A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I did not pass,’ said Deynman gloomily. ‘I cannot think why — I answered all they asked me.’

  Bartholomew did not want to know what Deynman’s answers to the questions were, but the student was relentless.

  ‘They asked me what I would do for a patient bleeding from a serious wound on his head, so I told them I would check his legs were not broken-’

  ‘His legs?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘In case he had sustained the injury falling from a horse,’ replied Deynman with confidence. ‘Then I said I would see if there was another wound underneath the one in his head-’

  ‘Underneath it?’ interrupted Bartholomew, not understanding. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You told us we should be careful that one symptom does not mask another. So I would poke about under the wound to make sure there was not another, more serious, injury underneath.’

  ‘That was not really what I meant,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his hand through his hair, too tired to feel exasperated. ‘I meant symptoms for diseases and ailments, not wounds. And while you are looking at his legs and prodding about with his head, this poor patient of yours might have bled to death.’

  Deynman looked crestfallen, but continued with his answer anyway. ‘Then I said I would bind the injury with a poultice of clean water and henbane-’

  ‘And a pinch of arsenic to kill the infection, you said,’ interrupted Gray scornfully. Bartholomew regarded Deynman with awe, wondering if there was anything of his lectures the student remembered even remotely accurately.

  ‘Then they asked me to debate the question: When a man takes a pig to market on a rope, is the pig taken by the man or by the rope? I told them it mattered neither one way nor the other to the pig.’

  ‘So the debate was a short one, then?’ asked Bartholomew drily. ‘And you did not reveal to the examiners the true extent of your incisive and orderly grip of logic?’

  ‘He did. That was the problem,’ muttered Gray.

  ‘But you passed, Tom,’ said Bartholomew, looking at his best student. He had certainly not expected Deynman to be successful, but he was disappointed in Gray’s performance. They had discussed trepanation at some length, and Gray should have been able to answer questions about it. Gray was also a consummate liar and was good at twisting people’s words and meanings. He should have excelled in his disputation.

  ‘I failed,’ said Bulbeck.

  Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His three students were silent, aware that they had let him down, but not certain what they could do to make amends. Bartholomew wondered where he had gone wrong: perhaps he should have done more to curtail the illicit drinking in taverns that had been taking place, or perhaps he should have spent less time on his treatise about fevers and given them additional lessons. Their lack of success would not have been so bad, but the country was in desperate need of trained physicians to replace those who had died during the plague.

  ‘All the others passed,’ Deynman ventured. ‘It was only us who … did not do so well.’

  ‘But you, Tom!’ groaned Bartholomew, regarding Bulbeck in despair. ‘I expected better things of you.’

  ‘I feel ill,’ said Bulbeck in a weak voice. Bartholomew went to his side, and rested a hand on his forehead. He was feverish and looked pale.

  ‘How long have you been unwell?’ he asked, wondering whether he had put too much pressure on the student, and made him sick from worry.

  ‘Since midday,’ said Bulbeck. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and put both hands on his stomach, closing his eyes tightly in pain.

  ‘Have you drunk any wine? Or eaten anything from outside Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, reaching for a cloth with which to wipe Bulbeck’s face.

  Bulbeck shook his head. ‘You told us not to,’ he said.

  ‘You had that cup of water,’ said Gray. ‘From the well.’

  ‘Water does not count,’ said Deynman disdainfully. ‘Doctor Bartholomew meant that we should not touch foods and wines from outside the College. Water is nothing!’

  ‘Which well?’ asked Bartholomew, already guessing the answer.

  ‘The one near the river,’ said Deynman. ‘Winter fever!’ He exclaimed suddenly, pleased with himself. ‘Tom has winter fever!’

  Bartholomew could think of no other explanation. Since he had advised people against using the well in Water Lane — on the grounds that the river had somehow invaded it — the number of cases of fever had dropped and only the stubborn or lazy, who ignored his advice, were stricken. Bartholomew supposed that the contagion must increase in still-standing water, because those who drank straight from the river did not seem to catch the sickness. Several, however, were afflicted with other ailments, for which Bartholomew was reasonably certain that the foul, refuse-filled Cam was responsible.

  ‘I was thirsty,’ said Bulbeck in a small voice. ‘And I forgot what you said about the well. I know you said we were not to eat or drink anything outside Michaelhouse, but I thought a sip of water would not harm me.’

  Bartholomew patted his shoulder and went to make up a potion to ease Bulbeck’s stomach cramps. When he returned, Gray and Deynman had put the ailing student to bed and closed the window shutters to keep some of the cold from the room. He saw that Bulbeck finished the medicine, and left the others to watch over him while he slept. Although this particular fever was unpleasant, it was not usually fatal, and Bartholomew was sure Bulbeck would make a full recovery, given rest and a carefully selected diet for a few days.

  He closed the door and began to walk across the yard to his own room. He rubbed his eyes as he walked, feeling them dry and sore under his fingers. Then he collided so heavily with someone that he staggered, and almost lost his footing in the slippery mud of the yard.

  ‘Watch where you are going!’ yelled Langelee, his voice drawing the attention of several scholars who were talking together near the door to the hall.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to step round the philosopher, but Langelee stopped him.

  ‘Sorry?’ he sneered. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What more do you want?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

  Langelee leaned nearer, and Bartholomew detected a strong odour of wine.

  ‘It is a disgrace the way you and Brother Michael have leave to come and go all hours of the night,’ he hissed. ‘And I know where you go.’

  ‘I go to see my patients,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You can come with me next time if you wish.’ He pushed past Langelee, intending to end the conversation there and then.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ said Langelee, turning to follow Bartholomew to his room.

  ‘Fine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will send Cynric for you when I am called.’ He wondered what he had agreed to, but reasoned it might not be a bad thing to have the company of the brawny philosopher — his presence would certainly make opportunistic outlaws think twice before attempting to rob him. But he saw it would be foolish to go out at night — even with Langelee — when there were people who wanted him dead. He had been lured out of the safety of Michaelhouse and attacked while trying to solve other mysteries in the past, and would not allow himself to fall for such an obvious ploy again.

  He pushed open the door to his room and threw himself on his bed. He closed his eyes, but opened them again when he sensed the presence of another person.

  ‘What do you want, Langelee?’ he asked irritably, when he saw the philosopher close the door behind him and gaze around the room speculatively. ‘I am tired and would like to sleep.’

  Langelee perched on the edge of the table and crossed his ankles. ‘Sleep? When three of your students have disgraced the College by failing their disputations?’

  Bartholomew sat up. ‘Were you one of their examiners?’

  Langelee nodded, his face smug. ‘I was assessing their grasp of philosophical issues, and I have never seen such a miserable performance. Even Tom B
ulbeck was dreadful, and he is said to be your best student.’

  ‘He has a fever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have just made him a physic.’

  ‘I hope you told him to wash his hands before he took it,’ said Langelee with a sneer. ‘If you taught traditional medicine instead of all this cleanliness nonsense they would have passed. All three are quick enough.’

  ‘Can we discuss this another time?’ asked Bartholomew, refusing to be drawn. If Langelee considered Deynman quick, he must be drunk indeed.

  Langelee stared down at him. ‘And why are you so weary? Worn out after a night with your harlot Matilde? I suppose she offers you her services for free. The rest of us pay, of course.’

  Bartholomew glared at him, fighting a wild impulse to shove the man backwards through the window. Was there anyone in the College who was not intimately acquainted with his harmless affection for the town’s most exclusive prostitute? He wondered whether his students knew, and the dour Franciscans. But they could not, he reasoned, because Father William would certainly have challenged him about it if they had. He frowned. It was not as if he had anything about which to feel guilty: he and Matilde had never been anything but friends. She had, however, told him that she considered Langelee an attractive man, although looking at the philosopher now, when his pugilistic features were stained red with drink, Bartholomew seriously doubted her good taste.

  ‘Go away,’ he said, leaning back on the bed again and closing his eyes.

  Langelee picked up a scroll from the table and squinted to read it. Bartholomew sighed. So far, he had responded to Langelee’s goading with admirable calm, but his patience was beginning to fray and it would not be long before they ended up arguing. It did not take a genius to deduce that Langelee wanted a fight: his fingers twitched and flexed as if in anticipation of action. But Bartholomew knew who would win such an encounter, and he was not foolish enough to allow himself to be battered to a pulp merely to satisfy Langelee’s abnormal craving for violence.

  ‘Aristotle,’ announced Langelee, laying the scroll down and picking up another. ‘And Galen, of course. What about Albucasis, the Arab surgeon? Do you use his works to teach your students?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, wondering where all this was leading. ‘And Masawaih al-Mardini and Al-Ruhawi. There is much to be learned from Arab medical practice.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Langelee. ‘I was told that you had studied with an Arab in Paris. A curious choice of master, was it not?’

  ‘I heard you studied with Father Eligius at Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew, deftly changing the subject before Langelee could attack him about his training. ‘He must have made a fascinating teacher.’

  ‘Oh, he was,’ agreed Langelee. ‘It is good to be in the same town with him again. I can debate with him and keep my skills honed.’

  Bartholomew was surprised that the eminent Dominican logician had either the time or the inclination to help Langelee keep his mediocre skills honed, but said nothing.

  ‘Now I should see your students,’ said Langelee, dropping the scroll back on the table and standing up. ‘I should let them know where they went wrong in their disputations.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘It would be very kind of you to take the trouble. I am sure they will appreciate your help.’

  He was sure they would not, and was certain that Gray would make some insolent remark that might lead Langelee to respond with physical force. But by the following day, Langelee would probably have forgotten his offer, Gray would be less angry about failing his examination, and an unpleasant scene would have been averted.

  ‘Now would be better,’ said Langelee. He tapped his temple. ‘While it is still fresh.’

  ‘I have given Bulbeck a sleeping draught,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘He has a fever. Please leave him alone this evening. Speak to them tomorrow.’

  Langelee shook his head. ‘You are too soft with them. I will speak with them now. I know how to make them listen.’

  Bartholomew stood. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘See to your own students. I am sure they will be missing the benefits of your learning if you have been conducting disputations all afternoon.’

  Langelee narrowed his eyes and Bartholomew opened the door for him. Then, in a blur of movement, Langelee had lunged across the room and had placed two meaty hands around Bartholomew’s throat.

  Bartholomew, however, had sensed that Langelee would not leave his room without some display of aggression, and was ready for him. Calmly, he lifted the small surgical knife he had kept hidden in his sleeve, and pointed it at Langelee’s neck. Horrified at the touch of cold steel, Langelee immediately lowered his hands.

  ‘Matthew!’ Kenyngham’s appalled voice startled Bartholomew and Langelee alike. The physician let the knife drop from Langelee’s throat, and they both turned to face the Master of the College who stood in the doorway. Bartholomew had never seen him quite so angry. His face was white, and his eyes had lost their customary dreaminess and were a hard, cold blue. Behind him was Michael, taking in the scene with horrified amazement.

  ‘What do you two think you are doing?’ demanded Kenyngham, his voice tight with fury.

  Langelee shrugged. ‘I came to tell Bartholomew about his students’ disputations — and I am not obliged to do so, I was doing him a favour — when he became belligerent and attacked me with his knife.’ He raised his hands. ‘You can see I am unarmed.’

  ‘You are drunk,’ said Kenyngham in disgust. ‘Go to your own room, and do not come out again until you are sober.’

  He stood aside for Langelee to leave. Langelee looked as if he would argue, but Kenyngham fixed him with a look of such hostility that the philosopher left without another word. Kenyngham watched him walk across the yard, and then turned to Bartholomew.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, his tone chilling. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

  Bartholomew could think of no excuse that would mitigate the fact that he had been caught holding a weapon at the throat of one of his colleagues. It sounded churlish to claim that Langelee had followed him to his room with the clear intention of provoking him to fight: the philosopher had known exactly which subjects might be expected to evince a response from him — his unorthodox medical training, Matilde and then threatening to disturb the ailing Bulbeck. He shrugged apologetically, while Kenyngham glared at him.

  ‘I will not have my Fellows setting a poor example to the students,’ he said icily. ‘If I catch you menacing Langelee — or anyone else — with knives again, I will be forced to terminate your Fellowship. You think I will not do what I threaten, because we will be unable to replace you, but I would rather Michaelhouse had no Master of Medicine than one who uses the tools of his trade to intimidate the other scholars!’

  He turned on his heel and strode out. Bartholomew sank on to the bed, feeling drained, and Michael closed the door.

  ‘What were you doing?’ asked the monk, regarding Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Threatening a colleague with a dagger? Matt! What is wrong with you? You are usually so opposed to that sort of thing.’

  ‘He came looking for a fight,’ said Bartholomew, pulling off his boots and lying on the bed with a sigh. ‘I reacted with admirable restraint — right up until moments before you and the Master barged in. It was unfortunate that you did not come a few moments earlier, or a few moments later.’

  ‘It looked terrible,’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew dubiously. ‘Langelee standing there looking frightened to death, while you waved that sharp little knife at his throat. I was with Kenyngham when I saw him follow you into your room. We came because I was afraid he meant you harm, but it seems he was the one who needed our protection! I am not surprised Kenyngham threatened you with dismissal. What else could he do? You offered no defence of yourself.’

  ‘What could I say?’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘Damn! Do you really think Kenyngham believes I was the aggressor?’

  ‘Matt, I thought you were t
he aggressor,’ said Michael, sitting on the end of the bed. ‘I thought you disapproved of brawling.’

  ‘I do. Usually,’ replied Bartholomew. He reflected. ‘Kenyngham was serious: he would terminate my Fellowship over a set-to with Langelee.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I believe he would. He has always liked you, and has often spoken out in your defence. Either the sight of you armed and dangerous forced him to see you in a new light, or Langelee must have some powerful supporters to whom Kenyngham is forced to yield.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, folding his arms behind his head. ‘What kind of supporters?’

  ‘Perhaps Langelee is a relative of one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps he has made the College the sole beneficiary of his will. Whatever, it is clear that he has some kind of advantage over you, if it comes to Kenyngham choosing between you or him. I would advise you to stay away from that lout in future. What did he say to drive you to such extremes?’

  Bartholomew told him and Michael looked thoughtful.

  ‘Matilde said Ralph de Langelee was the man of Julianna’s choice. Perhaps Julianna has told him about our midnight flight through the Fens, and he was needling you because he is jealous.’

  ‘Jealous of what?’ protested Bartholomew. ‘I loathe the woman. That pair deserve each other!’

  ‘Perhaps that is not what she led him to believe,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde said Julianna knows how to get her own way. It is possible she is using you to make him more enamoured of her.’

  ‘And what would you know of such things?’ asked Bartholomew, closing his eyes. ‘You are not a love-sick woman of twenty-two — as Matilde pointed out to us recently.’

  Michael stood to close the window shutters. A wind had picked up, and was sending chilly blasts across the room, sending parchments and scrolls tumbling from the table onto the floor. When he turned around again, Bartholomew was asleep.

  The scrawny cockerel, which Agatha fed on kitchen scraps, crowed yet again outside Bartholomew’s window and woke him up. Exasperated, he hurled a boot at the shutter, hoping the sudden thump would be sufficient to drive the bird away without his needing to climb out of bed to see to it. It was pitch dark in his chamber, and he was certain it could not yet be time to rise for mass. He was just allowing himself to slide back into the uncertain area between sleep and wakefulness, when Michael tiptoed into his room.