As he took his leave, one of Jonas the Poisoner’s children came to say that his father was inundated with requests for medicines after the riot, and that he needed Eleanor’s help.
‘You have some knowledge of herbs?’ asked Bartholomew, impressed.
‘She sweeps up,’ said Hedwise with disdain.
‘I do not!’ Eleanor retorted, glowering at her sister. ‘I have a good memory, and Uncle Jonas says I am indispensable to him in his work.’
‘Then you had better go to him,’ said Hedwise archly. ‘I shall accompany Doctor Bartholomew to see his next patient.’
‘There is no need for that,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way Eleanor’s look had turned to something blacker.
Hedwise took his arm. ‘Shall we be off, then? I shall return later,’ she called to her family as she opened the garden gate and bundled him out.
‘Do not be too long,’ Eleanor shouted after her. ‘You still have the pig to muck out, and I have that potion for the rash on your legs that you asked me to fetch from Uncle Jonas. You should apply it as soon as possible before it becomes worse.’
Hedwise laughed lightly and, Bartholomew thought, artificially, as she closed the gate behind her. ‘Eleanor likes to jest, although mother is always berating her for being overly vulgar. But I have watched Uncle Jonas very carefully in his shop, and if I can be of service to you this afternoon, I shall be happy to oblige.’
‘What about the pig?’ asked Bartholomew, desperately trying to think of a way to reject her offer without hurting her feelings. It was not that he did not want her company, but some of the sights he had seen that morning had been horrific and he had no wish to inflict them on young Hedwise Tyler.
‘The pig will manage without me for an hour or two,’ said Hedwise, ‘and I am sure I can do more good by assisting you than by dealing with that filthy animal.’
‘Perhaps another time, Hedwise,’ said Bartholomew gently, ‘although I do appreciate your offer and the fact that you are prepared to subject yourself to some unpleasant experiences in order to help me.’
She looked away and, to his horror, he saw that her eyes brimmed with tears. At a loss, he offered her a strip of clean linen from his bag with which to wipe her eyes.
‘I so seldom leave the house,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Eleanor, being the eldest, is always the first to go on errands and the like, while I have to stay at home with the pig.’
Bartholomew’s discomfort increased, so, uncertain what to say, he said nothing. She gave a loud sniff.
‘I never go anywhere,’ she continued miserably. ‘I have not even been to the Festival of St Michael and All Angels at St Michael’s Church.’
‘Oh, I could take you to that,’ he said, relieved he could at least suggest something positive. ‘It is the Sunday after next, although I cannot see that you would enjoy it – Michael’s choir is going to sing, you see, and they are not what they were before the plague. Afterwards, Michaelhouse provides stale oatcakes and sour wine in the College courtyard. If it rains, we just get wet because the Franciscans outvote everyone else that the meal – if you can call it that – should be held in the hall. The Franciscans do not approve of townspeople in the hall except at the annual Founder’s Feast.’
He realised he had not made the offer sound a particularly appealing one, and sought for something to say in the Festival’s favour. Hedwise did not give him the chance.
‘How wonderful!’ she exclaimed, tears forgotten. ‘Oh, thank you!’
‘You can bring your mother,’ he said, recalling that her elder sister had already inveigled an invitation to the Founder’s Feast. He did not want Mistress Tyler thinking he was working his way through her entire family. Hedwise, however, had other ideas.
‘Oh, no,’ she said briskly. ‘Mother will not want to sit in a damp church all day. But I will be delighted to accompany you. Just the two of us.’
‘And a hundred other people,’ he said. ‘The church is always full for the Festival. Of course, it might not be so well attended if people hear the choir in advance. But if you have second thoughts about wasting a Sunday, you must tell me. I promise you I will not be offended if you find something better to do.’
‘I can think of nothing better to do than to spend a Sunday with you at the Festival,’ she announced. She gave him a huge grin and slipped away, dodging deftly out of the path of a man driving an ancient cow to the Market Square. A little belatedly, Bartholomew began to wonder what he had let himself in for.
CHAPTER 4
Bartholomew’s fears for Hedwise’s well-being were unfounded as it happened, and most of the cases he saw the afternoon after the riot comprised minor injuries, rather than serious wounds. He tended a merchant who had gashed his hand on glass when he tried to protect his home from looters, and then set off along Milne Street to where a baker with eyes sore from smoke awaited him. On his way, he was accosted by a shabby figure in dark green, with protuberant blue eyes and a dirty, unshaven look.
His hands, Bartholomew could not help but notice, were black with dried blood.
‘Good afternoon, Robin,’ he said, involuntarily stepping backwards as the surgeon’s rank body odour wafted towards him.
‘I hear you have been stitching and cutting,’ said Robin of Grantchester in a sibilant whisper, pursing his lips and looking at Bartholomew in disapproval. ‘Chopping and sewing.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew shortly, walking on. He did not have the time to engage in a lengthy discussion with the surgeon about the techniques he used, despite the fact that Bartholomew thought the man could use all the help he could get: Robin of Grantchester was not noted for his medical successes. The surgeon scurried after him.
‘Surgery is for surgeons,’ hissed Robin, sniffing wetly. ‘Physicking and reading the stars is for physicians. You are taking the bread from my mouth.’
Bartholomew heartily wished that were true, and that Robin would pack up his unsanitary selection of implements and look for greener pastures in another town.
The more Bartholomew observed the surgeon in action, the more he was convinced that his grimy hands did far more harm than good, and shuddered to think of anyone being forced to pay him for any dubious services he might render. The fact that Robin always demanded payment in advance because of his high mortality rate did little to endear him to Bartholomew.
‘My job is slitting and slicing,’ said Robin venomously.
‘Hacking and slashing, more like,’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether the man had been drinking.
His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed unsteady on his feet.
‘You are not a surgeon. You have no right,’ persisted Robin. ‘I do not profess to read the stars or inspect urine. Keep to your profession, Bartholomew, and I will keep to mine. I shall complain to the master of Michaelhouse if you continue to poach my trade.’
‘Complain then,’ said Bartholomew carelessly, knowing that Master Kenyngham would do nothing about it. ‘I am duty bound to do whatever it takes to ensure the complete recovery of my patients. If that involves a degree of surgery, then so be it.’
‘You can call me to do it,’ said Robin, wiping his runny nose with a bloodstained finger. ‘The other physicians do so, and I insist you do not poach my work.’
‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, stopping outside the sore-eyed baker’s house. ‘I promise you I will ask any patient I operate on whether they would rather have you or me. Will that suffice?’
Robin saw it would have to, and slunk away down a dark alley, his canvas sack of saws and knives clanking ominously as he went. Before Bartholomew could knock at the baker’s door, he was hailed a second time, and turned to see Adam Radbeche, the Principal of David’s Hostel and the man responsible for Father Andrew and his unruly Scottish students.
Radbeche was a distinctive-looking man, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair that reminded Bartholomew of a scarecrow. The Scot was a well-known figure in the University, famous for his brilliant
interpretations of the works of Aristotle, and Bartholomew was pleased that Radbeche’s scholarship had been rewarded by an appointment to Principal – even if it were only to the small, anonymous David’s Hostel. Students and masters from the same part of the world tended to gather together, so it was not unusual that Radbeche had attracted fellow Scots to his establishment.
The philosopher’s hand was bandaged; he explained that he had been burned while assisting a neighbour to extinguish a fire. The students had also helped to bring the fire under control, but, Radbeche said, at least three times he had counted them all back in again, so Bartholomew was inclined to believe that the Scots had played no part in the rioting. He led Radbeche across the road to sit on the low wall surrounding the little church of St John Zachary – decommissioned since the plague had taken most of its parishioners, and now with weeds growing out of its windows and its roof sagging dangerously.
While Bartholomew inspected and re-dressed the burned hand, Radbeche informed him that the ailing student Bartholomew had treated the day before at David’s was recovering well. When Bartholomew waved away the offer of payment, impatient to attend the baker who had emerged from his house and was blinking at him anxiously, Radbeche suggested instead that he might like to borrow a medical book by the great Greek physician Galen. Bartholomew was surprised.
‘Galen? But you have no medical students.’
Radbeche smiled. ‘It was a gift from a man who could not read and who purchased the first book that matched the price he was willing to pay. It is the only book we own, actually. We borrow what we need from King’s Hall or the Franciscan Friary.’
‘Which book by Galen do you have?’ asked Bartholomew with keen interest.
Radbeche seemed taken aback. ‘Prognostica, I believe.’
He saw Bartholomew’s doubtful look at his ignorance, and shrugged. ‘I am a philosopher, Doctor. I have no interest in medical texts – even if they are all we have!’
Despite the fact that the University was a place of learning, and students were obliged to know certain texts if they wanted to pass their examinations, books were rare and expensive, and each one was jealously guarded. Michaelhouse only possessed three medical books and Bartholomew was delighted by Radbeche’s generous offer. He gave the Principal a grateful grin and made his farewells so that he could attend to the agitated baker.
Later, as he was returning to Michaelhouse for more bandages, Bartholomew saw the untruthful Brother Edred limping up the High Street. Moments after, his colleague Brother Werbergh slunk past sporting a bruised eye, looking very sorry for himself.
Justice in Cambridge was swift and brutal, and, before evening, four men alleged to have been ringleaders in the rioting were hanged on the Castle walls as a grim warning to others who might consider breaking the Ring’s peace.
Other rioters were released when heavy fines had been paid, with warnings that next time, they too would be kicking empty air on the Castle walls. Whether the hanged men really were the ringleaders of the riot was a matter for conjecture. While Bartholomew imagined they might have been in the thick of the fighting – perhaps even urging others to do damage and harm – the evidence that they were the real instigators was, at best, dubious.
As the shadows began to lengthen, and the heat of the day was eased by a cooling breeze, Bartholomew finished his work. Sam Gray and Rob Deynman, the two students who had been missing from Michaelhouse the night before, had helped him with the last few visits. Deynman had shown an aptitude for bandaging that Bartholomew never realised he had; this offered some glimmer of hope that his least-able student might yet make some kind of physician.
‘Where were you two last night?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked home together.
The students exchanged furtive glances and Bartholomew, tired and hot, felt his patience evaporating.
His students sensed it too and Gray hastened to answer.
‘We were at Maud’s Hostel. I know we are not supposed to frequent other hostels,’ he added quickly, seeing Bartholomew’s expression of weary disapproval. ‘But Rob’s younger brother is there, as you know.’ He cast Bartholomew a sidelong glance. Bartholomew, struggling to teach Rob Deynman – not the most gifted of students – had seen within moments that the younger brother made Rob appear a veritable genius and had refused to teach him at Michaelhouse. The younger Deynman, therefore, had secured himself a place at Maud’s, an exclusive establishment with a reputation for rich, but slow, students.
‘It was my brother Jack’s birthday,’ said Deynman cheerfully, ‘and we were invited to celebrate at Maud’s. By the time the wine ran out and we were ready to leave, the riot had started. The Maud’s Principal advised us to stay.’
‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether the idea to stay was truly the Principal’s, or, more likely, Gray’s. Gray, with his loaded dice and silver tongue, would profit greatly from an evening among the wealthy, but gullible, students at Maud’s. Deynman, slow-witted and naïve, was often an innocent foil to Gray’s untiring and invariably imaginative ploys to make money by deception.
Still, Bartholomew was grateful that they had had the sense not to stray out on to the streets when the town was inflamed – whatever their motive. He was fond of Gray and Deynman, and had been relieved when they had reported to him unharmed earlier that day.
‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ came a soft voice from behind him, and Bartholomew felt his spirits sink.
Guy Heppel, the Junior Proctor, sidled closer, smiling enthusiastically from under a thick woollen cap. He held out a hefty pile of scrolls to Bartholomew. ‘I have all the information you will need to conduct a complete astrological consultation on me. Would now be a convenient moment?’
‘No,’ said Gray, before Bartholomew could think of a plausible excuse. ‘There is a new moon tonight, you see, and Doctor Bartholomew, being born under the influence of Venus, is never at his best when the moon is new. You would be better off trying him next week.’
Heppel nodded in complete and sympathetic understanding.
‘Then I shall do so,’ he said, rubbing his free hand up and down the sides of his gown in the curious manner Bartholomew had noticed earlier. ‘It is just as well you are indisposed, I suppose. The Chancellor has ordered me to march around the town with the beadles to warn scholars that anyone caught out after the curfew will spend the night in our cells. So, it is all for the best that you cannot entice me from my duties to spend the time with you on my consultation. When I finish announcing the curfew, I intend to go home to King’s Hall and spend the evening by the fire.’
‘Fire? In this weather?’ asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself.
Heppel looked pained. ‘For my chest,’ he explained. ‘You understand. And I find a fire so much better for reading after dark. Much better than a candle, don’t you think?’
Since candles were expensive and firewood more so, Bartholomew had seldom had the opportunity to find out.
‘I heard your brother-in-law’s premises were attacked last night,’ Heppel added as he rolled up his sheaf of parchments. ‘I hope no damage was done.’
Bartholomew had not given his family a single thought that day, assuming that if any of Oswald Stanmore’s household had been harmed they would have summoned him. He decided he should pay them a visit, reluctantly banishing from his mind the attractive alternative of a wash in clean water and a quiet supper in the orchard.
He rubbed his hand through his hair wearily, nodding to Heppel as he took his leave.
‘Thank you for getting me out of that, Sam,’ he said when the Junior Proctor had gone. ‘The last thing I feel like doing now is thinking about astrology. Did you make it all up?’
‘Of course I did,’ said Gray, surprised by the question. ‘I certainly did not learn it from you, did I, bearing in mind your antipathy to the subject?’
‘I have taught you some astrology,’ said Bartholomew indignantly, ‘including how to do consultations of the kind Heppel
has in mind. In fact, you can do his next week and I shall listen to see how much you have remembered.’
Gray sighed theatrically. ‘Never do a master a favour, Rob,’ he instructed Deynman. ‘It is seldom appreciated and often dangerous.’
‘I will do Master Heppel’s consultation,’ offered Deynman enthusiastically. ‘I recall everything you said about Venus and Mars.’
Bartholomew seriously doubted it, and had reservations about letting Deynman loose on anyone, even for something as non-invasive as a consultation about astrology. He might well inform Heppel that he only had a few days to live, or that a strong dose of arsenic would increase his chances of living to be a hundred years old. While Deynman’s outrageous interpretations of planetary movements provided Bartholomew with an endless supply of amusing anecdotes with which to horrify Michael, it would scarcely be appropriate to inflict him on real patients.
Tiredly, Bartholomew sent his students back to Michael-house with orders not to go out again and went to find his brother-in-law. Soldiers were very much in evidence on the streets, sweating under their chain-mail, and armed to the teeth. Heppel and his group of beadles were marching around the town proclaiming that all scholars must be in their hostels or colleges by seven o’clock, and that any who were not would be summarily arrested. The Sheriffs men were issuing similar warnings to the townspeople.
It seemed to be working: the streets were emptier than usual. People had laboured all day in the sweltering sun to restore order to the town and, with luck, would be too exhausted for rioting that night. Burned wreckage had been moved into a large pile and other rubbish swept away. Bartholomew saw some of it being carted off in the direction of the King’s Ditch, and wondered if, after all the dredging efforts by both town and University, the Ditch was to be blocked again so soon. He also wondered at the wisdom of collecting all the partly burned wood into a large pile in the Market Square: even to the most naïve of eyes, it looked like a bonfire waiting to be lit.
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