Swearing under his breath, he hopped from bare foot to bare foot across the flagstone floor to the water in the jug Cynric left each night, while Michael waited for him, eating some nuts given by a patient in lieu of payment.
‘It has frozen solid again,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, shaking the solid mass in the jug to see if he could hear water slopping about underneath. There was nothing. ‘I will have to fetch some from the kitchen.’
‘You washed yesterday,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Is there no end to this cleanliness nonsense? Just get dressed and let us be off before we are late for the third time this week.’
‘Did you marry Langelee and Julianna last night?’ asked Bartholomew, fumbling around in the dark for his shirt.
‘Not so loud, Matt! You will wake the others,’ warned Michael. ‘Just because we have to be at the church early does not mean that the entire College needs to be up with us.’
Bartholomew hauled the cold, damp garment over his head. ‘Sorry. But what of this nocturnal wedding? What happened?’
‘We will speak of the matter after mass,’ said Michael. ‘I will meet you by the gate. Hurry or you can pay my fine for being late as well as your own.’
Bartholomew finished dressing and, hauling his tabard over his head, ran across the snowy yard to where Michael had pulled the bar from the wicket gate. There was no sign of Walter, but the weather was foul – sleet being driven almost horizontally by a bitter wind – and Bartholomew imagined very little would extract him from his cosy room to open the gate for scholars off to early morning mass.
‘It is dark this morning,’ mumbled Bartholomew, glancing up at a black sky laden with heavy clouds. He shivered as icy flakes flew into his face. ‘And cold.’
Michael was walking up the lane towards the High Street with uncharacteristic speed, but Bartholomew was grateful because it stirred the blood in his veins and he felt some warmth begin to creep through his body. He followed Michael through the knee-deep drifts of snow in St Michael’s graveyard to the porch. Someone already waited there and Bartholomew froze in his tracks.
‘Julianna!’
She came towards him, surprised. ‘I did not expect you to be here,’ she said. ‘I thought you were against my marriage to Ralph.’
Bartholomew spun round to Michael, realising exactly why the night seemed to black and why he felt so tired. It was not nearing dawn at all: it was midnight!
Michael raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘I did not lie to you. I only said we would speak of the matter after mass. Which we will do I am sure. If the marriage is to be legal, I need a witness and you are the only one I can trust to do it discreetly.’
‘You trust me?’ said Bartholomew harshly. ‘When I cannot trust you?’
Michael laughed softly in the darkness. ‘You can trust me for important things, and that is what matters. This is a trifling business.’
‘Not to me,’ proclaimed Julianna huffily.
‘Nor to me,’ growled Langelee from behind them.
Bartholomew heaved a huge sigh of resignation and followed them into the church. He struggled to light the temperamental lamp while the others waited impatiently.
‘Hurry it up, Bartholomew,’ ordered Langelee imperiously. ‘We do not have all night.’
Bartholomew was about to suggest that Langelee should light the lamp himself – knowing that the philosopher’s thick, clumsy fingers would never be able to perform the intricate operation required – when it coughed into life. Langelee snatched it from his hand and led the way inside. Michael had apparently made some preparations the night before, because the Bible was opened to the relevant page and the altar was draped with a white cloth. Something glittery to one side caught his eye. It was Wilson’s black marble tomb, now topped with a grotesque effigy of a man in a scholar’s gown, partly faced in gold.
‘That monstrosity will have to go,’ muttered Michael, seeing Bartholomew staring at it with loathing. ‘It would be bad enough if it were all one colour, but now the smuggling is over Runham cannot lay his hands on sufficient gold leaf to finish covering the thing. We have Wilson with a golden stomach and a face of cheap limestone.’
‘At least it does not look like him,’ said Bartholomew, helping Michael to lay out the regalia for the mass. ‘I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies.’
While Michael ripped through the Latin wedding ceremony at an impressive rate, Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the pillars and watched moodily. He wondered what the offspring of such an alliance would be like and hoped they did not move back to Cambridge so he would find out. There was a sudden draught of wind and the lamp fluttered dangerously. Michael looked up from his reading and Bartholomew went to close the door that the fierce wind had blown open.
He heaved it closed, his feet skidding on the wet tiles as he fought against the blizzard, and went back to his place at the base of the pillar. Moments later, the same thing happened again. Michael scowled at the interruption.
‘The latch must be faulty, Matt. Shut it properly. If the lamp goes out I will have to pronounce them man and wife in the dark and I do not want to end up kissing Langelee instead of the bride.’
‘I thought the groom was supposed to kiss the bride,’ said Langelee. ‘Not the priest.’
‘And who is the expert on religious matters here, you or me?’ demanded Michael. ‘Go and check the door, Matt, or we will all freeze to death before I kiss anyone!’
Bartholomew hauled himself to his feet a second time and went to the door. And stopped abruptly when he saw Master Kenyngham struggling to close it. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for forgetting that it was the feast day of St Gilbert of Sempringham and that Kenyngham, a Gilbertine friar, would certainly keep a midnight vigil in the church in honour of the occasion.
Kenyngham turned to put his back to the door to force it closed, and smiled happily when he saw Bartholomew standing in the shadows.
‘Matthew!’ he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. ‘What a lovely surprise! I assume you are here to keep me company while I say matins for the feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward to help latch the door.
‘Who is there?’ called Michael. Bartholomew heard the slap of his sandals as he huffed his way up the nave to find out what was happening.
‘Brother Michael!’ cried Kenyngham in delight, taking his weight from the door so that it blew open again. Bartholomew caught it as it flew backwards, and leaned into it, making the others jump when the wind dropped and it slammed with a crash that sent echoes reverberating around the dark church. ‘And Master Langelee, too! All here to pray with me and celebrate the feast day of Gilbert of Sempringham, the saintly founder of my Order! And you have brought a friend, I see.’
He reached forward and placed a hand on Julianna’s head in blessing, muttering a prayer as he did so. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance of bemusement, not at all certain what would happen next.
‘I am to be married,’ announced Julianna proudly. ‘And then I am going to live in France, where the sun shines all the time.’
‘Do not go to Paris, then,’ said Bartholomew.
‘France?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘You have not mentioned France before.’
‘Congratulations, my child,’ said Kenyngham, still smiling beatifically. ‘I shall pray for you. Who is to be the lucky man?’
Only an innocent like Kenyngham could have failed to notice the way Langelee’s arm was wrapped indecorously around Julianna’s waist and the way in which the lovers looked at each other. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged yet another mystified look.
‘Ralph de Langelee,’ said Julianna loudly, as though she were talking to someone either very old or very deaf. ‘I am to marry Ralph de Langelee, Master Kenyngham.’
Kenyngham’s smile faded slightly. ‘Ralph de Langelee? But he is a Fellow of Michaelhouse; you cannot marry him!’
‘Why not?’ demanded Julianna indignantly. ‘He is a man, is he not?’
‘Not all men are available for marriage,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘And if Ralph de Langelee married you, he
