'I do not know,' said Matilde. 'I am only repeating what I have been told. The riots were contrived to mask the true purpose of two acts. Those were the exact words of my client.'
They talked a little more, before they parted to go separate ways. Bartholomew was mystified. He wished he knew the identity of Matilde's client, so that he could discover what these two acts were that necessitated such bloodshed and mayhem to mask them. The burglary at Deschalers's house had not been masked: several of Stanmore's apprentices had heard the house being ransacked and had seen dark-cloaked figures running away from the scene of the crime. Could one of the acts be the death of the woman called Joanna? But why?
Bartholomew distinctly remembered her clothes. They were of good quality but not luxurious, suggesting that she had been comfortable but not rich. So, why would anyone need to spark off a riot to harm her? If she had committed some offence, it would have been far easier to have dispatched her in a dark alley with a knife.
Matilde was scarcely beyond earshot when Bartholomew was accosted by Eleanor Tyler, her dark hair bundled into a white veil and her grey eyes narrowed against the sun.
'Eleanor!' he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. 'Good evening!'
'Not so good,' she muttered, looking down the street to where Matilde picked her way gracefully through the ever-present rubbish and waste.
'Why? What has happened?' asked Bartholomew, concerned.
'Is your mother ill? One of your sisters? Hedwise?'
Eleanor pulled a sulky face at him and glanced back to where Matilde now stood talking to one of Stanmore's seamstresses. Eleanor's meaning suddenly struck home to Bartholomew. Did she believe he had been making arrangements for an assignation with Matilde? 'Matilde is a friend,' he began, wishing her to know the truth before it went any further. He hesitated. What more could he say without being offensive about Matilde — especially since it would not be long before Eleanor learned that Matilde was to be his other guest at the Founder's Feast? 'I heard you have a liking for her,' said Eleanor coldly.
'It is not like you imagine,' said Bartholomew, not certain that he was telling her the entire truth.
'You mean you do not engage her professional services?' said Eleanor bluntly. 'All very well, but it does your reputation no good to be seen chatting with her so confidently in the High Street. And now, since I am talking to you, my reputation is also being damaged.'
Bartholomew stared at her in disbelief. 'I hardly think-'
'For a man who has spent so much time travelling and seeing the world you have learned very little.' She raised her hand to silence his objections. 'I am not saying you have not learned your medicine. Indeed, you are generally regarded as the best physician in Cambridge, although you should know that many say your methods are dangerous, and disapprove of the fact that you are regularly seen in the streets talking to beggars, lepers and now prostitutes!'
'But many of these are my patients-'
'And,' she continued, overriding him a second time, 'you should know that this woman — Lady Matilde, as you doubtless call her — should not be trusted. She makes up stories about her clients. See her if you must, but I would warn you against it for your own good.'
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Bartholomew bewildered in the middle of the High Street. A shout from a farmer with a huge cart saved him from being trampled by a team of oxen and, regaining his composure, he was suddenly angry. He hardly knew Eleanor Tyler and felt she had no right to talk to him about Matilde in the way she had. A veritable fountain of responses came into his mind, in the way that they usually did when the situation for using them had passed.
Then his anger faded. What did it matter? Eleanor had called him naпve. Perhaps he was — Matilde and Michael had both told him as much recently. It was clear that Eleanor strongly disapproved of Matilde and he should see her outburst for what it was: a simple, and not entirely surprising, dislike of prostitutes. He wondered whether Eleanor imagined she had some kind of claim on him following the invitation to the Founder's Feast.
The thought also crossed his mind that his innocent discussion with Matilde might well give Eleanor cause to decline his offer, and then at least he would only have one woman to explain away to his chaste-minded colleagues.
He looked back to where Matilde was still speaking with the seamstress. Seeing him watching them, they both waved; self-consciously, he waved back. He hoped Eleanor's words were nothing more than jealousy, because he felt Matilde's information might prove helpful to Tulyet and Michael if it were true. But if Matilde were known to be untrustworthy, her clients might feed her false information, so her claim that the riot had been started to hide two acts might be meaningless. Yet she had appeared to consider carefully before breaking the confidence of her client. But then perhaps she preceded all her gossip with this show of reluctance. He dismissed the whole affair from his mind impatiently, realising that mulling over what Matilde and Eleanor had said meant that he was merely raising yet more questions to which he had no answers. He decided to tell Michael what Matilde had revealed, but to advise him to use the information cautiously.
As he walked past St Bene't's Church, the doors opened and the students who had been to sext filed out. Since this was not one of the religious offices the students were obliged to attend, only those that wanted to pray were there. Thus it was a subdued crowd that emerged, in contrast to the high-spirited one he had seen three days before.
He saw a familiar figure and darted after him, stopping him dead in his tracks with a firm grip on his arm.
'You are hurting me!' whined the terrified Werbergh, looking in vain for help from his Godwinsson cronies.
They, however, had more sense than to interfere in the dubious affairs of their untrustworthy colleague, and quickly melted away, leaving the friar and Bartholomew alone. Panic-stricken, Werbergh began to struggle, whimpering feeble objections about his rough treatment.
'Let me go! You cannot lay hands on a priest! I am one of God's chosen! I will tell Master Lydgate that you have been molesting a man of God!'
Bartholomew gave a small, humourless smile. Then of God do not lie. And you were not wholly honest with me, Brother Werbergh.'
Werbergh squirmed in Bartholomew's grip. 'I told you everything that happened. Please!'
'But when I discussed what you had told me with Brother Michael, your story and Edred's did not tally. You said you returned to Godwinsson with Cecily Lydgate after compline the night Kenzie was murdered, but Edred with Cecily listening — claimed to have accompanied you.
One, or both, of you is lying. What have you to say?'
Werbergh stopped struggling, his head and shoulders sagging. 'I told you the truth,' he insisted. 'I did go to compline with Edred and I did walk back with Mistress Lydgate. The Scot — Kenzie — did ask us if we had stolen his ring the night he was killed. But I suppose I did not tell you everything,' he added with a fearful glance at Bartholomew. 'That is to say, I only told you what I know to be true and what I understand.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake!' said Bartholomew, exasperated.
'Stop twisting words and tell me something honest.'
People on the High Street were beginning to notice them, wondering why he was holding the friar's arm so uncomfortably high. Bartholomew's tabard was in his medicine bag, so he looked like a townsperson abusing a student. He relaxed his hold on Werbergh to one that looked more natural, before some scholars took it into their heads to rescue the friar.
'I omitted only one thing,' said Werbergh miserably, looking up at Bartholomew. The physician in him noted
the friar's shaking hands and unhealthy pallor. Werbergh was not a man at peace with the world or himself. 'I think Edred probably did steal the ring. I did not see him do it, but he has done it before. He jostles people, and afterwards, they discover that something is missing.
I do not know how he does it. Anyway, he jostled the Scot, but it misfired and we ended up in that silly argument in the street.'
Bartholomew released Werbergh completely, watching him as he rubbed his arm. 'Anything else?'
'I was coming to see you anyway,' said Werbergh, glancing up and down the street nervously. 'That is why I was in the church — I was praying for guidance. I had just decided to come to talk to you and there you were, like an avenging angel.'
