shrillness of his voice. ‘Damn him to Hell!’
‘Please!’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘A minster precinct is no place for cursing.’
‘Then where is?’ screeched Longton. ‘Gisbyrn has attempted to murder my brother, and if that is not cause for cursing, then I do not know what is! How dare he!’
‘He did it to weaken us,’ added one of his cronies, a portly man in a blue gipon with wine-stains down the front. He scowled at Helen. ‘Or because
she
was vexed when William refused to marry her, so she urged Gisbyrn to make an end of him. They are friends, after all.’
‘He is right,’ yelled the Mayor, also glaring. ‘This is Lady Helen’s fault!’
‘No!’ Helen’s lovely face was pale. ‘First, it was I who decided to end our courtship – William still mourns the wife he lost last winter, and needs more time to grieve. And second, John Gisbyrn may be my friend, but he is hardly at my beck and call. He—’
‘He has looked after your interests ever since you were widowed four years ago,’ snapped Longton. ‘Of course he is at your beck and call.’
‘He was my husband’s business partner, and they were close,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘So yes, he helps me. However,he would never harm William – on my orders or anyone else’s.’
‘Lies!’ bawled Longton. ‘But I shall see my brother avenged. Just you wait.’
His cronies roared their agreement, and Bartholomew watched in distaste: Longton was more interested in hurling accusations than in his brother’s well-being. More people arrived, led by a man with red hair so thick and curly that it was like fur. He was clad in plain but expensive clothes, and his eyes immediately lit on Helen, where they filled with undisguised admiration.
‘Now we shall have trouble,’ murmured Fournays. ‘
His
name is Frost, and he was delighted when Helen broke her betrothal to Sir William, because he thinks himself in with a chance. He has been besotted with her for years, and will not like Longton railing at her. Moreover, he is Gisbyrn’s favourite henchman.’
Sure enough, Longton and Frost began to snipe at each other, and the crowd shifted in such a way as to form two distinct factions, supplying hisses or cheers as their chosen protagon ists scored a point over the other.
As Fournays ordered two youths, obviously apprentices, to fetch a stretcher, it occurred to Bartholomew that there was probably a very good reason why the man had known exactly how to assist him: Fournays was a surgeon himself. Bartholomew sighed inwardly, knowing the fellow’s good humour would evaporate when he learned he had been usurped by someone who had no business dabbling in his trade.
He was about to confess when Helen knelt next to him, and took his hand in hers. Her touch made his skin tingle in a way it had rarely done since Matilde had left, and he regarded her in astonishment. At the same time, a strangled noise from Frost said he had witnessed both the gesture and the physician’s reaction to it. Bartholomew was relievedwhen the two nuns came to hover behind Helen, inadvertently blocking the henchman’s view.
‘Thank you for helping William,’ said Helen softly. ‘Although I thought Master Langelee said you were a physician, not a surgeon. I must have misheard.’
‘No,’ said Langelee, and Bartholomew braced himself for the inevitable recriminations. ‘You did not. He is my Doctor of Medicine, but loves to shock everyone by chopping and slicing.’
‘A
physician
?’ breathed Fournays in astonishment. ‘But you are too competent to belong to that band of leeches!’
Uncomfortably, Bartholomew wondered whether he should defend his fellow
medici
in the name of comradely solidarity, but was acutely aware that not all physicians were competent practitioners, and he did not know York’s. Fortunately, Helen spoke again, sparing him the need to decide. She made a moue of distaste at the quarrel that still raged nearby.
‘Listen to them,’ she
‘Please!’ admonished Michael sharply. ‘A minster precinct is no place for cursing.’
‘Then where is?’ screeched Longton. ‘Gisbyrn has attempted to murder my brother, and if that is not cause for cursing, then I do not know what is! How dare he!’
‘He did it to weaken us,’ added one of his cronies, a portly man in a blue gipon with wine-stains down the front. He scowled at Helen. ‘Or because
she
was vexed when William refused to marry her, so she urged Gisbyrn to make an end of him. They are friends, after all.’
‘He is right,’ yelled the Mayor, also glaring. ‘This is Lady Helen’s fault!’
‘No!’ Helen’s lovely face was pale. ‘First, it was I who decided to end our courtship – William still mourns the wife he lost last winter, and needs more time to grieve. And second, John Gisbyrn may be my friend, but he is hardly at my beck and call. He—’
‘He has looked after your interests ever since you were widowed four years ago,’ snapped Longton. ‘Of course he is at your beck and call.’
‘He was my husband’s business partner, and they were close,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘So yes, he helps me. However,he would never harm William – on my orders or anyone else’s.’
‘Lies!’ bawled Longton. ‘But I shall see my brother avenged. Just you wait.’
His cronies roared their agreement, and Bartholomew watched in distaste: Longton was more interested in hurling accusations than in his brother’s well-being. More people arrived, led by a man with red hair so thick and curly that it was like fur. He was clad in plain but expensive clothes, and his eyes immediately lit on Helen, where they filled with undisguised admiration.
‘Now we shall have trouble,’ murmured Fournays. ‘
His
name is Frost, and he was delighted when Helen broke her betrothal to Sir William, because he thinks himself in with a chance. He has been besotted with her for years, and will not like Longton railing at her. Moreover, he is Gisbyrn’s favourite henchman.’
Sure enough, Longton and Frost began to snipe at each other, and the crowd shifted in such a way as to form two distinct factions, supplying hisses or cheers as their chosen protagon ists scored a point over the other.
As Fournays ordered two youths, obviously apprentices, to fetch a stretcher, it occurred to Bartholomew that there was probably a very good reason why the man had known exactly how to assist him: Fournays was a surgeon himself. Bartholomew sighed inwardly, knowing the fellow’s good humour would evaporate when he learned he had been usurped by someone who had no business dabbling in his trade.
He was about to confess when Helen knelt next to him, and took his hand in hers. Her touch made his skin tingle in a way it had rarely done since Matilde had left, and he regarded her in astonishment. At the same time, a strangled noise from Frost said he had witnessed both the gesture and the physician’s reaction to it. Bartholomew was relievedwhen the two nuns came to hover behind Helen, inadvertently blocking the henchman’s view.
‘Thank you for helping William,’ said Helen softly. ‘Although I thought Master Langelee said you were a physician, not a surgeon. I must have misheard.’
‘No,’ said Langelee, and Bartholomew braced himself for the inevitable recriminations. ‘You did not. He is my Doctor of Medicine, but loves to shock everyone by chopping and slicing.’
‘A
physician
?’ breathed Fournays in astonishment. ‘But you are too competent to belong to that band of leeches!’
Uncomfortably, Bartholomew wondered whether he should defend his fellow
medici
in the name of comradely solidarity, but was acutely aware that not all physicians were competent practitioners, and he did not know York’s. Fortunately, Helen spoke again, sparing him the need to decide. She made a moue of distaste at the quarrel that still raged nearby.
‘Listen to them,’ she
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