Father Kenyngham stood to say grace, which was perhaps longer than it might have been and was frequently punctuated by agitated sighs from behind the serving screen, where Agatha was aware that the food was spoiling.
And then the meal was underway. The first course arrived, comprising a selection of poultry dishes.
Eleanor clung to Bartholomew's arm and chattered incessantly, making it difficult for him to eat anything at all. Father William was sharing a platter with the voluptuous wife of a merchant that Father Aidan had invited, and was gulping at his wine as his agitation rose with the temperature of the room. Bartholomew could only imagine that the College steward, who decided who sat where, must have fallen foul of William's quick tongue at some point, and had managed his own peculiar revenge with the seating arrangements. Meanwhile Roger Alcote, another Fellow who deplored young women, was
chatting merrily to the venerable Mistress Horner and was confiding all kinds of secrets.
'I hear you have had little success in discovering the killer of that poor student — James Kenzie,' said Eleanor, almost shouting over the cacophony of raised voices. She coughed as smoke from a cheap candle wafted into her face when a servant hurried by bearing yet more dishes of food.
'We have had no success in finding the murderers of Kenzie, the skeleton in the Ditch, or the prostitute, Joanna,' said Bartholomew, taking a tentative bite of something that might have been chicken. It was sufficiently salty that it made him reach immediately for his wine cup.
Further down the table Father William did the same, although, unlike Bartholomew, the friar finished his meat, along with another two cups of wine to wash it down.
Bartholomew was concerned, knowing that wine reacted badly with poppy juice, as he had warned that morning.
So much for William's claim that he only needed to be told something once, thought the physician. He tried to attract the friar's attention, but then became aware that Eleanor had released his arm and was regarding him in a none-too-friendly manner.
'Why are you bothering with this whore?' she demanded, loud enough to draw a shocked gasp from Alcote, two seats away. 'No one in the town cares about her, so why should you?'
'I feel she was badly used,' said Bartholomew, surprised by the venom her voice.
'So were the other eight people who were killed in the riot, but none of them has a personal crusader searching for their killers.'
'But they all had someone who cared about them at their funerals,' Bartholomew pointed out. 'Joanna had no one.'
That was probably because she was unpopular,' said Eleanor coldly.
'Did you know her then?' asked Bartholomew, startled.
'Of course not! She was a whore!'
Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Matilde, but if she was paying any attention to Eleanor, she did not show it.
Her head was turned in polite attention towards Roger Alcote, who had recovered from his shock at the mention of whores and was informing her, in considerable detail, about the cost of silver on the black market. Bartholomew wondered how Alcote knew about such matters, but realised that Alcote was not the wealthiest of Michaelhouse's Fellows for nothing.
'You must desist with this ridiculous investigation,'
Eleanor announced firmly. 'This harlot's killer is long gone and you will only waste your time. Not only that, but think how it looks for a man of your standing and reputation to be fussing about a prostitute!'
'Because she was a prostitute does not give someone the right to kill her,' reasoned Bartholomew quietly.
'No, it does not, but you are wrong in applying yourself so diligendy to her case. Why can you not look into whose cart crushed that poor potter instead — he was a good man and well-liked. Or what about the scholars who were slain?
That friar from Godwinsson, for example.'
'I do not think I will be able to make much progress with Joanna's murder anyway, ' said Bartholomew in a placatory tone, reluctant to discuss the matter with Eleanor if she was going to be hostile. It was none of her business and she had no right to be telling him what he could or could not do in his spare time. 'I have discovered nothing at all, except that the two Frenchmen from Godwinsson are the most likely suspects, and they are never at home.'
'Are you mad?' asked Eleanor in horror. She dropped her voice to a whisper when Alcote leaned forward to gaze disapprovingly at her. 'My mother killed their friend to save you! Have you not considered that your prying might force them to reveal her as the killer? And then she will be hanged, and it will be all your fault!'
She had a point. Eleanor had already told him that the French students had often pestered her while she sat outside to sew, and the surviving pair would know exactly who had killed their friend. In fact, Mistress Tyler was probably fortunate that they had not retaliated in some way already, although the fact that the students had told all and sundry that they were attacked by a crowd of well-armed townsmen seemed to indicate that they were prepared to overlook the matter in the interests of appearances.
'All right,' he conceded. 'And as I said, I think there is little more I can do anyway.'
Eleanor gazed at him sombrely for a moment, before turning her attention to the portion of roast pheasant in front of her.
'Thank you,' she said, as she ripped the bird's legs off. 'But we should not spoil this wonderful occasion by quarrelling, Matt. Pass me some ofthat red stuff. No, not wine, addle-brain! That berry sauce.' She took a mouthful, and quickly grabbed her goblet. 'Pepper, flavoured mildly with berries!' she pronounced, fanning her mouth with her hand. That is spicy stuff!'
Father William evidently thought so too, for Cynric stepped forward to refill his cup three times in quick succession. By the time the second course arrived, the friar was distinctly red in the face, and was considerably more relaxed than he had been when the Feast had begun.
'I advised you to drink no wine, Father,' Bartholomew whispered to him behind Eleanor, who was giving her entire attention to stripping the pheasant to the bone with her teeth. 'It does not mix well with the medicine you took.'
'Nonsense,' said William expansively. 'I feel in excellent health. Try some of this meat, Matthew, lad. I do not have the faintest idea what it is, but what does that matter, eh?'
He elbowed Eleanor hard in the ribs and Bartholomew regarded him aghast. The Franciscan slapped a generous portion of something grey on top of the mountain of gnawed bones on her trencher, and then peered at it shortsightedly.
'That should probably do you,' he said finally. 'Put some flesh on you, eh?'
He gave her another nudge and burst into giggles.
Amused, Eleanor grinned at him, and he slapped his hand on her knee, roaring with laughter. Bartholomew groaned.
'Cynric! Do not give him any more to drink. Fetch him some water.'
'I told you this morning, I do not approve of water,' bellowed William jovially. 'Bring me wine, Cynric and bring it quickly! Now, Mistress, I do not believe I have seen you in our congregation very often. I hope you are not bound for the old fires and brimstone of hell, eh?'
William would have fires and brimstone in his stomach the next day if he did not moderate his wine consumption, Bartholomew thought, astonished as the friar brought his face close to Eleanor's and began to regale her with a tale of how he had once sought out heretics in the south of Spain. It was not a pleasant story, nor one that was appropriate for such an occasion, but Eleanor was spellbound, her food forgotten as she listened to the Franciscan's account of what amounted to wholesale slaughter in the name of God.
As dessert was being served, Bartholomew noticed that Father William had not been the only one who had drunk too much too quickly. Alcote, next to Matilde, had the silly, fixed grin on his face that told all those who knew him that he was on the verge of being insensible. With relief, Bartholomew was able to give Matilde his full attention.
Like the physician, she had eaten and drunk little, and was one of the few people left in the hall in full control of her fac
ulties. She watched the guests and scholars around her with delight, laughing when the Mayor's fine hat fell into his custard because he was trying to maul Edith Stanmore who sat across the table from him, and enthralled by the way Michael's choir went from appalling to diabolical as they became steadily more intoxicated. When one of the tenors passed out, taking a section of the altos down with him, she turned to Bartholomew with tears running down her cheeks.
'Oh, Matthew! I do not think I have laughed so much in years! Thank you for inviting me. I was uncertain about coming at first — after all, a feast in a University institution attended by a crowd of debauched, drunken men, is not really an occasion respectable women should attend — but now I am glad I came. The sisters will love hearing about all this!'
It was ironic, Bartholomew thought, that one of the most auspicious occasions in the University calendar should be seen in terms as a source of mirth for the town's prostitutes. But looking around him, it was difficult to argue with her. Alcote had finally slipped into oblivion, and was asleep in his chair with his mouth open;
Father Aidan, Bartholomew was certain, had his hand somewhere it should not have been on the person of the St Radegund's Convent cellarer who sat next to him;
Michael, virtually the only one in the hall still eating, was choking on his food, and was being pounded on the back by a trio of young ladies; Father Kenyngham had blocked out the racket around him and was contentedly reading a book; William was on his feet, unsteadily miming out some nasty detail about his days in the Inquisition while Eleanor listened agog; and in the body of the hall, scholars and guests alike were roaring drunk or on the verge of passing out.
Those that were still able were beginning to leave. Edith gave Bartholomew and Matilde a nod before she picked her way out of the hall, followed by Oswald Stanmore who walked with the unnatural care of those who have over-imbibed. Judging from Edith's black expression, her husband was not in her good graces for enjoying the wine and carelessly abandoning her to the unwanted attentions of the Mayor. Bartholomew would not have wanted to be in Stanmore's shoes the following morning.
'So, did you dress as a grandmother to save your reputation, or mine?' he asked, turning away from the chaos to look at Matilde.
'Both,' she said. 'But mainly yours. It was your sister's idea, actually, although of course her husband knows nothing about it. He thinks I am some distant cousin you invited, and lost interest in me as soon as he learned I had nothing to sell and didn't want to buy anything.'
Bartholomew laughed, then raised an arm to protect her as Father William, now describing some fight in which he had emerged victorious, snatched up a candlestick and began to wave it in the air, splattering wax everywhere and landing the voluptuous merchant's wife on his other side a painful crack on the back of the neck.
'And so I managed to escape from those evildoers, stealing back all my friary's sacred relics to protect them from pagan hands,' he finished grandly, slumping back down into his chair.
'You escaped from these heathens with all the relics?' asked Eleanor, impressed. 'All alone, and with no weapon other than a small stick and your own cunning?'
'And the hand of God,' added William, as an afterthought.
He wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of the tablecloth. 'The relics are now safe in Salamanca Cathedral. We later returned to the village and charged everyone with heresy.'
'The whole village?' asked Eleanor, eyes wide and round. 'What happened?'
William seized the candlestick again and lurched to his feet. 'There was a fight, of course, but I was ready for them!'
The merchant's wife received another crack on the head as William girded himself up for action. Before he could do any more damage, Bartholomew wrested the object from him and he and Cynric escorted him, none too willingly, to his room. The fresh air seemed to sober the friar somewhat.
'That damned medicine of yours,' he muttered. 'You gave me too much of it.'
Bartholomew looked sharply at the friar. 'Did you take all that I left on the table? You were supposed to have saved some of it for later.'
'Then you should have told me so,' growled William, trying to free his arm from Cynric to walk unattended. 'It was powerful stuff.'
'So was the wine,' remarked Bartholomew. As soon as the friar was on his bed, he began to snore. Bartholomew turned him on his side and left a bucket next to the bed, certain he would need it later.
Meanwhile, back in the hall, Bartholomew's place had been taken by Sam Gray who was deep in conversation with Eleanor. When the physician offered to walk her home, she waved him away impatiently, and turned her attention back to Gray.
'I will see her home,' Gray volunteered, far more readily than he agreed to do most things. He proffered an arm to Eleanor, who took it with a predatory grin. Side by side, they picked their way across fallen guests, scraps of food and empty bottles, and left the hall.
'Eleanor will be safe enough with him,' said Matilde, seeing Bartholomew's look of concern. 'It is still daylight outside and she is a woman well able to take care of herself.'
'Then, perhaps I can escort you home.'
'No, Matthew. The sisters will be waiting to hear all about this Feast, and they will want to see me in my disguise. I shall go to them now, so that they have my tale before they start work tonight.'
'Why are they so interested?'
'Why should they not be? These men, who lie in drunken heaps, are the great and good of the town, who use us for their pleasures on the one hand, but who are quick to condemn us on the other. The sisters will enjoy hearing about how they have debased themselves.
My only regret is that I have no suitable words with which to describe the choir.'
'I could think of some,' said Bartholomew, looking across to where a few of them were carousing near the screen. Whether they were still singing, or simply yelling to make themselves heard, he could not decide.
'Thank you again,' she said, touching him on the arm.
'You will be busy tomorrow, dealing with all these sore heads and sick stomachs, so go to bed early.'
With this sound advice, she took her leave, making her way carefully across the yard and out of the gates, a curious figure whose matronly attire and walking stick contrasted oddly with her lithe, upright posture and graceful steps.
Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief, aware that a combination of good luck, Matilde's ingenuity and strong wine had extricated him from his delicate situation with no damage done. Wearily, still smiling about the spectacle William had made of himself, Bartholomew headed for his room.
No one at Michaelhouse was awake before sunrise, and the Franciscans, to a man, missed their pre-dawn offices.
Father William looked gaunt and pale and roundly damned the perils of over-indulgence. Notwithstanding, he helped himself to a generous portion of oatmeal at breakfast, so Bartholomew supposed that he could not feel too ill.
Before lectures started, Robin of Grantchester appeared at the gates, informing the scholars of Michaelhouse that he was prepared to offer them a collective discount on any leeching or bleeding that was required. No one took advantage of his generosity, although a number of Fellows and students availed themselves of Bartholomew's services, which tended to be less painful, less expensive, and more likely to work. Unkindly, Bartholomew suggested that Robin should visit the Mayor, who was last seen being carried home in a litter, singing some bawdy song that, rumour had it, Sam Gray had taught him.
Once teaching was finished, Bartholomew found he had a large number of patients to see. A few of them were people suffering the after-effects of the previous night's excesses, but others were ill because food was scarce following the plague, and not everyone could afford to buy sufficient to keep them in good health.
The irony of it did not escape the physician.
Michael meanwhile, after a day's break from his duties, announced that he was going to pay another visit to Godwinsson Hostel to try to wring more information from its stud
ents about their whereabouts at the time of Werbergh's death. His previous attempt had proved unsuccessful because no one had been at home. Concerned for his friend entering what he considered to be a lion's den, Bartholomew offered to accompany him but Michael waved him away saying that the physician might be more hindrance than help in view of Lydgate's '. antipathy towards him. They walked together to the High Street and then parted, Michael heading towards Small;
Bridges Street, and Bartholomew to St Mary's Church; where the Chancellor was paying for his greed over a large plate of sickly marchpanes the day before.
It was late by the time Bartholomew had completed his rounds, and the evening was gold and red. He knew he; should return to Michaelhouse, and send Gray to re turn | the Galen to David's Hostel that he had forgotten about'j the day before, but it was too pleasant an evening to be '; indoors. There were perhaps two hours of daylight left — time enough for him to walk to the river and still be back j at Michaelhouse sufficiently early to send Gray to David's: with the book before curfew.
He decided to visit two of the old men who lived «near the wharves on the river. Both were prone to I attacks of river fever and, despite Bartholomew's repeated I advice against drinking directly from the Cam's unsavoury depths, they were set in their ways; because they had been using the river as a source of drinking water since they were children, they saw no reason to change. They were old and each new bout of illness weakened them a little further, especially in the summer months. Bartholomew visited them regularly. He enjoyed sitting between them on the unstable bench outside their house, watching the river ooze past, and listening to tales of their pasts.
A cool breeze was blowing in from the Fens and the setting sun bathed the river in a soft amber light.
Even the hovels that stood in an uneven line behind Michaelhouse looked picturesque, their crude wattle- and-daub walls coloured pale russets and rich yellows in the late daylight.
A Bone of Contention Page 28