“It’s dull work,” I said to him.
“No,” Donald said, “It’s no so dull. This is strange parchment. Look you, Muirteach.”
I looked at it. Most old parchments are covered with lists—old court chronicles, records, and such things. But as this parchment had soaked, the original markings were revealed. It seemed covered with drawings of figures. One began to emerge—a drawing of a naked woman. We looked at more of the parchment and other figures became apparent, faintly visible on the surface.
“These are strange, Muirteach.”
“Aye. But you’re enjoying the task. I wonder what they’re from?”
There was little writing on the folio, just the odd pictures. It looked to be a bathhouse or something. Naked women, all blonde, bathing in a strange apparatus, different pipes and vessels.
“Look at the other parchments we bought. Are they all from the same source?”
“They seem to be,” Donald replied.
“It will be interesting to see if the other sheets are the same. Come, I’ll give you a hand.”
Donald and I examined the sheets in silence for a time, and uncovered more of the strange drawings on another sheet.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I muttered, “certainly not in the manuscripts at the Priory.”
“What is it keeping you two so quiet in here?” asked Mariota, entering the chamber.
“Look.” I showed her the pictures.
Her brow wrinkled in that way I loved so much, the way it did when she was bemused. “I’ve never seen anything of the like. It could almost be a medical text of some sort, but there is no writing, no explanations, and it makes no sense.”
“Well, it is strange. If nothing else, it will make a dull job more interesting.”
Donald smirked a bit, but said nothing. Just then the widow called us for dinner, and we did not discuss it at table.
The next morning Donald rose early to attend the lecture. I was somewhat surprised at his industry, but did not dissuade him. His father had sent him here to be educated, after all. We heard chapel bells tolling the early hour, and he left. I did not accompany him. It was a short distance to the lecture halls on School Street, and Mariota and I dallied in our chamber until the light grew stronger. Then I left her to attend upon Donald and to see what had transpired with Phillip Woode.
“He’s on sufferance,” Donald announced to me when he emerged out of the hall into the backlands. “He’s still here, but it is said that Master Clarkson nearly expelled him. They’re not on good terms.”
“Aye, he was saying something of the sort to me, just yesterday morning it was,” I said, remembering our conversation of the day before. “And how was the lecture?”
Donald shrugged. As his father had said, he was not overly studious.
“Is Brother Eusebius an able lecturer?”
Donald shrugged again.
“Did you stay awake?”
“Of course. Well, most of the time.”
That seemed fair enough. There were no other lectures that morning and so we returned to our lodgings and found Mariota fuming. She was seated in the solar, but threw her sewing down in disgust on the bench when she saw us enter the room.
“Had I known it would be like this, Muirteach, I swear I would not have come.”
“What is it? Mariota, what has happened?”
“There are schools here lecturing on medicine, the town is full of them, but I cannot attend, as a woman. It is so frustrating.”
“Did you ask?”
“I visited one, on School Street. I went this morning, after you left. The master barely acknowledged me. He said only men could attend the lectures. They are closed to women.”
“I am so sorry, mo chridhe.”
“I showed him the letter of introduction from my father, but he paid it no attention. It seems they’ve not heard of the Beatons here, my father’s reputation counts for naught. As do I. While these great louts of students spend all their time in the taverns, and care nothing for their books! It is so unfair! Och, I wish I was a man!”
“For myself, I am very glad that you are not.” I put my arms around her and pressed my cheek against her hair, inhaling her sweet scent. Mariota relaxed against me for a moment and I felt her breathing quiet a bit. But she could not leave it yet.
“Muirteach, it is maddening, just. To be here and not be able to listen—and what a chance it would be to learn.”
“Mo chridhe, you might find, were you able to attend, that you know more than the masters. You are a fine healer, with experience. And you’ve had your father to teach you.”
She moved away, irritated. “That’s just it, Muirteach. How will I even know? I won’t have the chance to find out. It is just so unfair!”
I agreed with her that it was, but it seemed I could say nothing to mollify her.
“It’s all well for you to sympathize, Muirteach, but you’ve never had to forgo something due to the mischance of being born a woman.”
“No, I was not born a woman,” I agreed. But nothing I said improved her mood, and after a time I retreated, with the excuse that I needed to help Donald with his Latin, leaving Mariota to her sewing.
Donald had left us to our discussion and was in his chamber, strumming at his lute. He glanced up as I entered. “Do you think they’ve found Jonetta?” he asked.
“I am sure we would have heard something, had she been found.” I was worried for the lass myself, a nagging fear that nibbled at me like a mouse gnawing at a crust when it thought no one watched. There had been far too many times in my past experience where someone going missing led to a bad end. “Perhaps she just ran off with someone she met at the tavern. She is a comely girl. But Grymbaud and his men are searching for her. They’ll find her soon enough,” I reassured Donald, although my words did not reassure me.
The next morning Mariota remained in a foul mood, and I thought to improve it by asking her about the strange parchments we had found. Donald went again to the morning lecture, and while he was gone I began to examine the parchments again. The second sheet seemed to have writing on it, not so many drawings, but try as I might I could not make out the faint ink of the words. I called Mariota to examine it. Her brow furrowed as she studied the sheet.
“It’s no language I’ve ever seen, Muirteach. It is not Greek, nor Latin.”
“Aye, and for sure it is not the Gaelic. Could it be French?”
“I’m not thinking it is. Perhaps it is Hebrew. Or Arabic.” Mariota shrugged her shoulders. She was wrapped in her plaid, as the day was rainy and damp and the morning was chill. “I wonder if the bookseller knows anything of it? I’ve been wanting to return to his shop. It might be interesting to see if he had other sheets of it. Perhaps we should go visit him, Muirteach. Donald will be busy at the school for some time.”
Hoping to improve her mood, I agreed. We took one of the parchments with us and made our way into the town through the drizzle, to the stationer’s shop. It was still early, and Master Bookman was just opening the shutters in front of the store, pushing up the wooden awning and setting a few of his wares out on the wooden shelf that faced the street. He greeted us, his stocky face smiling at his first customers of the day.
“And what could I be showing you today? A romance for the lady, perhaps? I have something quite new, The Book of the Duchess. A man named Chaucer has just written it. A sad story, the poor lady died so young. Or she might enjoy Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, if she enjoys tales of chivalry.”
“What of your medical texts?” Mariota demanded.
“What does a lady such as yourself need with medical texts?” Adam Bookman retorted.
“Her father is a physician,” I interjected. “She has some interest in the topic as well.”
“And she can read?” asked the bookseller, as if Mariota was not there.
“Of course,” Mariota bristled as she answered. “Latin, Greek, Gaelic and some French.”
“And I will loo
k at Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” I added, hoping to calm the situation, and my wife.
Master Bookman shrugged his shoulders and gave me a complacent smile. “Oh, very well, in that case.” He handed me the copy of Sir Gawain. “We do have some medical texts. I have a rare copy of the Tacuinum Sanitatis that might be of interest. And another treatise on urine. Also several of Galen’s, and Ptolemy: On Complexions, and the Quadripartitum. There may be several here, just let me go and fetch them from the back room.”
We stood in the street, huddled under the shop awning to stay out of the drizzle, and examined the books. As a raindrop dripped down my neck, I looked up and saw Master Clarkson approaching the bookstall. I greeted him, but he seemed somewhat preoccupied and stood impatiently, folding his arms and tapping his fingers against his forearm as he waited for the bookseller to reappear.
“Master Bookman, you and I must speak,” he said, his lean face impatient.
“Oh yes, Master Clarkson. I am at your service,” Adam Bookman said, as he deposited several books in front of us. “Just give me leave a few moments, good folk, and examine these books while I speak with this gentleman.”
Master Clarkson and the bookseller withdrew to the back of the shop, but I could hear snatches of their conversation while Mariota pored over the medical texts. Clarkson seemed to be wanting to redeem a pledge but the bookseller was reluctant, saying that Clarkson owed him money still. I wondered a little at their talk, but it was none of my business, for all that. Mariota meanwhile seemed entranced by the medical texts. At length I opened Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and lost myself in the story, struggling some with the unfamiliar English.
The door of the shop slammed open and Master Clarkson left abruptly, walking down the High Street as quickly as he had come.
“He did not seem to be in good humor,” Mariota observed. “He is the master of the college?”
Just then the bookseller reappeared. “Excuse me, just a matter of business that needed attending to. Did any of these texts seem as though they would interest your father?”
Mariota ignored the implication and picked out two books, the treatise on the examination of urine and another text by Galen on the complexions and what they revealed of a patient’s humors. At the last moment I added Sir Gawain to the pile. The tale had captured my fancy, and I justified the purchase thinking that reading it would improve my English. We had the funds to pay for the volumes, as his lordship had made sure we were well supplied with money for the time we were in Oxford.
I asked the bookseller about the parchment and if he had others from the same source.
“Those were just some old parchments that were sold by one of the schools. I do not think I have any others, someone just brought in a few sheets to sell.”
We thanked him, took our purchases and left. Mariota wanted to walk up School Street. The narrow street was crowded with houses and halls and jammed with students jostling each other as they left the lecture halls or waited outside other buildings until the last moment before going in. There was a babble of voices as many of them attempted to remember the lessons they had just heard.
We paused before one of the halls. “There,” said Mariota, “that is where many of the medical lectures are given. It is said that Master Rudolfo, from Salerno, is a very fine lecturer. I would love to hear him,” she said, and looked so wistful that my heart hurt sharply to see the expression on her face.
“There’s nothing for it, white love,” I said, “you know women cannot attend the lectures.”
Mariota nodded, and we continued down High Street, although she did make one more stop at the cloth merchant’s as we passed by his stall, picking out some blue wool of stout weave.
“A new kirtle?” I asked.
“Something of the sort,” Mariota replied.
We turned onto School Street and Mariota said she would go on to the widow’s through Smithgate. I decided I should go check on Donald and entered the hall. The lecture room was simple, wood benches around the edges and a lectern at the front where the master spoke. Julian Delacey was lecturing on grammar, from De partibus orationis ars minor. Delacey was somewhat short, with a ruddy complexion, and to me he seemed a pompous fool. I took a seat at the back and waited for the lecture to end. It was not a stimulating topic. Delacey asked the questions and the students, most of whom looked to be about the same age as Donald, chanted their answers back.
“How many attributes has a noun?”
“Six.”
“What are they?”
“Quality, comparison, gender, number, form, case.”
I saw Anthony and Crispin, who were seated a ways down the bench from Donald, writing something on their wax tablets and smirking. Master Delacey apparently did not notice. Then they passed the tablets down the row toward Donald. He glanced at the tablets, his face reddened, and he slammed them shut. Delacey did notice this and he fixed Donald with a glare, his hazel eyes bulging somewhat from his face. “You will show me your tablet, young man.”
“But—” Donald started to argue, then shut his mouth, walked up to the podium and handed the tablet to Delacey. The master opened the tablets, and his face also reddened. The boys sitting on the benches began a rumble of excited whispering, and I saw Crispin nudge Anthony, both of their smirks wider now.
“So this is what you think of the art of grammar.”
Donald said, “I am sorry, sir.”
“I will speak with the Master. He will decide your punishment.”
I groaned. Whatever had been on that tablet, it did not seem it was an explanation of the attributes of a noun.
“The lecture is ended,” Delacey announced and exited the room, carrying the tablets and leading Donald by the ear, followed by an excited crowd of students and myself.
Master Clarkson was at the lecture hall in a private office. Delacey went in with Donald and closed the door behind them. In short order, all three returned.
“This young student has not attended well,” said Master Clarkson in stentorian tones. “He has made a mockery of the art of grammar.”
“Let me see,” I asked, “as I am responsible for his behavior here.”
Master Clarkson thrust the tablets at me. There was a crude picture of a woman with very large bare breasts, and someone had jotted down the attributes of a noun with arrows such as “size—large, gender—female, form—round, comparison—softer.”
“Are you sure these are his tablets?” I asked. “I thought I saw someone pass them his way.”
“He does not deny that they are his,” the Master retorted. “And he must be punished. He will be thrashed in front of the other students. I will be lenient on account of his new arrival here and his parentage.”
It did not sound lenient to me. But Donald imperceptibly shook his head at me and I did not intervene.
The students were assembled and Master Clarkson vigorously thrashed Donald’s backside ten times with a blackthorn stick. My own body shuddered as I listened to the blows, almost as if I myself was being beaten, but Donald bore it like a man and did not cry out.
After it was over, Donald walked stiffly away, his hands fisted, but the other first-year students followed him, exclaiming and talking. The look he gave Anthony and Crispin spoke volumes. I saw him say something to Anthony but I did not catch the words. I could guess, however, and hoped Donald would have the good sense not to fight with him right away.
“I’m leaving,” said Donald hotly to me in Gaelic when I caught up with him. “I’ll not be staying this afternoon for the stupid disputations.”
Given the situation, I felt it best not to argue. “Why don’t we go to The Green Man and have some ale? Or go back to our lodgings? No doubt Mariota can fix something that will make your back feel somewhat better.”
“I hate them. They are great louts. I will get them for this,” Donald swore as we left the lecture hall and walked to an alehouse. We ordered some ale and two meat pastries.
“It didn’t hu
rt,” Donald insisted, although I did not for one second believe him. I had heard the sound of the stick. “But they’ll pay for this, just see if they don’t. Master Clarkson too. And that Delacey. They’ll all pay.”
“Your father would have been proud of you.”
“I could not tattle on them, like a babe,” Donald retorted. “But I’ll have it out of them later.” Just then our ale arrived and we drank awhile in silence.
The door of the tavern opened. “Oh no,” Donald groaned, and I silently echoed his sentiments. Anthony and Crispin entered the tavern and sauntered up to us.
“I’m sorry—” Anthony started to say, but Donald did not let him finish. He punched him and Anthony struck back, knocking Donald to the ground. Then Crispin entered the fray. Within an instant the three boys were at each other, pummeling and rolling in the grimy rushes on the floor, while the tavern keeper shouted he would loose the dogs on them if they did not stop, and I strove to pull them apart. There was a pitcher of ale on the trestle table and I grabbed it, threw it in their faces, and managed to grab Crispin by the back of his robe and push Anthony away with my other hand.
“Is it fools you all are?” I yelled. “Do you all want to be expelled? For that is no doubt what will happen if you do not stop this now.”
There was blood running from Anthony’s nose, while Crispin’s eye looked red and puffy. Secretly, I was glad to see that Donald had acquitted himself well, although I tried to sound stern. The three boys glared at each other, then started to grin.
“Now,” I said, “all three of you will sit down and share some ale and put this behind you. Then we will go and see if my wife has some magic ointment that will put you all together. And stop all this.”
After two mazers of ale, the boys were chattering as though they had been friends for years. After three mazers, we left the alehouse and made our way back to the Widow Tanner’s.
The good widow was speechless when she saw the students approach, and turned away darkly with statements that she should have known better than to rent to students, but I tried to reassure her while Mariota doctored the boys with a salve of arnica and calendula flowers. Then Donald got out his lute and before too long all three of the lads were singing songs in Latin, something about Dame Fortune and squandering one’s time in taverns. I hoped it would not prove prophetic, in regard to Donald’s academic career.
Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) Page 4