'What is the news?' he asked. 'Are these rumours true about dead friars in the chest?'
Bartholomew nodded, and tried to leave, reluctant to engage in gossip with the Senior Fellow. He was a tiny, bitter man who fussed like a hen and had a fanatical dislike of women that Bartholomew thought was abnormal.
'What House?' Alcote asked.
'Dominican,' answered Bartholomew, guessing what was coming next.
Alcote shot him a triumphant look. 'Dominican! A mendicant!' Bartholomew gave him a look of reproval.
If the Fellows harboured such unyielding attitudes, what hope was there that the students would ever forget their differences and learn to study in peace?
Alcote had recently taken major orders with the Cluniacs at Thetford, and had immediately engaged upon a bitter war of attrition with the mendicant Franciscans. Michaelhouse had been relatively free from inter-Order disputes until then; Brother Michael, the one Benedictine, picked no quarrel with the strong Franciscan contingent there, while those who had taken minor orders, like Bartholomew, had no quarrel with anyone.
Most scholars at the University took religious orders.
This meant that they came under the jurisdiction of Church, rather than secular, law. This division between scholars and townspeople was yet another bone of contention, for secular law was notoriously harsher than Canon law: if Alcote or Bartholomew stole a sheep, they would be fined; if a townsman stole a sheep, he was likely to be hanged. Being in minor orders meant that Bartholomew had certain duties to perform, such as taking church services, but the protection it offered was indisputable. Other scholars, like William, Michael, and now Alcote, had taken major orders, which forbade marriage and relations with women.
Bartholomew left Alcote to his nasty musing, and made for the conclave. It was a pleasant room in the summer, when the light from the wide arched windows flooded in.
The windows had no glass, and so a cool breeze wafted through them, tinged with the unmistakable aroma of river. The coolness was welcome in the summer, but in the winter, when the shutters had to be kept firmly closed against the weather, the conclave was dark and cold. The lime-washed walls were decorated with some fine wall-hangings, donated by a former student after a fire had damaged much of the hall two years before, and, at Bartholomew's insistence, there were always fresh rushes on the floor.
Bartholomew's students were engaged in a noisy dispute that he felt certain was not medical, and they quietened when he strode in. He settled himself in one of the chairs near the empty fireplace and smiled round at his students, noting which ones smiled back and which ones studiously avoided his eye because they had failed to prepare for the discussion he had planned.
Sam Gray was one of the ones looking everywhere but at his teacher. He was a young man in his early twenties with a shock of unruly, light-brown hair. He looked tired and Bartholomew wondered what nocturnal activities he had been pursuing. He was certain they would not have had much to do with trepanation, cutting the skull open to relieve pressure on the brain, the subject of the day.
Bartholomew had been taught how to perform a number of basic operations by Ibn Ibrahim, and was considered something of an oddity in the town for knowing both surgery and medicine. He believed that medicine and surgery could complement each other, and wanted his students to have knowledge of both, despite the fact that most physicians looked down on surgical techniques as the responsibilities of barbers.
Another problem he faced was that those students who had taken major orders were forbidden to practise incision and cautery by an edict passed by the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215.
'What is trepanation?' he asked. He had described the operation the previous term, but was curious to know who had remembered and who had not.
There was a rustle in the room as some students shuffled their feet, and one or two hands went up.
Bartholomew noted that the first belonged to Thomas Bulbeck, who was his brightest student.
'Master Gray?' Bartholomew asked maliciously, knowing that Gray would not have the faintest idea what trepanation was because he had missed the previous lecture.
Gray looked startled. 'Trepidation,' he began, his usual confident manner asserting itself quickly, 'is a morbid fear of having your head sawed off.'
Bartholomew fought down the urge to laugh. If these young men were to be successful in their disputations, there was no room for levity. He saw one or two of the students nodding sagely, and marvelled at Gray's abilities to make the most outrageous claims with such conviction.
Secretly, he envied the skill: such brazen self-assurance in certain situations might give a patient the encouragement needed to recover. Bartholomew was a poor liar, and his Arab master had often criticised him for not telling a patient what he wanted to hear when it might make the difference between life and death.
'Anyone else?' he asked, standing and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Bulbeck's hand shot up. Bartholomew motioned for him to answer.
'Trepanation,' he said, casting a mischievous glance at Gray, 'is the surgical practice of removing a part of the skull to relieve pressure on the brain.'
'Surgery!' spat one of the Franciscans in disgust. 'A tradesman's job!'
Bartholomew wandered over to him. 'A patient comes to you with severe headaches, spells of unconsciousness, and uncoordinated movements. What do you do, Brother Boniface?'
'Bleed him with leeches,' Brother Boniface replied promptly.
Bartholomew thrust his hands in the folds of his tabard and suppressed a sigh of resignation. Wherever he went, people saw bleeding as a panacea for all manner of ailments, when other, far more effective but less dramatic, methods were to hand. He had lost many a patient to other physicians because of his refusal to leech on demand, and some had not lived to regret it. 'And what will that do?'
'It will relieve the patient of an excess of bad humours and reduce the pressure in the brain. Without the use of surgery,' he concluded smugly.
'And what if that does not work, and the patient becomes worse?' asked Bartholomew, sauntering to the window and sitting on one of the stone window seats, hands still firmly in his gown to prevent himself from grabbing the arrogant friar and trying to shake some sense into him.
'Then it is God's will that he dies, and I give him last rites,' said Boniface.
Bartholomew was impressed at this reasoning. Would that all his cases were so simple.' But anyone who becomes ill and who is not given the correct treatment may die,' he said, 'and any of you who are unprepared to apply the cure that will save the patient should not become physicians.'
There was a sheepish silence. Bartholomew continued.
'Under certain circumstances there may be a surgical technique that can be used to save a patient's life. If it were God's will that these people should die, He would not have made it possible to use the technique in the first place. But the point is that many people who might have died have been saved because a surgeon has known how to do it. You need not perform the operation yourselves, but you should be prepared to hire the services of a barber-surgeon who will do it for you. Your first duty as a physician is always to save life, or to relieve painful symptoms.'
'My first duty is to God!' exclaimed Boniface, attempting piety, but betrayed by the malice that glittered in his eyes.
'Physicians serve God through their patients,' said Bartholomew immediately, having had this debate many times with Father William. 'God has given you the gift of healing through knowledge, and the way in which you use it is how you serve Him. If you choose to ignore the knowledge He has made available to you without good reason, then your service to Him is flawed.'
'Do you believe you serve God without using the leeches He saw fit to provide for that purpose?' asked Boniface blithely.
"I try to save my patients' lives with the most effective method,' replied Bartholomew. 'If I was certain leeching a patient would secure his recovery, I would leech him.
But when my own experie
nce dictates that there are other, more effective, cures for certain ailments than leeches, it would be wrong of me not to use them.'
'Does trepanation hurt the patient?' asked Robert Deynman suddenly, causing stifled laughter among the other students, and effectively ending Bartholomew's debate with Boniface. Deynman was Bartholomew's least able student, who had been accepted by Michaelhouse because his father was rich. Bartholomew eyed him closely, wondering if the question was intended to needle him, but a glance into the boy's guileless eyes told him that this was just another of his unbelievably stupid questions. Bartholomew felt sorry for him. He tried hard to keep up with the others, but study was entirely beyond him. The thought of Deynman let loose on patients made Bartholomew shudder, and he hoped he would never pass his disputations.
'Yes,' he answered slowly. 'It can be painful.' He wanted to ask how Deynman thought having a hole sawn in his head would feel, but did not want to embarrass the student in front of the others, especially the Franciscans.
'But there are things we can do to alleviate some of the discomfort. What are they?'
He stood up again and went back to the fireplace, kicking at the rushes as Bulbeck recited a list of the drugs and potions that might be used to dull the senses. 'What about laudanum?' he snapped. They had discussed Dioscorides' recommendations for doses of laudanum the previous day, and Bulbeck had already forgotten it.
Bulbeck faltered, and then added it to his list.
'How much would you give to a child you were going to operate on?' he demanded.
Bulbeck faltered again and the others looked away.
'Three measures,' said Deynman.
'For a child?' said Bartholomew incredulously, his resolution not to embarrass Deynman forgotten in his frustration. 'Well, you would certainly solve the problem of pressure on the brain. You would kill it! Master Gray?
Come on! Think!'
'One measure,' guessed Gray wildly.
Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back and then looked at his students in resignation. 'You will kill your patients with ignorance,' he said quietly. "I have told you at least twice now how much laudanum is safe to give children and you still do not know. Tomorrow we will discuss Dioscorides's De Materia Medica and the medicinal properties of opiates. Bulbeck will read it here this afternoon, and I want everyone to attend.
Anyone who does not know correct dosages need not come tomorrow.'
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the conclave, hoping he had frightened them into learning. He was frustrated that they did not learn faster when there was such a dire need for physicians, but he would not make their disputations easier. Badly-taught physicians could be worse than none at all.
The bell began to ring for dinner and Bartholomew went to wash his hands. Michael was already speeding across to the hall so he could grab a few mouthfuls before the others arrived. The Franciscans gathered together before processing silently across the beaten-earth of the yard. Father William, the fanatic whom, rumour had it, had been dismissed from the inquisition for over-zealousness, was their acknowledged leader.
Bartholomew took his place next to Michael at the table that stood on a raised dais at the south end of the hall where the Fellows sat in a row. The large monk had tell-tale crumbs on his face and there were obvious gaps in the bread-basket. To Bartholomew's left sat Father Aidan, another Franciscan. Aidan was prematurely bald with two prominent front teeth and small blue eyes that never changed expression. Bartholomew had been told that he was an outstanding theologian, although his few attempts at conversation had been painful.
Aidan sat next to William, while next to him sat Kenyngham, his wispy white hair standing almost at right angles to his scalp. Next to the Master was Roger Alcote, and Piers Hesselwell sat on the end. Hesselwell taught law, and always wore fine clothes under his scholar's tabard.
It had been difficult to find a Master of Law, for life in post-plague England was sunny indeed for lawyers. The plague took many individuals who had not made wills, while many wills that had been made were contested bitterly, and there was work aplenty for the lawyers. Few were willing to exchange potentially meteoric careers as practising lawyers for poorly paid positions as University teachers.
The last students slipped into place at the two long trestle tables that ran at right angles to the high table in the main body of the hall, and the buzz of conversation and shuffling died away. After the meal, the tables would be stored along the walls so that the hall could be used for teaching.
The Master said grace and announced that conversation would be allowed that day, but it was to be exclusively in Latin. This was because some students had disputations the following day, and the Master thought academic debate during meals would allow them more practice. The Franciscans frowned disapprovingly and maintained their own silence. It was the usual custom for a Bible scholar to read during the silence of meals for the scholars' spiritual edification, and the new Master's occasional breaks from this tradition were causing friction between the friars and the others.
For Bartholomew and Michael, this afforded an opportunity to discuss what they would ask the clerks at St Mary's that afternoon.
'How was your lecture?' asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew to peer suspiciously at a dish of salted beef.
'Grim,' said Bartholomew. He looked down to where his students sat together at the far end of one of the tables.
Gray shot him an unpleasant look, and Bartholomew knew his words had been taken seriously.
He picked up a piece of bread and inspected it dubiously. Since the plague, staple crops like barley, oats, and wheat had become scarce. College bread was made with whatever was cheapest and available, which sometimes included flour that was too old even for pig feed. Today, the bread was a grey colour and contained dark brown flecks. It tasted worse than it looked, ancient flour vying for dominance with rancid fat. The salted beef was hard and dry, and there was a large bowl containing lumps of something unidentifiable smeared with a blackish gravy.
Michael gulped down a large goblet of ale and crammed bread into his mouth. He gagged slightly, his eyes watering, and swallowed with difficulty.
'You will choke one day if you do not eat more slowly,' said Bartholomew, not for the first time during their friendship.
'You will be able to save me,' said Michael complacently, reaching for more meat.
Bartholomew chewed some of the hard College bread slowly. The ale, he noticed, was off again, and the salted beef should be thrown away before it poisoned everyone.
The thought of poison brought his mind back to the business with the University chest. He had heard of such devices that were designed to kill unwanted meddlers, but never thought he would see one in action. He wondered who had put it there. A thought suddenly struck him and he almost choked on the bread in his eagerness to tell Michael.
Michael pounded on his back, and Bartholomew was reminded that the monk might look fat and unhealthy, but he was a physical force with which to be reckoned.
"It looks as if I will be the one to save you,' Michael said with malicious glee. 'Do not gobble your food, Doctor.
You will choke.'
'Buckley,' gasped Bartholomew. 'His hands!'
Michael looked at him blankly. 'What about his hands?'
Bartholomew took a gulp of the bad ale, and resisted the urge to spit it out again. "I treated Buckley for a skin complaint. He has weeping sores on his hands.'
'Please!' Michael looked disapproving at such matters mentioned at the table.
'He wears gloves, Michael! Not because the disease is infectious, but because the sores are unpleasant to see and he is embarrassed about them. Can you not see?' he cried, drawing the unwanted attention of the Franciscans. He lowered his voice. 'He probably wears his gloves when he unlocks the chest!'
Michael stared at him for a few moments, thinking.' So,' he said slowly, 'we cannot be certain when this poisonous lock was placed on the chest, since de Wetherset says B
uckley is the one who usually opened it, and he has been protected by his gloves. It may have been there for weeks or even months before it did its gruesome work.
Buckley may even have put it there himself knowing that he would be safe from it if he wore gloves.'
Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Possibly,' he said, 'although I do not think so. First, that was a very small cut on the friar's hand. He may not even have noticed it, which suggests a very concentrated form of poison. It would be a brave man who would risk touching such a lock, even wearing gloves. Second, perhaps the poison was meant for Buckley, if it were known that he was the one who regularly opened the chest, and not the Chancellor.'
Michael rubbed his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully.
'But that would mean that someone so wants Buckley dead that he has been to some trouble to plant that poisonous lock on the chest. I have never bought one of those things, but I warrant they are not cheap.'
'So perhaps Buckley has fled, not because he planted the lock and was responsible for the death of the friar, but because he was in fear of his life. Although,' Bartholomew added practically, 'most men fleeing in fear of their lives do not take tables and chairs with them.'
The conversation was cut short as the Master rose to say grace at the end of the meal, and the Fellows filed in silence from the hall. As soon as they were out, Michael winked at Bartholomew and headed off towards the kitchens to scavenge left-overs. The students clattered noisily down the stairs into the yard, followed by the commoners. There had been ten commoners at Michaelhouse before the plague, but the numbers were now down to four, all old men who had devoted their lives to teaching for the College and were rewarded with board and lodging for the remainder of their lives. Bartholomew went to pay his customary call on one of them, a Cistercian in his seventies called Brother Alban. Alban grinned toothlessly at Bartholomew as the physician rubbed warmed oil into his arthritic elbow, and began to talk in graphic terms about the murder of the prostitutes. As always, Bartholomew was amazed at how the old man managed to acquire his information. He never left the College, yet always seemed to be the first to hear any news from outside. Occasionally, Bartholomew found his love of gossip offensive, but tried to be tolerant since the poor man had little else to do. Although he could still read, Alban's elbow7 prevented him from producing the splendid illustrated texts for which he had once been famous. Bartholomew occasionally saw the old man leafing wistfully through some of his magnificent work, and felt sorry for him.
An Unholy Alliance Page 5
