the Castle and examine the bodies of those who died last night.'
'Better hurry, then,' said Stanmore, ushering him out of the gate. 'The curfew is early tonight, and I would not break it if I were you.'
Bartholomew walked briskly away from Stanmore's house towards the Castle. The land on which Cambridge stood was flat, but at the northern end, there was a small rise on which William the Conqueror had chosen to build a wooden keep in 1068. The small rise became Castle Hill, and the wooden keep had developed into a formidable fortress with a thick curtain wall and several strong, stone towers.
As he walked, Bartholomew saw the streets were virtually deserted, and cursed himself for agreeing to examine the bodies that day. He did not feel safe walking alone along streets that usually thronged with people, nor did he like the fact that the only people he did see were heavily armed.
'Matthew!' came a voice from the shadows. 'You should not be out so late. The curfew bell will sound in a few moments, and you are heading in entirely the wrong direction.'
'Good evening, Matilde,' said Bartholomew, turning with a warm smile to the woman who emerged from the house of one of the town's brewers. 'You should not be out, either.'
As soon as he had spoken, he realised how stupid his words were. Matilde was a prostitute, and the hours of darkness were, presumably, when she conducted much of her business. Known as 'Lady Matilde' because, according to popular rumour, she had once been a lady-in-waiting to a duchess but had been dismissed for entertaining one too many gentlemen in her chambers, she had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace. Unlike the other prostitutes, Matilde was well-spoken, and her manners were gentle. Bartholomew had never asked her whether the story were true — not because he thought she might not tell him, but because he liked her aura of mystery and enigma.
Matilde was, to Bartholomew's mind, the most attractive woman in Cambridge. She had long hair that reached her knees in a glossy veil, and a small, impish face that was simultaneously beautiful and mischievous. He found he was staring at her and had not heard a word she had been saying.
'I am going to the Castle,' he said, trying to mask the fact that he had not been paying attention. 'Can I escort you somewhere?'
'I have just told you that I am going home,' said Matilde, laughing at him. 'Have you not been listening to me?'
'Sorry,' said Bartholomew, beginning to walk towards The Jewry — the part of the town that had once been inhabited by a little community of Jews before their expulsion from England some sixty years before — where Matilde lived. It was on his way, and would not be an inconvenience. 'I have had a long day, Matilde, given the number of people who were injured last night.'
She gave him a sympathetic look, and they walked for a while in silence. Bartholomew was aware that he was dirty and dusty, but that she smelled clean and fragrant.
Her hair shone, even in the faint light of dusk. Next to her the Tyler sisters paled into insignificance, like distant stars compared to the sun. Not for the first time in their friendship Bartholomew wished that she had chosen a different profession, and that he might ask her to accompany him for walks by the river, or even to the Founder's Feast. He was surprised when she replied, realising with a shock that he must have spoken the invitation aloud.
'I do not think that would be a good idea, Matthew,' she said. 'What would Master Kenyngham say when he saw you had invited a courtesan to dine at his college?'
Master Kenyngham would not know a courtesan if one appeared stark naked at his high table, thought Bartholomew, but his colleague Father William would, and then there would be trouble. But Bartholomew was tired, he was missing Philippa more than he thought possible, and he was about to go and inspect corpses in the dark for the Sheriff. He decided he did not care what Father William might say, and since the invitation had apparently been issued, he could hardly withdraw it.
'Please come,' he said. 'It is the only occasion in the year that Michaelhouse provides food fit for eating, and the choir are going to sing some ballads.'
He hesitated. 'If you have heard them in church, that might put you off. But apart from the singing and the speeches, the day might be quite pleasant — much more so than the Festival of St Michael and All Angels will be.'
'I heard that you have already invited Eleanor Tyler to the Founder's Feast,' said Matilde. 'Are you sure that my presence will not be awkward for you?'
He gazed at her in astonishment. He had totally forgotten his invitation to Eleanor — not that it mattered, since he was allowed two guests — but it was remarkable that Matilde should know.
'She has been telling anyone who will listen that she is to be the guest of the University's senior physician for Michaelhouse's Founder's Feast,' said Matilde, smiling at his confusion. 'It is quite the talk of the town.'
'It is?' asked Bartholomew, bemused. 'To be honest, I think she more or less invited herself. I suppose she wanted to see the College silver, or hear the music.'
'That is what you think, is it?' asked Matilde, eyes sparkling with merriment. 'Oh, Matthew! You are a good man, but I do not think this University of yours is teaching you very much about life!'
'What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew, slightly offended. 'I have travelled as far as Africa and the frozen lands to the north, and I have seen great cathedrals and castles, and the aftermath of wars, not to mention-'
'That is not what I meant,' said Matilde, still smiling. 'I do not doubt your experience or your learning. You just seem to know very little of women.'
'I know enough,' said Bartholomew, although his recent experience with Philippa made him suspect Matilde was right. 'Some of my patients are women. But will you come? To the Founder's Feast?'
Matilde reached up and touched his cheek. 'Yes, I will.
Although if you have second thoughts in the cold light of day, you must tell me. I will not be offended.'
Bartholomew had said as much to Hedwise Tyler after he had invited her to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels. His head reeled. Had Philippa's rejection of him addled his mind? In the course of a single day, he had issued invitations to three separate women, one of whom was a prostitute, to visit Michaelhouse. While he might be expected to get away with one, three would certainly catch the eye of the fanatical Father William, not to mention the other Fellows. The best Bartholomew could hope for was that his colleagues would have some sort of collective fainting fit, only recovering their wits when the day was over and the women safely off the College premises. His mind still whirling, Bartholomew made his way to the Castle on the hill.
The Castle had the air of being in a state of siege.
There was no soldier, inside or out, who was not fully armoured and armed. Archers lined the curtain walls in anticipation of an attack, and the great gates that normally stood open were closed, the wicket door heavily guarded. Bartholomew saw that there was a guard near the portcullis mechanism, ready to release it at a moment's notice. It was no secret in the town that the chains that held the portcullis needed to be replaced — such chains were yet another item impossible to buy since the plague — and it was generally believed that if the portcullis were lowered, the chains would not be strong enough to allow it to be raised again. Sheriff Tulyet, Bartholomew realised, must be anxious indeed if he were considering using it.
Bartholomew was allowed through the barbican, and then into the Castle bailey. Soldiers milled around restlessly, some preparing to leave on patrol, others returning.
Every one of the towers that studded the curtain wall seemed to be a focus of frenetic activity. Ancient arms were being dragged out of storage to substitute for those that had been lost or damaged the night before; fletch ers and blacksmiths laboured feverishly in the failing light to meet the Sheriffs demands for repairs and replacements.
The bodies Bartholomew had been asked to examine were in one of the outbuildings in the bailey. The building was little more than a shack; inside it was dank, airless and stiflingly hot. Bartholomew felt the sweat begin to prickle on his back after only a few seconds. There were no windows, and the Castle clerk who had been assigned to record Bartholomew's evidence brought a lamp so they would be able to see what they were doing.
'Five bodies were recovered from the burned houses on the High Street,' said the clerk as he sharpened an ancient quill. 'But they were all reclaimed by the Austin Canons from St John's Hospital on the grounds that they were already dead. The Canons use a house on the main street as a mortuary.' He paused in his sharpening, favouring Bartholomew with a look that indicated fervent disapproval.
