An Unholy Alliance (23 page)

Walter spat. ‘I thought it had an odd taste about it. I should have known that no one gives gifts for nothing.’

‘Who gave it to you?’ asked Michael.

‘The Master,’ said Walter.

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged glances. ‘How

do you know it was from the Master?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Did he give it to you in person?’

‘He left it for me, and I knew it was from him, because who but the Master has fine wines to give away? You two do not,’ he added rudely. ‘Why should I question the Master when he was offering good wine?’ He paused for a moment in thought. ‘I should have done, though.’

‘You should indeed,’ said Michael.

Deynman hauled Walter away for another turn around the yard, and Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully.

‘So, because it seemed a good wine, Walter assumed it was from the Master,’ he said.

‘Can we be sure it was not?’ Michael asked.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I doubt Kenyngham would

leave poisoned wine for Walter when he would be such an obvious culprit,’ he said. ‘And anyway, Hesselwell is right.

The poisoner must be an outsider, because Kenyngham would know Walter sleeps most of the night.’

They talked for a while longer, and went back to their beds. Bartholomew repeated his instructions that the students should wake him immediately if Walter went to sleep or became ill, and left the surly porter in their less than tender, but hawklike, care. He smiled, remembering that Walter had landed Gray in trouble two weeks ago when he had stayed out all night and Walter had informed Alcote. Now the student could have his revenge, and Walter would find himself walked off his feet by the morning.

As Bartholomew lay on his bed to sleep, questions tumbled endlessly through his tired brain. Who had left the goat for Michael? What was in the book that was so incriminating that the Chancellor had censored it? How were the guilds connected to the deaths of the friar and Froissart? Who had killed them, and was the killer also the murderer of the women? Was Fiances de Belem killed because of her-father’s involvement with the Guild of Purification? He turned the questions over and over, searching for a common theme, but could think of nothing except the mysterious covens.

He lay on his bed, watching the clouds drift across the night sky through the open window shutters. Eventually he got up and closed them securely. He locked the door, too, something he had not felt obliged to do in Michaelhouse for a long time, and, when the bell chimed for Prime the following morning, he wondered whether he had slept at all.

Walter was back to his miserable self by dawn, complaining bitterly that his throat and stomach hurt

from the enforced vomiting, and that his feet were sore from walking all night. Convinced that he was suffering no long-term ill-effects from his narrow escape, Bartholomew ordered that he rest, and he then returned to his teaching.

His students, having seen medical practice at work in their own College the night before, were full of questions, and Deynman proudly gave the class a description, reasonably accurate, of the treatment for a person with suspected poisoning. Bartholomew then described treatments for different kinds of poisons, and Deynman’s face fell when he realised that, yet again, medicine was more complex than he had believed. Brother Boniface was sullen and uncooperative, refusing to answer questions, and Bartholomew wondered what was brewing behind the Franciscan’s resentful eyes.

After the main meal, Baitholomew gave Gray and

Bulbeck a mock disputation, and was pleased with their progress. He took them with him to treat Brother Alban’s elbow. The old monk was delighted to have an audience of three whom he could regale with his gossip. He began talking about the increase in witchcraft in the town.

‘More and more of the common people are flocking to evil ways,’ he crowed gleefully.

‘Oh, not you too,’ said Gray disrespectfully. ‘We have to listen to Boniface droning on about heresy and witchcraft all day.’

Bulbeck nodded in agreement. ‘He sees heresy in

everything,’ he said. ‘He thinks Doctor Bartholomew is a heretic for saving Walter last night. He says God called him and Doctor Bartholomew snatched him back.’

So that was it, thought Bartholomew. He was sure Walter would not agree with Brother Boniface’s opinion, and wondered how Boniface proposed to be a physician with these odd ideas rattling around in his head.

Alban ignored them and chattered about the desecration of several churches in the town after one of the guild meetings two nights ago. He crossed himself frequently in horror, but his gleaming eyes made it obvious that he found the whole thing of great interest, and was eagerly waiting to hear what happened next.

‘Have you found the killer of the whores yet?’ he asked Bartholomew, beady black eyes glittering with malicious delight.

‘They were not all whores, ‘said Bartholomew patiently, concentrating on his task.

‘They were,’ said Alban firmly. ‘And you cannot try to defend that de Belem girl. She was worse than the rest.’

Bartholomew looked at him, startled, and seeing the pleasure in the old man’s face at having surprised him, he shook his head and continued with his treatment.

Alban really was a nasty old man, he thought, for taking such delight in the downfall of others.

‘She was out in the dark seeing her man,’ Alban

continued. ‘After her husband died in the Death, her father could not control her lust.’

‘Who was her man?’ asked Gray, interested.

The old monk beamed at him, pleased to have secured a positive reaction at last. He tapped the side of his nose.

‘A scholar,’ he said. ‘That is all I can say.” He sat back, his lips pursed.

‘That is enough, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, standing up as the treatment was done. ‘No good can come of such talk, and much harm.’

“No good and much harm”,’ mimicked Alban

unpleasantly, beginning to sulk. Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the old man’s gossip, although he could see that Gray would have been happy to stay longer’.

When his bag had been returned to him the day

before, Bartholomew had emptied all the potions and powders out, and exchanged them for new ones from his store. He did not want to harm any of his patients because someone had altered the labels, or substituted one compound for another. It would not be possible to tell whether some had been tampered with, and these he had carefully burned on the refuse fires behind the kitchen. But there were tests that could be performed on the others that would tell him whether they had been changed.

He left Gray, Deynman, and Bulbeck in his small

medical store carrying out the tests while he went to St John’s Hospital to see a patient with a wasting disease. He stayed for a while talking to the Canons about the increase in cases of summer ague, and then went to the home of a pardoner with a broken arm on Bridge Street.

Since he was near the Castle, he decided to try to see Sybilla. She lived in a tiny wattle and daub house on the fertile land by the river. Although the land provided the families that lived on it ample reward in terms of rich crops of vegetables, their homes were vulnerable when the river flooded. It had burst its banks only a few weeks ago in the spring rains, and Sybilla and others had been forced to flee to the higher ground near the Castle for safety.

He knocked on the rough wooden door of Svbilla’s house. There was a shuffle from within and the door was opened slowly. Sybilla, her face grey with strain, peered out at him. He was shocked at her appearance. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face.

‘Sybilla!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you ill?’

She cast a terrified glance outside before reaching out a hand and hauling him into the house, slamming the door closed behind him. The inside of the house was suffering from the same lack of care as its owner. Dirty pots were strewn about the floor, and the large bed in the corner was piled with smelly blankets. Bartholomew had been told by Michael that Sybilla was renowned for offering a clean bed and a clean body to her clients, although how the monk came by such information

Bartholomew did not care to ask.

He turned to her in concern. ‘What is wrong? Do you have a fever? Are you in trouble?’

She rubbed a dirty hand over her face and tears began to roll. He saw a half-empty bottle on a table in the middle of the room, and poured some of its contents into a drinking vessel that had not been washed for days. He handed it to her and then made her sit on one of the stools. He sat opposite, and patted her hand comfortingly, feeling ineffectual.

Eventually she looked up at him, her eyes swollen and red. ‘I am sorry,’ she sniffed.

‘What is wrong?’ Bartholomew said helplessly. ‘Please tell me. I may be able to help.’

She shook her head. ‘You are a kind man, Doctor,’

she said, ‘but there is nothing you can do to help me.

I am doomed.’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘Doomed? But why?’

Sybilla sniffed loudly and scrubbed her nose across her arm. “I saw him,’ she said, her eyes full of terror, and began to cry again. Bartholomew waited until the new wave of sobbing had subsided, and made her drink more of the cheap wine from the clay goblet.

‘Tell me what happened,’ he said. ‘And then we will decide what to do.’

She looked at him, her eyes burning with a sudden hope in her white face. Just then, the door swung open and a woman entered. Bartholomew rose politely to his feet. She stopped dead as she saw him, and looked from him to Sybilla, her face breaking into a wide smile.

‘Oh, Sybilla!’ she said. ‘I am glad you have decided to go back to work. I told you it would do you good. You look better already. I will leave you in peace.’

She turned to leave. Bartholomew was half embarrassed and half amused at her assumption.

‘You misunderstand, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I am only a physician.’

The woman beamed at Sybilla. ‘Better than that

stonemason you had! You are doing well.’

Sybilla rose unsteadily and grasped the woman’s arm.

‘He is not a customer,’ she said.

The other’s attitude changed. ‘Well, what do you want then?’ she demanded of Bartholomew. ‘Can you not see she is unwell?’

‘Yes, I can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is why I am trying to help.’

‘Help?’ asked the woman suspiciously. ‘How do you think you can help?’

‘I cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew, his patience fraying slightly, ‘until I know what ails her. She was about to tell me when you came in.’

‘Have you told him?’ she asked Sybilla. Sybilla shook her head. ‘Then do not. How do you know this is not him, or someone sent by him to find out what you know?’

Sybilla shrank back against the wall, and more tears began to roll down her face.

‘If I were “him”,’ said Bartholomew testily, ‘you have just told me that Sybilla knows something, and you have put her life in danger.’

The woman looked at him aghast. ‘God’s blood,’ she swore in horror. She turned her gaze on Sybilla. ‘What have I done?’ She pulled herself together suddenly, seized a rusty knife from the table, and brandished it at Bartholomew. ‘Who are you, and what do you want from us?’ she demanded, steel in her voice.

Bartholomew calmly took the knife from her hands, and placed it back on the table. The woman glanced at Sybilla, stricken.

‘I am no one who means Sybilla any harm,’ he said calmly. ‘My name is Matthew Bartholomew, and I came because I saw her running from St Botolph’s churchyard the day that Isobel died.’

The woman gazed at him. You are the University

physician?’ she said.

‘One of them,’ he said, sitting down on the stool and gesturing for the women also to sit. Sybilla sank down gratefully, but the other woman was wary. Bartholomew studied her. She was tall, graceful, and wore a simple dress of blue that accentuated her slender figure. But it was her voice that most intrigued Bartholomew; she did not have a local accent, but one that bespoke of some education. Her mannerisms, too, suggested that she had not learned them in the town’s brothels, as Sybilla had done.

Her eyes met his even gaze, and she stared back.

‘Agatha told me about you,’ she said.

Bartholomew was not surprised. Agatha had so many relatives and friends in the town that he could go nowhere where she had no links.

‘My name is Matilde,’ said the woman.

Bartholomew smiled. So that explained her accent.

‘Agatha has told me about you, too,’ he said.

Matilde inclined her head, accepting without false modesty that she might be an appropriate topic of conversation in the town. Agatha had told him about a year ago that one of her innumerable cousins had taken a lodger who was said to have been a lady-in-waiting to the wife of the Earl of Oxford. Rumour had it that this woman had been caught once too often entertaining men of the court in her private quarters, and had been dismissed. She had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace and was known locally as ‘Lady Matilde’ for her gentle manners and refined speech.

‘Matilde is my friend,‘Sybilla blurted out.‘She has been bringing me food since …’ She trailed off miserably and gazed unseeingly at her bitten fingernails.

‘Since Isobel was murdered,’ finished Matilde, looking coolly at Bartholomew.

‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Bartholomew to Sybilla.

‘Do you know the man who killed Isobel?’

Sybilla shook her head. ‘I did not recognise him, but I saw him,’ she whispered.

Matilde seized Bartholomew’s wrist with surprising strength. ‘Now you know, you carry a secret that could bring about her death,’ she said, her eyes holding his.

Bartholomew gazed back, his black eyes as unwavering as her blue ones. ‘I know that,’ he said, firmly pulling his wrist away. ‘But so might anyone else who saw her run screaming from Isobel’s body on Monday.’

Matilde winced, and looked at Sybilla, who hung her head. “I was so frightened, I do not remember what I did,’ she said, beginning to weep again. Matilde took matters in hand.

‘You must pull yourself together,’ she said firmly to Svbilla. ‘You told me no one knew that you had seen Isobel’s killer. Now it looks as though half the town might know. I think it would be best if you told the doctor what you saw. He might be able