‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, staggered by the amount of blood that had been depicted.
‘It is Principal Coslaye’s handiwork,’ said Browne, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘He did it when he was recovering from the surgery you performed on his head.’
‘It is very … colourful,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Coslaye was waiting for a compliment, although the truth was that the whole thing was ridiculously gruesome. In one section, headless French knights were still busily doing battle with the angelic English, their limbs operated by the demons that sat on their shoulders.
‘It was either this, or a picture of Satan being welcomed at the Carmelite Priory,’ elaborated Coslaye. ‘I opted for Poitiers when I learned that red paint is cheaper than all the white I would have needed for their habits.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute that was none of his concern. ‘What happened here? Did you drink bad water? Or eat tainted food?’
‘No, we have been poisoned,’ declared Coslaye. ‘By the Carmelites. They slipped a toxin into the stew we all ate. Well, Browne did not have any, because he does not like French food.’ He indicated a handsome student who was older than the others. ‘Pepin did the cooking today, you see, and he is French.’
‘Is he?’ Bartholomew was unable to stop himself from glancing at the mural.
‘Yes, but he is not the same as his countrymen,’ whispered Coslaye confidentially. ‘He is a decent soul, whereas the rest of them are villains. We do not think of him as foreign.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Pepin could endure such bigotry. He turned his thoughts back to medicine, and looked at Browne. ‘What did you eat?’
‘A bit of bread and cheese,’ replied Browne. ‘But I am poisoned, too, because I feel sick.’
‘That is because you are in a stuffy room with a lot of vomiting men,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Go outside, and you will feel better.’
‘You want me out of the way so you can chant spells without me hearing,’ said Browne accusingly, although he went to stand by the open door. ‘You know how I deplore your association with Lucifer.’
‘Bartholomew has no association with Lucifer,’ snapped Coslaye irritably. ‘You talk nonsense, man – and in front of our students, too. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘What was in this meal you shared?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, eager to identify the cause of the problem so he could escape. The smelly hostel was no place to linger, and he had no wish to spend time with the antagonistic Browne, either.
‘It was a recipe from my home in Angoulême,’ supplied Pepin in such perfectly unaccented French that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘It contained—’
‘Angoulême?’ blurted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. ‘That is near Poitiers.’
‘Actually, it is some distance away,’ countered Pepin, shooting an uneasy glance at Coslaye. ‘And the roads are poor, so it is impossible to ride from one to the other in less than three days.’
Bartholomew knew he was lying: he had done it in half a day, on foot. But he said nothing, already regretting having made the observation in the first place.
Coslaye regarded Pepin suspiciously. ‘If you were in the area, did you see the battle fought?’
‘No, of course not,’ replied Pepin, swallowing hard. ‘I am a scholar, not a warrior.’
‘So is Bartholomew, but he still joined in,’ jibed Browne. ‘And it is not something to be proud of, either. Civilised men should know better than to slaughter each other like savages.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Coslaye. ‘It was a great day for England, and I wish I had been there. I am envious of you, Bartholomew. I am envious of Riborowe of the Carmelites, too, and Holm the surgeon, although he contradicts himself when he describes the action, and his account does not tally with others I have heard. Ergo, I am disinclined to believe he took part.’
‘You should not be listening to battle stories at all,’ muttered Browne. He did not speak loudly enough for Coslaye to hear, although Pepin nodded heartfelt agreement. ‘It is unseemly.’
‘Are you sure you were not at the battle, Pepin?’ Coslaye asked, turning his fierce gaze on the student again. ‘We shall not expel you, if you were. I only want to know out of interest.’
‘No, I was not there,’ said Pepin levelly. ‘I rarely visit Poitiers. It is dirty and smells of onions.’
‘What was in the stew?’ asked Bartholomew, leading the discussion back to medicine. He hoped his incautious remark would not bring trouble to Pepin in the future.
‘It is called tout marron,’ replied Pepin, patently grateful to be talking about something else. ‘And it contained all manner of things – meat left over from Sunday, a bit of fish, some winter vegetables. And a lot of garlic. Garlic works wonders on food past its best.’
‘It might disguise the flavour, but not the impact,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Sunday was five days ago. That is a long time for meat to be stored, especially now the weather is warm.’
‘Times are hard,’ said Browne. ‘We cannot afford to throw food away, no matter what its state of decomposition. We are not rich, like cosseted Fellows in Colleges.’
‘It is cheaper than buying medicines for the consequences,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, writing out a tonic for the apothecary to prepare. He carried enough to soothe one or two roiling stomachs, but nowhere enough to remedy an entire hostel. Batayl would have to purchase its own.
He returned to Michaelhouse just in time to intercept his students, who were on their way out. All had combed their hair and donned their finery in anticipation of an afternoon in the town.
‘We worked hard this morning, sir,’ explained Valence, his senior pupil, defensively. ‘So we thought we would … sit in the garden and continue our studies in a more relaxed atmosphere.’
‘Very relaxed,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘You do not have a single scroll among you.’
Valence flushed, caught out. ‘But the other Fellows are letting their lads study alone for the rest of the day! You are the only one who insists on holding classes.’
‘Perhaps they are satisfied with their pupils’ progress,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you still have much to learn. Can you tell me how to make an infusion of lily of the valley?’
‘I imagine you boil it up,’ replied Valence sullenly. ‘Or pound it into a pulp.’
‘For which ailments can it be used?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed.
‘Spots,’ suggested another lad. ‘Colic, fevers and consumption. And warts and broken limbs.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘If all that were true, medical herbaria would never need grow anything else. But these are basic questions, and you should know the answers.’
‘All right,’ said Valence, throwing up his hands in defeat. ‘You win, sir. Shall I read about lily of the valley to the others, or will you do it?’
Supposing he could concede to their desire to be outside, Bartholomew took them to the orchard. It was pleasant, sitting under the fresh green leaves, with bees buzzing in the long grass and birds twittering above their heads. He read until the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s teaching, and was wholly mystified when his students made an immediate and unanimous bid for freedom.
While he had been busy, patients had sent word that they needed to see him, so he spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening visiting. His customers included Isnard, who had been punched during a brawl at the King’s Head; Prior Etone, whose chilblains were paining him; and finally Chancellor Tynkell, who had worked himself into a state.
‘I am agitated to the point of nausea,’ Tynkell announced, when Bartholomew reached the Chancellor’s office in St Mary the Great. ‘I wish I had never started this library business. The strain is too great.’
‘Why should it distress you now?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching into his bag for a remedy to soothe ragged nerves. ‘By this time next week, the bu
ilding will be open. You are past the worst.’
‘Walkelate has been splendid,’ agreed Tynkell miserably. ‘I did not think he would succeed in time, but he has worked extremely hard. But it is the inaugural ceremony I am worried about now. Opinionated men from Batayl, King’s Hall, Gonville and the Carmelite Priory will make a fuss and spoil it. I asked Brother Michael if we could ban them from the festivities, but he said no.’
‘Did he explain why?’
‘Because barring the Colleges and convents would leave the hostels, and the scholars enrolled in those cannot always be guaranteed to behave, either.’
‘Why do you need a ceremony? Why not just unlock the door and let people in?’
‘Because Dunning wants one. Besides, I am hoping it will encourage donations of books.’
Bartholomew had no answers for him. ‘Are you really retiring next year?’ he asked instead.
Tynkell nodded. ‘Yes. I am tired of being Michael’s lackey. Everyone knows he runs the University anyway, so he can have himself elected properly. He is not very pleased, but it is time I put my foot down.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I shall pursue my private studies. Why do you think I want a Common Library? I am not a member of a wealthy College, and it was the only way I could get access to all the books I shall want to read.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the selfish admission.
‘And I want to be remembered for something other than being Michael’s puppet, too,’ Tynkell went on. He swallowed the draught Bartholomew handed him, then released a gusty sigh. ‘Thank you. And thank you for having the courage to vote for my library. It cannot have been easy to stand against Michael. I know I would not have done it, had I been in your shoes.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘He is not such a dragon when you come to know him.’
‘But I do know him. And he is a dragon – a great big fat one with heavy bones.’
It was late evening by the time Bartholomew returned to the College. The students were in the hall, some revising for their examinations but most enjoying the opportunity to relax with their friends. He made for the conclave, the pleasant chamber at the far end of the hall that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows; students and servants were not permitted inside.
‘Where are Langelee and Ayera?’ he asked, taking a seat at the table and pouring himself a cup of wine that had been watered to a pale pink. All the other Fellows were there.
‘Who knows,’ replied Thelnetham, patting a bright yellow scarf in place around his neck. He primped and fluffed even more when he realised that William was watching, clearly intending to antagonise the incendiary Franciscan. ‘They said they were going out, but declined to mention where.’
‘Langelee would never confide in you,’ scoffed William. ‘He thinks you are a peacock.’
‘That is a compliment compared to what he said about you,’ Thelnetham flashed back. ‘But I shall not repeat it in public. Obscenities offend my delicate sensibilities.’
And then a quarrel was in progress. Suttone took William’s side, not because he liked the friar, but because he disliked the Gilbertine. Clippesby sat in a corner, and gave his entire concentration to the animal he was cradling. Bartholomew frowned when he saw it was the rat.
‘I had a wasted day, just as I predicted,’ said Michael, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the acrimonious babble. ‘Although I did successfully quell a spat between Ovyng Hostel and Peterhouse over the Common Library. Of course, arguments over that place are so common these days that it is hardly worth mentioning them.’
‘You learned nothing to help us with our enquiries?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not a thing. Let us hope we have better luck tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 6
Bartholomew slept unusually well, and woke, wholly refreshed, just before dawn. He rose, washed in the bowl of water that Cynric had left for him, and rummaged in his chest for a clean shirt. Then he spent a few moments in the library, preparing the texts he wanted his students to read that day. It was a Saturday, so lessons would end early, but there was still a good deal that could be accomplished in the few hours available.
By the time he had finished, his colleagues were gathering in the yard, ready to walk to church. He joined them, chatting to Suttone about the plague and trying to make Clippesby understand that rats in the College were unacceptable, even when they came to inform Michaelhouse that strange men had prowled the town the night before, and that one had sworn at a barking dog.
‘Ayera was out all last night,’ said Thelnetham snidely. ‘Perhaps he did the swearing.’
‘He likes dogs,’ said Clippesby, his eyes wide and without guile. ‘He would never offend one with vulgar language.’
‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Thelnetham, regarding him askance. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I joined this College, for none of its Fellows are normal. You are a lunatic; Suttone is obsessed with the plague; Bartholomew is a warlock; Langelee and Ayera are womanising hedonists; Michael is the Bishop’s spy; and William is … well, William is William.’
‘And what do you mean by that, pray?’ demanded William, narrowing his eyes.
Fortunately, Thelnetham was prevented from providing an answer because the gate opened to admit one of Tulyet’s soldiers. He was breathless and white faced, and had clearly run as hard as he could. His name was Helbye, and he was one of Tulyet’s most trusted sergeants.
‘You are needed at the castle, Doctor,’ he gasped urgently. ‘Now.’
Bartholomew looped his medical bag over his shoulder, and followed him out. Helbye immediately started running, so Bartholomew did likewise. He was growing alarmed. He was often summoned to tend Tulyet’s men, but was rarely expected to sprint there.
‘We have been attacked,’ gasped Helbye, by means of explanation. ‘There are casualties …’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Attacked? But the place is a fortress!’
Helbye flapped his hand to tell Bartholomew to go on without him. ‘I should ring the bell in All Saints … warn folk to be on their guard.’
The bell began to clang shortly afterwards, its panicky jangle distinctly different from the gentle chimes that announced dawn prayers. People poured from their homes, and word soon spread that the castle had suffered a raid by armed men. Meryfeld, emerging from his house wearing a long nightgown, tried to waylay Bartholomew and ask questions, but the physician only yelled at him to dress and run to the fortress as quickly as possible. If the situation was as serious as he was coming to suspect, then he would need all the help he could get.
Tulyet was waiting when the guards – vigilant and heavily armed – ushered Bartholomew through the Gatehouse. The Sheriff was pale, and there was blood on his shirt.
‘Not mine,’ he said, waving away Bartholomew’s concern. ‘And not the enemy’s either, more is the pity. I was trying to help the injured – until Holm and Rougham ordered me away.’
He led Bartholomew across the bailey to where a number of soldiers lay in a row. The faces of some were already covered, and Holm and Rougham were nearby, deep in discussion.
‘It all happened so fast,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘They took us completely by surprise.’
‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the first casualty. The man was groaning, clutching an arm that poured blood, and the physician wondered why Holm had not stemmed the flow. He bound it quickly, then moved to the next patient; he would suture the wound later, once he was sure he was not needed more urgently elsewhere first. It was a practice he had learned at Poitiers, when he had been all but overwhelmed with men screaming for his help.
‘I wish I knew. Christ, Matt! You and I joked only yesterday about the place being raided, and I declared so flippantly that it would never happen!’
Bartholomew became aware that Tulyet was not the only person hovering behind him. He glanced around, expecting it to be Holm or Rougham, but it was Cynric. The book-bearer was breathless, havin
g dashed to the castle the moment the bells had announced that trouble was afoot. Without a word, he pulled a handful of bandages from the physician’s bag, ready to pass to him as and when they were needed.
‘We had no inkling it was going to happen,’ Tulyet continued. His voice was unsteady with shock. ‘Obviously, we knew armed men had been prowling at night – you and Isnard told us about them – but we did not anticipate this! I had arrived at dawn to begin work on the taxes, and suddenly, without any warning, my bailey was full of howling intruders.’
‘French?’ asked Cynric, watching Bartholomew remove his cloak and tuck it around a man who had only moments to live. ‘They howl. I heard them at Poitiers.’
‘Their army is still in disarray and in no position to invade,’ replied Tulyet tersely. ‘And would not pick on Cambridge if it were – there are far more lucrative and easily accessible targets than us. I have no idea who these men are, but they came on us like furies.’
‘What did they want?’ asked Bartholomew, moving to a man with a chest injury that was well beyond his skills. He looked around, saw Michael hurrying towards him, and indicated that he was to give last rites. As a monk, Michael should not have been qualified, but he had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague, and had continued the practice since.
‘The tax money, of course,’ replied Tulyet impatiently. ‘They aimed straight for the Great Tower, where we keep it. Fortunately, my archers reacted with commendable speed, and we were able to fend them off.’
‘Did you take prisoners?’ asked Cynric. ‘They will give you the location of their comrades’ lair in exchange for their lives. Then we can raid them.’
‘Just one.’ Tulyet nodded to where a man was being bundled towards the castle gaol, guarded by three tense soldiers. ‘But he declines to talk.’
‘Will you track them, then?’ asked Cynric eagerly. ‘I will help.’
Tulyet gripped his shoulder gratefully. ‘Thank you. If anyone can catch them, it is you.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 17