A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  Runham pursed his lips to indicate his disapproval. ‘With the Bishop in Ely. It is a mere seventeen miles so I do not know why Chancellor Tynkell could not have made the effort to be here. An installation is, after all, an important University occasion.’

  ‘Perhaps his business at Ely is more urgent than gossiping with the Countess of Pembroke and the Abbess of Denny,’ said Bartholomew.

  A servant slapped a dish of sugared almonds so hard in front of him, that some of them bounced across the table to be claimed by Michael. When Bartholomew glanced up at him, the man gave a cheerful wink, and his red cheeks suggested that the guests were not the only ones to have availed themselves of Valence Marie’s endless supplies of wine.

  ‘Tynkell is probably too afraid to come back,’ said Runham uncharitably. ‘He knows he is not up to the task of being Chancellor and is hiding away in Ely behind the Bishop’s skirts.’

  The post of Chancellor was not a position Bartholomew would have willingly held. While it granted the holder a degree of authority over the University and the town, it was also fraught with political pitfalls. The previous incumbent had held office for four years, but the constant intrigues and crafty plotting had finally worn him down, and he had retreated to his family home in the Fens in poor health.

  Harling, his Vice-Chancellor, had expected to step into his shoes as was the usual practice, but in an election that had astonished many scholars almost as much as Harling, a timid nonentity called William Tynkell — who had only agreed to stand for election because he thought it might raise the profile of his hostel in the University community — had won the majority of votes. Bartholomew might have questioned the honesty of the vote-counters, had it not been for the expression of abject horror on Tynkell’s face when he was declared the winner. Harling had accepted his defeat with dignity, and had volunteered to continue as Vice-Chancellor, an offer that Tynkell had accepted gratefully, openly acknowledging his inexperience in the treacherous world of University politics.

  ‘Tynkell!’ muttered Runham in disgust. ‘What a dreadful choice to be the leader of our University! All I can say is that I did not vote for him.’ He gazed speculatively at Bartholomew.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to be blamed for the Chancellor’s absence.

  Runham nodded, satisfied, and went on. ‘I am not a man to risk my good health by bathing, but I am always careful to scent my clothes with lavender, and leave my clean linen on the shelf in the latrine to kill the lice. But Tynkell does neither, and there is an odour about him I find most unpleasant.’

  ‘I always feel itchy after an audience with him,’ boomed Father William, whose Franciscan habit was one of the filthiest garments in Christendom, and who paid scant attention to his own personal cleanliness. To prove his point, he began to scratch, and Bartholomew was amused to see Runham and then Michael follow suit. A few moments later, Alcote started, and then Master Kenyngham. It continued until Kenyngham — somewhat out of the blue — changed the subject by asking if anyone had ever debated the question ‘Let us consider whether the edge of the universe can be touched’ and, as the discussion grew more heated, the itches were forgotten.

  Listening to his colleagues with half an ear, Bartholomew watched Harling and the Countess, who, judging from the flapping of her hands, seemed to be telling him how to fly. The Vice-Chancellor reached out a beringed hand, took up his wine goblet, and drained it without taking his eyes off the Countess’s face. Immediately, a servant hurried to refill it, and a few moments later the entire process was repeated. Bartholomew had heard that, despite her generosity — and resulting popularity — the Countess was not a lady renowned for conversational sparkle. He suspected Harling knew he had a long night ahead of him, and was preparing himself by dulling his mind with as much of Valence Marie’s wine as he could stow away without losing consciousness. Perhaps Chancellor Tynkell had been wiser than all of them, with his timely absence from the town.

  Harling was given a brief respite from the Countess’s monologue as Sheriff Tulyet stepped forward to make his excuses for leaving early to the august occupants at the high table. Under his cloak, he already wore a mail tunic and boiled leather leggings, in anticipation of a nocturnal foray in search of the elusive outlaws.

  ‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, watching as the Countess homed in on the Vice-Chancellor again as Tulyet left. ‘I am reliably informed that the noble Marie de Valence is about as interesting a companion as stagnant ditchwater.’

  ‘At least stagnant ditchwater does not hog the conversation,’ bawled Runham, who had won the debate about the edge of the universe simply because he had a good deal more to say about it than anyone else. He leaned towards the monk, the flowing sleeve of his fine ceremonial gown knocking over Bartholomew’s wine, and lowered his voice a fraction. ‘She has but two interests: breeding dogs and gardening.’

  ‘She is a very generous woman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘She founded this College and the abbey at Denny, and she gives alms to the poor.’

  ‘But gardening, Matt,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘That is for peasants!’

  ‘Edward the Second liked gardening and look what happened to him,’ said Runham ominously.

  ‘I hardly think King Edward was executed because of his love of horticulture,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘I imagine his murder had more to do with the fact that he was an abysmal ruler.’

  ‘Please!’ whispered Michael, glancing around him furtively. ‘Edward the Second founded King’s Hall and their Warden is looking right at us! If we are to indulge ourselves in treasonous talk, at least wait until I am too drunk to care!’

  ‘Gardening is a vile pastime,’ continued Runham, undeterred. ‘All that dirt and dreadful creatures like worms and slugs creeping about. Try some of this candied mint, Matthew. It is quite delicious.’

  ‘People who eat that sort of thing die young,’ said Michael knowledgeably, eyeing the dish of sticky leaves disdainfully. ‘It is a well-known medical fact.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘And is this well-known medical fact from the same source as “green vegetables cause leprosy” and “a diet of nothing but meat and bread prevents baldness” that you mentioned to me last week?’

  Michael favoured him with a withering look. ‘You read too much, Matt. You refuse to believe anything unless it has been written by one of your dull Greek or Arab physicians. The facts to which I refer stem from simple common sense. Look at Harling — there is a man who declines his vegetables and he has a magnificent thick, black mane. The fact that cunning cooks have slipped the occasional bit of cabbage or carrot into my meals accounts entirely for my thinning hair.’

  There was little point in arguing with Michael over matters of diet — or pointing out that a tonsure, such as the one Michael sported, should obviate his own concern about baldness. Bartholomew let the matter drop and gazed at the hour candle, willing it to burn down to a point where it would not be deemed rude to leave. He sighed and rested his chin on one fist as he looked around the crowded, noisy, humid hall.

  After a while, Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spice merchant came towards Bartholomew with Constantine Mortimer’s eldest son, Edward. Deschalers and Cheney had donned their finest clothes in honour of the occasion — Cheney wore a tunic of a rich amber with matching leggings, while Deschalers was dressed in a short red cloak with rust-coloured shirt and scarlet hose. Bartholomew was immediately reminded of two of the four humours: Cheney was known for his short temper and aggression and his gold-coloured clothes reminded Bartholomew of the yellow bile that caused choleric behaviour; meanwhile, Deschalers was aloof and laconic, usually moods considered to be caused by an excess of blood. Bartholomew wished his students were with him, because he was sure such a visual example would burn the characters of the humours into their minds for the rest of their lives. By contrast, young Edward Mortimer might have been a scholar himself in his sober brown tunic and plain hose.

  ‘We heard Mor
timer is dying,’ began Cheney without preamble. ‘When might the end come?’

  ‘Not for some years yet, with God’s grace,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Edward’s horrified intake of breath.

  ‘My father is dying? I was told it was nothing more serious than stomach pains!’

  ‘Get a grip on yourself, Edward,’ said Cheney coldly. ‘Your presence at your father’s bedside would have been quite wasted. Had you been needed, he would have sent for you. You have other duties to perform — such as representing the family business here tonight.’

  ‘Your father will make a full recovery,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Edward. ‘His malady was a simple case of too many lemons.’

  ‘Lemons?’ queried Deschalers, perching on the edge of the table and tossing back his cloak to reveal the elegant cut of his clothes. ‘The lemons I sold him?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are a bitter fruit unless properly prepared.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Deschalers as a faint smile touched his handsome features. He needed to say no more because the implication was clear: anyone of gentle birth would have known how to prepare the costly fruits and Mortimer had inadvertently exposed his humble origins by his ignorance. He exchanged a superior glance with Cheney.

  ‘We thought it might be a case of this winter fever that has struck at the river people,’ he said, addressing Bartholomew again. ‘One of my servants was stricken yesterday.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I feel sure this fever has something to do with the well in Water Lane. Master Mortimer’s house has its own well.’

  Deschalers was patently uninterested in issues of health. ‘Then can we expect Mortimer at the meeting of the town council next week, when we discuss our building plans for the town?’ he asked.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I do not see why not.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cheney. ‘We need him to help us finance the continuing construction of Bene’t’s.’

  ‘The College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary,’ corrected Deschalers, giving Cambridge’s newest College its full and official title. Most people referred to it simply as Bene’t’s because it was attached to St Bene’t’s Church by a slender corridor, like a cloister. ‘The only University College to be founded by townspeople and paid for with town money,’ the grocer added with an odd mixture of pride and smugness.

  ‘It is a fine building,’ said Bartholomew politely.

  ‘It will be the best College in Cambridge given time,’ claimed Deschalers, ‘and will be a noble memorial to the men of the Guild of Corpus Christi and the Guild of St Mary who endowed it.’

  As they had been speaking, Deschalers’s eyes had been roving around the hall, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the grocer was looking for someone more influential with whom to talk. Bartholomew watched as Deschalers suddenly became aware of the intense conversation between Oswald Stanmore and the Master of Gonville Hall. The grocer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded a brusque farewell to Bartholomew and was away towards them, weaving his way between the revellers and expertly avoiding slopping, wine-filled goblets and hurled pieces of food. Cheney hastened after him, but lacked his colleague’s agility, and his progress was marked by a profusion of apologies and spillages. Edward escaped from them with relief and went to talk to some of Valence Marie’s students.

  ‘Look at James Grene!’ exclaimed Langelee, suddenly grabbing Bartholomew’s arm with a hot, heavy hand and pointing at the high table. ‘Now there is the face of a man who believes he has been cheated out of his rightful position as Master of Valence Marie!’

  Bartholomew looked to where Langelee indicated and saw what he meant. While all around him his colleagues threw themselves into the spirit of the occasion with laughter and good humour, Grene leaned back moodily in his chair on the dais. Bartholomew saw him take a hefty gulp of wine, noted the redness of his face and drew the conclusion that while Grene might not be enjoying the festivities, he was certainly availing himself of the refreshments provided by his victorious rival.

  Michael roared with laughter. ‘I made a wise decision to stay away from Valence Marie, my friends!’ he shouted, raising his cup in a slopping toast. ‘Here is to Michaelhouse!’

  ‘Michaelhouse!’ yelled Langelee in reply, standing to crash his own brimming goblet into Brother Michael’s.

  ‘Have a care!’ warned Bartholomew, looking to where several other guests were eyeing them with disapproval. ‘We should not risk offending members of Valence Marie in their own hall.’

  ‘Where lies the risk?’ bellowed the belligerent Langelee, slamming his cup down on the table. ‘Are you so lily-livered that you will not fight for your College?’

  Bartholomew regarded him coldly. ‘I should not want to set that kind of example to my students and I suggest you should not either.’

  ‘Example!’ sneered Langelee, leaning towards Bartholomew and wafting alcoholic fumes into his face. ‘The example you set them is one of foolishness! All this washing of hands and clean rushes on the floor.’ He spat viciously. ‘What do you think we are, mewling babes?’

  Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘This feast will end in violence soon. I am leaving.’ He stood, but Langelee grabbed the front of his gown and jolted him back down. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger, but before he could react Michael had intervened.

  ‘Fight him and you fight me,’ said the monk, knocking Langelee’s hand from Bartholomew’s robe. ‘And fight me, Master Langelee, and I will see you spend the next three nights in the Proctors’ gaol.’

  Langelee opened his mouth to reply, but was silent when Michael’s unsmiling expression penetrated his befuddled mind. He glowered at Bartholomew briefly, before turning his back on them and beginning a discussion with Roger Alcote to his left. Fortunately, Alcote had the foolish grin on his face that told Bartholomew, familiar with the Senior Fellow’s habits, that he was drunk to the verge of insensibility and could take no offence at anything Langelee might say to him.

  Bartholomew flashed Michael a grateful smile and prepared to leave. At last, other guests were beginning to depart, drifting out in twos and threes as they made their farewells to the new Master of Valence Marie. As Bartholomew stepped forward to offer his congratulations to Bingham, there was a commotion further along the high table — shouts of alarm and the sound of chairs falling as people leapt to their feet. Imagining it to be another skirmish between Fellows made argumentative with too much wine, Bartholomew ignored it and hastened towards the door. Reluctantly, he stopped as he heard people calling his name.

  Turning, he saw Grene lying across the table, his face a chalky white, while his hands scrabbled at his throat. Before Bartholomew could so much as take a step towards him, Grene gave a great groan and went limp. Bartholomew elbowed his way through the scholars who surrounded him, but could already see that there was little he could do. As he reached Grene and fumbled to loosen the clothes around his neck, he recalled how the scholar’s face had been flushed deep red with drink earlier, whereas now his complexion was bloodless. Bartholomew searched for a lifebeat in the great veins of the neck and felt it pulsing weakly. As he heaved Grene on to the floor and tried in vain to restore him to consciousness, Bartholomew glanced furtively at the table. There, lying on its side, was a thin, smoked-glass bottle, its contents flooding out across the table and dribbling onto the floor.

  Michael shoved himself to the front of the ring of spectators, ordering them back to give Bartholomew room to work, aided by an officious young servant wearing a blue tunic.

  ‘Is it a seizure?’ Michael asked, leaning over to look at the dying scholar, his voice barely audible over the excited hubbub. ‘Was the strain of watching his rival installed too much for him?’

  ‘I cannot be certain,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes steadily, ‘but I think Master Grene may have had an aversion to the wine.’

  It was not long before the feeble pulse in Grene’s neck fluttered to nothing, and Bartholomew commandeered the servan
t in blue to help him carry the body to St Botolph’s Church. Michael accompanied them, all traces of his earlier intoxication vanished, while behind, the Fellows of Valence Marie clustered around their new Master and waited for him to tell them what to do next. Vice-Chancellor Harling had followed them and watched with his restless black eyes.

  ‘Well?’ Bingham demanded of Bartholomew, his uncertainty of how to deal with the situation making him uncharacteristically abrupt. ‘I assume it was the excitement of the day that killed him?’

  ‘I need to conduct a more thorough investigation of the body,’ said Bartholomew cautiously. Although the symptoms of Grene’s sudden demise and Armel’s had been virtually identical, he wanted to be absolutely certain before he made his suspicions public.

  Bingham appeared flustered by his reply. ‘It was a seizure, surely? You said the wine had caused it. What will be gained from a more thorough investigation of the corpse now?’

  Behind him, Bingham’s Fellows were silent, but Bartholomew saw their rapidly exchanged speculative glances. He suppressed a sigh of resignation, aware that in that moment rumours had been given life: Bingham’s surly rival for the Mastership had just died most conveniently and there would be few wagging tongues in the University community that would not gain some mileage from that fact.

  Harling watched the exchange with cool interest, clearly unimpressed by Bingham’s poor handling of the first crisis of his incumbency. It was no secret that Grene had been one of Harling’s most ardent supporters during his campaign to be Chancellor. Bingham had immediately announced his vote would go to Tynkell, not because he considered Tynkell a better candidate — he, like virtually every other scholar in the University, knew nothing about Tynkell — but simply because the two contenders for the Mastership of Valence Marie seemed to feel obliged to oppose everything the other said or did. It must be gratifying, Bartholomew thought, for Harling to see the man who had campaigned against him to be placed in such an awkward and delicate position.