Bartholomew was surprised by the question. 'It is not a very serious wound, and there seems to be no damage to the main blood-vessels. There should be no problem if it does not become infected.'
'Father Philius came this morning. He said he could do nothing, and that we needed Robin of Grantchester, the barber-surgeon. Robin offered to saw the arm off at the shoulder for five silver pennies payable in advance, but we could not raise one between us and he refused to give credit. We decided to ask you to come when the Sheriff left for the night.' He smiled suddenly, revealing an impressive collection of long, brown teeth. 'Agatha, your College laundress, is a cousin of mine, and she told me you are flexible about payments for your services.'
Bartholomew smiled back, and shook the sergeant's proffered hand before taking his leave. Agatha was right: although Bartholomew kept careful records about the medicines he dispensed, he kept no notes of payments due, and more often than not, he forgot what he was owed. It was a bone of contention between Bartholomew and Gray, who argued that there were those who would take advantage of such carelessness. Master Kenyngham, however, saw that Bartholomew was popular among his patients, and encouraged Bartholomew's casual attitude towards remuneration on the grounds that it made for favourable relations between Michaelhouse and the town.
As he walked back to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew's doubts about his methods began to recede. Few patients who underwent amputations survived, especially amputations performed by the unsavoury Robin, who was so slow that many of his patients died from bleeding or shock before he had finished. He always demanded advance payments, because so few patients survived his ministrations and he had learned that it was difficult to extract payments from grieving relatives. In the young soldier's case, there had been no cause to amputate anyway, when all that was needed were a few careful incisions.
As he walked down Castle Hill, he was accosted by a breathless urchin.
'I was sent for you,' he gasped. There has been an accident. You are needed, Doctor. You must come with me!'
Bartholomew followed the lad, wondering what else would happen before he could go home. The boy trotted along the High Street and cut behind St Mary's Church.
The first inclination Bartholomew had that something was not right was when the lad suddenly darted off to one side. Bartholomew watched in surprise as he disappeared between the bushes. Realising that he had been led into a trap, he turned and began to run back towards the main road.
A line of men emerged, cutting off his escape.
Bartholomew put his head down and pounded towards them. They faltered, and for a moment he thought he would be able to force his way through them. Then he felt something akin to a brewer's cart slam into him and he went sprawling onto the wet grass. Something landed on top of him with such force that all the breath was driven from his body. He struggled frantically and uselessly.
Just as he was beginning to turn dizzy from lack of air, the weight lifted and he was dragged to his feet. As he leaned over, gasping for breath, he saw something large move through the undergrowth away from him, but when he looked a second time, there was nothing except two or three waving branches that indicated something had passed between them.
'Matthew Bartholomew! You go where you are uninvited and you run away from where you are welcome!' said Janetta, thick black hair falling like gauze around her face. She nodded to the two men holding him, and his arms were released. 'I thought you wanted to talk to me.'
Bartholomew, still trying to catch his breath, looked wildly around him. The men were withdrawing silently, although he knew they would reappear rapidly if she called for them. Within seconds, they were alone, although he knew they were being watched closely.
'Well?' she said, still smiling at him. 'What do you want?'
He thought of Matilde's words of warning, and tried to collect his confused thoughts.
'Master Tulyet told us that you were a witness to the murder of Froissart's wife,' he said. 'I wanted to ask you about that.'
'He told you what?' she said, her eyes opening wide with shock.
Bartholomew sat on a tombstone and watched Janetta suspiciously.
'I have never spoken to this Tulyet,' pro tested Janetta.
'I know of him by reputation, of course. But I have never spoken to him.'
'But why would he lie?' asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.
Janetta sat on the tombstone next to him, although she was careful to maintain a good distance between them. 'I have no idea. I do not know how he would even know my name.'
'Did you know Froissart?' 'I know him,' she said. She shuddered suddenly. 'Do you know what people are saying? That Froissart is the one who is killing the whores.'
'Tulyet does not believe that,' said Bartholomew.
That is because Tulyet almost had Froissart in his hands when he claimed sanctuary in the church, and his men allowed him to escape. What does that tell you about Tulyet?' Janetta spat.
'Do you believe Froissart is the killer?'
Janetta let out a deep breath and looked up at the darkening sky. 'I think that is likely.'
'On what grounds?'
Janetta turned to him with her slow smile. 'Questions!
You are like the inquisition!' She leaned down, and picked a stem of grass that she began to chew. 'Froissart is a rough man who drinks heavily and is violent to his wife and sister.
You are lucky he was not one of the ones who caught you in our alley last week.'
'Why did he flee to the church for sanctuary if there was no murder?' asked Bartholomew. In the darkening gloom, the scars on her jaw were almost invisible, and he wondered why she did not make an attempt to hide them with the powders she used on her cheeks.
'I did not say there was no murder. I said I did not witness it, and I did not speak to Tulyet.
Marius Froissart's wife was murdered about two weeks ago.'
'So did Froissart kill her?' asked Bartholomew. This woman was worse than Boniface with her twisting and turning of words.
'I could not say. I did not witness it, as I have just said.'
Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. He forced himself not to show his impatience, knowing it would probably amuse her. He smiled. 'But what do you think?' he insisted as pleasantly as he could.
'I imagine he killed her,' she said, turning to face him.
'Where are the rest of his family?'
They have fled the town because people believe Froissart is the killer. His family will not be safe here until Froissart is caught. People believed they were hiding him, and they left at my suggestion.'
'Where are they?' he asked.
'I do not know, and if I did, it would remain my secret,' she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. They have suffered enough.'
Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Do you know a Father Lucius?'
Janetta looked amazed. 'A priest? Priests do not come to Primrose Alley!'
'What about high priests?' said Bartholomew, watching her carefully.
'High priests? You mean bishops?' she asked.
'I mean priests of satanism,' said Bartholomew, still eyeing her intently.
'Satanism?' She made an exasperated sound and flashed him a quick smile. 'You must think I am without wits: I keep repeating everything you say. Now, satanism.
It is certainly practised in the town. But the poor only mumble the odd blasphemy and steal holy water to feed to their pigs. The rich summon great demons from hell.
If you are wanting high priests, Doctor, do not look to our community, look to the merchants and the lawyers.
And even the wealthier of the scholars.'
She mused for a moment. 'Why are you involved in all this? You are not a Proctor. Can you not see that this business is dangerous? Powerful men are involved who would kill you without a second thought. Leave this business for others to sort out.'
Bartholomew looked at her as she sat, her face shadowed. Another warning to stay away? 'Do you know
