‘Galen does not talk about blackcurrants in that,’ he declared, tapping a bony, ragged-nailed finger on Rougham’s tome. ‘He discusses blackberries, but not blackcurrants.’
If Quenhyth expected Rougham to be grateful for having his mistake pointed out in front of a patient, he was to be disappointed. ‘What do you know about physic, boy? You do not even know the difference between calamint and catmint.’
‘That was not me,’ objected Quenhyth indignantly. ‘It was Redmeadow. But that is beside the point. There is nothing about blackcurrants in Galen.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is there?’
‘We should be on our way,’ said Bartholomew tactfully. ‘We can talk about Galen as we go.’
‘No!’ cried Quenhyth stubbornly. ‘I am right. Tell him!’
‘Do you see this boy?’ roared Rougham suddenly, addressing the people who were nearby. Some stopped to listen, and Warde began to cough in agitation, uncomfortable with the scene Rougham was about to create. Redmeadow simply turned and fled, and Bartholomew wished he could do the same. ‘He thinks he is a great physician who can challenge his betters. But I advise you all to let him nowhere near you, because he will kill you with his inexperience and foolishness.’
Quenhyth’s normally pallid skin flushed a deep red. ‘I will not! I am—’
‘An imbecile,’ said Rougham, cutting through the student’s stammering objections. ‘A dangerous fool. Take my warning seriously, friends, or he will bring about your deaths with false remedies.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew quietly, moved by the tears of humiliation that spilled down Quenhyth’s downy cheeks. ‘He will make a good physician one day, and he is right about the blackcurrants. Galen does not mention them.’
‘I said blackberries,’ asserted Rougham loudly. He opened the book and pointed to a spot on the page, waving it far too close to the physician’s face for him to be able to read it. ‘Here. Do you see that? You are as bad as your dithering, blundering student.’
He snapped the book closed and stalked away. Quenhyth gazed after him, tears staining his face and his hands clenched at his sides. He was shaking so much that Bartholomew put an arm around his shoulders, but Quenhyth knocked it away. Seeing the show was over, people began to disperse, some laughing at the sight of physicians quarrelling publicly.
‘He did say blackcurrants,’ said Warde kindly to Quenhyth. ‘And he recommended blackcurrant syrup to me.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Does this mean I asked Lavenham for the wrong thing?’
‘Someone spoke mine name?’ asked the apothecary, who happened to be passing with Cheney the spice merchant and Bernarde the miller. Their heads were down, as though they had been deep in serious conversation. ‘I here.’
‘I need a potion of blackberries for my cough,’ said Warde. ‘Do you have one?’
‘I give blackcurrant,’ said Lavenham in surprise. ‘Blackberry now? You want all black potions future? Bartholomew give black medicine for black bile. Charcoal for Una the prosperous—’
‘Una the prostitute,’ corrected Bernarde, jangling his keys. ‘She is not prosperous at all.’
‘She should charge her customers more, then,’ said Cheney, as though the solution to Una’s poverty was obvious. ‘These women call themselves the Guild of Frail Sisters, but then they cheat themselves by charging ridiculously low amounts for their services.’
‘They cannot demand too much,’ said Bernarde. It seemed he, too, was intimately acquainted with the Frail Sisters’ economic shortcomings. ‘Or men would just take what they could not afford. That happened with flour after the Death – people had no money, so they stormed the mill and stole what they needed. The Frail Sisters will not want that to happen to them.’
‘And there is issue for quality,’ added Lavenham knowledgeably. ‘Una do not ask much, because she not good. Not like Yolande de Blaston, who ask more, and is very good when she can be got.’
‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to become engaged in a public discussion about the town’s prostitutes. ‘Come on, Quenhyth.’
‘Rougham did not have to do that,’ sniffed Quenhyth, as he and Bartholomew left the burgeoning conversation about the town’s Frail Sisters and their value for money. Warde waited for it to finish so that he could order Rougham’s next ineffective remedy. Although syrups were good for coughs of short duration, Bartholomew felt Warde’s had lingered long enough to warrant something more powerful, and hoped Rougham would soon prescribe a remedy that might work.
‘Rougham was unkind,’ he agreed. ‘But do not take his words to heart.’
‘He confused me with Redmeadow,’ said Quenhyth in a broken voice. ‘That is the only explanation. I do not see why else he should attack me.’
‘There is Bess,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him from his misery. ‘Shall we talk to her, and see whether she is more rational today?’
‘No,’ said Quenhyth, beginning to weep again. ‘I do not want to talk to anyone. I want to go to our room and hide. If you had not stepped in, he would still be abusing me now. I hate him! How can I visit your patients now? They will laugh at me and say I am not fit to be in their presence!’
‘They will not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took a phial from his bag that contained medicine for Isnard. It had to be delivered daily, because the bargeman had already tried to swallow a month’s worth in the mistaken belief that a larger dose would speed his recovery. ‘Take this to Isnard and ensure he takes it. Then check his pulse and ask him how he feels. If you conduct his daily examination, then I will not need to visit him today.’
Quenhyth’s eyes shone with sudden pride. ‘You trust me to see him? Alone?’
‘You have watched me for a week now, and you know what to do. Hurry. He will be waiting.’
‘Thank you,’ said Quenhyth, scrubbing his wet face with his sleeve. He gave a venomous glower in Rougham’s direction. ‘I look forward to the day when I qualify. Then we shall see who knows more about Galen and blackcurrants!’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where he spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon discussing Euclid’s Elementa with a class that was not nearly as enthusiastic about geometry as its teacher. Redmeadow made a nuisance of himself by insisting that God could make exceptions to any universal laws of physics, and then demanded to know whether the Holy Trinity added up to 180 degrees, like one of Euclid’s triangles. Bartholomew became exasperated by the interruptions, and longed to order him to leave God out of the debate. But Father William was listening, and he knew what would happen if the fanatical Franciscan heard him make such a remark.
Bartholomew left the hall feeling drained, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, thinking that a few moments with Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum might restore his equilibrium. However, when he arrived, the gate was open, and he saw through the trees that Wynewyk was already there, also seeking some peace after three hours of teaching in a hall crammed with noisy, querulous undergraduates. Since he did not want to intrude on another’s solitude, Bartholomew walked farther into the orchard and found a sheltered spot among some bare-twigged plum trees.
He had not been reading for long when he heard the gate rattle. Assuming Wynewyk was leaving, and not comfortable under the plum tree anyway, Bartholomew decided to reclaim the apple trunk. He closed his book and strolled through the orchard, relishing the scent of early blossoms and the hum of a bee as it sailed haphazardly towards the hives at the bottom of the garden.
However, Wynewyk was not leaving; he was answering a knock at the small gate that opened on to St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew watched him remove the stout bar that secured it, then take a key from his scrip to deal with the lock. He had been on the verge of calling to him, but, without knowing why, he hesitated. Instead of striding forward, he slipped behind a flourishing gooseberry bush and peered through its bright new leaves. Wynewyk opened the door and ushered someone inside, looking surreptitiously up and down the lane before closing it again
. For some reason, he did not want anyone to know that Paxtone of King’s Hall was visiting him.
‘Well?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you have it?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Paxtone. ‘It is proving more difficult than I imagined, because they keep changing their minds. We may have to abandon it altogether.’
‘No!’ groaned Wynewyk. ‘Not after all our planning!’
‘Matt saw us today, you know,’ said Paxtone worriedly. ‘He looked right at us – and he will be even more suspicious if he catches us together again. We must be more careful.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ objected Wynewyk. ‘We could have brazened it out if you had not panicked and fled like a guilty criminal.’
Paxtone sighed. ‘I wish we had never started this. I am not good at subterfuge and secrecy.’ An expression of alarm suddenly crossed his homely features. ‘I hope he does not mention any of this to Brother Michael! I do not want him after me!’
Wynewyk glared at him. ‘Michael is too busy to bother with us. Besides, I did not put myself through all this inconvenience to give up now. We will persist.’
‘Very well,’ said Paxtone unhappily. ‘But it will not be easy. Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’
‘Well, be careful,’ said Wynewyk. ‘If the merest whisper of this gets out, all our labours will have been for nothing. I do not want Rougham to spoil our fun.’
‘Do not worry about him,’ said Paxtone meaningfully. ‘But I cannot stay here – I am expected at Valence Marie. Be sure to close this gate properly after I leave. We do not want a small thing like an improperly secured door to give away our secret.’
Wynewyk ushered the physician into the lane, then closed the gate and barred it, before walking back to the apple tree. He collected the tome he had been reading, and tucked it under his arm. As he walked away, Bartholomew saw a severed chain dangling behind him, indicating it was a library book – and one that had been forcibly removed from its moorings, too. When he had gone, Bartholomew stared at the apple tree unhappily, wondering what wrongdoings the ancient bark had just witnessed.
Bartholomew was bothered by what he had seen in the orchard, but Michael was dismissive when he was told what had happened, and pointed out that there might be any number of innocent explanations. Bartholomew tried not to think about it, although a disagreeable nag at the back of his mind kept reminding him that there was unexplained business of a potentially sinister nature involving two people he liked. It was not a pleasant sensation.
‘It is time you and I visited the fabled Hand of Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael. There was still an hour before the evening meal. ‘I saw a large number of people lining up to be admitted to its presence earlier today, and I want to see it for myself.’
‘Perhaps we can steal it while William’s back is turned, and throw it in the river,’ suggested Bartholomew petulantly. ‘That would put an end to this nonsense.’
‘It might put an end to us, too,’ said Michael, beginning to walk up St Michael’s Lane. ‘I do not want to be summarily hanged by a mob for depriving the town of its sacred relic. You must try to control your thieving impulses for now – although I may make use of them later, when we will not be the obvious culprits.’
‘Your grandmother would be better than me,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the old lady would think nothing of outwitting the likes of Father William and making off with the University’s treasure with no one any the wiser.
‘True, but I do not want to ask her,’ said Michael. ‘She will think me a fool, unable to steal relics in his own town. I do not want her telling the King that her grandson is lacking in the requisite skills.’
‘Requisite for what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine which career opportunities in the King’s service might list thievery as an essential qualification.
‘This and that,’ replied Michael vaguely. ‘But you see my point, Matt. No man wants his grandmother to see him as an inadequate burglar.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew. He saw a familiar figure walking slowly along the High Street, reaching out a dirty hand to stop all who passed and asking everyone the same question. Most simply shook their heads and went about their business; others were less happy about being waylaid by such a filthy creature. Bess grabbed Bartholomew’s arm with fingers that were long, bony and surprisingly strong.
‘Have you seen my man?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you eaten today? Do you still have money to buy food and a bed for the night?’
She ignored him, and moved on to Michael. ‘Have you seen my man?’
‘What does he look like?’ asked Michael. ‘Tall, short, fat, thin?’
‘He is gone,’ she whispered. ‘And I am looking for him.’
‘Do you know the Mortimer family?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Constantine had told the truth when he had said Bess was no relation of the dead Katherine.
‘Do they know where he is?’ she asked.
Her voice was flat, and Bartholomew thought she was probably too addled to recognise her man, even if she did manage to locate him. Without waiting for his reply, she headed for Deynman and Redmeadow, who were out for a stroll before the evening meal. She put her question, and Bartholomew listened to Deynman explain that he knew her from when she had discovered Bosel’s body. She waited until he had finished speaking, then went to talk to someone else.
‘She does not remember Bosel,’ said Michael, as Deynman joined them, hurt that his kindness should have been so quickly forgotten. ‘Why did you ask whether she knows the Mortimers, Matt? Do you think one of them is the fellow she hunts so ardently?’
‘I asked only because of her resemblance to Katherine,’ said Bartholomew.
‘It is an uncanny likeness,’ agreed Michael. ‘A few days ago, I asked you to examine Bess and tell me whether she might be feigning madness to disguise her real identity as a killer. Did you do it?’
‘I have had several conversations with her, Brother, but I can tell you no more now than when I first met her – except that she has been here for a month or so, and that she came from London. Her insanity seems real to me, but I would not stake my life on it. I am not good with ailments of the mind, and find it hard to distinguish genuine cases from false ones.’
They watched Bess accost Bernarde the miller, who shoved a coin into her hand without breaking stride. She stared at it blankly, then dropped it in the mud of the street. Next, she seized Clippesby of Michaelhouse. The Dominican listened carefully, then recommended she ask the town’s cats about her husband’s whereabouts, on the grounds that they were more knowledgeable about such matters than people.
‘I cannot listen,’ said Redmeadow, starting to walk away with Deynman in tow. ‘Witnessing a conversation between mad Master Clippesby and addled Bess is more than anyone should be asked to do. We are off to see the Hand of Valence Marie. Father William has promised us a private viewing.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, catching up with them. ‘He can show it to us at the same time.’
‘But then it will not be private,’ objected Deynman.
‘You will not notice us,’ promised Michael, patting the student’s arm. ‘We will be quiet. But why are you so keen to see the thing? Surely you know it is not genuine?’
‘Actually, I think it is,’ said Deynman seriously. ‘Father William says that more than two hundred people have been to see it, and we all know that two hundred people cannot be wrong.’
Michael gave him a sidelong glance to indicate that he had no such faith in the populace’s ability to determine such matters. He led the way to St Mary the Great, where a line of about twenty folk were waiting. The relic appealed to the wealthy as well as the poor, which made for a curious mixture of supplicants. Cheney the spicer was next to grizzled Sergeant Orwelle, while Yolande de Blaston and the wealthy Isobel de Lavenham stood side by side.
‘We were her
e first,’ called Cheney, as Michael pushed past them to enter the church. ‘You must wait your turn. It is only fair.’
‘He is right,’ agreed Isobel, pouting her voluptuous red lips. ‘You must stand here, next to me.’
‘I am not a penitent,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘I have business with the Chancellor.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Yolande coolly. ‘But I would not like to think you were pushing in.’
‘The Hand of Valence Marie is for everyone,’ said Orwelle. ‘We all have important reasons for being here. I have come to ask for help with Bosel’s murder, since I am getting nowhere on my own – and it has been a week now. I need some divine assistance, or the Sheriff will think me incompetent.’
Michael smiled sweetly and entered the airy interior of the church with Deynman, Redmeadow and Bartholomew behind, all uncomfortable with Michael’s lies. Without the slightest hesitation, Michael made straight for the spiral staircase that led to the tower, and climbed to the first floor, where Tynkell was busily filing documents on nail-spiked pieces of wood.
‘I am finding it difficult to work with folk clattering up and down the stairs all day long,’ he grumbled as Michael entered. Bartholomew and the students hovered on the stairs outside, loath to be in a room containing the odorous Chancellor, especially a small one in which the windows did not open. ‘I am beginning to wish you had never created the position of Keeper of the University Chest for William. The Hand lay forgotten and buried until he came along and resurrected the thing.’
‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘You should have removed it from the Chest before he took charge. But the deed is done now, and we shall have to live with your blunder.’
‘How are you, sir?’ asked Deynman, looking directly at the Chancellor’s stomach before the man could object to Michael’s brazen blame-shifting. ‘The life inside you, I mean?’
Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised Deynman was about to try to prove Tynkell was a pregnant hermaphrodite. While Redmeadow sniggered softly, the physician flailed around for ways to stop him before the situation became embarrassing. But nothing came to mind.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 22