'But that might have entailed some of the credit passing to the priests and not to him,' said Abigny nastily.
He gestured outside. 'See to your patients, Physician.'
Bartholomew remembered the groans and shrieks as the crowd had surged against Michaelhouse's wall, chastened that he had not thought to see to the injured sooner.
By the gate, a beadle stood by two prostrate forms, while more beadles bent over others further down the lane.
'Dead, Doctor,' said the beadle, recognising Bartholomew.
Bartholomew knelt to examine the bodies.
Both were young men, one wearing the short coat of an apprentice. He pressed down on the young man's chest, feeling the sogginess that meant his ribs were broken and the vital organs underneath crushed. The neck of the second man was broken, his head twisted at an obscene angle. Death would have come instantly to both of them. Bartholomew crossed himself, and paused at the gate to shout for Brother Michael to do what he could for their unshriven souls.
The other beadles moved aside to allow Bartholomew to examine the injured. Miraculously, there were only four of them, although Bartholomew was sure others had been helped home by friends. None of the four was in mortal danger. One middle-aged man had a superficial head wound that nevertheless bled copiously.
Bartholomew gave him a clean piece of linen to stem the bleeding, and moved on to examine the next one.
The woman seemed to have no injuries, but was deeply in shock, her eyes wide and dull, and her whole body shaking uncontrollably.
'Her son is over there.' Bartholomew saw that the speaker was the blacksmith, lying against the wall with his leg at an awkward angle. He followed the blacksmith's nod and saw that he meant one of the men who had died. He turned back to the woman and took her cold, clammy hands in his.
'Where is her husband? Can we send for someone to come to take her home?'
'Her husband died last winter of the ague. The lad was all she had. Doubtless she will starve now.'
'What is her name?' Bartholomew asked, feeling helpless.
'Rachel Atkin,' the blacksmith replied. 'What do you care?'
Bartholomew sighed. He saw cases like Rachel's almost every day, old people and women with children deprived of those who could provide for them. Even giving them money, which he did sometimes, did no more than relieve the problem temporarily. Poverty was one of the aspects of being a physician he found most difficult to deal with. Often, he would tend to an injury or an illness, only to find that his patient had died from want of good food or warmth.
He released the woman's hands, and went to examine the blacksmith's leg. It was a clean break, with no punctured skin. It only needed to be set, and, given time and rest, would heal well enough.
As he gently squeezed and probed the break, testing for splinters of bone, the blacksmith leaned towards him. Bartholomew realised that the ale fumes on his breath probably accounted for the fact that he did not scream, as many patients might, when his leg was examined. He should set it as soon as possible for the same reason.
'Why did you interfere?' the blacksmith slurred.
Bartholomew ignored him, and went to look at the last injury, a man complaining of pains in his back.
'It was under control,' the blacksmith continued.
'We knew what we were doing.' "I am sure you did,' said Bartholomew absently, running his hands down the man's spine. He straightened up. 'Just bruised,' he said to the man, 'go home and rest, and in a few days it will feel better.' He turned to the blacksmith. "I can set your leg now, or you can go to a surgeon. I do not care which you choose.'
The blacksmith looked dubious, and narrowed his eyes. "I have heard of you, Physician. You tell the other doctors that they should not use leeches…'
There was a muted snigger from the listening beadles, and Bartholomew cut the blacksmith off abruptly by standing and preparing to leave. He had no desire to enter into a medical debate with the man. He knew his medical teaching was regarded with suspicion, even fear, by some people, but no one could deny that fewer patients died under his care than that of his colleagues.
His success where they had failed often drove desperate people to him, and those he had healed usually rallied to his defence when others questioned or criticised his methods.
'And how much will it cost me?' sneered the blacksmith, seizing a corner of Bartholomew's gown to prevent him from walking away.
Bartholomew looked down at him. 'A shroud and a gravedigger for the woman's son.'
The blacksmith met his eyes, peering up to see if he could detect any trickery there. After a moment's thought, he nodded, and lifted his arms so that the beadles could help him into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew had a small surgery.
Bartholomew quickly bandaged the first man's head, and sent him home. The woman still sat on the ground, staring into space. The beadles had lifted the bodies of the young men onto a cart to be taken to StMichael's Church, while Brother Michael had finished his prayers and was walking back into the College. Coming to a decision, Bartholomew reached down and took the woman by the hand, pulling her to her feet. He ignored the surprised looks of the porters at the gate, and made for the kitchens, Rachel Atkin in tow.
All the College servants were furiously busy preparing for Master Wilson's feast. Bartholomew pushed his way through the kitchens to the servants' living quarters beyond. Agatha, the enormous laundress, sat there, folding napkins in readiness for the feast. She looked up as he entered, her bushy grey eyebrows coming together as she saw the woman.
'Now what?' she demanded, struggling to heave her considerable bulk to her feet. 'What troubles have you brought me this time, you young scoundrel?'
Bartholomew smiled. Women were not generally employed in the Colleges, but Agatha was quite an exception. Sir John had hired her when he first came to Michaelhouse, Instantly recognising her abilities for organisation and efficiency. She had gradually established herself as undisputed leader of the College staff, and the College owed its smooth and generally conflict-free running to Agatha.
'You are always saying that you need an assistant,' he said, smiling at her. 'Could you take this one, just for a few days?'
'She is stark staring mad!' Agatha bellowed, peering suspiciously into Rachel Atitin's face.
'No, not mad, just grieving for her son,' said Bartholomew gently. Rachel began to look around her vacantly. 'Will you give her a chance? Not tonight — she should sleep. But maybe for a few days?'
'Are you insane?' Agatha shouted. 'What will Windbag Wilson say when he hears you have brought a woman into the College? He only tolerates me because he knows in his heart that I am twice the man that he will ever be. He will be after your blood, Master Matthew. I have heard that he is going to demand that all the Fellows take major holy orders like Michael and the Franciscans. He will have something to say about women in the College, you can be sure of that!'
'Just for a few days until I can think of something else. Please, Agatha?'
Agatha hid a smile, and put her hands on her ample hips. She had had a soft spot for the dark-haired physician ever since he had arrived at the College to teach medicine four years before and had cured her of a painful swelling on her foot. She had been dubious of accepting his help because he had abandoned the usual implements of his trade — leeches, star-charts, and urine examination and had even been known to practise surgery, a task normally left to barbers. But Bartholomew's treatment of Agatha's foot had worked, and Agatha was not a woman to question something that improved the quality of her life so dramatically.
She eyed the woman impassively noting her old but clean dress, and the careful darns. 'Out of the question! You will be expecting me to share my own room with her next!'
'No, I…' began Bartholomew, but stopped as Agatha elbowed him out of the way, and steered Rachel towards one of the small rooms in which the servants slept. He needed to say no more. Rachel Atkin was in good hands for now, and he was sure he and Agatha could work out so
mething between them later.
He dodged his way back through the frenetic activity of the kitchens and walked across the courtyard towards his room. The Sheriff and Wilson had gone, but students and servants were scurrying back and forth as the bell rang to announce that the feast was about to begin.
The blacksmith lay on the pallet in the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines, and where the College's three precious medical books were kept chained to the wall. Engaging the help of two burly porters, Bartholomew pulled and heaved on the leg until he was certain the bones were in correct alignment.
The porters exchanged grimaces of disgust as the sound of grating bone filled the room. But the blacksmith had apparently taken several healthy swigs from the jug of wine that stood on the table and was virtually unconscious by the time Bartholomew began: with the exception of one or two grunts, he lay motionless through the entire proceeding. Bartholomew bound the leg tightly between two sticks of wood, and checked his patient for signs of shock or fever.
The porters left, and Bartholomew covered the blacksmith with his cloak and left him to sleep. His family could collect him in the morning. He went into the room that he shared with Abigny, and slumped on his bed, suddenly feeling drained. What a day! He had sat through Wilson's interminable installation, narrowly averted a riot, almost been locked out of the College to face an enraged mob, attended four patients, and set a broken leg.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling a warm lethargy creep over him. It would be pleasant to drift off to sleep. The courtyard outside was quiet now, and he could just hear the murmur of voices coming from the feast in the hall. His place at the high table would be empty and he would be missed. He should go or Wilson would take his absence as a personal insult, and would try to make life unbearable for him. He sat still for a few minutes, and then forced himself to stand up. He need only stay until the speeches were over. Speeches!
He almost sat down again at the thought of listening to Master Wilson pontificate, but he had not eaten since breakfast, and the smells of cooking from the kitchen had been delicious.
He brushed hastily at the dust and mud that clung to his best gown, and straightened the black robe underneath.
He walked across the courtyard, stopping on the way to look in on Augustus. The commoners shared a large dormitory on the upper floor of the southern wing, but because Augustus talked to himself and kept the others awake, he had been given a small room of A pLAGUE ON BOTl) YOUR l)OUSeS his own, an unusual privilege for any College member, but especially a commoner. The commoners' room and Augustus's chamber were dark, but Bartholomew could make out Augustus lying on the bed, and could hear his slow, rhythmic breathing. In the main dormitory, Brother Paul, another commoner too frail to attend the feast, coughed wetly and muttered in his sleep.
Satisfied, Bartholomew made his way to the hall, and tried to slip as unobtrusively as possible into his seat at the high table at the raised end of the hall. Wilson leaned forward and shot him an unpleasant look. Next to Bartholomew, Giles Abigny had already had far too much to drink, and was regaling Brother Michael with a story of his experiences with a prostitute in London.
For a monk, Michael was showing an unseemly interest.
On Bartholomew's other side, the two Franciscan friars, Aelfridi and William, were already deep in some debate about the nature of original sin, while Wilson, Alcote and Swynford huddled together plotting God knew what.
Bartholomew ate some of the spiced venison slowly, realising that he had grown so used to plain College fare, that the strongly flavoured meats and piquant sauces were too rich for him. He wondered how many scholars would over-indulge and make themselves sick. The ever-growing pile of gnawed bones and the grease-splattered table near Michael indicated that he had no such reservations.
A roar of laughter from the students jolted him from his thoughts. Members of the College usually spoke Latin, or occasionally court French, at the few meals where speaking was permitted, and the conversation was generally learned. But tonight, as a gesture of courtesy to his secular guests, Wilson had decreed that the conversation might be in any language. Bartholomew glanced around the hall, noting the brightly coloured tapestries, begged and borrowed from other Colleges for the occasion, that adorned the walls. The walls were normally bare so as not to distract scholars from their studies, and the benches, now draped with rich cloths, were plain wood. The guests from the town added splashes of colour among the students' black gowns.
Servants scurried here and there bearing large jugs of wine and platters of food that left trails of spilled grease.
In the gallery normally occupied by the Bible scholar, a small group of musicians fought to make their singing heard over the hubbub.
Down the table, Brother Michael chortled with unmonklike delight as he listened with rapt attention to Abigny. Fortunately for him, his imprudent laughter was screened from the austere Franciscan Fellows by another roar of laughter from the students.
The Oliver brothers were the centre of attention, a group of younger students gathering round them admiringly. Bartholomew heard Elias telling them how he had been the last one through the gates to make sure that all the others were safe inside. At that moment, Henry looked up towards the high table, and stared at Bartholomew, his blue eyes blazing with hatred. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Henry, with a sneer, looked away.
Bartholomew was puzzled. He had had very little to do with the Oliver brothers — they were not his students, and he had never had to deal with them for any disciplinary breaches. He found it hard to believe that all the hatred that Henry had put into that look came from the incident outside the church. The mob had been in an ugly mood, and he had averted what might very easily have turned into a bloodbath. So what had he done to earn such emotions?
He tried to put it out of his mind. He was tired, and was probably reading far too much into Henry Oliver's looks. He sipped at the fine wine from France that Wilson had provided to toast his future success as Master, and leaned his elbows on the table. Abigny, his story completed, slapped Bartholomew on the back.
"I heard you have secreted a woman in the College Abigny's voice was loud, and several students looked at him speculatively. Brother Michael's eyebrows shot up, his baggy green eyes glittering with amusement.
The Franciscans paused in their debate and looked at Bartholomew disapprovingly.
'Hush!' Bartholomew chided Abigny. 'She is in the care of Agatha, and not secreted anywhere.'
Abigny laughed, and draped his arm round Bartholomew's shoulders. Bartholomew pulled away as wine fumes wafted into his face. "I wish I were a physician and not a philosopher. What better excuse to be in a woman's boudoir than to be leeching her blood.' "I do not leech the blood of my patients,' said Bartholomew irritably. They had been down this path before. Abigny loved to tease Bartholomew about his unorthodox methods. Bartholomew had learned medicine at the University in Paris from an Arab teacher who had taught him that bleeding was for charlatans too lazy to discover a cure.
Abigny laughed again, his cheeks flushed pink with wine, but then leaned closer to Bartholomew. 'But you and I may not be long for our free and easy lives if our new Master has anything to say. He will have us taking major orders as he and his two sycophants over there plan to do.'
'Have a care, Giles,' said Bartholomew nervously.
He was acutely aware that the students' conversation at the nearest table had stopped, and Bartholomew knew that some of the scholars were not above telling tales to senior College members in return for a lenient disputation, or spoken exam.
'What will it be for you, Matt?' Abigny continued, ignoring his friend's appeal for discretion. 'Will you become an Austin Canon and go to work in St John's Hospital? Or would you rather become a rich, fat Benedictine, like Brother Michael here?'
Michael pursed his lips, but humour showed in his eyes. Like Bartholomew, being the butt of Abigny's jokes was nothing new to him.
'Enough, Giles!' Bartholomew said sharply. 'If you cannot keep your council, you should not drink so much.
Pull yourself together.'
Abigny laughed at his friend's admonition, took a deep draught from his goblet, but said no more.
Bartholomew sometimes wondered about the philosopher's behaviour. He was fair and fresh-faced, like a young country bumpkin. But his boyish looks belied a razor-like mind, and Bartholomew had no doubt that if he dedicated himself to learning he could become one of the foremost scholars in the University. But Abigny was too lazy and too fond of the pleasures of life.
Bartholomew thought about Abigny's claim. Most Cambridge masters, including Bartholomew, had taken minor holy orders so that they were ruled by church law rather than secular law. Some, like Brother Michael and the Franciscans, were monks or friars and had taken major orders. This meant that they could not marry or have relations with women, although not all monks and friars in the University kept these vows as assiduously as they might.
As a boy, Bartholomew had been educated at the great Benedictine Abbey at Peterborough, and, as one of their brightest students, had been expected to take his vows and become a monk. His sister and brother-in-law, acting in loco parentis, had other ideas, and a marriage was planned that would have benefited their cloth trade.
Bartholomew, however, had defied them both, and had run away to Oxford and then Paris to study medicine.
Since leaving Peterborough, Bartholomew had not given a monastic vocation another thought, other than taking the minor orders that would protect him from the rigours of secular law. Perhaps, a few months ago, the prospect of never having a relationship with a woman would not have mattered, but Bartholomew had met Philippa Abigny — Giles's sister — and was not at all sure that a vow of chastity was what he wanted.
A Plague On Both Your Houses Page 3