An Unholy Alliance (31 page)

‘We have been discreet for days, and it has got us nowhere,’ said Michael. ‘De Wetherset believes it is time for a more direct approach.’

‘Easy for him to say, sitting safely next to his wretched chest,’ grumbled Bartholomew.

Michael smiled grimly. ‘De Wetherset wants us to go immediately.’

Bartholomew emerged from his room. ‘Immediately?

But what about my debate?’

‘We will hurry. You will not miss much of it,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Damn this business!’ he said.

‘Come on, then. But no lagging on the way.’

The home of Richard Tulyet the elder was a gracious building near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was half-timbered, rather than stone, but was sturdily built.

There were expensive rugs on the polished floors, and the monotony of white walls was broken with fine tapestries.

Bartholomew and Michael were shown into a sunny room overlooking a garden at the rear of the house.

Tulyet did not hurry to see them, and Bartholomew began to pace irritably. Even Michael, helping himself to several exotic pastries from a dish on the table, considered that Tulyet had exceeded the limit of courtesy for which visitors might be expected to wait. Eventually, Tulyet puffed into the room, spreading his hands in apology, although the expression on his face suggested anything but repentance. He was a small man with the same fluffy beige hair as his son.

“I have had a most busy morning,’ he said, seating himself at the table and stretching his hand towards the pastry dish before realising that it was empty.

‘We have not,’ said Michael, pointedly.

Tulyet ignored his comment, and studied the monk over his steepled fingers. ‘How might I help you?’

‘How long have you been a member of the Guild of the Coming?’ asked Michael bluntly.

Tulyet stared at him, the smile fading from his face.

“I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘You were seen last night leaving All Saints’ Church after a less than religious ceremony was conducted there,’

said Michael. ‘How is your wife, by the way?’

Bartholomew cringed. He realised that Michael was aiming to needle Tulyet into indiscretion, but suspected that this was not the way to gain the information they needed. Tulyet had been a burgess and Lord Mayor, and was unlikely to be goaded into revealing matters he wished to remain secret. Bartholomew stepped forward to intervene.

‘Perhaps we might talk to Mistress Tulyet too,’ he said politely.

‘You may not,’ Tulyet snapped. ‘She is unwell. And before you tell me you are a physician, she has already seen one, and he advised her to rest after he finished bleeding her. Not that this is any of your affair. Good morning.’

He made to sweep past them. Bartholomew blocked

his way. ‘Who is it in the Guild of the Coming that you hold in such fear?’ he asked softly.

Tulyet stopped abruptly and Bartholomew saw the

uncertainty in his eyes.

This must be stopped,’ Bartholomew said gently. ‘If you help us, we might be able to make an end to it.’

Hope flared on Tulyet’s face, and he took a step forward.

“I do not believe my father wishes to talk to you.’

Bartholomew looked behind him and saw Tulyet’s

youngest son standing in the doorway with two of his sergeants from the Castle. ‘We are trying to help,’ said Bartholomew.

‘You are trying to interfere, and succeeding very well,’

snapped the Sheriff. ‘My father’s affairs are none of your business. Now, please leave our house.’

‘Why will you not let your father answer for himself?’

asked Michael.

‘Get out!’ yelled Tulyet the elder. “I will not tolerate this in my own home. Leave now, or these men will throw you out.’

He spun on his heel and stormed out, all trace of his momentary weakness gone. Bartholomew was frustrated.

The old man had almost told them what they needed to know, and he was clearly terrified by it. He had obviously sent to the Castle for his son while he kept him and Michael waiting, which meant that he must have felt he needed protection. Perhaps he had joined the Guild of the Coming for similar reasons to de Belem, and had become too deeply embroiled to back out.

The Sheriff leaned back against the door frame and sneered at them. ‘You heard my father,’ he said. ‘Leave, or be thrown out by my men.’

‘Are you not man enough to do it yourself?’ asked Michael. The father unable to answer questions himself, and the son needing others to fight his battles. Come, Matt. This is no place for men.’

Bartholomew was impressed by Michael’s nerve,

but uncertain that such fieriness was prudent, and followed him out into the street half expecting to feel a knife between his shoulder-blades. Sheriff Tulyet followed.

‘If I discover that either of you are interfering with my investigation again, or that you are intimidating my family, I will arrest you,’ he said loudly. “I will put you in the Castle prison, and your Chancellor and Bishop will not be able to do anything to help you. How could they in matters of treason?’

He slammed the door and stalked back towards the Castle, his men following.

Treason?’ said Michael, simultaneously startled and angry. ‘On what grounds? This has nothing to do with treason!’

‘It is not unknown for officers of the law to fabricate evidence to fit a case, or for them to force false confessions,’

said Bartholomew drily, taking the monk’s arm

and leading him away from Tulyet’s house. Justice was swift and harsh in England, and often men accused of crimes were not given time to prove their innocence.

‘You should watch your tongue, Brother. It would not take much for Sheriff Tulyet to follow such a path. He seems unbalanced.’

Me hanged for treason, and you burned for heresy,’

said Michael with a flicker of a smile. ‘What a pair the Chancellor has chosen for his agents.’

Bartholomew walked quickly from Tulyet’s house down Milne Street to Gonville Hall, to which its Master of Medicine, Father Philius, had invited two physicians from Paris, Bono and Matthieu.

‘Ah yes, Doctor Bartholomew,’ said Bono, standing to bow to him as he was shown into the conclave by a porter. “I know your old master in Paris, Ibn Ibrahim.’

Bartholomew was delighted, but not surprised. Paris was not so large that a man of his master’s standing could remain hidden. ‘How does he fare?’

‘Well enough,’ said Bono, ‘although I cannot imagine that he will remain so if he does not amend his beliefs.

During the Death he suggested that the contagion was carried by animals! Can you credit such a foolish notion?’

‘Animals?’ queried Philius, startled. ‘On what

premise?’

That he conducted certain tests to show it was not spread by the wind. He concluded that it must have been carried by animals.’

Bartholomew frowned. It was possible, he supposed, but he had not been in contact with animals during the dreadful winter months of 1348 and 1349, and he had been a victim of the plague. He wished Ibn Ibrahim was with them now that he might question him closer.

The Arab usually had well-founded reasons for making such claims.

The man is a heretic,’ said Matthieu. “I would

keep your apprenticeship with him quiet if I were you. Do you know he practises more surgery than

ever now?’

Bartholomew was silent. He too was using a greater number of surgical techniques, and the more he used them, the more he found them useful. He listened to the others discussing how surgery was an abomination that should be left to the inferior barber-surgeons. As the discussion evolved, Bartholomew began to feel a growing concern that his own teaching and beliefs would be considered as heretical as those of Ibn Ibrahim, and that he soon might have to answer for them.

The discussion moved from surgery to contagion, and Bartholomew found himself attacked again because of his insistence that a physician might spread contagion if he did not wash his hands. Bono shook his head in disbelief, while Matthieu merely laughed. Father Philius said nothing, for he and Bartholomew had debated this many times, and had never found common ground.

By the time the daylight began to fade and Gonville Hall’s bell rang to announce the evening meal was ready, Bartholomew felt drained. He declined the invitation to stay to eat, and walked back along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse. As he reached the gates, the porter told him he was needed at the Castle. Wearily he set off, wondering why Tulyet should have summoned him so near the curfew, and whether he would have the strength to deal with the hostile Sheriff.

As he climbed Castle Hill, a sergeant hurried towards him with evident relief.

‘You came!’ he said, taking Bartholomew’s arm and setting a vigorous pace towards the Castle. “I thought you might not - under the circumstances.’

What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, disengaging his arm.

The de Belem girl was a friend of yours, and the Sheriff is doing little to search out her killer,’ he said, glancing around nervously. He added more firmly, ‘He was a good Sheriff, but these last few weeks he has changed.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Family problems, we think.

But none of us know for certain. Here we are.’

They arrived at the gate-house, and Bartholomew was escorted inside. Torches hung in sconces along the walls so that the entire courtyard was filled with a dim, flickering light. The towers and crenellated curtain walls were great black masses against the darkening sky.

The soldier steered Bartholomew to the Great Hall against the north wall. In a small chamber off the stairs a man lay on a dirty straw pallet, groaning and swearing.

Other soldiers stood around him, but moved aside as Bartholomew entered.

‘A stupid accident,’ said the sergeant in response to Bartholomew’s unasked question. “I told him to take down the archery targets, and Rufus here did not hear me shout that practice was over.’

Rufus slunk back into the shadows, aware that the eyes of all his colleagues were on him accusingly. “It was an accident!’ he insisted.

Bartholomew knelt and inspected the wound in

the injured man’s upper arm. The arrowhead that

was embedded there was barbed, and Bartholomew

hesitated. Two options were open to him: he could force the arrowhead through the arm and out the

other side, or he could cut the flesh and pull the barbs free. The second option was clearly the better one for the injured man, since the arrowhead was not embedded sufficiently deeply to warrant forcing it through the arm. But it would involve surgery, and Bartholomew had just spent an entire day hearing how physicians that stooped to use methods suited to barbers were heretics. The injured man opened pleading eyes.

Bartholomew took one of the powerful sense-dulling potions he carried, mixed it into a cup of wine near the bed and gave it to the man to drink. When he saw the man begin to drowse, he indicated to the others that they should hold his patient down. He took a small knife and, ignoring the man’s increasingly agonised screams, quickly cut the flesh away from the arrowhead and eased it out. The man slumped in relief as Bartholomew held the arrow for him to see. Bartholomew bound the arm with a poultice of healing herbs, gave him a sleeping potion, and said he would return later to ensure no infection had crept in.

Bartholomew was escorted to the gate by the sergeant.

Thank you,’ he said, handing Bartholomew an odd

assortment of coins. ‘Will he live, do you think? Will he keep the arm?’

Bartholomew was surprised by the question. “It is not a very serious wound, and there seems to be no damage to the main blood-vessels. There should be no problem if it does not become infected.’

‘Father Philius came this morning. He said he could do nothing, and that we needed Robin of Grantchester, the barber-surgeon. Robin offered to saw the arm off at the shoulder for five silver pennies payable in advance, but we could not raise one between us and he refused to give credit. We decided to ask you to come when the Sheriff left for the night.’ He smiled suddenly, revealing an impressive collection of long, brown teeth. ‘Agatha, your College laundress, is a cousin of mine, and she told me you are flexible about payments for your services.’

Bartholomew smiled back, and shook the sergeant’s proffered hand before taking his leave. Agatha was right: although Bartholomew kept careful records about the medicines he dispensed, he kept no notes of payments due, and more often than not, he forgot what he was owed. It was a bone of contention between Bartholomew and Gray, who argued that there were those who would take advantage of such carelessness. Master Kenyngham, however, saw that Bartholomew was popular among

his patients, and encouraged Bartholomew’s casual attitude towards remuneration on the grounds that it made for favourable relations between Michaelhouse and the town.

As he walked back to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew’s doubts about his methods began to recede. Few patients who underwent amputations survived, especially amputations performed by the unsavoury Robin, who was so slow that many of his patients died from bleeding or shock before he had finished. He always demanded advance payments, because so few patients survived his ministrations and he had learned that it was difficult to extract payments from grieving relatives. In the young soldier’s case, there had been no cause to amputate anyway, when all that was needed were a few careful incisions.

As he walked down Castle Hill, he was accosted by a breathless urchin.

“I was sent for you,’ he gasped. There has been an accident. You are needed, Doctor. You must come with me!’

Bartholomew followed the lad, wondering what else would happen before he could go home. The boy trotted along the High Street and cut behind St Mary’s Church.

The first inclination Bartholomew had that something was not right was when the lad suddenly darted off to one side. Bartholomew watched in surprise as he disappeared between the bushes. Realising that he had been led into a trap, he turned and began to run back towards the main road.