Bartholomew found he was beginning to dislike his nephew. The manor Stanmore and Edith occupied was luxurious by most standards and certainly by anything Richard was likely to have experienced at Oxford, if Bartholomew’s memories of the place were anything to go by. It was a large hall-house near the church, which looked out across strip fields and orchards. It had red tiles on the roof, and the walls were plastered and painted pale pink. Inside, the house was clean and airy. Wool rugs covered the floor, rather than the more usual rushes, and the walls were decorated with wall hangings. There were plenty of cushioned benches to sit on, and the table at which the Stanmores and their household ate was of polished wood – of the kind that did not puncture the diners’ hands with splinters each time they ate, as at Michaelhouse. But it was the smell of the house that Bartholomew liked best. It was warm and welcoming, a mixture of the herbs Edith tied in the rafters to dry, of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, and of the slightly bitter aroma of burning wood. Bartholomew had spent his childhood at Trumpington, and the house always brought back pleasant memories.
That evening, the main chamber was even more welcoming than usual. Edith had decorated it with early spring flowers, and little vases of snowdrops and violets stood here and there, mingling their sweet fragrance with the scents already in the room. Because it was dark, lamps were lit, filling the room with a warm amber glow. They shuddered and guttered as the wind rattled the window shutters and snaked under the doors, sending eerie yellow patterns flickering over the walls.
Michael poured himself a goblet of wine from a jug that had been placed on the table, and went to sit in the chair opposite Richard. He took a sip, and then stretched his legs towards the fire with an appreciative sigh.
‘It is cold out tonight,’ he said conversationally. ‘It is just as well we rode, Matt. Walking would not have been pleasant in this wind.’
‘You rode?’ asked Stanmore. He handed Bartholomew a goblet of wine and then sat next to him on the bench near the table, since Michael and Richard had already claimed the best places. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Michael with amusement. ‘You anticipated that Matt would ask you to accompany him and took the precaution of hiring horses?’
‘I am a man prepared for every eventuality,’ said Michael silkily. He turned his attention to Richard. ‘But tell me about Oxford. Why did you abandon medicine and embrace law instead?’
‘Law is a nobler profession,’ replied Richard. ‘It is better to make an honest living than to practise medicine.’
‘Law? Honest?’ asked Bartholomew, too astonished to feel offended. ‘Is that what they taught you at Oxford?’
Richard sighed irritably. ‘I was educated just as well at Oxford as I would have been in Cambridge – better, probably.’
‘It was not your allegiance to Oxford that startled him,’ said Michael. ‘It was your claim that law is an honest profession. Where did you learn such nonsense?’
Richard regarded him coolly. ‘It is not nonsense. I decided it would be better than poking around with sores and pustules and suchlike. And then, when the Death comes again, I shall ride away as fast as I can, not linger to lance buboes and watch people die.’
‘Running will not save you,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘There was barely a town or a village in the whole of Europe that escaped unscathed. The plague would just follow you. Or worse, you might carry it with you and spread it to others.’
‘We are supposed to be celebrating,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘We will not spend the evening dwelling on the Death. We all lost people we loved, and I do not want to discuss it.’
‘Quite right,’ said Michael, holding out his goblet for Stanmore to fill. He changed the subject to one that was equally contentious. ‘I have never been to Oxford, but Matt tells me it is an intriguing place. Personally, I have no desire to see it. I imagine its greater size will render it very squalid.’
‘It is not squalid,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing Richard look angry. ‘Well, not as squalid as some places I have seen.’
Richard glowered, and was about to make what would doubtless have been a tart reply when Stanmore cleared his throat noisily as Edith walked in.
‘You still have not told us who you invited to dine tonight,’ said the merchant hastily, to change the subject before Edith saw that they were on the verge of a row. ‘When will he arrive?’
‘He is here already,’ said Richard. He gave an amused grin. ‘I met him quite by chance in the town a few days ago. Apparently, he has business in Cambridge, and has been lodging at the King’s Head.’
‘Good choice,’ muttered Michael facetiously. ‘It serves both bad food and a criminal clientele.’
‘We were delighted to run across each other,’ Richard went on, ignoring him. ‘I insisted he stayed with us for at least some of his visit, and I took him to the Laughing Pig when he accepted my offer today. Unfortunately, we both drank rather more than we should have done, and he went upstairs to sleep. He is a friend from Oxford.’
Stanmore pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Oxford. I might have guessed someone from there would not be able to pass a day without availing himself of a drink.’
‘We were only toasting each other’s health,’ objected Richard. He uncoiled himself from his seat as someone entered the room – a courtesy that had not been extended to Bartholomew and Michael – and gave the newcomer a genuine smile of welcome. ‘But here he is.’
Bartholomew and Michael stood politely as a shadowy figure entered the room. And then Bartholomew saw Michael’s jaw drop in astonishment when he saw the man who stood in front of them. The newcomer seemed as discomfited by Michael’s appearance as the monk was by his.
‘William Heytesbury of Merton College,’ breathed Michael, staring at the man.
‘Brother Michael of Michaelhouse,’ replied Heytesbury. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You two have already met?’ asked Richard, surprised that the Oxford scholar, who now reclined in the Stanmores’ best chair with a brimming goblet of wine, should be acquainted with the likes of the obese Benedictine. ‘How?’
‘We are in the middle of certain negotiations,’ replied Michael vaguely. Although his plans to pass two farms and a church to Oxford in exchange for information were not a secret, he was evidently not prepared to elaborate on them for Richard’s benefit. He raised his cup to the Merton man. ‘Your health, Master Heytesbury. I was not expecting to see you until well after Easter.’
‘The roads have been dreadful,’ replied Heytesbury, stretching elegant legs towards the fire. ‘The snow and rain have turned them into one long quagmire from Oxford to Cambridge. I decided to start the journey early, so I would not be late for our meeting.’
‘But that is not until Ascension Day,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Six weeks hence. The roads are not that bad!’
Heytesbury gave a small smile. ‘True. But I have other business in Cambridge, besides the agreement I am making with you.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, affecting careless indifference, although Bartholomew caught the unease in his voice.
Michael had already gambled a great deal on the success of his arrangements with Merton, and did not want them to fail. Bartholomew was hazy on the details, but he knew that the seemingly worthless information and documents Heytesbury would pass to Michael would eventually be worth a lot more than two farms and a church. Michael anticipated that he would be able to steal the patronage of some of Oxford’s wealthiest benefactors, and that Cambridge would ultimately emerge richer and more powerful than her rival University. Bartholomew knew that Heytesbury was under the impression that the monk wanted the information simply in order to secure himself the post of Chancellor in a year or two. For all Bartholomew knew, there could be an element of truth in that, too.
Heytesbury was an influential figure in the academic world. He had written a number of books on logic and natural philosophy, and was a leading proponent of nominalism. He was also a member of M
erton, one of the largest and most powerful of Oxford’s colleges. Bartholomew recalled listening to lectures given by Heytesbury during his own days there.
He studied the Oxford man with interest. In the flattering half-light of the fire and the lamps, it seemed the years had been kind to Heytesbury. He had been an intense young man in his twenties when he had first started to make a name for himself with his scholarship, and Bartholomew supposed he must now be nearing fifty. However, his face had retained its smooth skin and his brown hair was unmarked by grey; these, combined with his slight, boyish build, had led many an academic adversary to underestimate him in the debating chamber. Such opponents did not make that mistake a second time. But despite his superficially youthful appearance, the physician in Bartholomew detected a certain pouchiness beneath Heytesbury’s eyes and a slight tremble in his hands.
Heytesbury continued to smile at Michael. ‘My other work involved meeting one of your scholars with a view to taking him to Oxford. It was nothing that would influence anything you and I have discussed, so do not be concerned.’
‘Poaching,’ said Michael immediately. ‘It might not affect our agreement, but as Senior Proctor I cannot stand by and watch you entice away our best students.’
‘As luck would have it, he proved unsuitable,’ said Heytesbury. ‘I will not be taking him with me after all.’
‘What business could possibly bring a Cambridge monk and an Oxford philosopher together?’ asked Richard curiously. ‘Especially since Master Heytesbury told me today that he had never been to Cambridge before.’
Then Heytesbury was lying, thought Bartholomew, listening to the philosopher explaining to Richard that the correspondence between him and Michael had been by letter. Bartholomew remembered very clearly the last time he had seen Heytesbury – at a clandestine meeting on some wasteland in Cambridge the previous year. Heytesbury had been trying to learn from a mutual acquaintance whether Michael was a man to be trusted. Fortunately for Michael, the friend put allegiance to Cambridge above an ancient friendship, and had encouraged Heytesbury to proceed in his negotiations with the monk. Heytesbury, quite rightly, had been suspicious of an offer that seemed to favour Oxford, but the monk was hoping the man’s natural greed would encourage him to sign anyway.
Bartholomew noted that Heytesbury was as vague about their business as Michael had been, and supposed such subterfuge came naturally to men like them. He wondered what would happen if Heytesbury discovered that a number of people in Cambridge already knew that something was afoot between Michael and the scholar from Merton. Michael had been discreet, but the news had been announced the previous November – when Ralph de Langelee had wanted to make sure Michael was not elected Master of Michaelhouse and had used the Oxford story to stain the monk’s reputation – and it had not taken long for the word to spread. But Michael would not want Heytesbury to discuss the case with Richard, who knew that the monk was no bumbling incompetent whose sole ambition was for personal power, but a skilled manager of intrigues who would best even a clever man like Heytesbury, given the chance. Michael wanted Heytesbury lulled into a false sense of security, so that he would sign the agreement without his suspicions being raised.
‘You have explained why you came to Cambridge,’ said Michael, smiling politely at the Oxford man. ‘But you have not told us how you know Richard.’
‘I tutored him during his time at Merton,’ replied Heytesbury. ‘It was I who persuaded him to give up the notion of becoming a physician and to study law instead. It is safer than poking around with leprous sores and more stimulating than inspecting flasks of urine. And there is always a need for good lawyers these days.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Richard fawningly. ‘Ever since the Death, large numbers of wills have been contested, and so there is always work for those who understand the law.’
The conversation turned to legal matters, although Heytesbury did not join in. It was clear to Bartholomew that Heytesbury was uncomfortable with the notion that Michael might cheat him, and so had travelled to Cambridge to make more enquiries before he accepted the terms the monk was offering. Michael also said little, although his eyes gleamed as he sensed Heytesbury was worried enough to try to investigate him. Bartholomew saw that the monk anticipated a challenge, and was relishing the prospect of locking wits with one of Oxford’s greatest thinkers.
‘The food is ready,’ said Edith, entering the room from the kitchen, flushed from the heat of the fire that was roaring there.
‘Then let us begin,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation. Bartholomew was not sure whether his words referred to the food, or to the impending battle of minds with Heytesbury.
Michael had been wise to inveigle an invitation to Edith’s house that night: the fare she provided was infinitely superior to anything that would have been on offer at Michaelhouse. There was trout stuffed with almond paste, pike in gelatine surrounded by roasted vegetables, followed by fried fig pastries, raisin slices and butter custard. Stanmore broached one of his barrels of best wine, a rich red from southern France, while Richard provided a flask of something that he claimed was the height of fashion in Oxford. It was a colourless liquid that tasted of turnips and that burned Bartholomew’s throat and made him cough. He wondered whether Richard would sell him some to use on those of his patients with painful bunions.
‘Is it true?’ asked Michael of Heytesbury, tilting his goblet and inspecting the drink inside doubtfully. ‘Do Oxford scholars really drink this?’
Heytesbury drained his cup in a single swallow. ‘It is a brew the King is said to like.’
‘Then no wonder the country is in such a state,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised the man has any wits at all, if he regularly imbibes this poison. What is your opinion, as a medical man, Matt?’
Bartholomew shrugged, reluctant to engage in treasonous talk with Heytesbury present. For all Bartholomew knew, Heytesbury could be the kind of man to report any rebellious sentiments among Cambridge scholars to the King’s spies, and Bartholomew had no intention of losing his Fellowship for agreeing that any man who regularly drank the potion Richard had provided was not fit to be in control of a plough, let alone a country. He was surprised that Michael was not similarly cautious.
‘I always knew Cambridge men had weak stomachs,’ said Richard, tossing back the contents of his goblet and then fighting not to splutter. ‘We are made of sterner stuff in Oxford.’
‘We will see about that,’ said Michael, downing the remains of his own cup and then pushing it across the table to be refilled. ‘Will you accept my challenge?’
‘He will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘This is supposed to be a pleasant family meal, not some academic drinking game. I do not want either of you face down on your trenchers or ruining the occasion for the rest of us by being sick on the table.’ She snatched up the flask and rammed the stopper into it so hard that Bartholomew wondered whether Richard would ever be able to prise it out.
‘You are quite right, madam,’ said Heytesbury smoothly. ‘I drink little myself and do not enjoy the company of those who lose their wits to wine and have no sensible conversation to offer.’
Bartholomew looked at Heytesbury’s unsteady hands and the way the man was able to swallow Richard’s poison as though it were water, and was not so sure. The fact that Richard claimed the first thing he had done when he had met Heytesbury was to visit the Laughing Pig indicated that Heytesbury was not being entirely honest. Bartholomew watched as the Oxford man took a small package from his scrip, pulled a piece of resin from it and stuffed it in his mouth. He saw Bartholomew watching curiously and slipped the packet across the table for him to see.
‘Gum mastic,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the yellow substance closely. ‘This has only recently come to England, but it has many uses. For example, it makes an excellent glue and is a powerful breath freshener.’
‘Do not tell the students this,’ said Michael, taking it from Bartholomew and regarding it without much i
nterest, before flinging it back to Heytesbury, ‘or they will all be swallowing it, and we shall never be able to prove that they have been drinking.’
Heytesbury caught the package deftly, and changed the subject. ‘Tell me about Cambridge. Is it a pretty town?’
Michael gave Bartholomew a hefty kick under the table to attract his attention, then winked, letting the physician know that Heytesbury’s untruthful statement about this being his first visit to Cambridge had not gone unnoticed. Bartholomew supposed that Heytesbury had no reason to know that the physician had personally seen him meeting scholars from Bene’t College in a place where he assumed – wrongly, as it happened – they would not be observed. Michael’s face was unreadable when Heytesbury looked at him, and Bartholomew saw the monk was content to let Heytesbury continue in his belief.
‘Cambridge is God’s own kingdom on Earth,’ announced Stanmore warmly. ‘I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen a lovelier spot.’
‘Have you travelled much, then?’ asked Heytesbury with polite interest.
Stanmore nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. I have been several times to Saffron Walden – a good fifteen miles to the south – and once I went to London. But neither compares to Cambridge.’
‘I see,’ said Heytesbury. ‘Have you ever been to Oxford?’
Stanmore shook his head, barely able to suppress a shudder. ‘I was not pleased that Richard decided to study there when we have a perfectly good University here, but he was insistent. Still, I suppose his choice was a wise one, given that he is now a lawyer, rather than a physician.’
‘At least I will make my fortune,’ said Richard. His faced was flushed and sweaty from drinking too much wine in a stuffy room. He began to remove his tunic, revealing an intricately embroidered shirt underneath with huge puffed sleeves. ‘I would have been doomed to poverty had I pursued a medical career. Lord, it is hot in here!’
Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death Page 8