‘Oh no, you do not!’ protested Langelee, outraged. ‘I know what you are trying to do! You are attempting to win the votes of these two, so that you will be elected Master!’
Runham looked hurt, and Michael gave a vicious snigger as he watched the exchange.
‘Take one each,’ he called, as he followed Bartholomew down the stairs. ‘Then you will be even.’ He chuckled as he walked across the yard. ‘I feel almost sorry for Runham and Langelee. They are already entertaining high hopes that they will be elected. How can they even begin to imagine they have a chance when I intend to be Michaelhouse’s next Master?’
‘Do you indeed?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think that those few – very few – of us Fellows who do not intend to make a bid for power ourselves will vote for you?’
‘Voting!’ exclaimed Michael disdainfully. ‘This election will not be decided by voting.’
‘It will, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is how we elect Masters at Michaelhouse – by each Fellow writing the name of his preferred candidate–’
Michael made a dismissive sound. ‘And I accused Langelee of being unsubtle! The Mastership of Michaelhouse is far too important to leave to that sort of chance. And the issue will not be decided on Saturday, either. That is far too soon. I must see what can be done to delay matters.’
‘I do not want to hear this,’ began Bartholomew.
‘No,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It is better that you do not know my plans in detail. I do not want you revealing them to the opposition.’
‘You mean you do not trust me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled and rather hurt.
Michael sighed. ‘I trust you in most things – more than I trust myself sometimes. But you do not have a clear grasp of University politics, and there is too much at stake to risk you inadvertently telling someone something he should not hear. But while we stand here, your patient is waiting. We should go before you dally so long that he needs my services rather than yours.’
As Bartholomew opened the door to his storeroom to collect his medicine bag, he saw three of his students in the courtyard and told them to read specific sections from Galen’s Prognostica to the others, ignoring their obvious disappointment at losing what they had anticipated would be a free afternoon following Kenyngham’s unexpected announcement.
‘None of the other masters are making their students work today,’ said Sam Gray sullenly, shoving his hands in his belt when Bartholomew tried to hand him the book.
‘None of the other masters have students who have failed their disputations as many times as you have,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘And, as I have told you before, there are plenty of students who will willingly take your place should you fail again.’
Gray said nothing, knowing that the shortage of physicians following the plague meant that newly qualified medics could pick and choose from the lucrative opportunities available, and that if he wanted to make his fortune, he would do well to stay with Bartholomew.
‘He will read to the fourth-years, and I will read to the others,’ said Tom Bulbeck, one of Michaelhouse’s brightest scholars, who would soon be leaving to take up a position as house physician to the powerful Bigod family in the city of Norwich – a prestigious appointment that made Sam Gray green with envy.
‘Or, if you like, I could show them how to dissect a rat – like you did last year,’ offered Rob Deynman, Bartholomew’s least gifted student. ‘I remember how to do it exactly. You take a rat and a sharp knife, then cut through the stringy stuff to reach the purple bits–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Just listen to the Galen. And if any of my patients come, please fetch me – do not try to deal with them yourself.’
‘Yes,’ said Gray with spiteful glee. ‘Look what happened last time – Agatha the laundress’s teeth have been the talk of the town since you laid hands on them.’
Leaving them before that discussion could begin in earnest, Bartholomew hurried across the courtyard to the gate, where the Bene’t College porter was waiting for him. Michael, having donned a handsome fur-lined black cloak against the winter chill, was not far behind.
‘You took your time,’ grumbled the porter, who had been slouching against the wall. ‘Had to finish your meal, did you, while a man lies dying?’
‘We will have none of that insolence, thank you very much,’ said Michael sharply. He glared at the man, inspecting him closely as they walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street, where Bene’t College was located. ‘I know you. Our swords have crossed before.’
The man looked shifty. ‘You probably met my brother, Ulfo. People say there is an uncanny resemblance between us.’
But Michael was not an easy man to fool. ‘No, it is you I have encountered before.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I remember now! You pummelled a student half to death last winter, and he made an official complaint against you for grievous assault.’
‘I did not lay a finger on him,’ snarled the porter angrily. ‘He lied!’
‘So your College said,’ concurred Michael. ‘The case was dropped, if I recall correctly.’
‘Justice was done,’ said the porter unpleasantly, so that Bartholomew had the impression that justice had not been done at all – at least, as far as the battered student had been concerned.
Michael scratched his arm thoughtfully. ‘Osmun,’ he said. ‘That is your name.’
‘So?’ demanded Osmun aggressively. ‘What of it? What has my name to do with you?’
‘Let us hope it has nothing to do with me,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I do not want the likes of you warranting the attention of the Senior Proctor and his beadles again.’
His tone held a warning that Osmun was not so stupid as to ignore. He glowered at the monk, and began to walk more quickly as they neared Bene’t College, effectively ending all further conversation.
Bene’t was the newest of the University’s colleges, and had been founded the previous year by wealthy townsmen in the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary. Its official name was the College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, but most people called it Bene’t College because it stood on land that adjoined St Bene’t’s – or Benedict’s – Church.
The two guilds intended their foundation to rival splendid Colleges like the Hall of Valence Marie and King’s Hall, and masons and carpenters were busily erecting fine new buildings for the Master of Bene’t and his scholars. A hall and one wing had already been completed, but the range that bordered the High Street was still under construction, and comprised a precarious shell of four walls clad in a jumble of scaffolding, ropes, pulleys and platforms. Seeing its haphazard nature and its proximity to the road, Bartholomew was surprised that there had not been an accident before.
‘Bartholomew!’ came an urgent voice from a group of people who stood in a tight huddle at one corner of the unfinished building. ‘Here! Quickly.’
Bartholomew hurried forward when he recognised Master Lynton, the physician from Peterhouse. Lynton was a kindly man, with a halo of fluffy white hair that always reminded Bartholomew of a dandelion clock. He had done well for himself in his profession, and his patients were invariably the wealthiest and most influential people in the town – Lynton would never consider doctoring anyone unable to pay. His ideas on medicine, however, were conventional in the extreme, and he and Bartholomew seldom agreed on treatments or diagnoses. Bartholomew would have liked Lynton better had he been anything but a physician.
Bartholomew pushed his way through the fascinated onlookers, and crouched next to Lynton, who was trying without success to stanch the bleeding from a wound in the chest of a man who lay in the mud. Bartholomew took one look at the rapid, shallow breathing, the bluish lips and white face, and the awkward angle of the man’s legs that indicated a broken back, and knew Lynton’s efforts were futile.
Although there was nothing he could do to save the man who lay in a distorted heap at the base of the scaffolding that surrounded Bene’t Co
llege, Bartholomew tried to make his last moments on Earth as comfortable as possible. He dribbled a concoction of poppy juice and laudanum between the blue lips, and took a clean compress from his medicine bag – always carried looped over his shoulder – to stem the bleeding from the chest wound.
Lynton sat back with a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Bartholomew,’ he said, flexing his bloodstained fingers and wiping them on his tabard. ‘Now we should set about bleeding this poor fellow.’
‘I think he has lost more than enough blood already,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering how Lynton could possibly imagine that bleeding could hold any benefits for the dying man – other than perhaps to hasten his end.
‘Will he live?’ asked one of the spectators unsteadily, fixing Bartholomew with anguished eyes. Like the man who lay dying, he wore the distinctive blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He crouched next to his colleague, helplessly rubbing one of the cold, limp hands.
‘If we make an incision in the foot, the blood will drain down and will lessen the flow from the chest,’ said Lynton with great conviction. He pushed Bartholomew’s hands away from the compress and applied the required pressure himself. ‘I will stem the bleeding here, while you make the cut. You are the one who dabbles in cautery, not me.’
‘But I do not practise phlebotomy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it will make no difference to this man anyway. A priest will be able to do more for him than physicians.’
‘But we must save him,’ protested Lynton. He glanced at the dying man, and then leaned towards Bartholomew confidentially, keeping his voice low. ‘His name is Raysoun, and his friend is John Wymundham, both Fellows of Bene’t. They are two of my most lucrative patients.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, also in a whisper. ‘But there is nothing we can do. Raysoun’s back is broken, he has already lost too much blood, and he is having difficulty breathing.’
‘But I cannot afford to lose him,’ said Lynton insistently. ‘You must do something.’
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and instead glanced up to indicate to Michael that he should prepare to give Raysoun last rites. As the monk readied himself, the man’s colleague – Wymundham – grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder in a grip that was unexpectedly strong for a man who gave an initial impression of being somewhat effete.
‘You cannot give up on him!’ he cried desperately. ‘Look! His eyes are opening! He lives!’
Raysoun was gazing blankly at the sky, but his eyes were unfocused and Bartholomew thought him too badly injured to be aware of his surroundings. Wymundham bent close to him, gripping the hand he held so fiercely that Bartholomew was certain Raysoun would have objected, had he been able to feel it.
‘Everything will be all right,’ Wymundham whispered comfortingly. ‘You had a fall, but you will live to make theologians of our students yet.’
‘You must bleed him before it is too late, Bartholomew,’ said Lynton, although with less fervour than before. ‘I sent for the surgeon – Robin of Grantchester – but he is busy amputating a leg and cannot be disturbed. You must do it.’
‘But Raysoun is dying,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Nothing we can do will save him, and if we bleed him, all we will do is risk causing him pain.’
Lynton gazed down at his patient, and Bartholomew thought he was going to argue. But the older physician merely nodded – as though he had known the futility of any treatment, but was just going through the motions – and then climbed to his feet and moved away, leaving Raysoun to Michael. Bartholomew went to stand next to him.
‘What happened?’ he asked, while Michael began intoning prayers for the dying. The injured man’s friend seemed about to shove the monk away, but instead began exhorting Raysoun to stand up and walk back inside the College with him.
‘Apparently, he fell from the scaffolding,’ said Lynton. ‘No one saw it happen, but the carpenters say he was clambering about up near the roof shortly before a passer-by found him lying in the road.’
‘If he fell from the scaffolding, then why is he bleeding from his chest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It looks to me as though he landed on his back, not his front.’
Lynton pointed to a bloodied metal tool that lay on the ground. ‘This was embedded in him when I arrived. I imagine he must have impaled himself on it as he fell.’
‘But how?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘I do not know,’ said Lynton, a little impatiently. ‘But look around you. The builders have scattered their implements very carelessly – I can see at least two more of those pointed things from here.’
‘Awls,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Carpenters use them for making holes in wood.’
‘Whatever,’ said Lynton, uninterested. ‘But the workmen should be forced to take more care. I will have a word with the Sheriff about this when I finish here – that half-finished building is dangerous. It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt by falling scaffolding.’
‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at the ramshackle array of planks that sheathed the growing College. ‘Perhaps part of the road should be closed until the work is completed.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ said Lynton with a sigh. ‘But it is a shame such precautions are too late for poor Raysoun.’
On the ground, Wymundham seemed to be having some kind of conversation with the dying man, putting his ear close to his lips. Michael lowered his own voice, aware that Raysoun might be making a confession that could mean a shorter sojourn in Purgatory. Bartholomew was surprised that Raysoun was even conscious, but supposed that a few moments of clarity before death were not impossible.
‘I will miss him,’ said Lynton, crossing himself as Michael smeared chrism on the dying man’s forehead and mouth. ‘I prescribed a weekly purge that was temperate in the first degree – very expensive.’
‘Why?’
‘To soothe his liver after he had over-indulged his penchant for wines.’
‘He drank heavily?’ Bartholomew had certainly noticed the smell of drink on the dying man as he had administered the medicine, and the half-empty wineskin that lay nearby had not escaped his attention, either.
Lynton made a curious gesture – half nod, half shrug. ‘Recently he did. It did not agree with him, which is why he was obliged to summon me so often. But regardless of what he meant to me financially, it is hard to watch a man die knowing I am powerless to save him. It reminds me of the Death, which claimed so many of our patients, when all our years of training and experience as physicians were worse than useless.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because, for once, he understood Lynton’s sentiment completely.
Raysoun took a deep, rasping breath before a rattle in the back of his throat told the silent onlookers that he had breathed his last. Wymundham stared down at him in disbelief, then released a blood-chilling howl of grief. Sensing that he might become hysterical, Bartholomew took his arm and quickly guided him back inside his College, intending to deliver him into the hands of colleagues who would look after him. Michael and Lynton could deal with the body of Raysoun. He looked around for the porters, but they had joined the crowd outside, and so he walked with Wymundham across the courtyard to the building that was clearly the hall.
Bartholomew had never been inside Bene’t before, and was impressed by the sumptuousness of those buildings that had been completed. The walls were made of good-quality stone purchased from the quarries at Barnack near Peterborough, and were a pleasing amber hue. Inside, the floors of the hall were polished wood – not just flagstones strewn with dried rushes like Michaelhouse’s – and were liberally scattered with fine wool rugs. Large chests with handsome iron bindings stood at one end of the room, while the tables at which the scholars ate and which they used for lessons were carved from oak that had been buffed to an impressive sheen.
Wymundham slumped in a chair at the high table and put his head in his hands, sobbing loudly. Bene’t was deserted, so Bartholomew went behind
the serving screen, and found a jug of wine and some cups. He filled one and took it back to Wymundham, urging him to drink. Eventually, the man’s weeping subsided, and he rubbed away his tears with a hand stained with his friend’s blood. Bartholomew saw a basin filled with water on one of the windowsills, dipped a napkin in it, and gave it to the scholar so that he could clean his face. At Bartholomew’s silent kindness, Wymundham began to weep afresh. The physician sat with him, waiting for him to compose himself.
Wymundham was not an attractive man. His narrow face had a rather vulpine look about it, and his small eyes were bright and beady. His mannerisms were fussy and effeminate, and under his scholar’s tabard he wore hose of soft blue wool, so that his legs reminded Bartholomew of those of an elderly nun.
‘I am sorry,’ said Wymundham, wiping his nose on the napkin. ‘It was the shock.’
‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Is there anyone I can fetch to be with you? One of the other Fellows, perhaps?’
Wymundham shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary, thank you. I am perfectly recovered now. As I said, it was the shock of seeing poor Raysoun die that distressed me. We were good friends. We were the first Fellows to be admitted to the College last year, you see.’
‘If it is any consolation, I do not think he felt much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, it is likely that he did not even know what had happened to him.’
‘Oh, he knew,’ said Wymundham with sudden bitterness. ‘He told me. Just before he died.’
‘Told you what?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘That he knew he had fallen?’
‘That someone had killed him,’ said Wymundham harshly. ‘That is what shocked me, even more than seeing him lying there in all that blood.’
‘You mean he told you that someone had murdered him?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘But Master Lynton said he fell–’
‘Someone stabbed him with one of those builders’ spikes, and then shoved him off the scaffolding,’ interrupted Wymundham, pursing his lips and regarding Bartholomew with bird-like eyes. ‘That is what he told me as he died.’
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