plants would have been damaged or displaced. Bartholomew saw nothing that indicated anyone had made an escape from Augustus's window.
He stood up slowly, wincing at his stiffening knee.
Wilson gave him a cold glance as he left, guessing what he was doing and disapproving of it. Bartholomew knew that Wilson would regard his action as a direct challenge to his authority, but was disturbed by Wilson's eagerness to accept the first excuse that came along and to dismiss any facts that confounded it.
Aelfrith waited, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his monastic robes. 'Our new Master seems to dislike you, my son,' he said.
Bartholomew shrugged, and began to limp towards his room. Aelfrith caught up with him, and offered his arm for support. The tall friar was surprisingly strong, and Bartholomew was grateful for his help.
They arrived at the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines. It had been used originally to store wood, but Sir John had ordered it cleaned for Bartholomew's use because he thought it was not healthy for him to sleep with the smell of his medicines.
The blacksmith still slept on the pallet bed, snoring noisily. Bartholomew had forgotten about him. He would have to send Cynric to ask his family to come to collect him. Aelfrith wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of stale wine fumes, and went to Bartholomew's own room next door. Abigny had thrown the shutters open before he had left, and the room was bright and sunny. Neither Bartholomew nor Abigny had many possessions — a few clothes, some writing equipment, and Bartholomew had a book he had been given by his Arab master when he had completed his training; all were stored out of sight in the large chest that stood at one end of the room.
Aelfrith looked around approvingly. The room was clean, with fresh rushes and herbs scattered on the floor, and a servant had already put the bedding out of the window to air. Bartholomew had been taught that dirt and disease went hand in hand — his insistence on cleanliness was another reason he was regarded as an oddity.
He sank down onto a stool. He had not realised what a wrench he had given his knee, and he knew it would slow him down for a few days. He made to stand again, remembering that he should be tending Aelfrith's head. Aelfrith pushed him back down firmly.
'Tell me what you need, Matthew, and I will get it. I am sure you can doctor me as well sitting as standing.'
As Aelfrith fetched water, linen, and some salves, Bartholomew thought about Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.
He had been fond of Paul, and only now did the shock of his cruel death register. He took a shuddering breath, and blinked away tears.
Aelfrith drew a stool up next to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Bartholomew smiled weakly, and began to tend to the wound in the friar's scalp. It was a nasty gash, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Aelfrith had been rendered unconscious. He could easily have been insensible for several hours. Aelfrith, like Bartholomew, was showing signs of delayed shock, with shaking hands and sudden tiredness.
Bartholomew inspected the ragged edges of the wound, and prodded gently to ensure no splinters were left that might fester. Satisfied that it was clean, he bathed it carefully, and tied a neat bandage around the tonsured head. Aelfrith rose to leave. He leaned out of the window, looked both ways, and closed the shutters and the door.
'I am too befuddled to think now,' he said in a low voice, 'but I am appalled at the wickedness that has been perpetrated in this house of learning. Our Master is mistaken in his explanation, and I, like you, know that Augustus was dead last night. I believe there is sinister work afoot, and I suspect that you think the same. Now, I will say no more, but you and I will meet later today to talk when we are both more ourselves. Trust no one, Matthew. Keep your counsel to yourself.'
His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew's blood ran cold and he suddenly felt inutterably tired. He was a physician, dedicated to healing, and here he was being sucked into some vile intrigue where the taking of life appeared to be of little consequence. Aelfrith seemed to detect Bartholomew's feelings, for he gave one of his rare smiles, his eyes kindly.
'Rest now, Matthew. We will deal with this together, you and I.'
He was gone before Bartholomew could respond.
Bartholomew put cold wraps around his knee and hobbled over to his bed to lie down. It was gloomy in the room with the shutters closed, but he could not be bothered to get up to open them again. He thought of the drugged commoners. He should really go to see to them. And he should check the blacksmith's leg. And Agatha would be wondering what to do with the woman he left with her last night. And he had promised his sister he would visit today. With his thoughts tumbling around inside his head, Bartholomew fell into a restless doze.
Bartholomew awoke, the sun full on his face, to the sound of the bell ringing to announce that the meal was about to be served in the hall. Like most of the Colleges and hostels, the main meal at Michaelhouse was between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, with a second, smaller meal around four, and bread and ale for those that wanted it later in the evening.
He was disoriented for a moment, since he seldom slept during the day. Then the events of the morning came flooding back to him, and some of the brightness went out of the sunshine. Abigny had returned and opened the shutters, and was sitting at the table writing.
He turned when he heard Bartholomew moving, his face lined with concern.
'At last!' he said, 'I have never known you to sleep a day away before. Are you ill?'
Bartholomew shook his head. His knee felt better already from the rest. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratching of Abigny's quill as he finished what he was writing, and Brother Michael's footsteps as he moved about in the room above. Brother Michael shared a room with Michaelhouse's two Benedictine students, but Michael's footsteps were distinct from the others' because of his weight. After a few moments, he came thundering down the stairs, bent on being the first to the meal. Bartholomew heard him puffing as he hurried across the courtyard.
Upstairs, the other brothers moved about much more quietly, their sandalled feet making little sound.
Suddenly, something clicked in Bartholomew's memory.
As he had lain at the bottom of the stairs, after being pushed, he had heard footsteps, presumably those of his attacker. He could not tell where they came from, but they had been very distinct. The south wing, where the commoners roomed, was better built than the north wing where Bartholomew lived-he had climbed the stairs that morning without making a sound, which was why he had taken his attacker by surprise. While Bartholomew could usually hear sounds from the upstairs rooms in the north wing, he had noticed that the south wing was very much quieter, and the ground-floor residents were seldom disturbed by the people above them.
So how was it that he had heard footsteps? Had he imagined it? Bartholomew had the feeling that if he could work out why hearing the footsteps bothered him, he would be much nearer to solving the mystery.
For now, the answer eluded him, and he told himself that mysterious footsteps in the night were the least of his concerns compared to the murders of his colleagues.
He hauled himself up, splashed some water on his face, tried to restore some order to his unruly black hair, and made his way out. Abigny watched him.
'Well, you are in a mess,' he observed. 'No gallivanting off today, Physician. And I was going to ask you to come to St Radegund's with me to see my sister!'
Bartholomew glowered at him. Abigny's sister had been committed to the care of the nuns at St Radegund's following the death of her father a year before. It had not taken Abigny long to observe that his pretty, fair-haired sister and his scholarly chamber-mate seemed to find a lot to talk about. Philippa would give her brother no peace when he visited without Bartholomew in tow, though, for the life of him, Abigny could not imagine what his sister, who had spent the greater part of her life in convents, could ever have in common with the world-wise Bartholomew.
'Well, perhaps I should invite her to Michaelhouse,' he said playfully. 'You brought a woman here yesterday.
I must tell Philippa about that; I am sure she would find it most amusing.'
Bartholomew shot him another withering glance.
'I am going,' Abigny said cheerfully, and waved folded piece of parchment at Bartholomew. 'One advantage that a philosopher has over a physician is that he can write decent love poetry. So first, I am away to deliver this
