rubbed his eyes tiredly.
'You should rest,' said Michael, watching him. 'And I must go to see Tulyet.'
Checking that the Galen was in his bag, Bartholomew followed Michael out of his room. He felt claustrophobic in the College, and wanted to be somewhere alone and quiet, like the meadows behind St Peter-without Trumpington Gate. Ignoring Michael's silent glances of disapproval that his advice about resting was being so wilfully dismissed, Bartholomew walked purposefully across the courtyard, and up St Michael's Lane. Less decisively, he wandered along the High Street and began to notice things he had not seen before: there was a carved pig on one of the timbers of Physwick Hostel; one of the trees in St Michael's churchyard was taller than the tower; Guy Heppel had a faint birthmark on one side of his neck.
'I am delighted to see you up and about,1 breathed the Junior Proctor, sidling up to him. He rubbed his hands up and down his gown in his curious way. 'I was most concerned to hear your stars are so unfavourable.'
'Thank you,' said Bartholomew shortly. 'But I can assure you that they are becoming more favourable by the hour.'
Heppel looked surprised at his vehemence. 'I am glad to hear it. I was hoping to have my astrological consultation from you soon. My chest is a little better with that angelica you gave me, but now I have a stiffness in my knees. I almost went to Father Philius at Gonville Hall when you were ill — I am told he does an adequate job — but now you are well again, I am glad I waited.
Brother Michael informs me you are by far the best man in Cambridge for stars.'
Bartholomew's eyes narrowed and he walked away, leaving Heppel somewhat bewildered. He had not gone far when he saw Matilde. She approached him shyly and smiled with genuine pleasure.
'Agatha told me you were better,' she said. 'I was worried.'
'My stars are badly aligned, apparently,' he said, turning to glower at the retreating figure of Guy Heppel, who was still rubbing his hands up and down the sides of his gown.
'They have certainly put you in an ill-humour,' she said wryly. 'Or was that the doing of the Junior Proctor?'
'It was the doing of Brother Michael, telling people I am good at astrological consultations. If he spreads that tale around, I shall never be able to do any work.'
Matilde smiled. 'Then you should tell Heppel that his stars will augur well if he devotes himself to music, and persuade him to join Michael's choir. Heppel sings like a scalded cat and it will serve Michael right.'
Bartholomew regarded her doubtfully. 'Are you sure a scalded cat would not serve to improve Michael's choir? I cannot imagine it could be any worse than it is. It used to be quite good but he has not spent the time needed on it because of his extra duties as Senior Proctor. '
'Time has nothing to do with it, Matthew. It is not lack of practice that has made the choir what it is, but Michael's policy of providing bread and ale after each rehearsal. For many folk, it provides the only decent meal they have in a week.'
'I wondered why so many people were so keen to join,' said Bartholomew. 'I knew it had nothing to do with their appreciation for music.'
'Even so, I am looking forward to hearing it on Tuesday.'
She looked at him anxiously. 'Unless you have changed your mind, or you feel too unwell, that is.'
'No, of course not,' he said quickly, although his predicament with his two guests had completely slipped his mind. He forced himself to smile. 'Just remember to bring something to stuff in your ears.'
After he had left Matilde, he met Oswald Stanmore, who asked whether his stars had improved. Bartholomew regarded him coolly and silently cursed Gray's enthusiasm for the subject. Puzzled by the uncharacteristic unfriendliness, Stanmore changed the subject and told him about a fight in Milne Street the night before between the miller's apprentices and students from Valence Marie.
Bartholomew barely listened, preoccupied with how he might neutralise Gray's diagnosis. Stanmore put up his hands in a gesture of exasperation when he saw his brother-in-law was not paying him any attention, and let him go. The merchant then strode to the small building where his seamstress worked. She was there talking to Cynric, who had been courting her slowly and shyly for more than a year. Stanmore beckoned him over, and within moments Cynric was slipping along Milne Street behind Bartholomew.
The sun was hot but not nearly as strong as it had been.
White, fluffy clouds drifted across the sky affording temporary relief and there was a breeze that was still relatively free of odours from the river. Bartholomew continued to walk, acknowledging the greetings of people he knew but not stopping to talk to them. He passed St Bene't's Church, where he and Michael had been attacked, and reached St Botolph's. Glancing across the churchyard to where Joanna and the other riot victims were buried, he saw a figure emerge from where it had been standing behind some bushes. Curious, and with nothing else to do, Bartholomew climbed over the low wall and walked towards the back of the church. He peered out round the buttresses and saw that as he had thought, the person cloaked and hooded, even in the hot sun — was standing by Joanna's grave.
Bartholomew abandoned stealth and approached the mourner openly. The figure turned to see who was coming and then looked away, ft was a man of Bartholomew's height, taller even. Bartholomew drew level and was about to address him, when the man spun round and shoved Bartholomew so hard that he fell back against the wall of the church. Then he raced off along the path back towards the High Street. Bartholomew's feet skidded on wet grass as he fought to regain his balance.
But as the man ran his hood fell away from his face and Bartholomew, for the briefest of moments, was able to recognise him.
Bartholomew tore after him but on reaching the High Street saw that the man had disappeared into the mass of people walking home from the market. As he looked up and down the road in silent frustration, he saw that Cynric had materialised next to him.
'Did you see him?' Bartholomew gasped. 'It was Thomas Lydgate, standing at Joanna's graveside.'
Cynric looked at him perplexed. 'You are still addled, lad,' he said gently. 'There was no one here other than you.'
CHAPTER 7
Bartholomew was growing exasperated, while Michael and Cynric listened to him with a sympathetic patience that only served to make him feel worse. He rubbed his head and flopped down into the large chair next to the kitchen hearth from which Agatha oversaw the domestic side of the College.
'So, you say you saw Lydgate at Joanna's grave,' said Michael. 'And that Lydgate is her father.'
'Not quite,' said Bartholomew tiredly. 'I think Joanna must be Dominica and it is she who lies in the grave.'
'But Joanna is a prostitute,' said Michael. 'How can she be Dominica?'
Was Michael trying to force him to give up his theory by being deliberately obtuse? Bartholomew wondered.
Michael was not usually so slow to grasp the essence of his ideas. He rubbed the back of his head again, tiying to ease the nagging ache there, and tried again.
'Joanna is not a prostitute known to Matilde,' he said.
'Ergo, I believe Joanna was not a prostitute at all. I think someone deliberately misled Tulyet with a false name, and that [oanna's real identity is Dominica, whom no one has seen since she was sent to these mysterious relatives in Chesterton.'
'But she was sent to them before the riots, to keep her away from her lover — be/are you think she was killed,' said Michael. 'She is probably still there with them. In Chesterton.'
'Then check. I will wager you anything you like she will not be there,' said Bartholomew. 'Her death the night of the riot explains the curious actions of her parents. Cecily went to Maud's, and stayed briefly talking to Master Bigod.
Perhaps she was asking him if he had seen Dominica. Why else would a respectable lady, who seldom leaves her house anyway, be out on the night of massive civil unrest?
