‘He was amusing himself at your expense,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true and that the unpleasantness of the last few days was not going to precipitate a more serious ‘episode’.
‘If you say so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.
‘I am taking Risleye, Valence and Tesdale to Suffolk, by the way,’ the physician went on. ‘Risleye is too quarrelsome to leave unsupervised, while Tesdale is too lazy – at least if he is with me, I can make sure he learns something to help him through his disputations.’
‘And Valence?’
‘I need him to keep the peace between the other two. Besides, he has worked hard since that exploding-book incident, and it would be unfair to take Risleye and Tesdale, but leave him behind.’
‘But they are your most senior students.’ said Michael. ‘Who will mind the others?’
‘Deynman. He is quite capable of keeping a class in order, and Clippesby has offered to do the reading. It will do them good to spend a few days re-hearing some basic texts.’
‘It is a bad time for me to leave,’ said Michael, more interested in his own concerns. ‘I still do not know who attacked Langelee. I have failed to discover who took your pennyroyal, although Risleye assures me it was a servant. The Stanton Cups remain missing. And Bene’t College was burgled last night – Gosse, most likely, although I cannot prove it. Again.’
‘We will not be gone long, Brother. Three days at the most.’
‘Moreover, King’s Hall is not happy about me keeping Shropham in gaol,’ Michael went on, declining to be appeased. ‘But what else can I do? I can hardly release him, when he will not speak to defend himself. What message would that send to criminals?’
‘Yolande said she saw Carbo talking to three King’s Hall men on the High Street.’ Bartholomew hesitated before adding, ‘She said Wynewyk was with them.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘What do you think that means?’
‘That King’s Hall is keeping something from you – something relating to why Shropham killed Carbo. However, Wynewyk had taken to socialising with Paxtone and Warden Powys in the last few weeks, so I do not think his presence at this gathering was significant.’
‘He cheated his College in the last few weeks, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Do not be too ready to dismiss the facts, Matt. But this means I should visit King’s Hall today. I understand Shropham lying – felons do that when they are in a tight corner – but it is unacceptable for his colleagues to indulge their penchant for fabrication at such a time.’
‘Perhaps you should wait. Your various investigations – Carbo’s murder, Wynewyk’s business, and even Joan’s death – have links to Suffolk. Our journey there may provide answers, and it would be a pity to have made accusatory remarks to members of a rival foundation if it transpires to be unnecessary: King’s Hall’s association with Carbo may be innocent.’
Michael did not look as though he thought it would, but he accepted the physician’s point about acquiring ammunition. ‘Carbo is puzzling. I find it strange that he should know two people – Joan and Wynewyk – who are both suddenly dead. And that he is Gosse’s lawman.’
‘Coal,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk bought some we never saw; Carbo had a piece sewn in his habit; Joan’s husband sells it; and it was discussed by Carbo, the King’s Hall men and Wynewyk before any of them were dead. Coal is a clue, I am sure of it. And this coal is supposed to come from Haverhill. It is something else we must investigate while we are there.’
When they reached the College, Michael waited like a vulture for Cynric to ring the breakfast bell, and Bartholomew went to talk to his students. They had gathered outside the hall, jostling Deynman and some theologians and clearly intent on being the first in. He wondered why they always felt compelled to race, when meals never started until everyone was standing at his place anyway.
His announcement that he would be away for a few days was met with a variety of reactions. The more studious lads were disappointed, the lazy ones looked relieved, Risleye was angry that he had paid for teaching that would now not be given, and Tesdale was concerned.
‘It is a long and dangerous journey,’ he said. ‘You may not come back, and then what will happen to us? Paxtone will not accept us, because he might think we are all like Risleye, while Rougham is too sharp and impatient a master for my taste.’
‘You are coming with me,’ said Bartholomew, a little dismayed that Tesdale should see his demise only in terms of the inconvenience to himself; he had thought his students liked him. ‘So is Risleye—’
‘Me?’ cried Tesdale in dismay. ‘I cannot go! I do not want to!’
‘More importantly, neither can I,’ declared Risleye self-importantly. ‘I do not like travelling.’
Bartholomew was taken aback by their responses, recalling that his master had dragged him as far as Greece and Africa when he had been a student. Suffolk was hardly in the same league.
‘You are coming,’ he said in the tone of voice that made it clear it was not a matter for debate. ‘So is Valence. And the rest of you will learn—’
‘Really?’ interrupted Valence, his face alight with pleasure. ‘When do we leave? Is there time for me to say goodbye to my grandfather? Shall I pack a medicine bag, like the one you carry? You never know when additional supplies might come in useful. Can I borrow your spare cloak, Risleye?’
‘I suppose,’ replied Risleye unenthusiastically. ‘But what about your classes, sir? Who will teach the others, if we three senior students are kicking our heels in some Godforsaken village?’
‘I will,’ offered Deynman eagerly. ‘I was a physician-in-training before I abandoned medicine in favour of librarianship, so I know what needs to be done. I shall ensure they stay at their studies.’
Bartholomew grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side, so the others would not hear. ‘I understand you still demand access to my storeroom. Why?’
Deynman looked annoyed. ‘Did Tesdale tell you that? The little rat! He said he would keep it to himself if I gave him a shilling. I shall demand the money back, since he reneged.’
‘Never mind that. Tell me what you wanted in there.’
‘Pennyroyal,’ confessed Deynman reluctantly. ‘Cynric told me it puts a lovely shine on metal, and I wanted to polish the hasps on my books. Of course, he was wrong.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your useless pennyroyal did nothing for my hasps. However, I did not take much, because there was not much left, and I did not think you would mind, as you know I will replace it. I would have bought my own, but the apothecary said there was a sudden demand for it, and he ran out. But I am to return there on Monday, when your supply will be replenished in full.’
‘Why did you not tell me all this when I first asked?’ Bartholomew distinctly recalled Deynman being with his students the morning he had noticed its disappearance.
Deynman’s expression was sheepish. ‘I was going to, but you looked so irked that I decided to wait for a better moment. You were furious when Valence borrowed ingredients to make that book explode, and I did not want you to rail at me like you hollered at him.’
He grinned happily, clearly thinking the explanation was enough to see him forgiven. And he was right: the physician was too relieved to be angry. He ordered him not to do it again, although the Librarian was not very good at remembering instructions and was sure to forget. It made Bartholomew all the more determined to improve security in the future. He turned his mind back to his students and teaching.
‘Here are the texts I want my students to have heard by the time I return,’ he said, handing Deynman an unreasonably ambitious schedule. ‘Clippesby has volunteered to read them aloud.’
Deynman scanned the list. ‘I have most of these in my library, and the rest I can borrow from King’s Hall. Do not worry: your pupils will be safe with me – and with Clippesby.’
Bartholomew hoped so, and decided to ask Wynewyk to keep an eye on them as well. He experienced a
sharp pang of grief when he realised that would not be possible.
He saw Valence standing alone and went to speak to him, keen to think about something else. ‘I understand you saw Gosse lob a stone at my sister,’ he said.
‘Mud, not a stone,’ corrected Valence. ‘And she ordered me not to tell you, because she said you would be upset. I went with her to see Constable Muschett afterwards, but he said my testimony was inadmissible – that I would lie to get Gosse into trouble because he stole our Stanton Cups.’
‘He said that to you?’ asked Bartholomew.
Valence grinned. ‘He did – but he is right: I would do anything to get the chalices back. Gosse is a terrifying man, but it would not stop me from fabricating stories to convict him.’
‘The Sheriff will be home soon, and he will put an end to such antics,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment on the lad’s ethics. ‘Do you know why Gosse threw mud at Edith?’
‘Well, he was in the Market Square, and Joan started to chat to him. Your sister asked how she knew him, and Joan said Gosse hailed from Clare, which is near her home village of Haverhill.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then he started to hint that he would like some ribbon, and your sister thought he should buy his own. When she pulled Joan away, he grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and threw it. I wanted to punch him, but she said you would not approve. Personally, I thought you would not have minded.’
‘I would have minded,’ said Bartholomew. He softened. ‘Although I appreciate you looking out for her.’
‘Who will do it while we are away?’ asked Valence, worriedly. ‘Her husband has gone to Lincolnshire, and I dislike the notion of her being unprotected. Perhaps I should forgo this exciting journey, and make sure Gosse does not hurl anything else in her direction.’
‘Cynric will stay with her.’
‘Then who will look after us?’ Valence’s expression was deeply anxious, but then it cleared. ‘You will! I had forgotten that you are a seasoned warrior who fought at Poitiers. Cynric is always talking about it. Of course we will be safe with you!’
CHAPTER 6
Bartholomew and Michael made the most of their last day in Cambridge. The monk engaged in a concerted effort to identify the man who had attacked Langelee, and questioned Shropham about Carbo, but his efforts came to nothing. A lead relating to the ambush transpired to be the drunken imaginings of someone who had not been there, while Shropham merely turned his face to the wall and refused to speak. Short of punching the truth out of him – and Michael was not a violent man – he was stumped as how to proceed. He returned to the College late that night in a dark mood, worried about the journey he was being forced to make, and reluctant to leave Cambridge when there were so many matters there that clamoured for his attention.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew passed the morning explaining why his students needed to learn the texts he had selected, making it clear that those not familiar with them by the time he returned could expect to be set exercises that would keep them indoors for a month. He did not really expect trouble. His lads were full of high spirits, but most were keen to learn and took their studies seriously. They were also acutely aware that a lot of men wanted the chance to study at Michaelhouse, and that Langelee would have no compunction in replacing anyone who misbehaved.
The afternoon was spent seeing patients. Some had summoned him, while others suffered from long-term maladies that required regular visits. He ensured all had enough medicine to last for the next week, then issued Paxtone with detailed instructions on what to do if there was a problem.
Sincerely hoping his colleague’s expertise would not be required – he liked Paxtone, but did not want him near his patients unless there was absolutely no alternative – he walked to the Dominican Friary, where one of the novices had been injured. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, because the other students were all at a lecture in King’s Hall, and were delighted when the case transpired to be a possible cracked skull.
‘How do we test for a cranial fracture?’ he asked, taking the patient’s head gently in his hands.
‘We look it up in Frugard’s Chirurgia,’ replied Risleye promptly.
‘And what happens if we do not have a copy to hand?’
‘We squeeze the bones together, to see whether they grate,’ said Tesdale, with rather ghoulish glee.
Bartholomew winced. ‘Not unless we want to kill him.’
‘Osa Gosse did this,’ said Prior Morden, holding the novice’s hand comfortingly, but staring fixedly in the opposite direction so that he would not see anything the physician might do. ‘He and James had words yesterday, and threats were made. Well, it seems Gosse acted on his violent words.’
‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ Bartholomew asked of James. A serious assault would give Michael the excuse he needed to arrest the fellow, and the monk would be much happier leaving his town if the felon was under lock and key.
‘Who else could it have been?’ asked James miserably. ‘The fight I had with the Franciscans was days ago now, and they will have forgotten that I called them villainous knaves whose mothers—’
‘James!’ exclaimed Morden, shocked. ‘You promised to leave the Grey Friars alone.’
‘They provoked me,’ objected James. ‘They said I was a dim-witted lout with no manners.’
‘Gosse,’ prompted Bartholomew, suspecting the Franciscans might have a point. ‘Can you be sure he was the one who attacked you today?’
‘No,’ admitted James reluctantly. ‘The villain wore a hood, and I could not see his face. I suppose it might have been a Grey Friar. They are certainly the kind of men to attack innocent Dominicans.’
Bartholomew was disappointed, but his duty was to treat the wound, not investigate the crime. He was just assessing James’s eyes when Morden suddenly jumped to his feet and shot towards the door.
‘I do not have the stomach to watch you crack open his skull and prod whatever you find inside,’ the Prior explained. ‘Do not look frightened, James. You will not be able to see it.’
‘Really, Father,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘I intend nothing so dramatic. Watch—’
But Morden had gone, leaving a terrified novice behind him, and it took the physician some time to convince James that cracking and prodding had no part in his plans.
When James was calm, he resumed his examination. There was no obvious depression or swelling, but there was a worrying pain caused by a boot stamping on an ear. He did not think the skull was fractured, but decided to apply Roger of Parma’s test to make sure. James was instructed to stop up his mouth, nose and ears, and to blow as hard as he could. The escape of air or tissue would imply a fissure.
‘But my brains will fly out if I do that,’ James wept, distraught. ‘And Prior Morden says I am short of them, so I cannot afford to lose any.’
‘You will not,’ said Valence kindly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew knows what he is doing.’
‘Besides,’ added Tesdale practically, ‘brains are too glutinous to fly – they are more prone to ooze. And I shall catch any that dribble out and shove them back in for you.’
‘Do not be a baby,’ ordered Risleye, regarding the novice disdainfully. ‘And if you do not trust your physicians – us – then you deserve to die. But you will not, because I will not let you.’
Strangely, it was Risleye’s cold arrogance that convinced James to do as he was told. Afterwards, satisfied the pain was caused by simple bruising, Bartholomew showed his pupils how to make a poultice to ease the ache, and when James said he was hungry – a good sign – he sent Risleye and Valence to the kitchen for broth.
While they were gone, Bartholomew found himself recalling how eagerly Yolande had devoured Isnard’s stew the previous evening. He suspected her children were also hungry, and did not want to return from Suffolk to find them half-dead from starvation. He handed Tesdale the money Morden had paid him to tend James, and told him what he wanted bought. The student was bemused.<
br />
‘And I am to leave all this outside their house without them seeing? Why?’
‘Pride,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘No one likes accepting charity.’
‘I do not mind,’ said Tesdale ruefully. ‘I am grateful for anything I can get.’
‘Please be discreet,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Tesdale’s innate laziness would not encourage him to be careless. He half wished he had recruited Valence instead.
‘You can trust me,’ said Tesdale solemnly. ‘I used to do similar things for Master Wynewyk – mostly making anonymous donations of food and ale for the Michaelhouse Choir.’
‘That was Wynewyk?’ Bartholomew recalled Michael often remarking on the miraculous appearance of victuals when his own funds were low. ‘I never knew.’
Tears welled in Tesdale’s eyes. ‘I probably should not have mentioned it, but I thought you should know I have experience with this kind of thing, so you can depend on me to—’ He stopped speaking abruptly when Risleye and Valence entered the sickroom with the soup.
‘Depend on you to what?’ asked Risleye.
‘To … to return my library books before we leave on our journey tomorrow,’ replied Tesdale in a guilty stammer. Risleye narrowed his eyes.
‘I do not believe you,’ he said accusingly. ‘You were probably ingratiating yourself so Doctor Bartholomew will save you first if we are attacked. We all know it is perilous and stupid to travel in winter.’
‘It is not perilous,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately turning his mind from the very real dangers of robbers, floods, getting lost and being thrown from panicky horses.
‘Master Wynewyk did not agree,’ said Risleye resentfully. ‘He hated leaving Cambridge at any time of the year.’
‘He left it to visit his father last term,’ Tesdale pointed out. ‘In Winwick, which is a long way west of Huntingdon. Personally, I cannot imagine why anyone would want to leave home. It is hard work, and I would much rather stay in by the fire.’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 18
