another word with Celia. I sense there is a lot more to be gleaned from her.’
Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew
was
sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and thenoonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.
‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light,
her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called
music seared right through me.’
‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he
wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.
‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief.
If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’
‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’
‘You are
not
pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’
‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work,
and
a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.
She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’
Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs,
although it was a temporary solution at best.
‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether
they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’
He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.
‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot
stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’
‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man
was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be—’
‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you
will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up
to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’
She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire,
heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry,
but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.
It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even
dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword
at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.
‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured
her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’
Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They
were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the
Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew
was
sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and thenoonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.
‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light,
her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called
music seared right through me.’
‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he
wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.
‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief.
If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’
‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’
‘You are
not
pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’
‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work,
and
a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.
She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’
Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs,
although it was a temporary solution at best.
‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether
they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’
He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.
‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot
stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’
‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man
was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be—’
‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you
will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up
to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’
She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire,
heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry,
but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.
It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even
dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword
at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.
‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured
her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’
Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They
were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the
Similar Books
