The Tarnished Chalice

Then Michael and Suttone had been offered posts as canons in Lincoln, and the mention of that city had jolted a memory in one of Matilde’s friends – they had discussed Lincoln once, she said, and Matilde had almost married a man who lived there. Matilde had never talked about Lincoln to Bartholomew, although he knew about the aborted betrothal, and while he doubted he would find her there, he felt compelled to turn the very last stone. And it was the very last stone, because he had followed every other lead, even the most unlikely ones. He had waited patiently for term to finish – Michael could not be expected to inveigle a second sabbatical so soon after the first – and then had offered to accompany his two colleagues when they travelled to Lincoln for their installation.

But what should he tell the Gilbertines? No one at Michaelhouse knew why he had gone the first time, except Michael and Cynric; as far as Suttone and the other Fellows were concerned, he had been seized with a sudden desire to inspect the medical faculties in Padua, Montpellier, Paris and Salerno. Bartholomew was not a monk or a priest in holy orders, unlike most University officers, and so women were not forbidden to him, but chasing them across half the civilised world was not the kind of behaviour expected from scholars nonetheless, and he preferred to keep his business to himself.

‘He came to protect us helpless monastics on the long and dangerous road from Cambridge,’ explained Michael, when the physician took rather too long to reply to what was a simple question. The monk did not want the Gilbertines to assume there was another reason for the physician’s presence, and start to pry. And, since he seriously doubted Matilde would be found in Lincoln, there was no need for anyone to know the real purpose for his friend’s journey.

Personally, Michael believed Matilde did not want to be found, and thought Bartholomew should abandon his quest and take the cowl instead. Scholars were not permitted to marry, and if the physician caught his prize, he would be forced to give up his Fellowship. He was a valuable asset to Michaelhouse, which was why the monk had gone to the trouble of arranging the sabbatical in the first place – something he would not have done for any other colleague.

‘He defended you against robbers?’ asked Hamo doubtfully. Bartholomew’s hat and cloak revealed him as a physician, and he wore a leather jerkin of the type favoured by seasoned travellers and soldiers. However, his sword was caked in mud and beginning to rust in a way that would shame a real warrior, and the medicine bag he wore looped over his shoulder would impede his drawing of it.

‘We are not overly endowed with good fighting men at the University,’ explained Michael, seeing the Gilbertine did not know whether to believe him. ‘So, we are obliged to accept whoever offers.’

‘Actually, Doctor Bartholomew has recently returned from France,’ said Suttone, indignant on Bartholomew’s behalf at the slur on his fighting abilities. To under line his point, he deliberately gave the last word a sinister timbre that was potent enough to make both Gilbertines shudder.

‘How dreadful,’ said Hamo. ‘We are at war with the French, so it must have been very dangerous.’

‘It was,’ agreed Suttone. ‘He went to study there, and his devotion to acquiring foreign knowledge meant he was at Poitiers in September.’ He pursed his lips meaningfully, glancing at Michael to show that he was wrong to denigrate their colleague’s military skills.

‘Poitiers?’ asked Whatton eagerly. ‘There are tales of a great battle there – the Black Prince won a mighty victory. Did you see it? We would love to hear your account, if you were.’

‘Such slaughter is hardly a subject for fireside chatter,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully.

‘It is, though,’ countered Cynric immediately. ‘Most of the great Welsh ballads are about battles, and you have to admit Poitiers was one of the best. I shall never forget the moment when the Black Prince raised his sword after that third skirmish – when we were certain we were doomed because we were outnumbered and exhausted – and tore into the French like an avenging angel. It was a glorious sight and I do not mind telling you the story, Master Whatton.’

‘But I do,’ said Bartholomew quietly. He failed to understand how his book-bearer had distilled even the most remote flicker of enjoyment from the bloody carnage. Cynric, meanwhile, was bemused by the physician’s revulsion by what he saw as a bright, shining moment in history. They had discussed it at length, and both knew it was a matter on which they would never agree.

Whatton winked at Cynric in a way that suggested arrangements would be made later. ‘How did you come to be in Poitiers – or France, for that matter? Surely, the natives are hostile to Englishmen?’