A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  The physician did not feel like berating him for his insolence – and Walter’s surly rejoinders were likely to wake half the College if he tried – so he headed towards Wynewyk’s room without another word. As he walked across the yard, he looked around at the place that was his home.

  Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation, and part of the University at Cambridge. It boasted a handsome hall, two accommodation wings that joined it at right angles, and a range of outbuildings. All were protected by a high wall and a gatehouse that contained the porters’ lodge. Unfortunately, time had taken its toll, and the College was starting to look decidedly shabby. Moss and lichen grew over its roofs, most of which leaked, and its honey-coloured stone was in desperate need of scrubbing. The courtyard was a morass of churned mud, mixed with the fallen leaves from a scrawny cherry tree.

  It currently housed about sixty students, more than could comfortably be taught by its Master and eight Fellows. One reason they were overworked was because one of their number, Father William, was on a sabbatical leave of absence – which everyone knew was a nice way of saying he had been exiled to a remote part of the Fens for being a zealot. Bartholomew missed William, although he was not sure why: it was certainly not for his dogmatic opinions and argumentative personality.

  Wynewyk lived in the same building as Bartholomew, the older and more leak-prone of the two accommodation wings. Like all Fellows, he shared his chamber with students, and it was a tight squeeze at night when they all spread their mattresses on the floor. Bartholomew stepped over the slumbering forms, straining his eyes in the darkness to make sure he did not tread on any. Wynewyk had lit a candle, but he had muted the light with a shade, so as not to disturb his room-mates.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Matt,’ he whispered. He was a small, neat man who taught law. He had been at Michaelhouse for about three years, and Bartholomew liked him and considered him a friend. ‘I have been feeling wretched all night, although I cannot imagine why – my stars are in perfect alignment, so I should be in fine fettle.’

  ‘What did you eat at supper?’ Bartholomew asked, to change the subject. Unusually for a physician, he placed scant trust in the movements of the celestial bodies, but this was a controversial stance, and he took care to keep his opinion to himself; rejecting the ancient and much-revered art of astrology would result in more accusations of witchcraft, for certain.

  ‘The same as you: bread and cheese. I also had a mouthful of posset, but there were nuts in it, and I have an aversion to them, so I spat it out. My tongue still burns, though.’

  The posset had contained almonds, but supper had been hours ago, so any reaction Wynewyk might have experienced from his brief contact with them should have been past its worst. Bartholomew examined his colleague, but could find nothing wrong except a reddening in the mouth. He prepared a tonic of soothing herbs that would help him sleep.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘You took ages to come. Were you out?’

  Bartholomew nodded absently as he worked. ‘Seeing a friend of Edith’s, but I was called too late.’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Wynewyk uneasily. He crossed himself. ‘Then I hope you have better luck with me.’

  ‘You are not going to die,’ said Bartholomew, helping him sit up so he could sip the remedy. ‘You will be perfectly well again tomorrow.’

  ‘Have any of your patients heard news of Kelyng?’ Wynewyk asked, pushing away the cup when the physician put it to his lips. ‘You promised you would find out.’

  Kelyng was Michaelhouse’s Bible Scholar, who had failed to arrive when term had started. He owed a fortune in unpaid fees, and even the salary he earned from reading the scriptures aloud during meals had failed to reduce the debt to a reasonable level. It would not be the first time a student had elected to abscond rather than pay, and Bartholomew, like the other Fellows, thought Kelyng had done so. Kind-hearted Wynewyk was rather less willing to believe the worst of the lad.

  ‘They saw him leave Cambridge in August,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but no one has seen him since.’

  Wynewyk grimaced at the unhelpful news, and began to drink the medicine. ‘Did you hear what happened yesterday?’ he asked between sips. ‘I had a run-in with that horrible Osa Gosse. He accused me of trying to seduce him.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that while Wynewyk was usually discreet, there were occasionally misunderstandings in his quest for willing partners.

  ‘No!’ Wynewyk sounded horrified. ‘He is a revolting fellow – a liar and a thief. You look as though you have not heard of him, which amazes me. He is an inveterate felon, always being accused of some crime or other. He hails from Clare in Suffolk, but has recently taken up residence in our town.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Wynewyk owned a great weakness for ruffians, but he usually drew the line at criminals.

  ‘Everyone knows him – or everyone who does not wander around with his mind full of medicine, at least. I had the misfortune to make his acquaintance about a week ago, when he spat at me. I objected, and he drew a dagger. Fortunately, Paxtone of King’s Hall saw what was happening, and shouted for help. Gosse’s servant was killed when the Carmelite novices rushed to my rescue.’

  ‘I know who you mean,’ said Bartholomew in understanding. Besides being a physician and a Doctor of Medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for anyone who died on University property. The man in question had been stabbed on land belonging to King’s Hall, so Bartholomew had been asked to give a verdict.

  ‘I wish Gosse would go back to Clare,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘He blames me for the death of this servant, even though I was not the one who knifed him.’

  ‘You should rest,’ said Bartholomew kindly. Talking about the incident was agitating Wynewyk, and he would not sleep if his mind was full of worry.

  ‘Thank God for Paxtone,’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘He saved my life. I never thought much of him until recently, but he is a decent soul.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although he was surprised to hear Wynewyk say so – Wynewyk rarely fraternised with men from other foundations, because he believed it created issues of loyalty. Many academics agreed, and confined their circle of acquaintances to within their own College or hostel. But Bartholomew did not see any problem, and had a number of friends outside Michaelhouse, Paxtone among them.

  Wynewyk seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘You are astonished I should befriend anyone from King’s Hall. But Paxtone and its Warden, Powys, are erudite men. I like them.’

  Bartholomew let him talk, and gradually Wynewyk’s eyes began to close. The physician waited until his colleague’s breathing became slow and even, then crept from the room.

  * * *

  There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, which told Bartholomew it would not be long before the bell rang to summon Michaelhouse scholars to their dawn devotions. He was tired, though, and the prospect of even a short nap was appealing, so he walked to his chamber, and began the tortuous business of stepping over sleeping students in the dark. There were seven of them, most pleasant, intelligent lads determined to become good physicians. Risleye had wanted to join them, eager to share his teacher’s chamber rather than be farmed out elsewhere, but the others had united to keep him out. Bartholomew thought they probably could have squeezed him in, but had not objected too loudly when Risleye had been told to lodge with one of the other masters.

  He reached his bed and lay down, but the moment he closed his eyes, Tesdale began to whimper, caught in a nightmare. He knew from experience – Tesdale had bad dreams most nights – that waking caused the lad distress, and that the episodes usually ended of their own accord anyway. However, the noise was not conducive to falling asleep, so Bartholomew decided to put the time to good use by reading instead. He could not do it in his chamber, lest the light disturbed those who were managing to sleep
through Tesdale’s moans, so he went to the library. This was a corner in the main hall that comprised a few shelves and three lockable chests. The tomes were either chained to the wall, or secured inside the boxes, depending on their value and popularity; books were expensive, and no foundation could afford to lose them to light-fingered scholars.

  He began to read De proprietatibus rerum by Bartholomaeus Angelicus, refreshing his memory of the text he was going to teach that day. It was not long before he became engrossed, and when the bell rang to wake the scholars for morning mass, he was surprised to find the time had passed so quickly. Reluctantly, he closed the book, and walked down the stairs and into the yard.

  It was another cold, gloomy day, with clouds thick and heavy overhead. It was windy, too, and autumn leaves swirled around until they made soggy piles in corners. He breathed in deeply, relishing the clean scent of damp vegetation. He whipped around in alarm when he heard a sound close behind him, but it was only Cynric. The Welshman prided himself on his stealth, and was always sneaking up on people with the clear intention of making them jump out of their skin.

  ‘I saw that woman – Joan – and your sister in the Market Square yesterday,’ the book-bearer said. The expression on his dark face was sombre. ‘It does not seem right that she should be walking and laughing one moment, then dead the next. Do you think someone cursed her?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling for patience. Cynric always looked for supernatural explanations to matters he did not understand, and while the physician was used to it after so many years, he still found it exasperating. ‘She swallowed pennyroyal. That is what killed her.’

  ‘Mother Coton said Joan wanted rid of the child,’ Cynric went on. ‘But in the Market Square yesterday, she seemed all eager for motherhood – she was choosing ribbons, and making enough show about it to gather an audience.’ He shook his head, as if the ways of the world were a mystery to him.

  ‘Did you see her buy anything other than ribbon?’ asked Bartholomew, idly wondering how she had come by the pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold it to her – the Church was not very understanding of merchants who let women buy the means to destroy their unborn children.

  Cynric raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘A rich woman in a market? Of course I saw her buying other things, boy! And she paid me to carry them all to your sister’s house, so I know for a fact that there were a lot of them. But she went nowhere near an apothecary, if that is what you are really asking. Are you going to church dressed like that, by the way?’

  In the growing light, Bartholomew saw his clothes were bloodstained from kneeling next to Joan. He needed to change. He hurried to his room, smiling greetings to his colleagues as he passed. They nodded back, some grumbling about the rain, others more intent on discussing a debate on Blood Relics that was due to take place the following week.

  He ducked into his chamber – stepping over Tesdale, who was always the last up – and quickly donned fresh clothes. His hat had blown into a puddle the previous day, and he had forgotten to take it to the laundry, so it was still filthy. Annoyed with himself, he slapped it against the desk a few times, to beat off the worst of the muck, then jammed it on his head, hoping no one would notice its sorry state. Once he had given his boots a quick rub with the cuff of his shirt, he was ready.

  There were still a few moments left before Master Langelee would lead the College in procession to St Michael’s Church for morning prayers, so he unlocked the door to the cupboard-like room where he kept his medical equipment, to check the progress of a goose-grease salve he was making. It was thickening nicely, and would soon be ready.

  He was about to leave when a ring-mark on the workbench caught his eye. He frowned, because he had spent some time polishing it the day before – hygiene was important when making substances that were to be ingested, and he was always scrupulous about it. He supposed one of his students must have spilled something, then neglected to clean it up. However, his list of potential culprits was short; some of the ingredients he kept in the room were dangerous, so only the most senior pupils were allowed access. And, after a jape involving an ‘exploding’ book the previous week, only Risleye and Tesdale were currently permitted inside – the rest were banned until they had proved themselves mature enough to be trusted.

  He bent to inspect the mark more closely, then jerked back in alarm when he caught the distinctive aroma of poppy juice. He stared at it in horror. It was one of the substances no student was allowed to use without his supervision, placed on a high shelf that was off-limits to all and sealed in a container marked with a warning cross of red ink. He looked up at the shelf, and was uneasy to note that someone had been fiddling there: the pots had been moved so their labels no longer faced the front.

  He stood on a stool and began to hunt for the poppy juice. When he found it, he opened the jar and looked inside. It was about half full. He was relieved – if Risleye or Tesdale had included some in a remedy they had prepared, then they had not taken very much. Of course, he would have to speak to them about using it at all; it was far too dangerous to be doled out by lads who were not yet qualified.

  He began to replace the jars in their proper order, but there was an ominous gap. Bemused, he searched the other shelves, but it did not take long to confirm his suspicions: the pennyroyal was gone.

  ‘Hurry up, Matt, or you will be late.’ It was Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and one of Michaelhouse’s masters of theology. The portly Benedictine was also Bartholomew’s closest friend. That morning, his monastic habit was covered by a handsome fur-lined cloak, his flabby jowls had been scraped clean of whiskers, and his lank brown hair was smoothed down around a perfectly round tonsure. He was immaculate, and Bartholomew felt poor and shabby by comparison.

  ‘My pennyroyal is missing. I know I had some – I used it to treat a festering ulcer a few days ago.’

  Michael tugged his cloak around his ample frame, as if he thought it might ward off unpleasant images as well as the cold. ‘Perhaps you finished it,’ he remarked, without much interest.

  ‘There was some left. I know there was.’

  Michael saw his concern and frowned uneasily. ‘It is dangerous? Poisonous?’

  ‘I lost a patient to pennyroyal last night. Two, if you count her unborn child.’

  Michael’s frown deepened as Bartholomew told him what had happened. ‘Are you saying your supply killed this woman? That one of your pupils—’

  ‘No!’ It was too dreadful a possibility to contemplate. ‘Joan was a visitor, so cannot know my students. It must be coincidence, although …’ Bartholomew trailed off, uncertain what to think.

  ‘Are you sure it is missing? Perhaps it is simply mislaid.’

  ‘It has gone,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I cannot recall exactly how much was left …’

  ‘Shall I ask Langelee to excuse you from church while you continue to look for it? I suppose I can be prevailed upon to perform your duties. After all, it will only be the fifth time I have assisted at mass since the beginning of term because you have been too busy with patients to do it yourself.’

  ‘Three physicians are not enough to look after a town the size of Cambridge,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘Especially now Robin of Grantchester has stopped his work as surgeon. Paxtone, Rougham and I are overwhelmed by the number of people wanting help.’

  ‘Yes, but Paxtone and Rougham have the sense to decline new cases,’ said Michael tartly. ‘You physick anyone who summons you.’

  ‘What would you have me do? Refuse them and let them suffer?’

  Michael sighed. ‘No. But let us hope Valence, Risleye and Tesdale elect to practise here when they graduate next year. Then there will be six physicians. Of course, while Valence will be a boon, the same cannot be said for the other two. Tesdale is too lazy, and Risleye is so lacking in anything resembling human kindness that it would not occur to him to dispense charity.’

  Bartholomew nodded, but his a
ttention had returned to his missing medicine. Both Tesdale and Risleye had borrowed the storeroom key from him that week, but neither should have used pennyroyal, so what had happened to it? Had Tesdale taken it for another student jape? Risleye would not have done, because he had no sense of humour. But Bartholomew had been furious the last time his pupils had abused his trust, and he doubted any would risk doing it again. He did not often lose his temper, and he knew his anger had alarmed them.

  He followed the monk outside, locking the door behind him and wondering who else might have had occasion to raid his supplies. He knew about the healing properties of pennyroyal – it was good for stomach pains, dropsy and cleaning ulcers – but did it have non-medical applications, too? Cynric had been known to ‘borrow’ materials for cleaning his sword, while Agatha the laundress was willing to try anything in her ongoing war against moths. He supposed the disappearance of the pennyroyal was not necessarily sinister, although the notion that anyone could wander into the storeroom and help himself to whatever he pleased was disturbing.

  It was cold and wet in the yard, and his students had taken refuge in the porters’ lodge. The slow-witted Librarian, Rob Deynman, was with them. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until the College had offered him a ‘promotion’ in order to prevent him from practising on an unsuspecting public. They looked around as Bartholomew approached, and he saw they were all grinning, except Risleye whose face was infused with rage.

  ‘Tell him, sir,’ Risleye cried, outraged. ‘Tell Valence that garden mint should not be given to teething children, because it is a herb of Venus, and so stirs up bodily desires. That is bad for babies.’

  ‘I said it can be used to remedy colic,’ corrected Valence patiently. ‘I did not say you should feed it to brats in the kind of quantity that will drive them wild with lust.’

  His cronies laughed, and Risleye flushed even redder, clenching his fists.

  ‘I knew a man who ate an entire patch of mint once, in the hope that it would make him lusty,’ said Deynman, ever amiable. ‘He was obliged to remain in the latrine for the next two days, and his wife was deeply vexed.’