Godric and the others could tell them no more about the mysterious Dympna, nor could they identify anyone in particular who wanted to harm Norbert, so Bartholomew and Michael made their farewells and walked back to Michaelhouse. As soon as they opened the gate they saw Bartholomew’s slight, dark-featured book-bearer picking his way across the yard towards them. The yard’s rutted, potholed surface was a danger at the best of times, but it was worse when snow camouflaged its hazards. Cynric gave a nervous grin as he approached, and Bartholomew felt a wave of apprehension that the normally nonchalant Welshman was so clearly uneasy.
‘It is cold today,’ said Cynric, glancing up at the heavy-bellied clouds above. ‘It will snow again tonight.’
‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew. Cynric never wasted time with idle chatter about the weather. ‘Is my sister unwell?’
читать дальше‘No, but I have a message from her,’ replied Cynric. ‘Well, not her. From her husband, Oswald Stanmore. You know that I am married to his seamstress, and that my wife and I have a room at his business premises on Milne Street. He asked me to come here to see you.’
‘You are gabbling, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, becoming alarmed. His book-bearer was never garrulous, and certainly did not normally waste breath telling people things they already knew, such as the names of their own brothers-inlaw and their servants’ domestic arrangements.
‘Sir Oswald has an unexpected guest,’ said Cynric. ‘A woman. Well, a woman and two men, actually. They arrived in Cambridge more than a week ago, but Mistress Stanmore only met them yesterday. They asked her to recommend a decent tavern, because they had been staying at the King’s Head, butone of the gentlemen found it was not to his taste.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, wryly. ‘The King’s Head is no place for decent folk.’
‘Mistress Stanmore felt obliged to invite them to stay with her,’ Cynric continued nervously. ‘She said it would have been rude not to, because the best inns are full at this time of year.’
‘Who are these folk?’ asked Michael, amused by Cynric’s rambling. ‘Joseph and Mary?’
‘I do not think the lady is pregnant,’ replied Cynric, quite seriously. ‘I could not tell under her cloak, but her husband is not a man who would turn a lady’s head.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although I suppose he must have turned hers at one point, or they would not have wed.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Cynric had started his Christmas celebrations early, and had been at the ale. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Sir Walter Turke,’ said Cynric. ‘I do not believe that you have met.’
The name meant nothing to Bartholomew.‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked.
‘You knew Turke’s wife during the pestilence,’ replied Cynric uneasily. ‘She had the disease, but survived.’
‘There were not many of those,’ said Michael, unnecessarily unkind. ‘This woman should come leaping to your mind.’
But she did not, and Bartholomew gazed blankly at Cynric, searching the half-forgotten faces in his memory for a woman who had married a fellow called Turke. He tended to suppress thoughts of those black, dismal days, when his painstakingly acquired skills and experience were useless in the face of the wave of sickness that swamped most of the civilised world, and nothing came to him.
‘Actually,’ said Cynric, speaking reluctantly when he saw Bartholomew was not going to guess who he meant. ‘You were betrothed to her yourself. But after the Death, she went to London and wed Sir Walter Turke instead. Her name was Philippa Abigny.’
His message delivered, Cynric escaped to his other duties with obvious relief. A private man himself, he disliked witnessing the rawer emotions of others, and he had had no idea how the physician might react to the news. He need not have worried. Bartholomew did not react at all, too startled by the sudden incursion of his past into the present to know what he thought about the prospect of the beautiful Philippa Abigny touching his life again.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed Michael in astonishment, watching Cynric all but run in the direction of the kitchen before Bartholomew or Michael could question him further. ‘I did not think she would ever show her face here again. What she did to you was not right.’
‘You mean because she broke our betrothal to marry someone richer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows whether we could have been happy with each other?’
‘You can probably say that about most things,’ said Michael philosophically. ‘But she was wrong to abandon you so abruptly. You could have applied to the Pope to have her marriage annulled, you know. You would have been within your rights, given that your betrothal had been of several years’ duration.’
‘But then I would have had to marry her,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And I am not sure that is what I wanted.’
Michael chuckled.‘You prefer the lovely Matilde these days, I suppose. Well, whatever you think, it will be interesting to see Philippa again and to assess what you have missed by allowing her to slip through your fingers.’
Bartholomew nodded absently. He stood in the middle of Michaelhouse’s yard, with Michael sniggering lustfully beside him, and wondered how the sudden and unexpected arrival of someone who had played such an important part in his past would affect his future.
***
(из другой книги)
His attention arrested by Edreds hands in the chest, Bartholomew did not see Cynric sprawled across the floor, until he fell headlong over him. He heard Michael yell, and Edred swear under his breath. Bartholomew struggled to his knees, his hands dark with the blood that flowed from the back of Cynrics skull. Blind fury dimmed his reasoning and he launched himself across the room at the friar with a howl of rage.
Edreds hands came out of Bartholomews storage chest holding a short sword. It was one Stanmore had given him many years ago that Bartholomew had forgotten he had.
Edred swung at him with it, and only by dropping to one knee did the physician avoid the hacking blow aimed at his head. Edred swung again with a professionalism that suggested he had not always been in training for the priesthood. Bartholomew ducked a second time, rolling away until he came up against the wall.
Edred came for him, his face pale and intent as he drew back his arm for the fatal plunge. His stroke wavered as something struck him hard on the side of the head, and Bartholomew saw shards of glass falling around him.
Michael was not standing helplessly in the doorway like some dim-witted maiden but was hurling anything that came to hand at Edred.
While the friars attention strayed, Bartholomew leapt at him, catching him in a bear-like grip around the legs.
Edred tried to struggle free, dropping the sword as he staggered backwards. Michael continued his assault and Bartholomew could hear nothing but smashes and grunts.
Suddenly, Edred collapsed.
Bartholomew squirmed to free himself from Edreds weight. Michael came to his aid and hauled the unresisting friar to his feet. Edreds knees buckled and Michael allowed him to slide down the wall into a sitting position.
Bartholomew scrambled across the floor to where Cynric lay.
The Welshmans eyes were half open and a trickle of blood oozed from the wound on the back of his skull.
Bartholomew cradled him in his lap, holding a cloth to staunch the bleeding.
So, I am to die from a cowards blow, Cynric whispered, eyes seeking Bartholomews face. Struck from behind in the dark.
You will not die, my friend, said Bartholomew. The wound is not fatal: I have had recent personal experience to support my claim.
Cynric grinned weakly at him and closed his eyes while Bartholomew bound the cut deftly with clean linen, praying it was not more serious than it appeared.
Matt! came Michaels querulous voice from the other side of the room. Bartholomew glanced to where the monk knelt next to Edred.
I have killed him, Michael whispered, his face white with shock. Edred is dying!
Bartholomew looked askance. He cannot be, Brother. You have just stunned him.
He is dying! insisted Michael, his voice rising in horror. Look at him!
Easing Cynric gently on to the floor, Bartholomew went to where Michael leaned over the prostrate friar. A white powder lightly dusted Edreds black robe and the smell of it caught in Bartholomews nostrils sharply. The powder was on the friars face too, it clung to the thin trail of blood that dribbled from a cut on his cheek and stuck around his lips. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in the friars neck and was startled to feel it rapid and faint.
Puzzled, he prised open Edreds eyelids and saw that the pupils had contracted to black pinpricks and that his face and neck were covered in a sheen of sweat.
Do something, Matt! said Michael desperately. Or I will have brought about his death! Me! A man of the cloth, who has forsworn violence!
The noise of the affray had disturbed those scholars whose rooms were nearby and they clustered around the door as Bartholomew examined Edred. Gray and Bulbeck were among them, and he ordered them to remove Cynric to his own room, away from the strange white powder that seemed to be killing Edred. He grabbed the pitcher of water that stood on the window-sill and washed the powder from the cut on Edreds face and from his mouth.
‘It is cold today,’ said Cynric, glancing up at the heavy-bellied clouds above. ‘It will snow again tonight.’
‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew. Cynric never wasted time with idle chatter about the weather. ‘Is my sister unwell?’
читать дальше‘No, but I have a message from her,’ replied Cynric. ‘Well, not her. From her husband, Oswald Stanmore. You know that I am married to his seamstress, and that my wife and I have a room at his business premises on Milne Street. He asked me to come here to see you.’
‘You are gabbling, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, becoming alarmed. His book-bearer was never garrulous, and certainly did not normally waste breath telling people things they already knew, such as the names of their own brothers-inlaw and their servants’ domestic arrangements.
‘Sir Oswald has an unexpected guest,’ said Cynric. ‘A woman. Well, a woman and two men, actually. They arrived in Cambridge more than a week ago, but Mistress Stanmore only met them yesterday. They asked her to recommend a decent tavern, because they had been staying at the King’s Head, butone of the gentlemen found it was not to his taste.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, wryly. ‘The King’s Head is no place for decent folk.’
‘Mistress Stanmore felt obliged to invite them to stay with her,’ Cynric continued nervously. ‘She said it would have been rude not to, because the best inns are full at this time of year.’
‘Who are these folk?’ asked Michael, amused by Cynric’s rambling. ‘Joseph and Mary?’
‘I do not think the lady is pregnant,’ replied Cynric, quite seriously. ‘I could not tell under her cloak, but her husband is not a man who would turn a lady’s head.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although I suppose he must have turned hers at one point, or they would not have wed.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Cynric had started his Christmas celebrations early, and had been at the ale. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Sir Walter Turke,’ said Cynric. ‘I do not believe that you have met.’
The name meant nothing to Bartholomew.‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked.
‘You knew Turke’s wife during the pestilence,’ replied Cynric uneasily. ‘She had the disease, but survived.’
‘There were not many of those,’ said Michael, unnecessarily unkind. ‘This woman should come leaping to your mind.’
But she did not, and Bartholomew gazed blankly at Cynric, searching the half-forgotten faces in his memory for a woman who had married a fellow called Turke. He tended to suppress thoughts of those black, dismal days, when his painstakingly acquired skills and experience were useless in the face of the wave of sickness that swamped most of the civilised world, and nothing came to him.
‘Actually,’ said Cynric, speaking reluctantly when he saw Bartholomew was not going to guess who he meant. ‘You were betrothed to her yourself. But after the Death, she went to London and wed Sir Walter Turke instead. Her name was Philippa Abigny.’
His message delivered, Cynric escaped to his other duties with obvious relief. A private man himself, he disliked witnessing the rawer emotions of others, and he had had no idea how the physician might react to the news. He need not have worried. Bartholomew did not react at all, too startled by the sudden incursion of his past into the present to know what he thought about the prospect of the beautiful Philippa Abigny touching his life again.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed Michael in astonishment, watching Cynric all but run in the direction of the kitchen before Bartholomew or Michael could question him further. ‘I did not think she would ever show her face here again. What she did to you was not right.’
‘You mean because she broke our betrothal to marry someone richer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows whether we could have been happy with each other?’
‘You can probably say that about most things,’ said Michael philosophically. ‘But she was wrong to abandon you so abruptly. You could have applied to the Pope to have her marriage annulled, you know. You would have been within your rights, given that your betrothal had been of several years’ duration.’
‘But then I would have had to marry her,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And I am not sure that is what I wanted.’
Michael chuckled.‘You prefer the lovely Matilde these days, I suppose. Well, whatever you think, it will be interesting to see Philippa again and to assess what you have missed by allowing her to slip through your fingers.’
Bartholomew nodded absently. He stood in the middle of Michaelhouse’s yard, with Michael sniggering lustfully beside him, and wondered how the sudden and unexpected arrival of someone who had played such an important part in his past would affect his future.
***
(из другой книги)
His attention arrested by Edreds hands in the chest, Bartholomew did not see Cynric sprawled across the floor, until he fell headlong over him. He heard Michael yell, and Edred swear under his breath. Bartholomew struggled to his knees, his hands dark with the blood that flowed from the back of Cynrics skull. Blind fury dimmed his reasoning and he launched himself across the room at the friar with a howl of rage.
Edreds hands came out of Bartholomews storage chest holding a short sword. It was one Stanmore had given him many years ago that Bartholomew had forgotten he had.
Edred swung at him with it, and only by dropping to one knee did the physician avoid the hacking blow aimed at his head. Edred swung again with a professionalism that suggested he had not always been in training for the priesthood. Bartholomew ducked a second time, rolling away until he came up against the wall.
Edred came for him, his face pale and intent as he drew back his arm for the fatal plunge. His stroke wavered as something struck him hard on the side of the head, and Bartholomew saw shards of glass falling around him.
Michael was not standing helplessly in the doorway like some dim-witted maiden but was hurling anything that came to hand at Edred.
While the friars attention strayed, Bartholomew leapt at him, catching him in a bear-like grip around the legs.
Edred tried to struggle free, dropping the sword as he staggered backwards. Michael continued his assault and Bartholomew could hear nothing but smashes and grunts.
Suddenly, Edred collapsed.
Bartholomew squirmed to free himself from Edreds weight. Michael came to his aid and hauled the unresisting friar to his feet. Edreds knees buckled and Michael allowed him to slide down the wall into a sitting position.
Bartholomew scrambled across the floor to where Cynric lay.
The Welshmans eyes were half open and a trickle of blood oozed from the wound on the back of his skull.
Bartholomew cradled him in his lap, holding a cloth to staunch the bleeding.
So, I am to die from a cowards blow, Cynric whispered, eyes seeking Bartholomews face. Struck from behind in the dark.
You will not die, my friend, said Bartholomew. The wound is not fatal: I have had recent personal experience to support my claim.
Cynric grinned weakly at him and closed his eyes while Bartholomew bound the cut deftly with clean linen, praying it was not more serious than it appeared.
Matt! came Michaels querulous voice from the other side of the room. Bartholomew glanced to where the monk knelt next to Edred.
I have killed him, Michael whispered, his face white with shock. Edred is dying!
Bartholomew looked askance. He cannot be, Brother. You have just stunned him.
He is dying! insisted Michael, his voice rising in horror. Look at him!
Easing Cynric gently on to the floor, Bartholomew went to where Michael leaned over the prostrate friar. A white powder lightly dusted Edreds black robe and the smell of it caught in Bartholomews nostrils sharply. The powder was on the friars face too, it clung to the thin trail of blood that dribbled from a cut on his cheek and stuck around his lips. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in the friars neck and was startled to feel it rapid and faint.
Puzzled, he prised open Edreds eyelids and saw that the pupils had contracted to black pinpricks and that his face and neck were covered in a sheen of sweat.
Do something, Matt! said Michael desperately. Or I will have brought about his death! Me! A man of the cloth, who has forsworn violence!
The noise of the affray had disturbed those scholars whose rooms were nearby and they clustered around the door as Bartholomew examined Edred. Gray and Bulbeck were among them, and he ordered them to remove Cynric to his own room, away from the strange white powder that seemed to be killing Edred. He grabbed the pitcher of water that stood on the window-sill and washed the powder from the cut on Edreds face and from his mouth.
@темы: английский_чтение