A Deadly Brew (30 page)

‘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 the 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.

‘It is morning, Matt!’ he whispered. ‘Although you might not believe it. It is dark and cold, and no time for sane men to be up and about.’

‘Then go back to bed and leave me alone,’ mumbled Bartholomew, pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to escape the cold draught that flooded the chamber as Michael opened the window shutters. There was a flapping sound as the cockerel was startled into removing itself to crow outside someone else’s quarters.

‘I will have that thing in a stew with onions one of these days,’ muttered Michael viciously. ‘It is the third time this month it has kept me awake half the night. But come on, Matt, or we will be late. Do not look so irritable! You said you would take mass duties today, because Father William did your turn while you were enjoying yourself at Denny.’

Still half asleep, Bartholomew hauled himself out of bed, and hopped from foot to foot on the icy flagstones while he washed and shaved. He grabbed a clean shirt with frozen fingers, and struggled into it, tugging hard enough to rip the stitches in one sleeve when it clung to his wet skin. It was several moments before he located his leggings in the dark and, by the time he was ready, Michael had already left for the church. Racing along the lane as fast as he could in a vain attempt to warm himself up, he almost collided with the solemn procession of scholars from Physwick Hostel, also making their way to St Michael’s Church for the early morning service.

Michael had been unable to light the temperamental lamp, and was fumbling around the chancel in the dark, grumbling to himself, and swearing foully when he stubbed his toe against the sharp corner of Master Wilson’s marble tomb.

‘That man continues to be a bane in my life, even though he is five years dead!’ the monk snapped, pushing Bartholomew out of his way as he groped towards the altar.

There was a loud crash that reverberated around the silent building, and made several of the Physwick scholars jump and cross themselves hurriedly. Michael’s stream of obscenities grew more expressive as he realised he had knocked over the vase of flowers Runham insisted on leaving on his cousin’s grave. Bartholomew lit the lamp quickly, and went to the monk’s rescue before he did any more damage. While he gathered up the wilting blooms and shoved them back into the now dented jug, Michael slapped the sacred vessels on the altar in an undisguised display of temper, limping far more than was necessary, and not always favouring the same foot.

Michael had completed his preparations and Bartholomew had just kicked the flowers that remained on the floor out of sight under a bench, when the Michaelhouse procession entered the church, sleepy and shivering in their scholar’s tabards – with the exception of Alcote, who was clad in a gorgeous, fur-lined cloak that an earl would have been proud to wear.

Father William’s leather-soled sandals skidded in the water that had been spilled from the vase, and he gazed up at the roof in concern, seeking signs of another leak. Runham frowned when he saw the state of his blooms, as many stalks pointing upwards as flower heads, and Bartholomew heard him muttering disparaging remarks about the parish children who sometimes played in the church when it was empty.

Because it was the festival of the Conversion of St Paul, and therefore a feast day, a few parishioners had dragged themselves from their beds to attend the mass. Most of them were members of Michael’s choir, present because the College provided oatmeal and sour ale to anyone who sang on special occasions. Also present were Thomas Deschalers and his niece Julianna. Julianna stood at the front of the small congregation, watching everything with open interest. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a wink, and then did the same to Langelee. Afraid that the philosopher would see her smiling at him so brazenly and start some kind of fight over it, Bartholomew studiously avoided looking at her for the remainder of the service.