long day, and
he was tired. Henry Oliver’s attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more
than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to
see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John’s
chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had
most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.
Bartholomew straightened Augustus’s limbs, pulled
the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered
him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked
at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window-shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.
He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.
It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.
As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw
a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.
The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since
he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students’ tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and
Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room
Bartholomew could not tell.
‘You have been a damned long time!’ Wilson
snapped at Bartholomew as he approached. ‘What of
old Augustus? How is he?’
‘Dead,’ Bartholomew said bluntly, watching for any
reaction on the smug face. There was nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.
‘Well, it is for the best. The man had lived his threescore years and ten. What kept you?’
Bartholomew suddenly found himself being examined
closely by Wilson’s heavily-lidded eyes. He stared back, hoping that the dislike he felt for the man did not
show in his face. “I had to make my examinations,’ he
responded.
The lazy hooded eyes were deceptive, and Wilson
pounced like a cat. ‘What examinations?’ he said sharply.
‘What are you saying? Michael returned ages ago. What
were you doing?’
‘Nothing that need concern you, Master Wilson,’
replied Bartholomew coldly. He resented being questioned so. For all Wilson knew, he might have been
visiting a patient, and that was none of his business.
‘Everything in the College concerns me, Doctor
Bartholomew. You may have had a loose rein under
Babington, but you are under my authority now. I ask
again: what examinations?’
Bartholomew felt like emptying a nearby pitcher of
wine over Wilson’s head and walking out, but he had
no wish to lose his fellowship over the likes of Wilson.
He swallowed down several retorts of which the facetious Brother Michael would have been proud, and answered
calmly, ‘Augustus had not died in his sleep as I thought he might. His eyes were open and he looked terrified.
It is my duty to make sure that the causes of death were natural.’
‘“Causes of death were natural”,’ Wilson mimicked
with a sneer. ‘And? What did you find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Of course you found nothing,’ spat Wilson. ‘Augustus
probably frightened himself to death with one of his
flights of imagination. What did you expect?’ He
turned to Swynford and gave one of his superior
smiles, as if mocking the skills of medicine over his
own common sense.
‘There could be all manner of causes, Master Wilson,’
said Bartholomew, masking his anger with cold politeness. ‘What if he had died of the plague that is said to be sweeping towards us from the west? I am sure you
would want to be the first to know such things.’
Bartholomew had the satisfaction of seeing Wilson
blanch when he mentioned the plague. Good, he
thought, with uncharacteristic malice,
he was tired. Henry Oliver’s attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more
than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to
see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John’s
chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had
most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.
Bartholomew straightened Augustus’s limbs, pulled
the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered
him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked
at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window-shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.
He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.
It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.
As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw
a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.
The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since
he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students’ tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and
Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room
Bartholomew could not tell.
‘You have been a damned long time!’ Wilson
snapped at Bartholomew as he approached. ‘What of
old Augustus? How is he?’
‘Dead,’ Bartholomew said bluntly, watching for any
reaction on the smug face. There was nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.
‘Well, it is for the best. The man had lived his threescore years and ten. What kept you?’
Bartholomew suddenly found himself being examined
closely by Wilson’s heavily-lidded eyes. He stared back, hoping that the dislike he felt for the man did not
show in his face. “I had to make my examinations,’ he
responded.
The lazy hooded eyes were deceptive, and Wilson
pounced like a cat. ‘What examinations?’ he said sharply.
‘What are you saying? Michael returned ages ago. What
were you doing?’
‘Nothing that need concern you, Master Wilson,’
replied Bartholomew coldly. He resented being questioned so. For all Wilson knew, he might have been
visiting a patient, and that was none of his business.
‘Everything in the College concerns me, Doctor
Bartholomew. You may have had a loose rein under
Babington, but you are under my authority now. I ask
again: what examinations?’
Bartholomew felt like emptying a nearby pitcher of
wine over Wilson’s head and walking out, but he had
no wish to lose his fellowship over the likes of Wilson.
He swallowed down several retorts of which the facetious Brother Michael would have been proud, and answered
calmly, ‘Augustus had not died in his sleep as I thought he might. His eyes were open and he looked terrified.
It is my duty to make sure that the causes of death were natural.’
‘“Causes of death were natural”,’ Wilson mimicked
with a sneer. ‘And? What did you find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Of course you found nothing,’ spat Wilson. ‘Augustus
probably frightened himself to death with one of his
flights of imagination. What did you expect?’ He
turned to Swynford and gave one of his superior
smiles, as if mocking the skills of medicine over his
own common sense.
‘There could be all manner of causes, Master Wilson,’
said Bartholomew, masking his anger with cold politeness. ‘What if he had died of the plague that is said to be sweeping towards us from the west? I am sure you
would want to be the first to know such things.’
Bartholomew had the satisfaction of seeing Wilson
blanch when he mentioned the plague. Good, he
thought, with uncharacteristic malice,
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