and Boltone live like pigs!
I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’
‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect
the blood where the body was found.’
Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open.
The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour
that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, givinghim the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted
by many men of substance.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’
‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants
could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and
I
can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.
‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was
Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.
‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on
my face and fresh air in my lungs.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s
death?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all
– not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments,
in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being
sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.
‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very
sore.’
Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that
was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material
enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath
when Bartholomew examined it.
‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave
it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’
‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told
Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you
are
malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’
Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have
ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment,
more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not
I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’
‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect
the blood where the body was found.’
Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open.
The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour
that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, givinghim the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted
by many men of substance.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’
‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants
could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and
I
can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.
‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was
Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.
‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on
my face and fresh air in my lungs.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s
death?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all
– not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments,
in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being
sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.
‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very
sore.’
Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that
was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material
enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath
when Bartholomew examined it.
‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave
it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’
‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told
Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you
are
malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’
Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have
ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment,
more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not
Similar Books
