An Unholy Alliance (7 page)

‘Yes,’ he answered slowly. ‘It can be painful.’ He wanted to ask how Deynman thought having a hole sawn in his head would feel, but did not want to embarrass the student in front of the others, especially the Franciscans.

‘But there are things we can do to alleviate some of the discomfort. What are they?’

He stood up again and went back to the fireplace, kicking at the rushes as Bulbeck recited a list of the drugs and potions that might be used to dull the senses. ‘What about laudanum?’ he snapped. They had discussed Dioscorides’ recommendations for doses of laudanum the previous day, and Bulbeck had already forgotten it.

Bulbeck faltered, and then added it to his list.

‘How much would you give to a child you were going to operate on?’ he demanded.

Bulbeck faltered again and the others looked away.

‘Three measures,’ said Deynman.

‘For a child?’ said Bartholomew incredulously, his resolution not to embarrass Deynman forgotten in his frustration. ‘Well, you would certainly solve the problem of pressure on the brain. You would kill it! Master Gray?

Come on! Think!’

‘One measure,’ guessed Gray wildly.

Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back and then looked at his students in resignation. ‘You will kill your patients with ignorance,’ he said quietly. “I have told you at least twice now how much laudanum is safe to give children and you still do not know. Tomorrow we will discuss Dioscorides’s De Materia Medica and the medicinal properties of opiates. Bulbeck will read it here this afternoon, and I want everyone to attend.

Anyone who does not know correct dosages need not come tomorrow.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the conclave, hoping he had frightened them into learning. He was frustrated that they did not learn faster when there was such a dire need for physicians, but he would not make their disputations easier. Badly-taught physicians could be worse than none at all.

The bell began to ring for dinner and Bartholomew went to wash his hands. Michael was already speeding across to the hall so he could grab a few mouthfuls before the others arrived. The Franciscans gathered together before processing silently across the beaten-earth of the yard. Father William, the fanatic whom, rumour had it, had been dismissed from the inquisition for over-zealousness, was their acknowledged leader.

Bartholomew took his place next to Michael at the table that stood on a raised dais at the south end of the hall where the Fellows sat in a row. The large monk had tell-tale crumbs on his face and there were obvious gaps in the bread-basket. To Bartholomew’s left sat Father Aidan, another Franciscan. Aidan was prematurely bald with two prominent front teeth and small blue eyes that never changed expression. Bartholomew had been told that he was an outstanding theologian, although his few attempts at conversation had been painful.

Aidan sat next to William, while next to him sat Kenyngham, his wispy white hair standing almost at right angles to his scalp. Next to the Master was Roger Alcote, and Piers Hesselwell sat on the end. Hesselwell taught law, and always wore fine clothes under his scholar’s tabard.

It had been difficult to find a Master of Law, for life in post-plague England was sunny indeed for lawyers. The plague took many individuals who had not made wills, while many wills that had been made were contested bitterly, and there was work aplenty for the lawyers. Few were willing to exchange potentially meteoric careers as practising lawyers for poorly paid positions as University teachers.

The last students slipped into place at the two long trestle tables that ran at right angles to the high table in the main body of the hall, and the buzz of conversation and shuffling died away. After the meal, the tables would be stored along the walls so that the hall could be used for teaching.

The Master said grace and announced that conversation would be allowed that day, but it was to be

exclusively in Latin. This was because some students had disputations the following day, and the Master thought academic debate during meals would allow them more practice. The Franciscans frowned disapprovingly and maintained their own silence. It was the

usual custom for a Bible scholar to read during the silence of meals for the scholars’ spiritual edification, and the new Master’s occasional breaks from this tradition were causing friction between the friars and the others.

For Bartholomew and Michael, this afforded an

opportunity to discuss what they would ask the clerks at St Mary’s that afternoon.

‘How was your lecture?’ asked Michael, leaning

over Bartholomew to peer suspiciously at a dish of salted beef.

‘Grim,’ said Bartholomew. He looked down to where his students sat together at the far end of one of the tables.

Gray shot him an unpleasant look, and Bartholomew knew his words had been taken seriously.

He picked up a piece of bread and inspected it

dubiously. Since the plague, staple crops like barley, oats, and wheat had become scarce. College bread was made with whatever was cheapest and available, which sometimes included flour that was too old even for pig feed. Today, the bread was a grey colour and contained dark brown flecks. It tasted worse than it looked, ancient flour vying for dominance with rancid fat. The salted beef was hard and dry, and there was a large bowl containing lumps of something unidentifiable smeared with a blackish gravy.

Michael gulped down a large goblet of ale and

crammed bread into his mouth. He gagged slightly, his eyes watering, and swallowed with difficulty.

‘You will choke one day if you do not eat more slowly,’

said Bartholomew, not for the first time during their friendship.

‘You will be able to save me,’ said Michael complacently, reaching for more meat.

Bartholomew chewed some of the hard College bread slowly. The ale, he noticed, was off again, and the salted beef should be thrown away before it poisoned everyone.

The thought of poison brought his mind back to the business with the University chest. He had heard of such devices that were designed to kill unwanted meddlers, but never thought he would see one in action. He wondered who had put it there. A thought suddenly struck him and he almost choked on the bread in his eagerness to tell Michael.

Michael pounded on his back, and Bartholomew was reminded that the monk might look fat and unhealthy, but he was a physical force with which to be reckoned.

“It looks as if I will be the one to save you,’ Michael said with malicious glee. ‘Do not gobble your food, Doctor.

You will choke.’

‘Buckley,’ gasped Bartholomew. ‘His hands!’

Michael looked at him blankly. ‘What about his

hands?’

Bartholomew took a gulp of the bad ale, and resisted the urge to spit it out again. “I treated Buckley for a skin complaint. He has weeping sores on his hands.’

‘Please!’ Michael looked disapproving at such matters mentioned at the table.

‘He wears gloves, Michael! Not because the disease is infectious, but because the sores are unpleasant to see and he is embarrassed about them. Can you not see?’ he cried, drawing the unwanted attention of the Franciscans. He lowered his voice. ‘He probably wears his gloves when he unlocks the chest!’

Michael stared at him for a few moments, thinking.’ So,’

he said slowly, ‘we cannot be certain when this poisonous lock was placed on the chest, since de Wetherset says Buckley is the one who usually opened it, and he has been protected by his gloves. It may have been there for weeks or even months before it did its gruesome work.

Buckley may even have put it there himself knowing that he would be safe from it if he wore gloves.’

Bartholomew thought for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘although I do not think so. First, that was a very small cut on the friar’s hand. He may not even have noticed it, which suggests a very concentrated form of poison. It would be a brave man who would risk touching such a lock, even wearing gloves. Second, perhaps the poison was meant for Buckley, if it were known that he was the one who regularly opened the chest, and not the Chancellor.’

Michael rubbed his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully.

‘But that would mean that someone so wants Buckley dead that he has been to some trouble to plant that poisonous lock on the chest. I have never bought one of those things, but I warrant they are not cheap.’

‘So perhaps Buckley has fled, not because he planted the lock and was responsible for the death of the friar, but because he was in fear of his life. Although,’ Bartholomew added practically, ‘most men fleeing in fear of their lives do not take tables and chairs with them.’

The conversation was cut short as the Master rose to say grace at the end of the meal, and the Fellows filed in silence from the hall. As soon as they were out, Michael winked at Bartholomew and headed off towards the kitchens to scavenge left-overs. The students clattered noisily down the stairs into the yard, followed by the commoners. There had been ten commoners at Michaelhouse before the plague, but the numbers were now down to four, all old men who had devoted their lives to teaching for the College and were rewarded with board and lodging for the remainder of their lives. Bartholomew went to pay his customary call on one of them, a Cistercian in his seventies called Brother Alban. Alban grinned toothlessly at Bartholomew as the physician rubbed warmed oil into his arthritic elbow, and began to talk in graphic terms about the murder of the prostitutes. As always, Bartholomew was amazed at how the old man managed to acquire his information. He never left the College, yet always seemed to be the first to hear any news from outside. Occasionally, Bartholomew found his love of gossip offensive, but tried to be tolerant since the poor man had little else to do. Although he could still read, Alban’s elbow7 prevented him from producing the splendid illustrated texts for which he had once been famous. Bartholomew occasionally saw the old man leafing wistfully through some of his magnificent work, and felt sorry for him.

‘There will be yet more murders,’ Alban said with salacious enjoyment. ‘Just you see. The Sheriff is less than worthless at tracking this criminal down.’

‘And I suppose you know who the murderer is,’ asked Bartholomew drily, finding the discussion distasteful. He poured more oil into the palm of his hand, and continued to massage it into the swollen joint.

Alban scowled at him. ‘Cheeky beggar,’ he muttered.

‘No, I do not know who the murderer is, but if I were your age, I would find out!’

‘And how would you do that?’ said Bartholomew,

more to side-track Brother Alban from his lurid and fanciful descriptions of the killer’s victims than to solicit a sensible answer.

“I would go to the churches of St John Zachary or All Saints’-next-the-Cas tie, and I would find out,’ said Alban, tipping his head back and fixing Bartholomew with alert black eyes.

‘Why those churches?’ said Bartholomew, nonplussed.

The old monk sighed heavily and looked at Bartholomew as he might an errant student. ‘Because they have been decommissioned,’ he said.

After the plague, the fall in the population meant that there were not enough people to make use of all existing churches, and many had been decommissioned. Some were pulled down, or used as a source of stone; others were locked up to await the day when they would be used again. Two such were St John Zachary and All Saints’-next-the-Castle. At the height of the plague, the entire population north of the river next to the Castle had died. Bartholomew had burned down the pathetic hovels there so that they would not become a continuing source of infection for the town. People claimed that the site of the settlement and All Saints’ Church were haunted, and few people went there.

‘So?’ said Bartholomew, his attention to the conversation wavering as he concentrated on Alban’s arm.

‘Do you know nothing?’ said Alban, more than a touch of gloating in his voice.

Bartholomew flexed the old man’s elbow. “I know that your arm is improving.’ He was pleased. The old man could bend it further than he had been able to a week ago, and seemed to be in less pain. Typically, Alban was more interested in his gossip.

‘There are works of the Devil performed in the

churches,’ he crowed, ‘and I am willing to wager you will find out from them who is killing these whores.’

‘Works of the Devil!’ scoffed Bartholomew dismissively.

‘Always the excuse for the crimes of people!’

“I mean witchcraft, Matthew,’ said Alban primly. ‘It goes on in those two churches, and a good many others too, I imagine. I do not need to tell you why. People are wondering why they should pray to a God that did not deliver them from the Death, and so they are turning to other sources of power. It is the same all over England.

The murder of these harlots is symptomatic of a sickening society.’

Bartholomew finished his treatment of Alban’s arm and left the old man’s chatter with some relief. He had heard about the increase in witchcraft, but had given it little thought. Brother Michael had mentioned it once or twice, and it had sparked a fierce debate one night among the Franciscans, but Bartholomew had not imagined that it would occur in Cambridge. Perhaps Alban was right; he often was with his gossip. Bartholomew decided to ask whether Cynric knew anything about it, and, if he did, he would suggest to Sheriff Tulyet that he might consider asking questions about the murders in the churches of St John Zachary and All Saints’-next-the-Castle.

Michael was waiting for him in the yard and reluctantly Bartholomew followed him out of the gates to interview the clerks. The sun was hot and Bartholomew shed his black scholar’s tabard and stuffed it in his bag. He knew he could be fined by the Proctors for not wearing it, but considered the comfort of wearing only leggings and a linen shirt worth the possible expense. Brother Michael watched enviously and pulled uncomfortably at the voluminous folds of his own heavy gown.

At St Mary’s Church, they saw that the body of the dead friar had been laid out in the Lady Chapel. Bartholomew walked over to it and looked again at the small cut at the base of his thumb that had caused his death.