A Deadly Brew (5 page)

Meanwhile, Runham’s room-mate, Ralph de Langelee, did not look at all like a philosopher: he was a hulking figure with brawny arms so heavily muscled that they jutted from his body at an angle. As he passed, Langelee shot Bartholomew an unpleasant look for being late, which Bartholomew ignored. Although Langelee had only been a Fellow for a few weeks, he had already made himself unpopular with the students and staff. He bullied the servants, belittled his undergraduates, and tried to thwart every attempt Bartholomew made to improve living conditions at Michaelhouse.

Unlike Runham, Langelee was not a good teacher. His lectures were confused and filled with contradictions, and he did not seem to enjoy them any more than did his bewildered students. He compensated for his lack of skills by making it known around the University that he was available for any other kind of work, and was making a fortune by acting as scribe and writing letters for the rich and illiterate in his ugly, laboured roundhand. Bartholomew did not like Langelee, a feeling he was sure was fully reciprocated, and avoided his company whenever possible. The physician worked hard at his teaching and his ever-growing practice of patients, and did not want to waste the little free time he had in the company of an arrogant, opinionated man like Langelee.

Michael dropped behind the two new Fellows so that he could walk with Bartholomew.

‘I have had a complaint from the porter with whom we left that wine,’ he said, speaking in a low voice so that he would not be overheard. ‘According to him, he was moving the bottles to a safer place – although I imagine what really happened was that he was wondering whether they were worth stealing, or perhaps siphoning and diluting.’

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘I hope to God he did not drink any.’

‘Fortunately for him, no,’ said Michael. ‘But he touched the bottle, as you specifically instructed him not to do. He has a burn on his hand the size of an egg.’ He shuddered. ‘Lord help us, Matt! What is that stuff?’

Chapter 2

Bartholomew told Michael about Mortimer’s lemons as they walked to St Botolph’s Church where prayers would be offered for the new Master and his College. As if to compensate for the long ceremony at Valence Marie, the College priests rattled through the mass at a speed that left the congregation bewildered, after which everyone trooped back to Valence Marie for the feast. Evidently, the servants had anticipated more time to prepare, for the hall was in disarray and students had to be commandeered into helping set up trestle tables and lay out trenchers, while the guests milled about in the courtyard in growing ill humour. By the time the steward announced that the feast would begin, most people were cold, wet and irritable.

The feast itself, however, was impressive and Bartholomew imagined that Mortimer would be sorely disappointed to learn what he had missed. As Michael had predicted, the highlight of the meal was roast boar, each animal carried on a huge platter by two servants. Bartholomew, used to simple Michaelhouse fare, ate sparingly, and did not need the example of Mortimer to warn him of the dangers of over-indulgence. Next to him, Michael ate as though it were his last meal on Earth, while, on his other side, Langelee provided impressive competition. Wine flowed freely and, as the feast progressed, the hall became hot, noisy and stuffy. The final course, produced with a flourish by Valence-Marie’s steward, was lemons stewed with cinnamon and black pepper, which once again reminded Bartholomew of Mortimer. Thomas Deschalers the grocer must have made a good deal of money from his shipment of lemons, Bartholomew thought, declining the dish as it was offered. Michael helped himself to a generous portion, but left most of it, puckering his lips and screwing his eyes tightly closed at the sourness.

As the daylight faded, braziers around the wall were lit, making the room hotter than ever. Michaelhouse possessed no such braziers and Bartholomew was envious, for the light was ample by which to read and even one such lamp would have eased the boredom of long, winter nights when darkness came early. Valence Marie possessed fine silver, too, and huge jewelled chalices were placed at regular intervals along the tables, filled with almonds and raisins – expensive commodities that were just one indication of the feast’s extravagance.

When the meal was over and the tables vaguely cleared of spilled grease, animal bones and bread trenchers, Master Bingham rose to his feet, an intimidating sheaf of parchments clutched in his hands. He cleared his throat importantly, and looked haughtily around the hall at the assembled guests who were about to be treated to that part of his painstakingly prepared discourse he had been deprived of giving earlier. Michael groaned loudly and Bartholomew felt his heart sink. But Bingham had done no more than make a preparatory rap for silence on the table with his spoon before the student minstrels in the gallery increased the volume of their singing dramatically and the Fellows on either side of their new Master reached up to pull him back into his seat. Thorpe, the previous Master of Valence Marie, would never have countenanced such an affront to his authority, thought Bartholomew, amused by Bingham’s ineffectual outrage at his colleagues’ presumption.

‘Bingham will have a hard task controlling this new College of his,’ yelled Michael, putting his sweaty face near Bartholomew’s to make himself heard over the racket. Bartholomew nodded vigorously. ‘I wonder what those two are plotting.’ Michael pointed to where the Sheriff and the Mayor sat, their heads bent together confidentially as they conversed in what seemed to be furtive whispers.

Bartholomew liked Sheriff Tulyet, a small, wiry man with a wispy fair beard and a tolerance towards the University usually absent in town officials. Tulyet saw them looking at him and raised a hand in affable acknowledgement. Even from a distance, the Sheriff looked tired and strained, and there were rings of exhaustion under his pale blue eyes. Tulyet’s position was not an easy one to hold. His garrison had been sadly depleted by the plague and it was difficult to recruit replacements when crime was by far more lucrative. Since Christmas, a band of outlaws had settled in the area, using little-known causeways and canals in the Fens to make their escape after robbing travellers on the roads, disappearing as completely and cleanly as the marsh mists in sunlight long before Tulyet’s men could catch them.

Bartholomew smiled a greeting to him, and looked around the hall. Sheriff Tulyet and the Mayor were not the only ones to be taking advantage of the installation festivities to conduct a little business. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, was engaged in an animated discussion with the Master of Gonville Hall, while Bartholomew’s sister was abandoned to entertain the morose Prior of Barnwell on her other side. The University was one of the Stanmore’s biggest customers, and he was clearly embarking on some deal or other with the Master of one of its most powerful Colleges.

At the high table at the far end of the hall, Vice-Chancellor Harling, the University’s second in command, sat between the Countess of Pembroke and a handsome woman in her middle years whom Michael had identified as the Abbess of nearby Denny Abbey, a rich community of Franciscan nuns. Harling’s jet-black hair glistened greasily in the candlelight as he inclined his head politely towards the Countess, giving every appearance of listening with rapt attention to what she was saying.

‘Why is Harling in the seat of honour?’ asked Bartholomew of Runham, who sat opposite him, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the discordant singing from the gallery and the roar of drunken voices. ‘Where is the Chancellor?’

Runham pursed his lips to indicate his disapproval. ‘With the Bishop in Ely. It is a mere seventeen miles so I do not know why Chancellor Tynkell could not have made the effort to be here. An installation is, after all, an important University occasion.’

‘Perhaps his business at Ely is more urgent than gossiping with the Countess of Pembroke and the Abbess of Denny,’ said Bartholomew.

A servant slapped a dish of sugared almonds so hard in front of him, that some of them bounced across the table to be claimed by Michael. When Bartholomew glanced up at him, the man gave a cheerful wink, and his red cheeks suggested that the guests were not the only ones to have availed themselves of Valence Marie’s endless supplies of wine.

‘Tynkell is probably too afraid to come back,’ said Runham uncharitably. ‘He knows he is not up to the task of being Chancellor and is hiding away in Ely behind the Bishop’s skirts.’

The post of Chancellor was not a position Bartholomew would have willingly held. While it granted the holder a degree of authority over the University and the town, it was also fraught with political pitfalls. The previous incumbent had held office for four years, but the constant intrigues and crafty plotting had finally worn him down, and he had retreated to his family home in the Fens in poor health.

Harling, his Vice-Chancellor, had expected to step into his shoes as was the usual practice, but in an election that had astonished many scholars almost as much as Harling, a timid nonentity called William Tynkell – who had only agreed to stand for election because he thought it might raise the profile of his hostel in the University community – had won the majority of votes. Bartholomew might have questioned the honesty of the vote-counters, had it not been for the expression of abject horror on Tynkell’s face when he was declared the winner. Harling had accepted his defeat with dignity, and had volunteered to continue as Vice-Chancellor, an offer that Tynkell had accepted gratefully, openly acknowledging his inexperience in the treacherous world of University politics.

‘Tynkell!’ muttered Runham in disgust. ‘What a dreadful choice to be the leader of our University! All I can say is that
I
did not vote for him.’ He gazed speculatively at Bartholomew.

‘Neither did I,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to be blamed for the Chancellor’s absence.

Runham nodded, satisfied, and went on. ‘I am not a man to risk my good health by bathing, but I am always careful to scent my clothes with lavender, and leave my clean linen on the shelf in the latrine to kill the lice. But Tynkell does neither, and there is an odour about him I find most unpleasant.’

‘I always feel itchy after an audience with him,’ boomed Father William, whose Franciscan habit was one of the filthiest garments in Christendom, and who paid scant attention to his own personal cleanliness. To prove his point, he began to scratch, and Bartholomew was amused to see Runham and then Michael follow suit. A few moments later, Alcote started, and then Master Kenyngham. It continued until Kenyngham – somewhat out of the blue – changed the subject by asking if anyone had ever debated the question ‘Let us consider whether the edge of the universe can be touched’ and, as the discussion grew more heated, the itches were forgotten.

Listening to his colleagues with half an ear, Bartholomew watched Harling and the Countess, who, judging from the flapping of her hands, seemed to be telling him how to fly. The Vice-Chancellor reached out a beringed hand, took up his wine goblet, and drained it without taking his eyes off the Countess’s face. Immediately, a servant hurried to refill it, and a few moments later the entire process was repeated. Bartholomew had heard that, despite her generosity – and resulting popularity – the Countess was not a lady renowned for conversational sparkle. He suspected Harling knew he had a long night ahead of him, and was preparing himself by dulling his mind with as much of Valence Marie’s wine as he could stow away without losing consciousness. Perhaps Chancellor Tynkell had been wiser than all of them, with his timely absence from the town.

Harling was given a brief respite from the Countess’s monologue as Sheriff Tulyet stepped forward to make his excuses for leaving early to the august occupants at the high table. Under his cloak, he already wore a mail tunic and boiled leather leggings, in anticipation of a nocturnal foray in search of the elusive outlaws.

‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, watching as the Countess homed in on the Vice-Chancellor again as Tulyet left. ‘I am reliably informed that the noble Marie de Valence is about as interesting a companion as stagnant ditchwater.’

‘At least stagnant ditchwater does not hog the conversation,’ bawled Runham, who had won the debate about the edge of the universe simply because he had a good deal more to say about it than anyone else. He leaned towards the monk, the flowing sleeve of his fine ceremonial gown knocking over Bartholomew’s wine, and lowered his voice a fraction. ‘She has but two interests: breeding dogs and gardening.’

‘She is a very generous woman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘She founded this College and the abbey at Denny, and she gives alms to the poor.’

‘But gardening, Matt,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘That is for peasants!’

‘Edward the Second liked gardening and look what happened to him,’ said Runham ominously.

‘I hardly think King Edward was executed because of his love of horticulture,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘I imagine his murder had more to do with the fact that he was an abysmal ruler.’

‘Please!’ whispered Michael, glancing around him furtively. ‘Edward the Second founded King’s Hall and their Warden is looking right at us! If we are to indulge ourselves in treasonous talk, at least wait until I am too drunk to care!’

‘Gardening is a vile pastime,’ continued Runham, undeterred. ‘All that dirt and dreadful creatures like worms and slugs creeping about. Try some of this candied mint, Matthew. It is quite delicious.’

‘People who eat that sort of thing die young,’ said Michael knowledgeably, eyeing the dish of sticky leaves disdainfully. ‘It is a well-known medical fact.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘And is this well-known medical fact from the same source as “green vegetables cause leprosy” and “a diet of nothing but meat and bread prevents baldness” that you mentioned to me last week?’

Michael favoured him with a withering look. ‘You read too much, Matt. You refuse to believe anything unless it has been written by one of your dull Greek or Arab physicians. The facts to which I refer stem from simple common sense. Look at Harling – there is a man who declines his vegetables and he has a magnificent thick, black mane. The fact that cunning cooks have slipped the occasional bit of cabbage or carrot into my meals accounts entirely for my thinning hair.’

There was little point in arguing with Michael over matters of diet – or pointing out that a tonsure, such as the one Michael sported, should obviate his own concern about baldness. Bartholomew let the matter drop and gazed at the hour candle, willing it to burn down to a point where it would not be deemed rude to leave. He sighed and rested his chin on one fist as he looked around the crowded, noisy, humid hall.

After a while, Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spice merchant came towards Bartholomew with Constantine Mortimer’s eldest son, Edward. Deschalers and Cheney had donned their finest clothes in honour of the occasion – Cheney wore a tunic of a rich amber with matching leggings, while Deschalers was dressed in a short red cloak with rust-coloured shirt and scarlet hose. Bartholomew was immediately reminded of two of the four humours: Cheney was known for his short temper and aggression and his gold-coloured clothes reminded Bartholomew of the yellow bile that caused choleric behaviour; meanwhile, Deschalers was aloof and laconic, usually moods considered to be caused by an excess of blood. Bartholomew wished his students were with him, because he was sure such a visual example would burn the characters of the humours into their minds for the rest of their lives. By contrast, young Edward Mortimer might have been a scholar himself in his sober brown tunic and plain hose.

‘We heard Mortimer is dying,’ began Cheney without preamble. ‘When might the end come?’

‘Not for some years yet, with God’s grace,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Edward’s horrified intake of breath.

‘My father is dying? I was told it was nothing more serious than stomach pains!’

‘Get a grip on yourself, Edward,’ said Cheney coldly. ‘Your presence at your father’s bedside would have been quite wasted. Had you been needed, he would have sent for you. You have other duties to perform – such as representing the family business here tonight.’