The Killer of Pilgrims (4 page)

‘It will hurt,’ Bartholomew acknowledged. ‘But not for very long, and then you will recover. However, if you delay, the poisons
may seep into your blood. They could make you extremely ill.’

Emma shook her head firmly. ‘I do not approve of this “cure” of yours. Devise another.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘There
is
no other cure, but if you do not believe me, then hire another
medicus
. Gyseburne and Meryfeld arrived in the town a few weeks ago, and they are skilled practitioners. Or there is Rougham of
Gonville Hall.’

Emma grimaced. ‘Rougham is a pompous ass, while Gyseburne and Meryfeld are not members of the University. Besides, you come
free, in return for my generosity in mending Michaelhouse’s roof, and I do not see why I should squander money needlessly.
So, you had better consult a few books and invent a different treatment, because I am not letting you near me with pliers.’

Bartholomew tried to make her see reason. ‘But it is the only—’

‘Why can you not calculate my horoscope, and use it to provide me with potent herbs? I know you own such potions, because
Celia Drax told me you gave her some when she was your patient.’

‘Potent herbs will afford you temporary relief, but they will not solve the problem long-term.’

‘I will take my chances,’ said Emma brusquely. ‘Besides, only barbers pull teeth, and you are a physician. It would be most
improper for you to do it.’

It was something Bartholomew’s colleagues were always telling him – that not only was it forbidden for scholar-physicians
to practise surgery, it was demeaning, too. But Bartholomew believed patients should have access to any treatment that might
help them, and as the town’s only surgeon now confined himself to trimming hair, he had no choice but to perform the procedures
himself.

‘It is the only—’ he began again.

Emma cut across him. ‘Give me some of your sense-dulling potions, so I can rest for a few hours. The agony kept me awake all
last night, and I am exhausted. We shall discuss the matter again later, when my wits are not befuddled by exhaustion.’

Bartholomew was tempted to refuse, in the hope that pain would bring her to her senses, but there was something in her beady-eyed
glare that warned him against it. He was not usually intimidated by patients, especially ones who were less than half his
size, but Emma was not like his other clients. With a resentful sigh, he did as he was told.

It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew had finished with Emma, and he left her house with considerable relief. Cynric,
his book-bearer, was waiting outside with a list of
other people who needed to see him. The most urgent was Isnard the bargeman, who had cut his hand. The gash needed to be
sutured, and Bartholomew wondered how his fellow physicians treated wounds, when they would not insert stitches themselves
and there was no surgeon to do it for them.

As he sewed, half listening to Isnard’s inconsequential chatter, he thought how fortunate he was that Master Langelee had
never tried to meddle with the way he practised medicine. But would it last? He had recently learned that most of his patients
were cheerfully convinced that he was a warlock, and that they believed he owed his medical successes to a pact made with
the Devil. They did not care, as long as he made them better, but his colleagues objected to having a perceived sorcerer in
their midst, and constantly pressed Langelee to do something about him.

He left Isnard, still pondering the matter. He heard a yell, and glanced across the river to the water meadows beyond, where
a group of townsmen were playing camp-ball. Camp-ball was a rough sport, and the rivalry between teams was intense. The men
stopped playing when they saw him looking, and stared back in a way that was distinctly unfriendly. He could only suppose
they were practising some new manoeuvre and did not want him to report it to the opposition.

Ignoring their scowls, he entered the row of hovels opposite, to tend two old women, neither of whom he could help. Their
bodies were weakened by cold and hunger, and they did not have the strength to fight the lung-rot that was consuming them.
When he had finished, sorry his skills were unequal to saving their lives, he headed towards the Carmelite convent on Milne
Street, where a case of chilblains awaited his attention. He had not gone far before he met someone he knew.

Griffin Welfry was a jovially friendly Dominican in his thirties, with a shock of tawny hair and a tonsure barely visible
beneath it. He wore a leather glove on his left hand, and had once confided to Bartholomew that it was to conceal the disfiguring
result of a childhood palsy. He was flexing the afflicted fingers as he walked along the towpath.

‘No, it is not the cold affecting it,’ he said in answer to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘It is agitation. The Prior-General
of my Order has arranged for me to be appointed Seneschal – the University official who liaises with the exchequer in London.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew warmly. He liked Welfry, and was pleased his considerable abilities were being recognised.
‘You will make a fine Seneschal.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Welfry doubtfully. ‘My Prior-General told me only a few months ago that I was good for nothing except
making people laugh. He intended it as an insult, but I was flattered. As far as I am concerned, humour is one of God’s greatest
gifts.’

Bartholomew did not need to be reminded of Welfry’s love of mirth. All the Cambridge Dominicans liked practical jokes, but
Welfry excelled at them, and since he had arrived a few months before, his brethren had rarely stopped smirking. Indeed, Bartholomew
was fairly certain it had been Welfry who had hoisted the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof.

‘I suppose I had better accept,’ Welfry went on unenthusiastically. ‘The Prior-General sent me to Cambridge to pen a great
theological tract that will glorify our Order, but I do not seem able to start one. Perhaps these solemn duties will concentrate
my mind.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Prior-General was hankering after a lost cause. Welfry was incorrigibly mischievous,
and the physician doubted he would ever use
his formidable intellect to its full potential. Indeed, he suspected it was only a matter of time before Welfry played some
prank on the exchequer, simply because he was bored. The King’s clerks were unlikely to appreciate it, and the University
would suffer as a consequence.

‘I have been told I must be solemn at all times,’ said Welfry glumly. Then a grin stole across his face. ‘But maybe I should
regard it as a challenge – I am
sure
I can make the exchequer laugh. Incidentally, how is the King’s Hall student who was gored by the bull? That was a nasty
trick.’

‘It was,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But he is recovering. I have been told it was the work of Chestre Hostel. What do you think?’

Welfry grimaced. ‘There is insufficient evidence to say, although they did happen to be walking past when the crate was opened,
which was suspicious. However, I cannot believe they intended harm. Jokes are never funny if someone is hurt when they are
implemented.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, wishing everyone shared Welfry’s benign attitude.

The Carmelites, popularly known as the White Friars, had done well for themselves since their priory had been established
in Cambridge the previous century. It had been founded by St Simon Stock, an early Prior-General, and from humble beginnings
it had expanded until they owned a spacious site and a number of elegant buildings.

Bartholomew was admitted to their compound by a lay-brother, and escorted to the pretty cottage in which Prior Etone lived.
Etone was a grim-faced man, said to spend more time with his account books than at his prayers, although Bartholomew had always
found him pleasant enough. He was suffering from chilblains, a common complaint in winter, when footwear never dried and feet
were rarely warm. While Bartholomew applied a poultice to the sore heels, Etone regaled him with a detailed description of
the new shrine he intended to build.

‘The number of pilgrims warrants the expenditure,’ he explained. ‘Four more arrived just this morning and they look wealthy.
I am sure they will leave us a nice benefaction when they go.’

Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Why do pilgrims come? What shrine do they visit?’

Etone regarded him askance. ‘How can you ask such questions? I thought you were local!’

‘I am, but—’

‘It is because of what happened to St Simon Stock when he was here,’ interrupted Etone indignantly. ‘He had a vision: our
Lady of Mount Carmel appeared to him, and presented him with the scapular all Carmelites now wear.’

A scapular was two pieces of cloth joined together and worn over the shoulders. It formed a distinctive part of the White
Friars’ uniform.

‘I have heard the tale,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But I thought it was a myth – that no one could prove Simon Stock
even had a dream, let alone when he was in Cambridge.’

‘It is most assuredly true!’ cried Etone. ‘And the increasing pilgrim trade proves it. Our Lady handed St Simon Stock his
scapular here, in our very own priory, and I intend to exploit … I mean
develop
the place for the benefit of all mankind.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But just because pilgrims come does not mean it is a genuine—’

‘It
is
genuine!’ insisted Etone. He stood carefully, and slipped his feet into soft shoes with the backs cut away. ‘Come with me,
and I shall show you where it happened. You will feel its sanctity. And if you do not, it means you
are Satan’s spawn and God has not deigned to touch you.’

Bartholomew was not very susceptible to atmospheres, being a practical man of science, and did not want to be denounced as
the Devil’s offspring by an influential friar.

‘Another time, Father,’ he mumbled hastily. ‘I still have several patients who need—’

‘Even diligent physicians should never be too busy for God,’ declared Etone piously. ‘Come.’

Supposing he would have to prevaricate if not immediately overwhelmed by the shrine’s holiness, Bartholomew followed him across
the yard to a wooden hut. It was well made, and had been nicely painted, but it was still a hut.

‘Is this it?’ he asked uneasily, not sure he could feign suitably convincing reverence over something that looked as though
it belonged at the bottom of a garden.

Without speaking, Etone pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny altar with a brass cross, two candlesticks and an ornate,
jewel-studded chest, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Then he stood aside, so the physician could inspect
its contents. Bartholomew did so, and saw a piece of cloth. It was old, dirty and of indeterminate colour. He studied it for
a moment, then looked blankly at Etone, wondering what he was supposed to say.

‘It is a piece of the scapular Our Lady presented to St Simon Stock,’ averred Etone reverently, crossing himself. ‘So, you
see, this is not just a sacred place because of the vision that occurred here, but because we have this important relic.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, itching to ask how he had come by it: according to the legend, Simon Stock, as per the
instructions given in his dream, was said to have worn the garment for the rest of his life and then
had been buried in it. Etone did not look like a tomb robber.

‘It is a disgrace!’ came a sudden, furious shout from outside. ‘We are pilgrims, and you think people would respect that.’

‘It is a bad winter and the poor are desperate.’ Michael’s voice was soothing and calm. ‘I doubt he knew what he was taking.
He just saw the glint of metal, and assumed it was a brooch.’

‘It was a badge from the Holy Land,’ came the agitated voice. ‘
Not
a brooch.’

Bartholomew followed Etone outside, relieved to be spared the awkwardness of pretending that he had been touched by what he
had been shown, when the reality was that he had felt nothing at all. Perhaps God did consider him a disciple of Satan, he
thought uneasily, and his constant flying in the face of all that was orthodox had finally been too much. It was not a comfortable
notion.

Michael was standing in the yard with the four pilgrims they had seen earlier – two men and two nuns. All looked angry.

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Etone, hobbling towards them. ‘What has happened?’

‘Brazen robbery,’ declared one of the pilgrims, turning to face him. He was a thickset man with an unhealthy complexion that
said he was probably ill. His hat and cloak bore more pilgrim insignia than Bartholomew had ever seen on a single person,
and he imagined the fellow must have spent half his life visiting shrines, because besides the distinctive ampoules of Canterbury
and St Peter’s keys from Rome, at least two suggested he had been to Jerusalem, as well.

‘Robbery?’ repeated Etone uneasily. ‘Not in my priory, Master Poynton.’

‘Yes, here!’ declared Poynton heatedly. ‘One of my badges has been stolen. It was pinned to my saddlebag, and now it has gone.’

‘I saw it happen,’ added one of the nuns. ‘I saw the
signaculum
snatched with my own eyes.’

‘So did I,’ added the second nun. ‘The villain aimed straight for it, and ripped it away. He did not even look at our purses.’

‘
Signacula
are extremely valuable,’ snapped Poynton. ‘Especially that one. It was gold – a cross from the Holy Land, no less.’

‘What was it doing on your saddlebag, then?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. But it was a fair question:
an item of such worth should have been treated with more care.

‘Because there is no more room on my clothes,’ snarled Poynton, rounding on him. ‘And these items are meant to be seen, so
everyone will know of the great journeys I have undertaken for the sake of my body and my soul. Who are you, anyway?’

While Bartholomew thought Poynton’s body and soul must be in a very poor state indeed, if they required quite so many acts
of penance, Etone introduced him. Then he indicated the pilgrims.