The arrival of Rougham and Paxtone in Cambridge had relaxed the pressure on him considerably, and he now had a list of patients he felt was manageable. Most of the folk who had abandoned him were wealthy, and preferred the newcomers’ willingness to calculate horoscopes and concoct potions to help them recover from the after-effects of too much food and drink. Bartholomew was left with the town’s poor, whom the others would not have deigned to advise anyway, although Paxtone offered free consultations on Wednesday evenings.
Although a shorter list of people wanting his services was a blessing, Bartholomew soon discovered that the ones who summoned him invariably could not pay him or buy the medicines he recommended. While he was not overly concerned about the loss of income for himself – his basic needs were provided for by his College stipend – he was unhappy about the fact that there were folk suffering just because they could not afford to purchase what they needed to make them well. Sometimes he received donations from generous colleagues, but more often than not he was obliged to pay for the remedies himself or watch his patients try to recover without them.
That day, he was summoned to the home of a woman with an excess of choler in the stomach, and knew she would be much more comfortable if she drank a solution of chalk and charcoal, mixed with poppy juice. But the patient was Una, one of the town’s more desperate prostitutes, and she needed to spend her meagre earnings on bread and rent; medicine was an unthinkable luxury. He glanced around her hovel, noting the holes in the roof, the gaps in the wall, and the mean little fire in the hearth.
He asked for a sample of urine, then showed the students how to assess it for various maladies. All three scribbled notes furiously on scraps of parchment. Redmeadow dropped his pen in his desperation to write, and had to grovel on the floor to retrieve it from under a bench. As he stretched out his hand, he exposed the sleeve of his tunic, and Bartholomew saw it was ingrained with dust and dirt. Bartholomew assumed he had been earning extra pennies by drudging for Agatha in the kitchens. Like Quenhyth, Redmeadow was not a wealthy student, and was often obliged to undertake menial tasks in an effort to make ends meet.
‘I saw you last night, Doctor,’ said Una mischievously, when the consultation was over and the students started to argue among themselves about the reason for the sudden decline in Michaelhouse victuals. They paid her and their teacher no attention.
‘I saw you, too,’ Bartholomew replied, smiling as he sat on the bench. ‘Or rather, I heard you. You were at Cheney’s house. Incidentally, he fed you acidic wine that upset your humours. You should demand a better-quality brew from him in the future.’
She grimaced. ‘I wondered why he took his own claret from a different jug. But I watched you go inside Deschalers’s home, and I saw someone else run out a little later. Did you startle a burglar? I am not surprised someone chanced his hand. Deschalers’s house will offer handsome pickings, and the whole town knew he was not in a position to defend his property last night.’
‘The burglar climbed out of a window at the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then he made good his escape down the alley that leads to the river.’
‘No, he left through the front door,’ argued Una. ‘After you and the fat monk had gone inside. I saw him with my own eyes – although Cheney’s wine made me feel as though I had six of them.’
‘Perhaps he doubled back,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she had probably seen Michael or the elderly servant. Or perhaps she had confused the sequence of events, and had watched the burglar entering the house rather than leaving it.
‘Perhaps.’ She winced and put a hand on her stomach as she was gripped by another spasm of pain. ‘This hurts, Doctor. There must be something that can relieve it. I hear you always carry strong wine to use as medicine. Will you give me some of that?’
‘It would make you worse,’ said Bartholomew. He left her house, fuming silently that rich merchants could have whatever they liked, while Una would not eat that day if she did not secure herself some customers. It was unjust, and he fully empathised with the growing unrest among folk who were clamouring for better pay and wanting to narrow the gap between rich and poor. He recalled the disturbances in Ely the previous summer, when men had risked the King’s displeasure by instigating insurrection among the peasantry.
He was still fretting about the problem when he met a messenger with an order to attend Tynkell at the Church of St Mary the Great. Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman immediately began to speculate about why an august personage like the Chancellor should want Bartholomew to visit him. Bartholomew hoped it was nothing to do with the curious discussion about poisons they had had after the Disputatio de quodlibet. He doubted it was anything to do with the mill deaths, because Michael would have answered any questions arising from that.
‘Perhaps Tynkell wants you to take his place,’ suggested Quenhyth sycophantically. ‘He has been in office for three years now, and he may have decided it is time for a change.’
‘I think Brother Michael might have something to say about that,’ said Redmeadow. ‘He intends to be the next Chancellor. And chancellors are elected, anyway. It is not for Tynkell to appoint one.’
‘Perhaps he is with child and knows you are better with women’s matters than Rougham and Paxtone,’ suggested Deynman.
Bartholomew regarded his cheery-faced student warily, while the other two students clutched each other in helpless laughter. ‘How could Chancellor Tynkell be pregnant?’
Deynman blushed furiously. ‘Surely you do not need me to explain that process? It happens when a husband and his wife come together, and—’
‘That is not what I meant,’ interrupted Bartholomew, amused by Deynman’s prim notion that the making of children occurred only between married couples. ‘I was referring to the fact that Tynkell is a man – and men do not bear children.’
‘Some do,’ said Deynman, round-eyed. ‘I read it in Aristotle last night. He said that the sex of hermaphrodites is determined by whether they prefer the clothing of males or females. Although Tynkell was baptised a man, he obviously prefers wimples and gowns, and he will soon bear a child.’
Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought how dangerous a little knowledge could be in the mind of someone like Deynman. He struggled to explain in words he thought the lad might comprehend. ‘Aristotle actually said that hermaphrodites should be considered men or women depending on their ability to copulate – nothing to do with clothes or bearing children. But why have you attributed this particular condition to Tynkell?’
‘He is always rubbing his stomach,’ said Deynman, as though no further explanation were necessary. He glanced at his teacher, saw his confused expression, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Labour pains. All pregnant women have them.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, aware that Redmeadow and Quenhyth were almost in tears as they attempted to suppress their amusement. ‘Is that all?’
‘And because he never bathes,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘He does not want anyone to know of his circumstances, because, as a woman, he would not be permitted to be Chancellor. By never bathing – and thus never revealing any minute portion of his flesh – he ensures his secret remains safe.’
‘Except from you,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how he would ever solve the problem that Deynman had become. At some point the student was going to realise that he could study for the rest of his life and still not be good enough to pass his disputations, and then he would leave Cambridge and descend on some unsuspecting settlement to ply his ‘skills’. Not all physicians completed their University studies, and there were many who had never attended a school at all. However, Deynman could honestly say that he had studied longer than most, and prospective patients would be impressed. Bartholomew felt a sudden stab of fear, knowing it was only a matter of time before Deynman did someone some serious harm.
‘Why are Una’s humours unbalanced?’ asked Redmeadow, wiping his eyes and attempting to bring the discussion back to the patient they had just visi
ted. ‘Is it because she spends too much time romping with men she does not know?’
Bartholomew applied himself to answering, noticing how Quenhyth and Deynman hurried to emulate Redmeadow, and extract scraps of parchment from their scrips and jot down notes. He talked about the delicate balance of humours in the stomach, and how Una had an excess of acid bile that needed to be brought under control. Redmeadow and Deynman listened, then lagged behind when they felt they had heard enough. Quenhyth, however, was still full of questions.
‘You did not suggest bleeding. When there is an excess of evil fluids, then surely the best recourse is to drain them away?’
‘Bleeding will not reduce the amount of bile in the stomach,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And purges that cause vomiting will bring pain. A compound of chalk and charcoal would soothe the caustic humours and allow them to reduce naturally.’
‘Is this what Galen recommends?’ asked Quenhyth, scribbling furiously.
‘Galen suggests cutting around any intestine ulcerated by black bile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I do not think such a drastic step is necessary in Una’s case.’ And he had no wish to be reprimanded by his colleagues again for employing surgical techniques.
‘What about a poultice of henbane?’ asked Quenhyth, shaking his pen in an attempt to relieve a blockage. Ink splattered across the sleeve of Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘You mentioned yesterday that Arab medicine makes good use of plants like henbane, which are poisonous but which can be used as cures by the cautious.’
‘By the very cautious,’ warned Bartholomew, scrubbing at the spots and making them worse. ‘Henbane slows the brain and reduces the sensation of pain. No physician prescribes it lightly, and most only do so as a last resort. Too much will kill, while too little will not achieve the desired effect. Lily of the valley can also be used to soothe pain, but again it is essential to determine the precise dosage, or it will not work. Personally, I would not use either. They are too dangerous.’
‘Henbane,’ said Quenhyth, underlining what he had written with several firm strokes. He glanced up and pointed at the black splatter on Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Agatha will not be pleased when she sees that. Ink is not easy to remove.’
Before he arrived at St Mary the Great, Bartholomew emptied his scrip and found a few pennies – the last of his stipend for that month. Hoping there would not be some unforeseen emergency that would require him to pay for something else, he handed them to his students and instructed them to buy ground chalk and poppy juice from the apothecary. Quenhyth demurred, virtuously claiming that he did not want to be seduced by the salacious Isobel, so the others suggested he scavenge charcoal from the blacksmith instead. Bartholomew promised to show them how to mix the potion for Una later, when they were all back at Michaelhouse.
The Chancellor’s office in the University Church was spacious and functional, with a bench running along the length of one wall, and shelves overflowing with parchments and scrolls. A large table stood in the middle, also piled high with documents, and the whole room was sharp with the daylight that flooded in through one of the beautiful perpendicular glazed windows.
Bartholomew was surprised to discover Michael already there, comfortably settled with a goblet of warmed wine. The monk was telling Tynkell how to sell one of the University’s unoccupied houses, and the Chancellor was busily writing his instructions down. The rumours were true about how much power Michael had accrued in his capacity as Senior Proctor, Bartholomew thought. It was clear from the way they interacted that Michael was in charge.
‘Ah, Bartholomew,’ said Tynkell, waving a grime--impregnated hand to indicate that the physician should enter. Bartholomew obliged, and wondered how Michael could stand the stale odour that emanated from the Chancellor’s long-unwashed person. He supposed the monk considered it a small price to pay for the kind of influence he had inveigled for himself. ‘We wanted to see you.’
He offered the physician some of the wine that was mulling over the fire. Bartholomew accepted, but was not impressed by the fact that Tynkell’s aversion to water seemed to extend to his goblets, too. There was a ring of brown scum on the rim from the lips of previous drinkers, and its outside was sticky from greasy fingers. Tynkell sat again, and Bartholomew discovered he had been holding his breath while the Chancellor was close. Meanwhile, Michael kept his nose in his goblet, and the physician saw he was using it much as he might employ a pomander.
‘You are filthy,’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew in an aggrieved tone of voice. He pointed to the ink stains on the physician’s sleeve. ‘Look at that! It is no example to set to your students.’
Bartholomew heard Michael snigger into his wine. ‘Agatha will wash it tonight,’ he said, wishing he had the nerve to point out to the Chancellor that he had seldom encountered such brazen hypocrisy.
‘I am not telling you to resort to extremes,’ said Tynkell hastily. ‘You just need to buy a tabard with long sleeves. Then no one will notice your dirty tunics. I recommend Isobel de Lavenham, who has a nimble needle and offers good rates.’
‘I have done nothing about the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers since we were at the King’s Mill this morning,’ Michael said to Bartholomew, his voice taking on a curious, echoing quality as it came through the cup. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit to the King’s Head, because Thorpe – now flaunting himself as a scholar – made trouble there, and I do not want him to be the cause of a riot between students and apprentices.’
‘No,’ agreed Tynkell, rubbing his stomach and wincing. ‘That must be avoided at all costs. Do you think they murdered Deschalers and Bottisham, Brother?’
‘It is possible,’ said Michael.
‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bernarde would have seen them.’
‘Such details are not important,’ said Tynkell firmly. ‘I want the perpetrator of this monstrous crime in a prison cell as soon as possible. We can work out their motives and methods later, when the danger is no longer stalking our streets. We cannot afford to dally with this, Brother.’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘I know that. However, I need clues in order to solve the mystery, and they have not been forthcoming. Unfortunately, at the moment, the most likely theory is that Bottisham killed Deschalers, then did away with himself in a fit of remorse, and—’
‘No!’ exclaimed Tynkell. ‘That cannot have happened! Not a scholar murdering a townsman! That would cause a riot for certain – especially since the victim was wealthy. The burgesses would appeal to the King for justice, and God knows where that might lead.’
‘We do not know what took place,’ said Bartholomew, also reluctant to believe that the gentle Bottisham would kill Deschalers. However, he was painfully aware that if Deschalers could not summon the energy to retrieve a dropped purse, then he certainly would think twice about attempting to stab a fit and healthy scholar and throw him in the workings of a mill. ‘But we will try to find out.’
‘You must do more than try,’ snapped Tynkell. He rubbed his stomach a second time, grimacing with the pain. ‘Since you are here, Bartholomew, I am suffering acutely from that complaint we discussed a month ago – an excess of bile in the spleen, you said.’
Bartholomew immediately thought of Deynman’s theory, and drank some wine in an attempt to compose himself. He looked the Chancellor up and down, aware that he was actually a very unusual shape. ‘Bile in the spleen can be uncomfortable,’ he managed eventually.
‘I hope I am not being poisoned,’ Tynkell went on nervously. ‘As Bishop Bateman was poisoned in the papal court at Avignon.’
‘So that is why you asked me about poisons at the Disputatio,’ said Bartholomew, greatly relieved. ‘You thought someone might be using a toxin that is giving you gripes in the stomach. I thought you wanted the information so you could use it on an enemy.’
Tynkell regarded him icily, while Michael’s green eyes grew as huge and round as those of an owl. ‘Have a care, Matt,’ he muttered. ‘Accusing the Chancellor of plotting
to murder his adversaries is no way to further your University career.’
‘I asked those questions because I have been unwell for so long,’ replied Tynkell stiffly. ‘Bishop Bateman was also ill for some time, and it occurred to me that someone might be feeding me a noxious, slow-acting substance to bring about my death.’
‘In that case, you should eat only from dishes shared by your colleagues, and never accept gifts of food and wine,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I wish you had mentioned this on Saturday. Our discussion gave Rougham entirely the wrong impression.’
Tynkell was not interested in the damage he might have done to Bartholomew’s reputation. ‘You are the University’s Senior Physician, so of course I consulted you about my concerns. Who else should I ask?’
‘I do not think anyone is poisoning you,’ said Bartholomew, although it crossed his mind that the Chancellor might well be poisoning himself – with his powerful personal odours. ‘But you should discuss this with your own physician, not me.’
‘I do not know what to do about these gripes,’ Tynkell went on, ignoring the advice. ‘I summoned Rougham first, then Paxtone, and they were both very thorough. Rougham composed a horoscope, and Paxtone wrote out details of a dietary regime involving beet juice that he said would have me better within a week. But I am not better, and I prefer your unorthodox treatments to their conventional ones: your cures work, and theirs do not.’
Bartholomew hid a smile. ‘So, are you abandoning them to return to me?’
‘I have not been well since I defected,’ admitted Tynkell. He hesitated, never a man to be decisive. ‘But perhaps I could keep all three of you. What do you think of that?’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 14
