Michael declared his intention to visit Cotyngham immediately. Langelee decided to accompany him – for all his feisty words, he was not sure how to begin exploring what had happened to Zouche’s chantry money, and needed time to ponder.
‘Will you come with me to read Zouche’s will, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford. ‘Dalfeld has it, and I did not take to him yesterday. He seemed sly, and with such men it is always best to have witnesses to any encounters. Abbot Multone was right to stage our first meeting in his company.’
Bartholomew hesitated. Surgeon Fournays had invited him to meet more of York’s medical men that day, and because he had been impressed with what he had seen so far, he was eager to accept. He started to point out that he had been brought to York to rest, but his conscience pricked him before the words were out: Radeford was right to be wary of the slippery lawyer, and the encounter would certainly be safer with two of them.
He nodded reluctant agreement, and Radeford set off at a purposeful trot. However, it was not long before Bartholomew realised that the brisk pace was not because Radeford knew where he was going, but because it was raining again, and he was choosing those streets he thought offered more protection from the elements.
‘We have been here before,’ he said, sure they were heading north when they should have been going south. ‘I recognise that church.’ He stopped to examine it. ‘It is beautiful! Look at the quality of the carvings around the door. Shall we go inside?’
‘It would not be fair to shirk while our colleagues labour,’ said Radeford, smiling indulgently at his enthusiasm. ‘But unfortunately, we are hopelessly lost, so we had better hire someone to take us to the bridge – we do not want to lose the entire day to aimless wandering.’
He removed a coin from his purse, and before Bartholomew could stop him, had approached a rough, unshaven character – the kind of man who looked as though he would escort them down a deserted lane and rob them. The physician grew increasingly alarmed as they were conducted along some of the darkest, narrowest alleys he had ever seen, and he was on the verge of dismissing the fellow when they emerged into an open space that bordered the river. It reeked of fish, powerfully enough to make him recoil.
‘This is the fish-market,’ said their guide, rather unnecessarily. ‘And the Ouse Bridge is at the far end. You can’t get lost from here.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, because the market was huge, and comprised a vast number of close-packed stalls. Radeford began to pick his way through them, although Bartholomew took the lead when the lawyer promptly selected a route that involved two left-hand turns. The placewas chaotically busy, and he kept a firm hold of Radeford’s sleeve, suspecting they might never find each other again if they became separated.
‘I would not like to live here,’ said Radeford, speaking loudly enough to make himself heard over the hubbub of commerce, but also loudly enough to attract offended gazes. ‘When I wed, I shall build a house in the country. Will you ever leave Michaelhouse and marry?’
It was hardly a conversation to hold in a crowded market, and Bartholomew had fallen out of the habit of discussing Matilde anyway, mostly because everyone except Michael seemed convinced that she was dead – killed by the outlaws that plagued the highways – and that was a possibility he refused to contemplate.
‘I have never seen so many different kinds of fish,’ he said in a transparently clumsy attempt to change the subject. ‘Not even in London. York is truly an impressive city.’
‘If you like seafood.’ Radeford shot Bartholomew a side-long glance. ‘Or hospitals.’
‘St Leonard’s is remarkable,’ said Bartholomew, eagerly seizing the opportunity to share what he had learned. ‘I wish we had its equal in Cambridge. It separates the old and infirm from those with
‘Will you come with me to read Zouche’s will, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford. ‘Dalfeld has it, and I did not take to him yesterday. He seemed sly, and with such men it is always best to have witnesses to any encounters. Abbot Multone was right to stage our first meeting in his company.’
Bartholomew hesitated. Surgeon Fournays had invited him to meet more of York’s medical men that day, and because he had been impressed with what he had seen so far, he was eager to accept. He started to point out that he had been brought to York to rest, but his conscience pricked him before the words were out: Radeford was right to be wary of the slippery lawyer, and the encounter would certainly be safer with two of them.
He nodded reluctant agreement, and Radeford set off at a purposeful trot. However, it was not long before Bartholomew realised that the brisk pace was not because Radeford knew where he was going, but because it was raining again, and he was choosing those streets he thought offered more protection from the elements.
‘We have been here before,’ he said, sure they were heading north when they should have been going south. ‘I recognise that church.’ He stopped to examine it. ‘It is beautiful! Look at the quality of the carvings around the door. Shall we go inside?’
‘It would not be fair to shirk while our colleagues labour,’ said Radeford, smiling indulgently at his enthusiasm. ‘But unfortunately, we are hopelessly lost, so we had better hire someone to take us to the bridge – we do not want to lose the entire day to aimless wandering.’
He removed a coin from his purse, and before Bartholomew could stop him, had approached a rough, unshaven character – the kind of man who looked as though he would escort them down a deserted lane and rob them. The physician grew increasingly alarmed as they were conducted along some of the darkest, narrowest alleys he had ever seen, and he was on the verge of dismissing the fellow when they emerged into an open space that bordered the river. It reeked of fish, powerfully enough to make him recoil.
‘This is the fish-market,’ said their guide, rather unnecessarily. ‘And the Ouse Bridge is at the far end. You can’t get lost from here.’
Bartholomew was not so sure, because the market was huge, and comprised a vast number of close-packed stalls. Radeford began to pick his way through them, although Bartholomew took the lead when the lawyer promptly selected a route that involved two left-hand turns. The placewas chaotically busy, and he kept a firm hold of Radeford’s sleeve, suspecting they might never find each other again if they became separated.
‘I would not like to live here,’ said Radeford, speaking loudly enough to make himself heard over the hubbub of commerce, but also loudly enough to attract offended gazes. ‘When I wed, I shall build a house in the country. Will you ever leave Michaelhouse and marry?’
It was hardly a conversation to hold in a crowded market, and Bartholomew had fallen out of the habit of discussing Matilde anyway, mostly because everyone except Michael seemed convinced that she was dead – killed by the outlaws that plagued the highways – and that was a possibility he refused to contemplate.
‘I have never seen so many different kinds of fish,’ he said in a transparently clumsy attempt to change the subject. ‘Not even in London. York is truly an impressive city.’
‘If you like seafood.’ Radeford shot Bartholomew a side-long glance. ‘Or hospitals.’
‘St Leonard’s is remarkable,’ said Bartholomew, eagerly seizing the opportunity to share what he had learned. ‘I wish we had its equal in Cambridge. It separates the old and infirm from those with
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