o.d from Maud's. It proved their inst.i.tutions were connected in some way. But how? To the murder of the child and James Kenzie? To the rape and murder of Joanna? To the mysterious movements of Kenzie's ring? Or to the 'two acts' that Matilde said the riot was instigated to hide?

Thinking was making him feel light-headed and he felt his legs begin to give way. They had reached St Michael's Church. He lurched towards one of the tombstones in the churchyard and held on to it to prevent himself from falling.

'I think I am going to be sick,' he said in a whisper, dropping to his hands and knees in the wet gra.s.s.

Feeling better, he was helped to his feet by Michael.

'May the Lord forgive you, Matthew,' the monk said with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'You have just thrown up on poor Master Wilson's grave.'

When Bartholomew woke, he sensed someone else was in the room with him. He opened his eyes and blinked hard.

Above him the curious face of Rob Deynman hovered.

'At last!' the student said, his voice loud and unendearingly cheerful. 'I was beginning to think you would sleep for ever.'

'So I might, had I known I would wake to you,'

Bartholomew muttered unkindly, sitting up carefully.

'What was that?' Deynman said, putting his ear close to Bartholomew in a grotesque parody of the bedside manner that Bartholomew had been trying to instil into him. Not receiving a reply, he pushed Bartholomew back down on the bed and slapped something icy and wet on his head with considerable force.

'G.o.d's teeth!' gasped Bartholomew, his eyes stinging from the violence of Deynman's cold-compress application.

'You just lie there quietly,' Deynman yelled, hauling the blanket up around Bartholomew's chin with such vigour that it all but strangled him. Bartholomew wondered why Deynman was shouting. He was not usually loud-voiced.

'Where is Michael?' he asked.

Deynman favoured him with an admonishing look.

'Brother Michael is asleep, as are all Michaelhouse scholars.

Tom Bulbeck, Sam Gray, and I - we three are your best students - are the only ones awake.'

'Not for long if you keep shouting,' said Bartholomew, feeling cautiously at his head. Someone had bandaged it, expertly, and only a little too tight.

Deynman laughed. 'You are back to normal,' he said.

'Crabby!'

Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief. Cheeky young rascal! 'Where is Sam?' he demanded coldly.

'Gone for water,' said Deynman, still in the stentorian tones that made Bartholomew's head buzz. 'Here he is.'

'Oh, you are awake!' exclaimed Gray in delight, enter ing Bartholomew's room and setting a pitcher of water carefully on the table. He knelt next to Bartholomew and peered at him. I 'What is Deynman doing in my room?' Bartholomew demanded. 'What time is it?'

Gray sent Deynman to the kitchen for watered ale, and arranged the blanket in a more reasonable fashion.

'You should rest,' Gray said softly. 'It is probably somewhere near midnight and you have been ill for almost two days. We wondered whether you might have a cracked skull but now you seem back to normal, I think not. But your stars are sadly misaligned.'

'Two days?' echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. 'That cannot be right!'

But even as he said it, vague recollections of moving in and out of sleep, of his students, Michael and Cynric, hovering around him began to flicker dimly through his mind.

'Easy,' said Gray gently. 'The kick Brother Michael said you took in that fight must have been harder than you realised. And, as I said, your stars are not good. You were born when Saturn was in its ascendancy and the conjunction of Mars and Jupiter on Wednesday-'

'Oh really, Sam!' exclaimed Bartholomew irritably.

'You do not have the slightest idea when I was born.

And if you had been to Master Kenyngham's lecture last week, you would know there was no conjunction of Mars and Jupiter on Wednesday.'

Gray was not easily deterred. 'Details are unimportant,' he said airily. 'But you were attacked on Wednesday night and it is late on Friday.'

'Two days wasted,' said Bartholomew, his mind leaping from his neglected teaching to the inquiries he had been pursuing with Michael.

'We have not been idle,' said Gray, not without pride.

'While Deynman stayed with you, I read the beginning of Theophilus's De urinis to the first-and second-year students, while Tom Bulbeck read Nicholas's Antidotarium to the third, fourth and fifth years.'

Bartholomew regarded him appraisingly. 'It seems I am no longer needed,' he said, complimenting Gray's organisational skills.

Gray looked at him sharply to see if he were being facetious, but then gave a shy grin. 'I would claim it was all down to my talent for teaching but the students were only malleable because you were ill,' he said in an rare moment of honesty. 'Had you left me in charge and went drinking in the taverns all day, it would have been a different matter. We were all concerned for you. After all, since the plague, there is just you, Father Philius and Master Lynton who teach medicine. What would happen to us if you were to die?'

'Nicely put,' said Bartholomew.

'We have had to turn away h.o.a.rds of anxious women who came to enquire after you,' announced Deynman, loud enough to be heard in every college in Cambridge as he returned with the watered ale. Tom Bulbeck slipped in behind him and came to squat next to Gray, inspecting his teacher anxiously. Deynman, choosing to ignore Gray's gesture to keep his voice down, continued with his oration.

'These ladies have been very persistent; we had a difficult job keeping them out of the College.'

'Oh?' said Bartholomew cautiously. 'Which ones came?'

'Which ones!' echoed Gray admiringly. He gave Bartholomew a conspiratorial wink. 'And all this time we thought you were destined to take the cowl, like Brother Michael. Now we find out you have a whole secret life that is positively teeming with some of the loveliest females in town.'

'I have nothing of the kind,' snapped Bardiolomew testily. 'I simply invited one or two young ladies to the Founder's Feast.'

'And one to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels,' added Deynman helpfully. 'And she was the prettiest of them all.'

All? thought Bartholomew in horror. How many of them had there been? He sincerely hoped one of them had not been Matilde. Bulbeck, more sensitive to his teacher's growing discomfort than his friends, put him out of his misery.

'It was just the four Tyler women and your sister, Edith,' he said. 'They were concerned about you. And Agatha, of course.'

'That is no woman,' declared Deynman.

'You should keep your voice down,' advised Bartholomew.

'Or she might hear you and then I will not be the only one with a cracked head.'

The three students exchanged fearful glances, and Deynman crossed himself vigorously. Bartholomew smiled. He was beginning to feel better already. He was not at all surprised that the kick had rendered him insensible, especially given the sensations of sickness and dizziness he had experienced on the way back to Michaelhouse.

He thanked his misaligned stars that astrology had been the subject of his recent discussion with his students, and not trepanation, or he might have awoken to find Gray had relieved him of a chunk of skull rather than simply predicted his horoscope. Dim memories began to drift back. Had Michael accused him of vomiting on Master Wilson's grave? If that were true, he really ought to do something to atone for such an act of sacrilege. When the pompous Master Wilson had died during the plague, he had made a deathbed demand that Bartholomew should oversee the building of his fine tomb. Three years had pa.s.sed, and, apart from ordering a slab of black marble, Bartholomew's promise remained unfulfilled.

When he opened his eyes again, it was early morning and daylight was beginning to glimmer through the open window. On a pallet bed next to him, Gray slumbered, fully clothed, his tawny hair far too long and very rumpled.

Bartholomew sat up warily, and then stood. Apart from a slight ache behind his eyes, he felt fine. So as not to wake Gray, he tiptoed out of his room, taking the pitcher of water with which to wash and shave. Then he unlocked the small chamber where he stored his medicines. Pulling off the heavy bandage he fingered the lump on the back of his head. He had felt worse, although not on himself.

He went back to his room for clean clothes, tripping over the bottom of Gray's straw mattress. The student only mumbled and turned over without waking. Bartholomew wondered at the usefulness of having him in a sickroom if he slept so heavily, but then relented, knowing he was a heavy sleeper himself. It was not the first time Gray had kept a vigil at Bartholomew's bedside, and he knew he should not be ungrateful to his student, whatever his motives for wanting his teacher hale and hearty.

Outside, the air was cool and fresh. The rain of two nights ago seemed to have broken the unbearable heat and the breeze smelled faintly of the sea, not of the river. Bartholomew looked at the sky, beginning to turn from dark blue to silvery-grey, ducked back inside to his room for his bag - noting that someone had thought to dry it out after the heavy rain - and walked across the yard to the front gates. Then he made his way to St Michael's Church. The ground was sticky underfoot, and here and there puddles glistened in the early light.

He reached the church and walked furtively to Master Wilson's grave, relieved to see that nothing appeared to I be amiss.

In the church, Fathers William and Aidan, Franciscan friars and Fellows of Michaelhouse, were ending matins and lauds. Bartholomew sat at the base of a pillar in the cool church and let Father William's rapid Latin echo around him. William always gave the impression that G.o.d had far better things to do than to listen to his prayers, and so gabbled through them at a pace that never failed to impress Bartholomew. However, if Bartholomew would ever be so rash as to put his observation to William, the friar would scream loudly about heresy and they would end up in one of the interminable debates that William so loved.

Aidan favoured Bartholomew with a surprised grin, revealing two large front teeth, one of which was sadly decayed. While Aidan fiddled about with the chalice and paten on the altar, William gave Bartholomew one of his rare smiles and sketched a benediction at him in the air. On the surface, Bartholomew and William had little in common and argued ceaselessly about what was acceptable to teach the students. Any display of friendship between them was usually unwillingly given, although beneath their antagonism was a mutual, begrudging respect.

In pairs and singly, Michaelhouse's scholars began to trickle into the church, and Bartholomew took up his appointed place in the chancel. Master Kenyngham arrived and gestured to the Franciscans to begin prime.

The friars started to chant a psalm, and Bartholomew closed his eyes, relishing the way their voices echoed through the church, slow and peaceful. Roger Alcote, the Senior Fellow, stood next to him and enquired solicitously after his health. Bartholomew smiled at the fussy little man: he had no idea he was so popular among his colleagues - unless, like Gray, they knew that they would have a serious problem trying to find a replacement Regius physician to teach medicine at Michaelhouse.

During the morning's lectures, his students were uncommonly considerate, keeping their voices low, even during an acrimonious debate about the inspection of urine to determine cures for gout. Bartholomew was amazed to learn that they had been instructed to keep the noise down by Deynman of all people, which was especially surprising given his uncharacteristic loudness during the night. Apparently, he had thought Bartholomew might be deaf because the bandage had covered his ears. Bartholomew wondered what it was like to see the world in such black and white terms as Deynman.

When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew sent for the town's master mason. While he waited, he read his borrowed Galen: although Radbeche's message had been that Bartholomew might use it as long as he liked, to be in possession of a hostel's one and only book was a grave responsibility, and he wanted to return it to them as soon as possible.

When the mason arrived, Bartholomew handed him the small box that contained the money Wilson had given him for the tomb. The mason opened the box and shook his head, clicking his tongue.

'Three years ago this would have bought something really fancy, but since the plague everything costs more - tools, wages... Even with the stone already bought, I can only do you something fairly plain.'

'Really?' said Bartholomew, his spirits lifting. 'Master Wilson wanted an effigy of himself with a dozen angels, carved in the black marble and picked out in gold.'

The mason sucked in his breath and shook his head.

'Not with this money. I could do you a cross with some nice knots at the corners.'

'That sounds reasonable,' said Bartholomew and a deal was struck. He did not know whether to feel relieved that the hideous structure Wilson had desired would not now spoil the delicate contours of the church, or guilt that his intransigence had meant that Wilson's tomb-money had so devalued.

As he pondered, Michael sought him out, his face sombre. 'Mistress Fletcher died yesterday,' he said. He squeezed Bartholomew's shoulder and then went to sit on the bed. 'I went to her when word came that she was failing. She had fallen into a deep sleep in the afternoon and did not wake before she died some hours later. There was nothing you could have done and she would not have known whether you were there or not.'

Bartholomew looked away and said nothing. They sat in silence for a while. Michael played with the wooden cross around his neck, and Bartholomew stared out of the window into the sunny yard. He watched some chickens pecking about in the dirt and saw Deynman chase a hungry-looking dog away from them. Deynman spied Bartholomew gazing out of his window and waved cheerily. Absently, Bartholomew waved back.

'd.a.m.n BiG.o.d!' he said in a low voice. 'I promised her I would be there.'

Michael did not reply. Bartholomew stood up, knocking something from the window-sill as he did so. As he stooped to retrieve it, he saw it was the candle he had been looking for the night he and Michael had been attacked.

Pangs of guilt a.s.sailed him when he remembered thinking that Gray might have taken it. He replaced it on the shelf, wondering who had moved it in the first place. Cynric, perhaps, when he was cleaning.

Michael stood, too. 'I am going to talk to Tulyet about your notion of persuading Lydgate to look at the ring on Thorpe's skeleton,' he said. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. 'We have Kenzie murdered; a recently dead hand claimed to be a relic; riots possible every night and we do not know why; your raped and murdered prost.i.tute; the attack against you in the night; and the child's skeleton. All unsolved mysteries, and I can think of no way forward with any of them. Tulyet will help us because he is as baffled as we are and I can think of nothing else to do.'

Bartholomew picked up his bag. 'I had planned to sit with Mistress Fletcher and watch G.o.dwinsson at the same time. The French students were bound to go in or out sooner or later and I was going to follow them and question them about Joanna.'

'Forget them for now,' said Michael. 'We know where to find them.' He hesitated, then sat again, fiddling with the wooden cross that hung round his neck. Bartholomew waited, sensing the monk had something to say. He put the Galen in his bag, then perched on the edge of the table. Michael gave a heavy sigh.

'Two days ago, when you were indisposed, I went to see Master BiG.o.d of Maud's Hostel. He denies totally the charge that it was he who attacked us in the street. I asked to see Will at Valence Marie but was told he was visiting a sick sister in Fen Ditton, and had been gone since the night the relic was found. Then I went to G.o.dwinsson and, in the company of Guy Heppel, put the fear of G.o.d into Huw, their steward, and that scullion Saul Potter who you said kicked you. Do you know what I discovered?'

Bartholomew shook his head, setting his bag down on the table while he listened to Michael.

'Nothing!' spat Michael in disgust. 'Not even the tiniest sc.r.a.p of information. Huw and Saul Potter claim they spent the evening cleaning silver, and went to bed by eight o'clock. I collared other G.o.dwinsson servants, and they confirmed that the hostel was locked up and everyone was asleep long before the church clock struck nine. It was past midnight before we were attacked.' He turned to the physician. 'Are you certain that it was Will, Huw, Saul Potter and BiG.o.d you recognised?'

Bartholomew thought back to the attack: Huw swearing at him in Welsh, Saul Potter's piggy eyes glittering as Bartholomew had torn away his hood, and BiG.o.d demanding to know where something was.

'I injured one as we fell - his hand broke,' he said, the memory dim. 'Did any of the men you spoke to have injuries? What about Will from Valence Marie?

Perhaps he left Cambridge to hide the fact that he was wounded.'

Michael looked pained. 'd.a.m.n! Your memory has played us false! You told me originally that the man had broken his arm, not his hand, and you said Will had been holding me down, not fighting with you. I inflicted no broken bones - although I certainly bit someone fairly hard - and so Will cannot be in hiding to cover his wounds.'

He banged his fist on the table in frustration. 'I wondered at the time whether you might not have been rambling. You were weaving all over the road like a drunk.

When I went haring off to confront BiG.o.d and the others, I had no idea your injury was so serious. Gray warned us you might lose some memory after he consulted your stars. I should have waited.'

'Stars!' spat Bartholomew in disgust. 'I do remember BiG.o.d, Huw, Saul Potter and Will there. Others too. The lightning lit up their faces.'

Michael looked sceptical. 'How many were there?'

Bartholomew thought, struggling with the blurred images that played in his mind. 'Will and two others fought with you, while Huw, Saul Potter and BiG.o.d fought with me.'

One of the Benedictines in the room above began to sing softly as Michael shook his head. 'Wrong again, Matt. Only two had been allocated to me; one sat on my back, while the other held my gown over my face and almost smothered me. But there were five men fighting you. I saw them. I had been taken by surprise and was knocked to the ground before I could react. You had more time to defend yourself and were able to fight harder. Do you remember any words they spoke?'

For a brief moment, Bartholomew considered not answering, feeling foolish and vulnerable at his lapse in memory. 'I heard Huw speak in Welsh, and BiG.o.d asked me where something was,' he said reluctantly.

'I heard no Welsh,' said Michael, 'and I heard every word that was spoken, lying as I was immobilised. d.a.m.n!

Should I apologise to BiG.o.d for accusing him wrongly?

The servants I do not care about but the Princ.i.p.al of a hostel is another matter.'

'I am certain I saw those four,' persisted Bartholomew.

'And I heard and felt the sharp crack of a bone breaking..."