more to that woman than an empty-headed wanton. She was certainly not feigning her pregnancy. I was surprised I had not noticed it before, given that it is so well advanced.’
‘It is true, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an excuse to come to threaten you.’
‘She really is with child,’ Matilde repeated. ‘Her habit disguises the signs to a certain extent, but there is no question about it. Poor Eve. The convent will miss the money the Bishop pays to have Tysilia looked after.’
‘They have not looked after her very well if they have allowed her to become pregnant. It would serve them right if the Bishop took her away.’
‘I defy anyone else to have done better,’ said Matilde. ‘The woman is virtually uncontrollable and I wonder whether she is not so much cunning as deranged.’
Bartholomew did not know what to think. He stayed for a while, drinking wine and listening to her stories about convent life until he felt himself begin to fall asleep. Cynric’s sudden appearance at the door as he was about to walk home almost made him jump out of his skin, and he was not sure whether to be relieved or more confused to learn that the two nuns had gone directly back to St Radegund’s and had not stopped at taverns or to meet any accomplices. When he reached Michaelhouse, he washed quickly and dived between his cold, damp bed-covers, his mind still whirling with questions as an exhausted sleep finally claimed him.
Chapter 12
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS EASTER SATURDAY, AND Bartholomew attended the obligatory services in the church, ate his meals and worked on his treatise on fevers, trying not to dwell on what he planned to do that night. As evening approached, the clouds thinned, so that flashes of golden sun started to break through them. By dusk, they had fragmented to the point where there were only a few banks left, each one tinged salmon pink as the sun began to set. Cheered by the sight of a clear sky after so many overcast days, Bartholomew wandered into the orchard, and watched the bright orange globe sink behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. The clouds seemed more vividly painted than he had ever seen them before; they glowed amber and scarlet, before fading to the shade of dull embers and then to a misty purple as darkness fell.
He walked back to his room, lit a candle and worked a little longer. The bell rang for the evening meal, and he picked at the unwholesome mess of over-boiled cabbage and under-cooked beans without much appetite. The students were in a state of barely suppressed excitement, because it was the last day of Lent and the following morning would see all the miserable restrictions lifted. When he found part of a dead worm in the shredded cabbage that was heaped on his trencher, Bartholomew began to long for the end of Lent, too.
Michael sat next to him, crowing triumphantly over the fact that Heytesbury had finally signed his document, somewhat unexpectedly, and that the nominalist would leave Cambridge the following day. Father William was of the opinion that Heytesbury should leave
While Michael tried to inveigle himself an invitation to consume another barrel of Langelee’s excellent wine, Bartholomew returned to his room and dressed for his pending raid on Brother Timothy’s quarters. He donned thick black leggings, a dark woollen jerkin, and shoes that were easier to climb in than his winter boots. He was reaching for one of his surgical knives, in case he needed to use force to prise open a window, when Cynric slipped into his chamber.
‘Are you ready?’ the Welshman asked. ‘If we can have this finished in less than two hours, I will still be able to go to the Easter vigil. Ely Hall is only a stone’s throw from St Mary’s Church.’
‘You plan to come with me?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You believe that Timothy and Janius are the killers?’
‘Not really,’ said Cynric bluntly. ‘But I do not want you to do this alone. I was hoping that the delay I recommended yesterday would make you see sense, but I can tell from the expression on your face that you intend to go ahead with this foolery.’
‘It is not foolery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tonight we will see a pair of murderers revealed.’
‘If you say so,’ said Cynric. ‘Well, come on, then. I do not want to be breaking into other people’s property all night. It is too cold.’
It felt odd to be gliding through the darkness with Cynric moving like a ghost in front of him. Bartholomew and Cynric had shared many such nocturnal adventures, which Bartholomew was sure the Welshman had enjoyed a lot more than he had, but the physician’s life had been blissfully free of them for several months. A familiar uneasiness settled in his stomach, and he found his hands were shaking, although whether it was as a result of the cold of the starlit night or from anticipation, he could not say.
He followed Cynric along the High Street, where everything was in complete darkness, except for one house where the cries of a baby indicated a sleepless night for the hapless parents. A dog howled in the distance, like a wolf, and the sound sent shivers down Bartholomew’s spine. He glanced up at the sky: the stars glittered and twinkled so brightly that he could make out the outlines of the road and the ditches below, even though the moon was temporarily hidden behind a lone cloud.
‘Here we are, lad,’ said Cynric, gazing up at the dark mass in front of him that was Ely Hall. ‘What now? Shall I pick the lock on the door, or were you planning on entering through a window?’
Bartholomew had not been planning anything. He had thought little beyond the fact that he needed to enter Timothy’s room at a time when the Junior Proctor was out. He gazed helplessly at Cynric, and the Welshman sighed.
‘Come with me around the back. The last time I was here, I noticed that the kitchen is a lean-to shack in the yard. You may be able to climb on top of it and force a window upstairs.’
Bartholomew was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he planned to do. Suddenly, it seemed madness to break into the private chamber of the Junior Proctor, especially given that the Senior Proctor had told him that he had no right to do so. But Bartholomew could see no other way forward; the thought of a murderer patrolling the streets and dispensing his own justice to scholars who flouted the University’s rules was not an attractive proposition.
Forcing his uneasiness to the back of his mind, Bartholomew followed Cynric down a stinking alley that led to the rear of Ely Hall. The stench was eye-watering, since the Benedictines had apparently been using it as a latrine instead of going to the public ones in the Market Square. Lazy cooks, who could not be bothered to take their waste to the river, had left their mark on the yard, too, and rotting cabbage stalks, unusable parts from joints of meat and old trenchers sodden with grease all festered together in a slimy mass that was as slick as ice under Bartholomew’s shoes.
‘Timothy’s room is that one,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the tiny window, little more than a slit, that was above and to one side of the shack that acted as a kitchen. He frowned as he tried to recall details of Ely Hall from his visits to tend Brother Adam. ‘That larger window to the right is a small landing. I think I should be able to squeeze through it.’
He felt Cynric gazing at him witheringly in the darkness. ‘Why do you think I suggested we enter this way? I know where Timothy’s room is, and I know the landing window is large enough for you to enter. How many more times must I tell you that if you intend to break into someone else’s property, you should have a feel for the layout first?’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was not something he would have to do again.
‘Here,’ said Cynric, moving an abandoned crate carefully, so as not to make a noise. ‘Climb on this, and see whether you can prise open the window. It will be dark inside, do not forget. How do you plan to see what you are doing?’
‘There was a candle on the table when I was last here,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I think it is better to risk a light and search quickly, than to fumble around in the dark for longer.’
‘Did you bring a tinder to light the candle?’ asked Cynric.
It was Bartholomew’s turn to treat Cynric to a withering look. ‘I am not that incompetent. And before you
