‘Yes, choose,’ said Katherine. She smiled nervously at her husband and then addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you will not pay for them; they will be a gift to compensate you for the fact that you have missed the installation in order to attend Constantine.’
‘What?’ gasped Mortimer in shock, attempting to raise himself from his pillow. Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Katherine was not interested in interruptions. It was unusual to see the shy, diffident woman cross her husband and Bartholomew wondered whether his claim to have been brushed by death had rendered him suddenly more human and fallible in her eyes.
‘Doctor Bartholomew could have declined to come to you, Constantine,’ she reasoned. ‘You are not his patient and he will be the only Fellow in the University to miss the grand installation that the town has been discussing for weeks.’
‘Except for Father Philius,’ grunted Mortimer. ‘You told me he is ill, too.’
‘And you should remember that Father Philius would not have answered your summons until the festivities were over,’ said Katherine. ‘Now, try these green gloves, Doctor. They are the best ones here and suitably fine for a man of your profession.’
‘They make his hands look leprous,’ said Mortimer, eyeing them critically. ‘Give him the black pair. Black goes with anything and you would not want him to don green gloves with that red robe.’
‘True enough,’ admitted Katherine. ‘And the black ones are harder wearing than the green. Your sister tells me you are careless with clothes and so you should probably take a more durable pair. Do they fit?’
‘They fit perfectly,’ announced Mortimer, as though Bartholomew was incapable of answering, leaning forward to tug at one of the fingers experimentally. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I feel terribly sleepy. Next time you come to me, Bartholomew, I shall expect to be examined with hands as soft and warm as a baby’s, not rough, red and frozen like a peasant’s.’
Bartholomew smiled and made his farewells to the baker. He ushered the assembled people — and dogs — out of the bedchamber, assuring them that their master needed only rest to make a full recovery, although not all of them seemed overjoyed by the news that death had been cheated of its prey.
Katherine saw him to the door and handed him two silver pennies. ‘It was kind of you to come when you should be at the installation.’
‘So should you,’ said Bartholomew, certain that Valence Marie would not risk offending one of the most powerful merchants in the town and his wife by not issuing them an invitation.
Katherine gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am tempted to go now since it seems the reason I am to be denied is my husband’s greed. But I am sure word has gone out that Constantine is gravely ill, and I do not want to appear uncaring. When he wakes in the morning, he will be telling folk how you snatched him from the jaws of death. My son Edward is the same. While the rest of us suffer simple rheums, he has a terrible fever; a tiny cut is a life-threatening wound with him.’
‘Not everyone bears discomfort stoically,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting to tell her that he considered Mortimer’s summons a complete waste of his time, because the baker would have recovered perfectly well after a good night of sleep and a day of careful eating anyway.
Katherine sighed again, but then became businesslike. She took Bartholomew’s elegantly clad hand and smiled. ‘I am keeping you from the celebrations while I run on. Thank you again, and enjoy the festivities.’
For the third time that day, Bartholomew turned towards the Hall of Valence Marie. He glanced down at his best gown and saw that it was liberally splattered with mud, while water dripped from the hem. His boots were filthy, and kneeling on the rush-strewn floor of St Bernard’s Hostel to tend Armel had caused fragments of the dried plants to adhere to them. In short, he looked scruffy, impoverished and disreputable. He wondered if the Valence Marie porter would even let him in, or whether he should obey his strong inclination to head home, perhaps to sit by the fire in the kitchen and watch the rain teem past the window. He hesitated, seriously considering returning to Michaelhouse.
But, like it or not, he was committed to attending at least part of the installation ceremony, and he could not, in all conscience, use Mortimer’s ailment as an excuse to stay away for much longer. He would be missed, if not by the Fellows and Master-Elect of Valence Marie, then by his own colleagues at Michaelhouse, some of whom would claim that his absence was a dereliction of duty and that he had done disservice to Michaelhouse’s good relations with another College.
Stamping his feet to try to dislodge some of the mud from his boots, he stepped through the sturdy front gates of Valence Marie and prepared to be admonished by the condescending porter for his bedraggled appearance on such an auspicious day. The porter, however, seemed to have gone off duty and a student was performing the role of doorman. He was considerably more polite than the porter had been, and cheerfully helped Bartholomew to brush the worst of the mud from his clothes.
By the time the physician had been conducted to Valence Marie’s splendid hall, the ceremony was virtually over. He stood at the back, leaning against the wall, and remembered the events of the previous summer when, had it not been for the timely intervention of Michael, he would have lost his life in that very room. Since then, the hall had been redecorated on the orders of its incoming Master, and new tapestries in brightly coloured wools adorned the walls. Above his head, the wooden musicians’ gallery had been rebuilt and boasted some of the finest carvings in Cambridge. A group of students was there now, singing to occupy the guests while the Fellows of the Hall of Valence Marie lined up to sign the writ that would make legal the installation of Thomas Bingham as Master.
When the last Fellow had shuffled his way forward and added his name to the official parchment, the singing stopped and Bingham began to make his speech. In Bingham’s position, Bartholomew would have been brief. The election had not been unanimous and ill-feelings might be resurrected if Bingham spoke at too great a length about his victory over his rival and his plans for the College. The new Master, however, had a good deal to say on a wide range of matters and, in the body of the hall, the assembly became restless. The language of the University was Latin, and while Bartholomew and the other scholars were fluent, few of the guests from the town would understand all of Bingham’s words. Despite the chilly weather, the hall, filled to overflowing with people, began to grow stuffy and soon became uncomfortable.
Bartholomew edged nearer the door, where a welcome draught wafted in from outside, and thought about the events of the day. He wondered about the three bottles of wine, still wrapped in his hat and left in the porter’s lodge for safety. Had a townsperson deliberately sold the students poisoned claret? Michael clearly thought so, but Bartholomew had his doubts. He was certain the Franciscan novices would not have been behaving sufficiently rowdily to warrant someone wanting them dead — none of them had been drunk when he and Michael had arrived and they seemed a tame group to him, particularly compared to his own students. The Franciscans seemed the kind of young men whose idea of wild behaviour was three goblets of ale and staying up past midnight — a stark contrast to some Michaelhouse scholars, whose ways of merrymaking sometimes verged on the criminal.
And the business of the lemons was odd, too. Bartholomew could not recall ever having seen lemons in Cambridge in February before. Mortimer must have paid dearly for such a luxury — from his purse as well as his innards. Bartholomew smiled to himself as he imagined the merchant sitting at his table eating the sour fruits one after the other. Regardless of the amount of fine white sugar he had added, it would not have been a pleasant repast. Bartholomew recalled that Mortimer was the son of a ditcher, and had worked hard to haul himself from his lowly beginnings to his present status. Whatever Mortimer had heard, Bartholomew was certain the King did not devour raw lemons on a regular basis, and it was ironic that, even as Mortimer tried to show the world he was wealthy and accomplished, he betrayed his simple origins by revealin
g he did not know how to prepare the luxury foods he was able to buy.
At the dais to the front of the hall, Bingham looked up from his sheaf of notes and paused for breath. Immediately, someone began to clap. Bartholomew saw it was Thomas Kenyngham, the gentle Master of Michaelhouse, beaming his customary seraphic smile and nodding in a congratulatory manner to Bingham. Seizing the opportunity for an early end to the tedious speech, everyone else hastened to join in the applause, while the Fellows of Valence Marie prepared to lead the procession out to the church. The students began to sing, while the people in the hall stretched stiff limbs in evident relief. Bingham’s mouth dropped open in dismay, but his Fellows clustered about him to offer their felicitations, and then the procession was on the move. Bingham had to scamper to take his place of honour behind them, or run the risk of being left behind.
Amused by Bingham’s discomfiture, Bartholomew waited for the Fellows from his own College as the other guests filed past him. Master Kenyngham led the Michaelhouse deputation, a guileless smile still playing about his lips, his eyes raised heavenward and his lips moving in prayer. Bartholomew had no doubt that Kenyngham’s timely interruption of Bingham’s speech was wholly innocent: of all the scholars in the University, the honest, kindly Gilbertine friar would be the least likely to do something purposely malicious.
Behind Kenyngham scurried Roger Alcote, a small, vindictive man whose ambitious eyes were already on the Mastership currently occupied by Kenyngham. Blind Father Paul leaned on the arm of Father William, both Franciscan friars who taught theology and the Trivium — grammar, logic, and rhetoric. Michael brought up the rear with Michaelhouse’s newest Fellows — John Runham, who taught law, and Ralph de Langelee, who lectured in philosophy.
Runham was the cousin of a previous, highly unpopular Master of Michaelhouse who had died during the plague, and seemed to have inherited some of his detested kinsman’s less loveable traits: he was arrogant, smug and condescending. But he was easily one of the best teachers of law Michaelhouse had ever seen. His lectures were eloquent, precise and logically flawless, and his reputation meant that the College was inundated with applications from students who wanted him to teach them. Because the numbers of new would-be scholars were low following the plague, a popular master like Runham was a valuable commodity, and Bartholomew tried hard to maintain a cordial relationship with him for the College’s sake.
Meanwhile, Runham’s room-mate, Ralph de Langelee, did not look at all like a philosopher: he was a hulking figure with brawny arms so heavily muscled that they jutted from his body at an angle. As he passed, Langelee shot Bartholomew an unpleasant look for being late, which Bartholomew ignored. Although Langelee had only been a Fellow for a few weeks, he had already made himself unpopular with the students and staff. He bullied the servants, belittled his undergraduates, and tried to thwart every attempt Bartholomew made to improve living conditions at Michaelhouse.
Unlike Runham, Langelee was not a good teacher. His lectures were confused and filled with contradictions, and he did not seem to enjoy them any more than did his bewildered students. He compensated for his lack of skills by making it known around the University that he was available for any other kind of work, and was making a fortune by acting as scribe and writing letters for the rich and illiterate in his ugly, laboured roundhand. Bartholomew did not like Langelee, a feeling he was sure was fully reciprocated, and avoided his company whenever possible. The physician worked hard at his teaching and his ever-growing practice of patients, and did not want to waste the little free time he had in the company of an arrogant, opinionated man like Langelee.
Michael dropped behind the two new Fellows so that he could walk with Bartholomew.
‘I have had a complaint from the porter with whom we left that wine,’ he said, speaking in a low voice so that he would not be overheard. ‘According to him, he was moving the bottles to a safer place — although I imagine what really happened was that he was wondering whether they were worth stealing, or perhaps siphoning and diluting.’
‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘I hope to God he did not drink any.’
‘Fortunately for him, no,’ said Michael. ‘But he touched the bottle, as you specifically instructed him not to do. He has a burn on his hand the size of an egg.’ He shuddered. ‘Lord help us, Matt! What is that stuff?’
Chapter 2
Bartholomew told Michael about Mortimer’s lemons as they walked to St Botolph’s Church where prayers would be offered for the new Master and his College. As if to compensate for the long ceremony at Valence Marie, the College priests rattled through the mass at a speed that left the congregation bewildered, after which everyone trooped back to Valence Marie for the feast. Evidently, the servants had anticipated more time to prepare, for the hall was in disarray and students had to be commandeered into helping set up trestle tables and lay out trenchers, while the guests milled about in the courtyard in growing ill humour. By the time the steward announced that the feast would begin, most people were cold, wet and irritable.
The feast itself, however, was impressive and Bartholomew imagined that Mortimer would be sorely disappointed to learn what he had missed. As Michael had predicted, the highlight of the meal was roast boar, each animal carried on a huge platter by two servants. Bartholomew, used to simple Michaelhouse fare, ate sparingly, and did not need the example of Mortimer to warn him of the dangers of over-indulgence. Next to him, Michael ate as though it were his last meal on Earth, while, on his other side, Langelee provided impressive competition. Wine flowed freely and, as the feast progressed, the hall became hot, noisy and stuffy. The final course, produced with a flourish by Valence-Marie’s steward, was lemons stewed with cinnamon and black pepper, which once again reminded Bartholomew of Mortimer. Thomas Deschalers the grocer must have made a good deal of money from his shipment of lemons, Bartholomew thought, declining the dish as it was offered. Michael helped himself to a generous portion, but left most of it, puckering his lips and screwing his eyes tightly closed at the sourness.
As the daylight faded, braziers around the wall were lit, making the room hotter than ever. Michaelhouse possessed no such braziers and Bartholomew was envious, for the light was ample by which to read and even one such lamp would have eased the boredom of long, winter nights when darkness came early. Valence Marie possessed fine silver, too, and huge jewelled chalices were placed at regular intervals along the tables, filled with almonds and raisins — expensive commodities that were just one indication of the feast’s extravagance.
When the meal was over and the tables vaguely cleared of spilled grease, animal bones and bread trenchers, Master Bingham rose to his feet, an intimidating sheaf of parchments clutched in his hands. He cleared his throat importantly, and looked haughtily around the hall at the assembled guests who were about to be treated to that part of his painstakingly prepared discourse he had been deprived of giving earlier. Michael groaned loudly and Bartholomew felt his heart sink. But Bingham had done no more than make a preparatory rap for silence on the table with his spoon before the student minstrels in the gallery increased the volume of their singing dramatically and the Fellows on either side of their new Master reached up to pull him back into his seat. Thorpe, the previous Master of Valence Marie, would never have countenanced such an affront to his authority, thought Bartholomew, amused by Bingham’s ineffectual outrage at his colleagues’ presumption.
‘Bingham will have a hard task controlling this new College of his,’ yelled Michael, putting his sweaty face near Bartholomew’s to make himself heard over the racket. Bartholomew nodded vigorously. ‘I wonder what those two are plotting.’ Michael pointed to where the Sheriff and the Mayor sat, their heads bent together confidentially as they conversed in what seemed to be furtive whispers.
Bartholomew liked Sheriff Tulyet, a small, wiry man with a wispy fair beard and a tolerance towards the University usually absent in town officials. Tulyet saw them looking at him and raised a hand in affable
acknowledgement. Even from a distance, the Sheriff looked tired and strained, and there were rings of exhaustion under his pale blue eyes. Tulyet’s position was not an easy one to hold. His garrison had been sadly depleted by the plague and it was difficult to recruit replacements when crime was by far more lucrative. Since Christmas, a band of outlaws had settled in the area, using little-known causeways and canals in the Fens to make their escape after robbing travellers on the roads, disappearing as completely and cleanly as the marsh mists in sunlight long before Tulyet’s men could catch them.
Bartholomew smiled a greeting to him, and looked around the hall. Sheriff Tulyet and the Mayor were not the only ones to be taking advantage of the installation festivities to conduct a little business. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, was engaged in an animated discussion with the Master of Gonville Hall, while Bartholomew’s sister was abandoned to entertain the morose Prior of Barnwell on her other side. The University was one of the Stanmore’s biggest customers, and he was clearly embarking on some deal or other with the Master of one of its most powerful Colleges.
At the high table at the far end of the hall, Vice-Chancellor Harling, the University’s second in command, sat between the Countess of Pembroke and a handsome woman in her middle years whom Michael had identified as the Abbess of nearby Denny Abbey, a rich community of Franciscan nuns. Harling’s jet-black hair glistened greasily in the candlelight as he inclined his head politely towards the Countess, giving every appearance of listening with rapt attention to what she was saying.
‘Why is Harling in the seat of honour?’ asked Bartholomew of Runham, who sat opposite him, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the discordant singing from the gallery and the roar of drunken voices. ‘Where is the Chancellor?’
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